The Boys of Summer Return

What does baseball mean to me?  That's what I asked myself when I saw the baseball supplement to our local paper with the headline, "The Boys of Summer Return."   

Baseball means:

• The crack of the bat against the ball
• The roar of the crowd when  a player hits a home run
• Keeping score on a paper with boxes and slots for players' names
• Savoring a ballpark hot dog 
• Squinting from the sun in your eyes

These are some general aspects of baseball, and I'm sure each person who has been to a  game has different memories and favorites.  I'm not a big baseball fan and don't get to games much these days, but baseball has a history in my family which I cherish.

I grew up in and near Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, so the Phillies were - and still are - our team of choice.  There was never any question of any family member's loyalty for almost any Philly team.  This tradition lives on today in the fourth generation since I've been alive - from my grandmother (my father's mother), my father, my brother, and his second son, who  goes to college at Temple, in the heart of Phillies country.   I've followed a few other teams when living outside the "Philly zone," being swept along by local tradition and pride, but none that have stuck like my preference for the team that was part of my family blood, always present, never doubted.    Even though our team has had its ups and downs of late (more downs than ups), I always start the season with the hope that the Phillies will win the pennant and maybe even go on to the World Series.  

Baseball was a fixture in my family, one of the few things that we shared with my father's widowed grandmother and her unmarried sister, who lived together in a country town northwest of Philly.   We visited them infrequently, for Thanksgiving mostly.  My grandmother was a great cook and  served up all the trimmings for the rare times her only child and his family visited.   

Mike Schmidt, 3rd Basemen, Phillies

In spite of the fact that by the early 60s most households had televisions and the games were beginning to be televised locally, my grandmother and aunt preferred to listen to the games on the radio.  I guess it was habit from the days before television brought the game to your eyes as well as ears.  When we visited during baseball season, it was common for the adults to talk and listen to the Phillies game on the radio in the kitchen, while we kids watched TV in the back bedroom.   

I once went to a Phillies game with my Aunt Francis (we called her Fran).   I remember it was cold, so we huddled together to keep warm.  It was a special outing for me, to be alone with an adult in the evening, and it might have been a school night too.   Our school participated in a "Straight A Ticket" program in which you could earn free tickets if you got all "As" during a certain period.   I think we were using tickets I had earned with my grades for the game that night.  I still have one of those Straight A cards in a scrapbook.  It gave me a certain pride to be able to contribute toward our family's leisure activity in this way.

I love baseball for its slowness, which frustrates many people.   The pace makes the game seem more like an outing you settle into with time, a "past time" as the sport is called.   When you're at the ballpark, you sit down in your seat, survey your view, and relax as you feel the promise of time and entertainment stretched out before you.  I always liked to look at the listing of the team line-ups in the program .   And of course, I had to have a hot dog, with that distinctive "ballpark"taste.

In baseball, there's a certain tension, a waiting for exciting things to happen, perhaps even the unexpected.   And there's also the longing for your favorite player to continue his hitting streak or, if he's been in a slump, to send the ball out of the park and get back to his winning ways.   There are the pitchers, the commanders of the field, who wow us with their speed and control, or frustrate us with their inconsistency.  Phillies' fans are notorious for their "fair weather" rooting, but to me being in the ballpark is the win, a special experience not often enjoyed.  

To me, baseball is one part boredom, two parts what you make of it.  Whether it's a romantic connection to the game, as seen in several movies featuring baseball as a major character - Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, A League of their Own, or The Natural - or a character-driven performance starring your heroes and the challenges they face on the field, or simply an escape from the daily routine for a few hours, the sport is special.  Baseball gives you the outdoors and  camaraderie with family, friends, and fellow fans.  With each game, as you breathe the air and  root for your favorites, you recapture that spirit of long ago when life was simpler and more straightforward.  After all, how much more basic is "Three strikes and you're out" at the "Old Ball Game".

I hope I can make it to a baseball game again soon, and I encourage you to get some tickets to watch the boys of summer create that special magic with a bat, a ball, and a dream.

Caring for Geraniums

Today I spent some quality time with my geranium.  I had brought it indoors a few weeks ago, when the threat of frost was eminent, and intended to move it into the garage for the winter, as I had last year.   Then I talked to my mother-in-law, who has become my adopted mother since mine has past away, and who told me of her mother's tradition of bringing in her geraniums before frost and tending to them for weeks, even occasionally through the winter, helping the plant gradually adjust to its new environment, confident it would return to its glory the next spring.   Her description moved me, not only because of my love of these plants, but because she was sharing a good memory of her mother, and it made me feel closer to my "adopted" mother.   

I stood this morning, gently pulling off dried leaves and languishing blossoms, locating a withered branch to be carefully removed later with the proper tool.  My mother-in-law said she doubted my plant would bloom if I left it by a window in the family room for the winter, yet mine has already gotten a few new small blooms since I brought it inside.  I was still undecided about whether to keep it inside with hope it would bloom and thrive, or to follow my modified original plan, to store it in the cool garage, with some attention.

I've always loved geraniums - the delicate blossoms, the big, bright leaves, and the smell of them.  It's an earthy smell, suggesting a wild plant, but to me, geraniums are nearly always plants for containers on decks or patios, perhaps hanging near your front porch as a welcoming sight.   A house down the street from us usually has several bright red plants hanging and in containers around her front door all summer.   The plants seem so cheerful and faithful.

I think we mostly associate geranium blossoms with the bright red color which seems to be the favorite to buy, but I often find myself trying different colors. I love the peachy color of this plant, with its two-tone look, the dark in the center and paler tone of the surrounding petals.   Although these blossoms are smaller than most, they are still lovely and special in their own way.

Geraniums remind me of the past,which means to me my mother or someone close to me grew them.  I don't remember them in the garden or patio outside my childhood homes, but it's possible they were there some years.  I remember seeing them at garden centers, and at other people's homes I visited, so when I had a home of my own, it seemed only natural to get my own geranium plants.   They make me feel safe and connected to the past and to gardening in a way no other plants do.   Oh, I've had my share of impatiens planted under a tree and along the borders when the kids' school sold them in May every year.  I got sick of impatiens, but they did well and were easy to tend to.   When we  moved to this house, the garden was well-established in places, but I wanted to add my own favorites.   So far that hasn't happened yet, as I spend so much time keeping up with the weeding in the main garden near our small pond, I have little energy for planting.  I always intend to weed and follow with mulch, but never seem to get beyond the weeding.  I know part of my hesitation is my lack of confidence in myself as a real "gardener."   I am afraid to translate my wish list of plants to the ground, as if they will not thrive or satisfy my vision.   

Another aspect of my reticence for gardening is due to my mother and her father's love and easy practice of gardening.  My grandparents lived all their married life in a row house in Philadelphia, with a postage stamp back yard, but my grandfather made it a special place full of color and scent.  He loved roses, and tended to them as if they were his babies, along with the other plants he kept - perennials and annuals both.  My grandmother never did much in the garden except sit in her lawn chair admiring his handiwork, and displaying them in a vase on her dining room table.   When we moved from our row house in the same neighborhood as theirs to suburban New Jersey when I was 7 or so, my grandfather would often make the hour-long trip on Saturdays for a few hours to help with a project or in the garden, and he would often bring some cut roses for our table.   My mother herself planted many roses against the house in the backyard, and I remember her tending them, along with the other plants in her garden.  The love and skill were passed on from father to daughter, I have always thought, and I cannot begin to possess the skills they had.   

So I convince myself, which I know is silly and counter-productive.   If I want my garden to reflect my style and love of beauty, I must make it happen.   No one else is going to do it for me.   And if I plant some things that don't live or thrive as I hope they will, I will be learning and growing as a gardener.   

In the meantime, I have my geranium, a constant reminder of the past and a connection to the world of gardening.   It's like a friend, or a photograph you look at to make you smile and remember the simpler times.    And it's not stressful or harmful or a bad habit to break.  It's my personal therapy session every time I look at it or touch it's fuzzy leaves.    

But I still need to decide what to do with it for the winter....

Time Flies, Change Inserts Itself

It's been a while since I wrote anything here. I had thought when I started a blog it would be my place to develop a writing discipline, to try and become more of a prolific writer. But I think the public aspect of the blog, such as it is, has held me back. But maybe that's good practice for how writing for publication would feel , if I ever get to that point.

Just reading a writer friend's blog post about her writing regimen, and it gets me thinking. Even though she's far ahead of me in terms of being published, she had to start somewhere, and the discipline seems the logical start. I have trouble being disciplined with myself in many areas of my life - housecleaning, spiritually, reaching out to friends, to name a few. The only "discipline" I seem to observe now is scanning the morning paper and doing the crossword puzzle every day (two puzzles from Thursday to Sunday, as I get the city paper over the weekend for the coupons Sunday). I've been thinking of canceling the paper to save money, but what would I do without the puzzle for those days? Maybe that's a discipline I need to think about cutting back.

As for discipline itself, it is a bad word for those with ADD. I mean, of course, it's a dream, a hope to be able to manage our lives enough to have certain disciplines to follow which give us results as well as confidence to try new things including setting up new disciplines. I always think if I just had certain days of the week to accomplish certain household tasks - laundry, cleaning certain rooms, cleaning the bathrooms, changing beds, etc. - that it would make it so much easier to actually get it all done and make me feel successful! I've even made a list of days and when each chore would be done each week. But somehow I always make it more complicated by considering other factors that make me unsure of the wisdom of my first choices. Like, should I make the boys' laundry days the same day or different? And other such silly conditions. Thus this discipline hasn't been instituted. I need to just make the list, start the first day with whatever's on there, and JUST DO IT! (I really need to get a poster or sticker of that Nike slogan to put on my wall or mirror).

I know I am one of those people who need to take changes like this in baby steps. My therapists have always reminded me of this, and I try to recall it and live by it. But another part of me wants to all of a sudden "be" organized and disciplined and able to handle any crisis or job thrown at me. I think what I need to do is decide which areas of my life really need discipline and which are not so crucial. There has to be some creativity in everyday life, and spontaneity. You can be creative during the discipline itself, perhaps, which is good to know. For now, it' seems overwhelming.

Yet I want to try. And perhaps writing is the best place to start, since I could write about things that I need to get disciplined about and what's really important to me. And also, since I may be working full time some day soon, I will have to develop routines for myself as well as for the family, so they can cope and maintain some order when I am not around. Order while I'm gone? Who am I kidding?

I've gotten some good ideas for topics or exercises to produce some writing, so now I just have to find a good time and structure for this discipline. Perhaps a bit in the morning, which is the hopeful time of the day, and then a bit more in the late afternoon or evening, when my perspective changes to reviewing the day's successes and failures. Or planning for the future. The key is to making it a regular time, and trying to stick to a plan of either a topic or exercise for that given time. And see how it feels.

Morning is the best time to make plans for the day or beyond, when you have so much hope for carrying them out and feel good about yourself and your world. Then see what the rest of the day brings.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

As Thanksgiving nears, I take some time to experience a new online devotional that reminds me of how Jesus is the bread of life, and that we need to be nourished by more than earthly sustenance.  The scripture was John 3:65:  "Jesus said to them, "I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to me will never be hungry, and whoever believes in me will never be thirsty." I got to thinking about different words for being "full," mostly in a physical sense.  Words like "satiated," "satisfied," "stuffed." And "full" of course.

I have seen the word "satiated" a lot lately, it seems.  We are a culture that frequently asks, "are you full?" or are you satisfied?"  It's expected that you get enough to eat, enough money, enough time, enough of everything, because in our country most of us are fortunate enough to get enough, to be satiated (or sated).  And  often in our quest to be satisfied, we forget about those who are not full, may never be, and who need our prayers and help.  The devotional suggests we pay closer attention to the meaning other than the obvious one of needing food to live, that is, the spiritual nourishment we often lack.  The "bread of life" is a metaphor for what God knows we truly need to sustain our faith and growth as believers - growth in our relationship with God.   Jesus' gift of his life to us was the tie to God, our creator and his father.  In Jesus' dying and sacrificing his earthly existence, we gained this special opportunity to get to know God as Jesus knows God.

Abundance.   What does that mean?  It can mean a large amount, enough, or possibly more than enough, as in, an abundance of love that can be spread around among many people.   I think God wants us to strive more for abundance of love and grace and faith, than for an abundance of possessions or achievements or even the food we eat.  Fasting is a good thing because it forces us to focus away from the hunger, in order to survive the ordeal of not eating.  And it hopefully makes us aware of how abundant our lives are in so many ways, how thankful we should always be for this abundance and for God's giving us all we need.  And fasting should provide us with the clarity to see that there are so many other children of God who do not have abundant food or clothes or basic needs met.  And with that clarity we can reach beyond ourselves and our fasting and give to those who need these basic elements of sustenance.

As we gather around tables full of hot, freshly cooked food and look at the familiar faces around us, let us open our hearts and pray for those outside our circle, who may not be sitting with anyone they know, may not be enjoying the warm food and company, and who need those of us who have abundance to share it with them.

Happy Thanksgiving.  May your blessings be abundant and your tummies satisfied this holiday and always.   And may you let God show you the way to spread that abundance beyond your table.  Spread the bread of life as God intends it be shared.

When Depression Moves In

Depression showed up at my door again yesterday, in its sneaky, unabashed way. I was feeling kind of good, doing some music boosters stuff, then BAM, a little voice inside my head told me I wasn't good enough and it was time to let that dragging, invasive presence take over. It wasn't a big change, just enough to get my attention and ruin my mood, enough to stop me from the energetic, positive feelings I'd been having, and to begin to have doubting, negative thoughts about everything around me. I was suddenly a pin cushion for rejection and loneliness and fear, my every thought a land mine waiting to explode into despair.

I knew it wasn't the usual self bashing I do to myself sometimes when I feel low. This was different - the real thing. It even felt physical, chemical somehow. I acknowledged the feeling, then minutes later was asking myself, "how can I be depressed when I recognize the feeling?" Easy, I told myself somewhat rationally; I have been feeling it off and on for about 30 years or more.

Lucky for me, I had an appointment with my therapist the next day (today). When I told her what had "happened," since that's what it felt like - an "event," she put down her clipboard and pen and faced me as I spoke. I knew she was taking me seriously, which helped. Then after she listened, she performed what seemed like triage at the time. She said something like, "when you think those thoughts, like you're no good, or no one needs you, it's depression talking through you. That's when you have to realize that and do something to get rid of that feeling." She started to remind me of the old story of the devil on one shoulder, angel on the other. "It's like the devil is depression, trying to bring you down." She's right of course.

When I drove home, feeling somewhat better, but wary of the ordeal I would still be facing, I thought about that image. If the devil does exist, then Depression is his agent, his hell on earth, at least to me. It doesn't feel natural to have this presence, this sensation that seems to attack me with defeatist thoughts. When I recognize its presence, I will have to fight it, find a way to drive it back to its master, away from my sanity and positive energy.

There are all kinds of therapy methods and I've seen a lot of therapists in my life, but I think the sign of a good one is when she stops her method for a moment to help you through these moments of panic and fear, so you can go out of that office and try to live a half-way decent sort of life, until the situation levels itself.

She asked me if I believe God is involved in the depression. I thought for a moment and answered by repeating the expression that God only gives us as much as we can handle. I said I thought God was there in the fight, and in the victory over the depression. God doesn't cause the depression, nor does God relieve the symptoms using powers only God could possess. God loves me, just as God loves all of God's creations, and God knows what I am capable of handling. I believe it's up to me to address this situation, knowing my faith will help me through and others who care for me will be there for me too.

So now I'm home, being vigilant for the signs, hoping maybe this time the fight will bring new strength for me, perhaps even the ability to look at my life differently. I want to focus on what's the most important to me - my family, my health, my hopes for the future. And try to keep that devil off my shoulder or at least find ways to flick it off sometimes while I try and beat this depression thing.

Remembering the 70s

I've been surrounded by images and icons of the 60s and 70s lately.  Watching Mad Men, which has become our substitute for Lost for now, reading The Help which is about the same time period as Mad Men, (early 60s), attending the Troubadour Reunion tour with James Taylor and Carole King, finding old photos of my family during that time.  I don't remember that much about experiencing the "culture" of the 60s since I was so young (2 in 1960), but I know it was a special generation full of changes, experimentation; mostly humans adapting to the industrialization of the previous generation, the wars, and the growth of media and political awareness.  It seems to me we can learn a lot from that generation's angst and attempts to make sense of the growth of capitalism and the spreading of democracy throughout the developing world.

Some people probably see the 60s decade as full of anger, violence, and the loss of morality in society.  Yet I think a society has to go through these growing pains so generations following can learn from the negatives and make their culture better.  I'm sure we have learned a lot from the 60s and 70s, but when I look at the human condition today, I don't see the improvements I would expect to come out of such a turbulent time.  I think the proof that we didn't learn to live differently after those times is that the 80s were classified as the "Me Generation."  We took on the angst and growing pains of the previous generation for ourselves as individuals, not so much for our collective population.  We became more liberated in many areas of our lives, and we thought we were enlightened and free and advanced.  But perhaps we didn't change collectively as a culture.

Of course I'm talking generally here of the American experience, and it's only my opinion, my frustration about the state of the world today within this huge context.   I'm seeing some parallels these days, or rather some behavior and lack of maturity that disturbs me and points to this lack of learning from and applying the behaviors and activities of the 60s and 70s.

For instance, race relations, previously called the Civil Rights movement.  Yes, it could be called a "movement" of the time, but it was so much more and was meant to pass along so much more to the next generation than I think it did.  Then, people of different "walks of life" who held "radical" beliefs of equality for all races were moving out of their comfort zones, after previously only  discussing the issue privately with friends or like-minded citizens. They began to openly challenge the status quo with the hope of affecting change.  They went from holding secret beliefs and hopes to taking action - for themselves and others, to change the unjust ways.  This is true for both black and non-black people -  they put their reputations, relationships, and sometimes even their lives on the line by stepping out and joining the protest, writing about it, or talking about it publicly, trying to convince others of their conviction.

I do agree that the Civil Rights movement was needed to force the laws to change, to allow for those previously denied rights to be incorporated into our American legal system formally. And that is a major accomplishment, one which was brought about by sacrifice, determination, bloodshed and cooperation between people of adverse points of view. I just wish the people of today could remember those times and use the struggles and determination to make change that will last, change beyond legal change, to make our society more innately open to inclusion and true justice and peace for all people.

Beach Musings

Here I sit on the screened front porch of the rented beach house, facing the ocean drive with cars regularly passing by, the ocean, which is partially hidden by the houses that have "ocean front views." It's warm in the North Carolina heat, and I wish this porch had a ceiling fan. But I'm content with my views of the piercing blue vastness that always signals "home" to me, always feels right.

This place makes me feel calm and free to be myself, perhaps too much myself. I am more aware of the different roles I play at home, some of which I resent simply because it seems "natural" to perform them. Sometimes it does feel like a performance, going through the motions, with the same lines every day --"Time for dinner," I say on the intercom phone to my oldest son and husband, who will be connected to their computers at that point. It's all repetition and rhetoric.

I almost wish we could be living like our ancestors did, in the agrarian society – everyone contributing to the working of the household, because often the household was on a farm, which meant the labors on the farm and in the house were necessarily entwined. So doing chores in the house or in the farmyard or in the fields provided continuous fuel for the entire family, which often meant hired hands also.

Sounds like I'm up (oh, there goes a little lizard, skitting across the driveway, perhaps looking for a bit of shade) on a soap box, with my diatribe and fancy words. But I don't really want to spend my vacation time blogging about my complaints of a life I left behind in Ohio, for now. To return to in due time and to deal with more productively.

On the other hand, isn't time away a chance to place the stones that are your life's worries and sorrows on the table before you to examine and possibly begin to see differently, or even with hope resolve? Isn't this the perfect time to lay it all out and without the interruption of normal duties and worries, see things for what they are or could be?

In my case, when I am at the ocean, the shore as we used to call it in my youth, with the sound of waves lapping the shore and gulls and pelicans gliding by overhead, I see time as precious for living in the moment, for gathering up the sustenance the sea provides me for future use, for memory in my soul. This time is precious, short, to be guarded and lived to the fullest, whatever that means at any given moment. The "living to the fullest" part is often difficult with a family to consider. They have different needs (oh yes, son number 1 wants laundry done) and often operate on a different schedule of sleeping and eating and playing. I have learned to adjust to this different rhythm, and to try and make my moments my own, and hold them close.

For instance, when planning (a task predominantly mine in our household) for this vacation, I had hoped we'd spend 2 or 3 days of the week on "side trips," mainly to pry the guys away from their computer time, which to them is unlimited and precious. I wanted to visit the "big city" north of us, to see an historical ship that's anchored there, and perhaps the aquarium next to a nearby Civil War fort. We've visited the fort on another vacation, but don't ask me to describe that day. Just let me say it was one of those hoped-for side trips that went awry when we got such a late start to our day we only had time for one stop, at the fort. The experience was enjoyed by all, but the rushed feeling and disappointment I felt tainted the day for me.

This vacation, I don't have a particular day or days planned for our outings, only outlines of ideas of where to venture. The "when" is getting problematic, since we only have this afternoon, and the following 2 days to spend, then we pack up and start home on the third day. So I better get to it today. I need to lay out a plan specifically and tell them the time, place, benefits of the experience, and basically why I want them to sacrifice their precious computer time for me, basically. Usually when they get there, they enjoy it and learn something (always a mother's hope, right?), but the grumblings start at the announcement and continue on the journey to the attraction, unless we see something exciting or drastic on the way, like an accident or girls in bikinis walking by (I have 3 boys, including my husband).

I've decided to limit my field trip days to one, probably tomorrow, and hope to get them up early to avoid the mid-day heat and give us time to return to the house for our personal pleasures at a reasonable hour. Now I need to draw out the plan by myself, and make sure I include all the details needed to make it acceptable to the guys.

Well, I had intended to focus more on my personal experiences and ocean views of life in this entry, but instead I let my worries drive my writing. It feels good though, therapeutic, to get the thoughts out, perhaps left there in cyberspace they will allow me to truly enjoy the view and let the healing waters wash away my cares, for now.