Category Archives: Ruminations on Life

Thoughts on why we are Alive and the Inevitable

Ghost Story

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Originally posted on A Way with Words

Here we are in October, rolling toward the holidays with the anticipation of ghouls, ghosts and goblins that visit on October 31, All Hallows Eve. Many cultures celebrate November 1st called by different names All Saints Day, All Souls Day and Dia de Los Muertos, a day to honor those who passed before. The practice goes back centuries in Christian culture and ancient civilizations such as the Aztecs. A day of prayer and remembrance after a night of hijinks and revelry.

Well, I have a real ghost story. There have been times in my life when the unexplained/unexplainable occurred. Are they mind tricks? Is it wishful thinking? Or are there spirits reaching from the other side? I’ve journaled about these times and told friends about them. Now I will share one such experience with you.

It happened over fifty-five years ago and is as vibrant in memory as if it happened fifteen minutes ago. My father passed away unexpectantly. He had serious heart issues, but I did not think he was on the brink of death. Dad and I were very close. He got me. He was the loving bridge, firmly anchored on my side, across a chasm of mother-daughter expectations.  Dad was an invaluable ally to a headstrong teen.

Married at eighteen, by twenty-two I was in my own home with a husband and two young children (a baby of one month and a toddler eighteen months). Our little family lived out in the “sticks”, the only place we could afford a house. My parents and brother lived a few miles away in another town, so we saw them about once a week.  Dad loved being with his grandbabies.

Mom called to give me the news that Daddy had passed. Devastated, inconsolable, I descended into a robotic state doing only what was needed. Grief held my heart in a spikey vice grip, severed from my body.

Several nights later, I was driving home on a dark, rain-slick road after going to the grocery store miles away for a few necessities. My husband was home with the babies. It was mid-February in the Pacific Northwest, cold, dank, and dreary. I was enveloped in a blackness not only of the night but of spirit. The empty country road bordered by an ominous phalanx of fir trees was unlit, no traffic ahead or behind me, only the thin beam from my headlights to guide me. I wept, thinking about my father, cheeks drenched in tears, the deepest sorrow I had ever known. In a haze, I pictured accelerating off a curve in the road into the woods, slamming against a tree to stop the pain. No thought of my husband, children, mother, or brother – just the unbearable ache of wanting to be with my father.

“Honey, you have many, many miles to go before you are done.” My father was next to me in the car telling me to go on. I glanced at the passenger seat, nothing, no one; yet his voice was as clear as crystal and so was his message. My sobs stopped instantly. The death grip on my heart released. My attention focused on the road. I felt wrapped in a warm embrace. He was with me. His voice is still distinct, those words still in my ear when I recall that night. I know my father saved my life. We will meet again.

Roots

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

There is an age-old metaphor – a tree as life. It is so because it works well. I was struck last week by images of devastation made by hurricane Ian as it churned across Florida. Images of destruction, man-made structures strewn across the ground as the palm trees waved goodbye to the storm, their fronds high in the air above. How do they survive? What makes the slender palm tree accept nature’s temper tantrum with equanimity while the solidly built structures below are reduced to rubble? I’m sure there are scientific explanations. I am not a scientist, nor do I especially enjoy scientific explanations. I prefer metaphor to explain the mysteries of life.

The palm tree is in its native habitat. It belongs. It is rooted. Yes, there will be casualties but for the most part, the palm withstands storms. Just as people when they are rooted will be able to withstand the vagaries that life offers. A person’s roots are not in the soil or even place-based. A person’s roots are in family, in the childhood that nourishes and solidifies his or her character.

Everyone is born with their own set of talents. How those abilities are nourished, how that character is encouraged comes at the beginning of life, the roots. How is the child treated? What does the child learn about being human? Babies are not blank slates. They come with a host of built-in sensors, instruments. Those instruments are fine-tuned to each person’s unique orchestration. They pick up cues from their environment about how to act and react. They interpret the cues according to their sensibilities. That is why two, three, or even eleven children of the same parents will interact with the world entirely differently.

If given stability, a child’s roots will go deep, grow strong. The stability is not of place, it is heart and soul based. A child rooted in emotional security, can move from place to place, in circumstances good or ill, and still be able to grow. They will bend with life’s challenges but stay rooted in their humanity. There are so many stories of people raised in difficult conditions who overcame obstacles to flourish and succeed because they acquired, in the beginning, a core strength that anchored, rooted, them.

It’s not all la-ti-da – an easy equation. Humans are by nature inquisitive. As they mature, they usually experiment with alternatives. That is the basis of human migration. Many seek to define themselves by pulling away from the familiar. Everyone has their own path to trod. There are studies that indicate character is fully formed by age eight. An established character prevails even through the storms of life. Of course, there are always the lost ones. Just as you see uprooted palm trees here and there, some people, even if rooted well, can develop addictions, disease, or psychosis, a myriad of things that dislodge their roots. They may find ways to endure but the disturbance will be manifested in their interactions with life forevermore. It is the responsibility of adults to provide children with stable roots for their best chance to withstand life’s tempests.

Queen of Baseball

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Originally posted on A Way with Words Blog

My major passion aside from my family is Baseball, America’s game. I LOVE baseball. My mother told me it was inevitable because the only cool place in Wichita during the hot summer of ‘45 was the baseball park, so she watched a lot of baseball when she was pregnant with me. I was a September baby. That used to be playoff time. A lot has changed in seventy-seven years.

Over the years I watched evolutions of players, rules, and decorum on the field and off. Can’t say I’m impressed by it all that much. So disappointed in the Astros cheating a couple of years ago. But my excitement and loyalty for the game never wavered. I sincerely hope the talk of robo-umps, an automated strike zone governed by computer, is quashed. I love homeplate umpires, human and fallible, they provide an added element of suspense to the game.

Airbourne

To me, baseball is a combination of bullfighting (mostly bloodless) and ballet. It is an individual sport played as a team. Each player is highlighted when their skill is required. Pitchers on the mound are the bulls, powerful and potentially deadly with missiles sometimes topping 100 mph. The batter is the matador – sidestepping the bull’s charge until it is time to thrust the final blow and send the ball soaring through the air. That is when the ballet begins. Infielders and outfielders race, leap, spin, twirl through the air with nearly impossible physical grace to catch a ball coming toward them and then with equal style turn and twist to deftly throw the ball to the proper place to consummate a play.

When I was eighteen or nineteen one of the issues that bothered me was the players’ incessant need to adjust their cups. They looked so uncomfortable. I told my husband I recognized an employment opportunity for myself – MLB Cup Adjustor. I saw a chance to help those boys be more comfortable as they stepped up to the plate. Alas, it never came to pass. I think the equipment has been improved because I don’t notice as much adjusting these days.

Now as a matron, a senior woman of wisdom, I decided the role for me is Queen of Baseball. No compensation is required, only the acknowledgment and respect the position warrants.

These are a few of the rules that would be issued under my reign:

  1. No spitting during a game
  2. No cursing during a game
  3. No tattoos above the neck until retired from active playing
  4. No silly pitcher posturing – PITCH the ball – don’t look like a bird taking flight, a chicken laying an egg, or a little leaguer elbow-sighting the ball.
  5. No sidearm or submarine pitching – again if you can’t pitch the ball overhand as it is meant to be pitched, find another job.
  6. No extreme player shifts in the field – I think they got that message and it is being rectified.
  7. No sissy bunting – hit the darn ball, hard or soft but HIT it like a man.
  8. All commentators MUST be former major league players. They know what baseball is all about and can coherently share information and perspective with spectators. That means NO women as commentators. It may sound sexist but I’ve never heard a woman be as insightful as a former player when calling a game. If you haven’t been up to the plate facing a ball thrown 100 mph directly at you, stay in the spectator seats where you belong cheering for the boys on the field. That would make me the ONLY woman in baseball – as Queen. I admit that I am very blessed to have a former professional player for a husband. He explains clearly any action on the field that I don’t understand.

As to the 40-man roster of the Queen’s team, I confess it may not be weighted the same as the rosters of major league teams, pitchers to catchers to fielders, but these are my favorite players and I know they can do the job. The list, of course, changes season to season but many of these players are long-standing on the roster. These are not listed in any particular order of preference except Ohtani who is #1 in everything.  I am adjusting to the universal DH concept and would find those among the players listed.

  • Pitchers
    • Shohei Ohtani- unequivocally MVP
    • Gerrit Cole
    • Adam Ottavino
    • Clayton Kershaw
    • Joe Kelly
    • David Price
    • Julio Urias
    • Dallas Keuchel
    • Justin Verlander
    • Kenley Jansen
    • Max Scherzer
  • Catchers – Captains of the game
    • Buster Posey
    • Will Smith
    • Carson Kelly
    • Yadier Molina
  • Infield
    • Freddie Freeman
    • Paul Goldschmidt
    • Anthony Rizzo
    • Nolan Arenado – a tiger at 3rd
    • Rafie Devers
    • Eduardo Escobar
    • Xander Bogaerts
    • Freddie Galvis
    • Bo Bichette
    • Bobby Dalbec
    • Carlos Correa
    • Dansby Swanson
    • Joey Votto
    • Jose Altuve
    • Justin Turner
    • Chris Owings
  • Outfield
    • A.J. Pollock
    • George Springer
    • Charlie Blackmon
    • J.D. Martinez
    • Aaron Judge
    • Joc Pederson
    • Mike Trout
    • Joey Gallo
    • Mookie Betts

I use a criterion not dissimilar to that of the Miss America pageant to choose my players. They must be well-rounded in every facet of baseball.

  1. Must look good in the uniform – no baggy butts or paunchy bellies
  2. Must have a good character, be courteous to fans, and a plus to their community, no whiners, kibitzers or pouters allowed. (Manny Machado is eliminated by this criteria). It’s a game, folks. Freddie Freeman is the perennial Mr. Congeniality. I love to watch him greet opposing guests on first base. – always with a smile.
  3. MUST be talented – have outstanding skills on the field and always play to win.

This baseball season is coming to a close.  It is impossible to root for just one team because MY players are dispersed among many teams so I root for the player. It gets kind of wicky-wacky when a favorite pitcher is confronting a favorite batter, or a favorite batter hits a fly ball that soars directly toward a favorite outfielder. Dilemmas I must deal with as a fan the Queen of Baseball.

On Reflextion – My Birthday Quilt

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Originally posted on A Way with Words blog

I have good health, a comfortable life, great memories, and positive people around me. I would be an absolute fool to not be grateful and feel blessed for all I have been given. Reviewing my journals, in an attempt to organize them, and talking with friends who called with warm birthday wishes set me to thinking of my life – as a quilt. Every person I’ve known through time is a patch on my quilt; small patches for brief acquaintances, larger ones for enduring relationships, and others somewhere in between.

The idea of a quilt came to me as I thought of my friend, Mary, who is a premier quilter and teacher. She helped me begin a quilt many years ago that today resides in a plastic box at the top of my closet, still in pieces. I don’t have the patience to sew but I loved the idea of making a quilt. Mary offered to finish it for me, but I’d rather do it myself. Maybe. Someday. I will begin again. In the meantime, my imaginary quilt is easy to piece together using the threads of memory.

Each patch has its own texture to match the person it represents from cozy chenille to fluid silk or satin, smooth cotton to linen, sturdy denim to rough scratchy burlap. Each patch has a shape – round, square, animal, flower, star, or leaf. Each square or shape has a color – bright or dull, dark or light, some printed with polka-dots, flowers, stripes or plaids, even animal prints (you know who you are).

A bright yellow silk patch is for the woman I can call on at any hour of the day or night. I can tell her the most outrageous thoughts; she understands me and never takes offense. How blessed am I to have her in my life? One animal print square is for my amazing friend who has the grace of a jaguar, the energy of a box of kittens, and the bright smile of a Cheshire cat. She lights my day. Another friend gets a white canvas triangular piece because it reminds me of him and sailing. My imagination has fabricated a giant quilted panorama for the story of my life.

A blue denim horse shape is for an old boyfriend whose memory still makes me smile. A pink chenille star is for someone I always think of as a soft snuggly part of my life. A boldly patterned cotton chintz in cool green, shaped as a flower represents a woman who is sturdy, bright, and resilient. The center of my quilt is a deep blue wool piece shaped into a compass rose that always points due north. It is for the man who has shared my life for fifty-eight plus years.

There are patches for my parents (Mama’s is delicate purple polka dots, Daddy’s a deep cinnamon velvet) and grandparents, my brother, and cousins. There are patches for faith, love, and service. There is no thing in my life as important as the people in it and that includes many fur people throughout the years. Each of those furry friends has a shape or square that tells their part in my story too.

A scratchy grey burlap patch is for the boss who attempted to dismiss my contributions to the company we worked for. I told him I would not accept his summary of my annual work review. He balked so I told him I would take my case to his boss with my evidence of accomplishments. Grudgingly he changed the report to my satisfaction.

I know I have been the prickly burlap patch in a few quilts. I am content with that. Every one of us is the hero in our own story and every hero needs an adversary against whom to sharpen their character skills. I hope I’ve been the snuggly chenille or bright silk or smooth cotton for most. No matter – my quilt is bright and beautiful and makes me smile. Thank God!

Happy Martin Luther King Jr. Day

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Today we celebrate the man Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., an inspiration to our nation and the world. He came up from the heart of the south, Atlanta, Georgia, to become an international symbol of civil rights done the non-violent way much like his contemporary Nelson Mandela in South Africa. Mandela was jailed for nearly thirty years during the 60s-80s but became President of South Africa when his efforts from jail realized a momentous shift in the political climate of his country. Unfortunately, the non-violent pleas from Dr. King were largely ignored. Violence reigned and Dr. King was assassinated in 1968 so his life was not played out to its fullest. But his legacy is lasting and potent. President Ronald Reagan officially made the third Monday in January, a day to honor the strength and commitment of Dr. King to the objectives of civil rights and harmony for all people.

Dr. King said: “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a country where they will NOT be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character”. Why are leaders being chosen now by their skin color or gender instead of their character and credentials? They may have both character and credentials but they are being promoted by attributes they were given at birth instead of attributes they developed over their lifetime and career.

I lived during the turbulent, violent decade of the 60s when assassination of our best and brightest happened too often. It was a time of “revolution” when the country was divided and hate held the country hostage. I’m seeing so much of the same attitudes prevailing today. Reasons for revolution may differ today, but they are only symptoms of the dis-ease of division. It saddens me that, as a country, we cannot see that we have more in common than we have to divide us. We allow leaders, political and otherwise, to foment division for their own political or economic benefit. Does humanity never learn from our tragic history? President Lincoln, a hero to most people now, was reviled by half of the citizenry in the 1860’s and assassinated by that hate. Are we doomed to repeat those awful decades?

Or IS the learning being done by those who find a way to harness dissension for their own aims? The rest of us are pawns in their machinations.

If words would heal then let Dr. King’s words prevail. “Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into a friend”.

I don’t pretend to have any answers, just more questions.