Wednesday Night Tennis People

~Wednesday Night Tennis People~

Heading to the Green Center

to play tennis with people

older than my parents.

What a thrill to see friends

playing and serving and aging

all in the name of the little yellow ball.

Familiar faces, hugs, and welcomes 

from the permanent court people. 

Tonight I am a substitute player paired 

twice with an opposite gender partner.

“I don’t like to lose,” he tells me,“so don’t mess up.” 

I hear this every time we play together. 

Across the net the composite age 

is about 160. We are only 105. 

I assure my white, wiry-haired partner we will win.

The pop of the sound of tennis balls fills

my head for the next hour and a half. Shouts hailing

my brilliance come as often as the words

“waaaaayyyyy out,” when the ball just misses the line.

Nothing is too serious until we are down in score.

Tense serves and tennis chatter between the partners 

brings the players in the present. We win, 

because we don’t lose.

Partners change when eight people play

on two courts. The winning teams pair up 

and exchange partners while the two losing teams 

do the same. There is no shame in position with

the Wednesday Night Tennis People. All win,

because they don’t lose.

Point, Game, Set, Match. Court time over.

Off to Murry’s, the restaurant where a table

is waiting for the Tennis People to imbibe.

There's No Place Like Home

Growing up, my Dad told of a town character who would dramatically exit her car after crossing the line from Callaway to Boone, kiss the ground and exclaim proudly "Boone County, Boone County!" I've often wondered if she said it the way Dad imitated it. Probably not, but in my 30 years on the road I still mimic her--or my Dad--after a long drive even if I do not leave the car. In the words of the great mystic Rumi: "there are hundreds of ways to kiss the ground."

"My people" have been here for five generations before me and I see more to come ahead of me. Boone County, Mo., gives me a solid place to stand in this world.

A Centenarian Named Annie

Nannie surrounded by some of her great-great nieces and nephews at her 100th birthday party on September 15, 1976. I am standing directly behind Nannie wearing a dress that she wore when she was a young girl. I found the ivory lace dress in a trunk in the attic shortly before the party.  

Annie Alice Britts

September 15, 1876-November 30, 1976 

My namesake lived to be 100 years old. Take a close look at the dates above. Nannie entered this world in the centennial year of our country and died toward the end of the bicentennial year celebration. This club is small: through hypothetical calculations, I have determined that only about 100 people in the United States could also claim an exact centennial birth/bicentennial death.

Nannie treasured having a baby named for her and doted on me my first ten years. Wonderful and imaginative childhood experiences came from time I spent visiting Nannie for the weekend at the old family home in Clinton. I reminisce: sitting in the parlor hearing family stories; sliding down the ultimate banister; walking down to the square to buy candy at Ben Franklin's; a winding back staircase to run up and down; the lure of the attic; simply an endless playground of discovery and history.

She also taught me an appreciation of the written letter and, being my first pen pal, we exchanged mail regularly. She addressed the letters to “My Dearest Namesake” and as a young girl in a big family the special attention felt really important. When Nannie died in 1976 it ended an era in her branch of the family and within two years the 1868 family home disappeared and a Phillips gas station supposedly arose in its place. I've never bothered to check it out. In my mind the Britts home still stands on Franklin Street in Clinton, Mo.

As a Young Woman

I can still hear the trains in the distance and smell the woody scent of the old house in Clinton. 

This was my favorite place to be when I was 7-10 years old.

To Be of Use by Marge Piercy

In a world that often defines people by what they do for a living being unemployed has been a humbling and eye-opening experience. After 25 years of growing a career that brought pride and challenge, the job layoff this summer felt like a heartless punch in the gut. 

Being a free agent can’t last forever but I choose to embrace it. My roles have never been so varied: babysitter, writer, book seller, editor, lawn mower, and more. Yet I’d trade nothing to have the time and ability to help my Mom when she broke her femur earlier in the summer. It takes a lot for my fiercely independent mother to need or ask for help. But the wicked surgery and the long and painful recovery process perhaps humbled her in a way similar to my layoff. We both have to count on others right now. The ability to give back to my Mom--the person who has devoted her every being to her family--has been one of the most precious experiences of my life. 

Today she faces a second surgery on her femur that will take her recovery process back to where she started. It’s serious stuff and all I can hope is that she realizes that she has a daughter that just needs to be of use. 

To Be of Use

by Marge Piercy

The people I love the best

jump into work head first

without dallying in the shallows

and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.

They seem to become natives of that element,

the black sleek heads of seals

bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,

who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,

who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,

who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge

in the task, who go into the fields to harvest

and work in a row and pass the bags along,

who are not parlor generals and field deserters

but move in a common rhythm

when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.

Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.

But the thing worth doing well done

has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.

Greek amphoras for wine or oil, 

Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums

but you know they were made to be used. 

The pitcher cries for water to carry

and a person for work that is real.

Let it Hang Like a Bruise

Mom and Jim at a Holiday Meal

Yesterday I wrapped another band-aid around my finger that would not stop bleeding. It’s a small cut on the joint of my index finger. It will heal.

It forced me to think about the open wound I’ve lived with since November 2010. The bleeding, aching, oozing pain that Jim’s death created. Yet I may have developed the first layer of a scab--brittle and thin but strong enough to hang some hope. Perhaps in the months and years ahead the scab will toughen and the pain will not be raw and bloody.

My hope is that this horrible wound will some day hang like a bruise for that is the best I can imagine when I think about my little brother’s place at the table always sitting empty.

Garage Sale Notes

Garage Sale Saturday arrived but so did the rain and dark, stormy skies. Just as the clock struck 7:00 an elderly gentleman appeared--to inspect the World War II memorabilia. The excitement of my first customer looking at some of the higher-priced items quickly faded. He asked a couple of questions, I showed him my product, and he was disappointed . . . ahem, “put out” would be a better description.

“These are just toys. Looks like I just got out in the rain for nothing,” the man said in a gruff, dissatisfied voice. And then he was gone. I glanced around my overflowing garage; frankly i never expected rain. The summer had been a dry one in Missouri day after day. And my people, friends who bravely agreed to be “worker bees” were not to be found. A slow feeling of dread, almost panic crawled up my back. 

Before I had time to think about it, “my peeps” arrived along with a flow of garage sale loyalists. Perhaps my “rain or shine” comment in the advertisement helped but it seemed if many of these folks remembered past “awesome garage sales.” Mind you, I’ve had one. It was five years ago. Regardless, throughout the morning, a number of people told me in detail what they purchased at the 2006 sale. 

Fez, Morocco, January 2001

When I spotted a crack in the flow of people, I went upstairs for a fresh cup of coffee. Despite thinking it had to be at least 9 a.m., the clock said 7:50. The dulcimer, Japanese violin, several framed artworks, historically accurate model airplanes, vinyl records, the old lawn mower, washer and dryer, and much more had disappeared in the early minutes of the sale. 

It felt like a Moroccan souk during those first 50 minutes. People swirled and contorted through the narrow space between tables of colorful items; at least one customer used his flashlight to inspect merchandise in the dim garage light. Another asked if he could shine the light his way. Why didn’t I think of reserve flashlights for the potential early gray morning?

As the rain poured I thought “this is just a garage sale, my poor trees need the rain.” People mingled and as new friendships formed, I realized that a garage sale provided more than a chance to make money and thin closets. Clearly the best things exchanged at the sale were friendships gained, strengths found, and understandings cultivated.

What’s in a Name?

What’s in a name?

Surprise Lily. After a lifetime of seeing the Surprise Lily (as I call them) pop up by the thousands, i really should not be surprised--but I always am. 

Naked Lady. The bare stalks inspire the name and whenever a brother mischievously refers to it this way, first my grandmother, now my Mom, dutifully provides the expected pretend-disgusted reaction. 

Resurrection Lily. Clearly the most inspired name for this flower though I call it that the least. 

Spring comes and the leaves sprout and grow, then die back and disappear in June. With no sign of life for a couple of months it is easy to forget they will rise again in early August. The spectacular flowers, pink and fragrant, shoot from the earth, providing a couple of weeks of God’s beauty. The Resurrection Lily brings some peace and meaning to aching hearts from the loss of a son, a brother, arriving by way of nature. 

This Missouri summer has been a particularly hot one and followed a record-setting winter. I’ve recently lost several established trees and bushes from drought. But the Resurrection Lilies, as I now call them, are bursting and blooming in a way that can only be called Divine.

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"It grows where it wants, blooms when it wants, and doesn't bloom if it so chooses.”--an Unknown Gardener