No stretch of the imagination...

"Hey, you spread your blanket out on the floor and that'll be our dance floor. Let's get our leotards on and we can be famous dancers. First one done changing puts the Footloose tape in the player!"

Where did all the magic and wonder and make-believe go?

When we were younger, we were never bored. There was so much to do! And if there wasn't anything... we could make it up! Mom probably wasn't too happy to see the contents of her pantry splayed across the coffee table, nor her adding machine getting some extra use, but, man, was it fun to play grocery store! We'd spend a great deal of time drawing up fake money and setting up the "shelves" of the grocery store just so. Honestly, I think we'd spend more time setting up than actually playing, but somehow that didn't matter to us.

Just like when we'd play library. It must have been hours we spent making our book collection into a library with gads of colored construction paper and some tape. Each book had a check-out slip and a carefully constructed pocket in which to store it. The librarian's desk would be set up and the books taken out. Two of us would browse the shelves while the third sat quietly behind the desk, playing such an astute librarian. After selecting our books, we'd go through the careful process of checking out our library books, the librarian taking note of what book, who was borrowing, and making sure the due date was clearly marked in the proper place. Then we'd sit and read, the game forgotten. But that didn't matter.

We built castles, put on plays, became superheroes and brave knights, went singin' in the rain when there wasn't a cloud in sight... there wasn't anything we couldn't do.

We're still the same people, right? Just grown-up versions of our kid selves. So... where did it go? What happened to the secret agents and the contractors and the settlers building forts? What happened to the ability to see that water, berries, leaves and dirt all slopped in a bucket was a magic potion? Because, clearly, how else are you going to poison the evil witch?

It's a shame, this "growing up" thing. Your sense of invincibility morphs into a fear of heights. Your supreme acting abilities turns into stage fright and a fear of public speaking. Your talent for fashion shows and make-up turn into a constant struggle for popularity. Your sense of adventure gets traded in for the sensible path to success.

But it's worth it, right?

The Neverending Movie Rental Debate

Back before Blockbuster overran the city, there were the independently run video stores. The ones with a personal touch... and an admittedly smaller selection. But we hadn't really noticed then, not having had the Blockbuster experience yet. We only had a few that we went to, but Video Shack is the one I'll remember most.

Just the drive there was half the fun. It was a bit hidden, and I'd like to think that it was a place that only special people knew about. Mom and Dad even knew the back roads shortcut to get there. Maybe I'm being a bit dramatic, but that was how it felt. You really couldn't see the place until you drove into the parking lot. It was surrounded by a tall, log wall of sorts that looked like something straight out of Robin Hood. But not once you got on the inside! Then, it turned into a wild west scene. See, the place was built next to a stable. And, if I recall correctly, there was a small corral just off the parking lot, and sometimes we got to see the horses. The whole place looked like a rustic log cabin - southwest-style.

I don't remember too much about the inside of the store, but one shelf full of videos is etched into my memory. The kids' section. Not all of it, mind you, but just one shelf. Yeah, I'm probably smushing everything together in my mind, but I have such a clear image of that shelf, especially the top left-hand corner and the movie that always sat there.

Usually, us kids would have to decide on one video to rent. And between the three of us... it wasn't always easy. I always wanted to rent The Neverending Story, but we'd seen it so many times before, I usually got vetoed. Which was a shame because I really loved that flying, dragon-dog-type creature... there was something about him that was just so comforting, I guess. Another favorite of mine (and most of the time of my sisters, too) was Wrinkles in Need of Cuddles, probably because Joanne and I had our own Wrinkles stuffed dogs. (I still have mine, and I'm a bit disconcerted that most all the ebay listings classify them as vintage...). Another popular choice, one that we usually could agree on, was anything from the Faerie Tale Theatre series. These were especially fun because there were famous people in them. Like Robin Williams as the Frog Prince, Gena Rowlands and Jeff Bridges in Rapunzel, Christopher Reeve as Sleeping Beauty's prince.

No matter the argument over whose turn it was to pick, or what we shouldn't rent because we'd seen it fifty bazillion times, there was always one movie we could agree on. That was the one on the top left-hand corner of that shelf: My Little Pony the Movie. And it wasn't just any My Little Pony video, it had to be the one with the evil, purple ooze. I think the only movie we watched more than that one was The Chipmunk Adventure. But you don't want to get me started on the Wooly Bully song...

Mommy, will you read me a story?

Every summer, between the music boxes and the pitchers, Great Grandma would sit in her old, yellow armchair and read to us. All her great-grandchildren gathered around to listen. Back when Great Grandma wasn't too old, and we weren't too big, one lucky kid got to sit on her lap while she read.

I don't think Great Grandma had more than two, maybe three children's books. I'm still a bit in awe that, year after year, we never tired of hearing the same stories over and over again. In fact, we'd always ask her to read to us.

I only have vague memories of one of the books--a story about a little Chinese boy. The other book, I don't think I could ever forget that one. Flicka, Ricka, Dicka and the New Dotted Dresses. I don't know why this one sticks out most in my mind; maybe it's because I can still hear Great Grandma's voice in my head saying those names.

Great Grandma gave the book to Mary. It's now on her bookshelf, weathered and beaten and showing its age of over 50 years... otherwise known as well-loved.

Mom read to us, too. It was probably every day, but I can't be certain. We had gads of books as children, and we'd do all we could to get our hands on more (something that still hasn’t stopped being a habit). I remember The Grouchy Ladybug, The Mitten, Miss Nelson is Missing, The Polar Express, Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel... Cordoroy was probably a bit worn out after all the times we'd read him. I could go on, but there are just too many. It's really great to go to the book store and see that some of these titles are still out there. Even with all these memories, they still aren't the ones I treasure the most.

It got better when we got older.

Every night before bedtime (well, at least I think it was every night), my sisters and I would all cuddle around Mom while she read us a few chapters from the current book. We could all read on our own, but there was just something about having Mom read A Cricket in Times Square to us. It was like having a favorite television show and looking forward to a new episode every week, only better. We only had to wait one night before we found out what was going to happen to Karana next in Island of the Blue Dolphins, or what adventure James and the Giant Peach would encounter next.

It's no wonder that Mom and Dad had trouble dragging us out of the bookstore without having bought us a book. ;)

Memories... Stuck in the Corner of My Mind...

It occurred to me today what a funny thing the memory is. Or maybe it's just mine that's funny. The memories foremost in my mind are always the bad ones. Senior year on the softball team. A horrendous birthday. Kids that teased me. Friends that left me. And countless other memories that only serve to upset me, remind me how I've been hurt, emotional scars I still carry. My life has been so focused on the bad lately that I'd forgotten just how many good memories I have.

I've got gads and gads... so many that they're all fighting to be told first. At Tiffani's house, eating a way bigger bowl of ice cream than I was allowed at home. Cheering on the Braves with Maryellen. Long drives with Abeer, blasting the radio and singing along at the top of our lungs. Making a killer catch at first base. Pitching a perfect game sophomore year. Waiting anxiously for 7pm on Sundays. Reading my first Dean Koontz book. My sisters and I getting in our leotards and making up our own gymnastics. Helping Letty lop off her long ponytail even though her parents would kill her. Listening to a tone-deaf Brittany sing Alanis at the top of her lungs. Andie and I dumping Kool-Aid mix into our 5 gallon water cooler so we could have fruit punch on tap. Road trips with my softball team. Going up to Phoenix with Stacy and Laura looking for prom dresses. The hugs from the first kids I coached. Standing smack dab under the Eiffel Tower and looking straight up. Eating Domino's Pizza in France. Making Christmas cookies. Going to a World Series baseball game. Making sno-cones with my Snoopy Sno-Cone maker. Finding a duck in Turkey and naming him Quack. The first time I hit a royal flush on a video poker machine. Summer vacation in Michigan. Eating all the stuffing at Thanksgiving. Playing poker with Aunt Holly and Uncle Paul. Getting a new puppy and naming him Max.

There are so many, I don't know where to start. But I thought I'd at least list some of them... just so I can remember.

Cocktails, Klondike Bars, and Music Boxes

My great grandmother was born in the nineteenth century. August 28, 1898. The last time I saw her was for her 100th birthday party. Her birthday always doubled as our annual family reunion. Generations, gads of people, all related, all there to celebrate the life of our beloved matriarch, Agnes Howard Holt. I never knew who most of these people were, just my immediate aunts and uncles and cousins, but that didn't stop me from appreciating just how Great Grandma was. What an amazing legacy. She passed away just a few weeks shy of her 101st birthday, but I know she'll live on through all of us.

The first thing that comes to mind with I think of Great Grandma is her apartment. I'll always remember that first day of our family vacation - every year - the rolling hills with brilliantly green grass that we just didn't see in Tucson as we drove in our rental car into her apartment complex. I never quite knew which building was hers because they all looked the same, but once Mom and Dad parked the car and pointed it out, it was a race between my sisters and I who could get to the door first to ring the buzzer for Great Grandma to let us in. Such a novelty that was for us kids. Then, when we heard the buzzer go off, it was like the starting shot at the races - who could make it down the hall the fastest to hug Great Grandma first. Mom and Dad always slowed us down; there were other people that lived there, too, and it wasn't nice to make so much noise with our stampeding. After being forced to reduce to a torturously slow walk down the halls, we'd arrive at the door. Apartment number 811.

We'd all get our hugs from Great Grandma and the "my how you've growns" right there in the hallway before Mom and Dad even had a chance to walk through the door. She always had presents waiting for us - silly things like paddle balls and kaleidoscopes - but they kept us and our cousins amused long enough. After we were all settled in the living room around that circular coffee table, we'd have cocktails. Yeah, cocktails are supposed to be alcoholic beverages, but us kids didn't know any better. One lucky kid (sometimes two) got to help Great Grandma in the kitchen pouring sodas from cans, getting out the Nuts and Bolts (like Chex Mix, only better), arranging crackers on a plate around the little container of cheese spread, getting out the fun mini-knives that were just for the cheese... It was a whole affair in and of itself.

When everyone was settled on those old, yellow couches around the coffee table, the adults would chat and catch up while everyone snacked. Great Grandma, Grandma Joan, Mom, Aunt Marcy, Aunt Ann... they'd all be in and out, helping get dinner ready. The grown ups would look at photo albums, and the kids would play with their new toys as well as the basket of older ones that Great Grandma kept just for us.

Dinner was a grand affair... at least from my young eyes. Everyone around the long table, passing food and chatting happily. I remember the spaghetti dinners the most, the ones where we got to spoon out parmesan cheese out of a little dish and eat all the French bread we could manage. Most of us kids didn't like to eat the crusts, just the buttery, soft middle. We'd always get a big kick out of the fact that Great Grandma would eat them all for us. She liked the way they crunched softly.

After cleaning up from dinner and resetting the table for dessert, it was time for Klondike Bars! The only time I'd ever eat them with a spoon was at Great Grandma's place.

What came after dessert was always one of my favorite parts of our time at Great Grandma's. The music boxes. Great Grandma had a huge collection of them, some new, most quite old. When we were old enough to be careful with them, she would let one of us pick the first music box to listen to. One of my favorites was the one that played "Singin' in the Rain" and had a guy and a gal twirling around a lamppost with their umbrellas. Some of the music boxes were very old and fragile, but each one was so unique and creative. I think each of us had our own favorite.

When we tired of the music boxes, we'd ask Great Grandma to show us her pitchers. Sometimes we'd have to wait while she showed us pictures because we didn't want her to think she'd heard us wrong. She had a pitcher collection - all different sizes, shapes, and colors - each had it's own story of when and where she'd gotten it; she'd tell us as we unwrapped them from the tissue they were stored in. The best part of the pitchers was the organizing... smallest to largest on the windowsill. It was always a group effort, and we had to be sure of the order, being careful if one was just a fraction bigger than another.

Funny how the simplest things became the best memories. I have a lifetime worth of memories of Great Grandma, some I didn't even realize were there, but all of them are a treasured part of my childhood. And I hope someday someone can say the same of me.

NaFinWIPsMo

What's that mean? National Finish WIPs Month, though I suppose we ought to call it International. ;)

Some friends of mine are participating in NaNoWriMo this month. I'll admit I have aspirations of one day writing a novel, but that day isn't any time soon. I do, however, have a fanfic I'd love to see finished before the year is out. So some other friends and I are piggy-backing off NaNoWriMo and creating (Inter)National Finish WIPs Month.

I hereby commit to (trying like hell) finishing my current WIP this month, November of 2005. As it stands now, I've got just over 50,000 words. I'd say it's about 2/3rds done. So... wish me luck. And feel free to nag. ;)

There's Just Something About Athletics

I started playing softball at the tender age of nine, and at that point I was oblivious to the "something". I simply enjoyed playing - even though I wasn't all that great at it. Maybe that was my first hint.

My second year playing, I was voted as one of the best 12 players in my age division, which essentially meant I had made the All-Star team. After weeks and weeks of long, grueling, HOT (this is Arizona in the summer 100F (38C) degree weather ;)) practices ... we won the District Tournament. That was the first time I got a real good look at what that "something" was.

There's a great feeling that goes along with being part of a team, especially as you realize you're more like family than anything else. Team cohesion doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, it's a great feeling. You play together like a well-oiled machine, anticipating each other's moves and trusting that everyone's doing their part.

It's what makes that "something" just that much better. It's the welling up of pride and pure happiness when you've just won the District Tournament. It's the feeling of knowing you're crying as a team, not alone, when you lose that last game in the National Tournament.

I played in the same softball league for six more years after that National All-Star Tournament in 1990. I made the All-Star team five more times, making it to Nationals in California twice more.

We never did win a National Tournament, my teammates - my family - and I, but the feeling I get when I think about the best years of my life... well, it's really something special.

The last time I felt that "something" was this past summer in Nice. The Ironman Triathlon. I could only dream about accomplishing such a feat, but my friend's brother, Geo, did more than dream. He finished. Twelve and a half hours in the worst heat Nice had had in a while.

The opening ceremonies were incredible, or, rather, the charged energy in the atmosphere was tangible. Maybe it was a bit of nostalgia... okay, a lot of nostalgia for the "something" I hadn't experienced in almost a decade, but I cried. And I tried my best not to cry harder when they started playing those songs. The athlete songs. Queen - We Are The Champions. Survivor - Eye of the Tiger. The songs from my youth that remind me of the time when *I* was an athlete.

Throughout the day, my friend's family and I were Geo's support team, meeting him a points along the way and screaming "You can do it!" at the top of our lungs. That in itself was... inspiring, almost. There was just something about witnessing the pinnacle of athletics and the dedication and heart I could feel permeating the air.

It's hard to describe the raw emotion I was feeling as I watched the first man cross the finish line. The first woman. The man carrying his daughter with him the last 10 yards of the race because it was Father's Day. Geo still wearing a smile, but tired as all hell.

There's just something about athletics, a feeling you can only know if you've experienced it. Maybe it ties us athletes all together, active and not, so that even if it's been too long, we can still feel that something. Incredible.

It's Gonna Happen On a Tuesday

You know those little things only your family knows? The inside jokes, the little quirks? Well, in our family, Tuesday was always a special day. For absolutely no reason in particular, but that was the point.

Dad, when do I get my allowance?
Tuesday.

Dad, when are we going to Disneyland?
Tuesday.

Dad, when are you going to buy me a car?
Tuesday.

This ensured that Dad always had an answer for everything. Dads are supposed to know it all. So what happened if Tuesday just didn't answer the question? Well, Dad had a few more stock answers for things.

Dad, how much money do I owe you again?
A million dollars.

Dad, how much longer is it going to take to get there?
Two minutes.

I could probably ask Dad when I'm supposed to be happy - he does know everything, after all - but I already know the answer.

It's gonna happen on a Tuesday.