Sit on it........

 Way back in Marrieddom, circa turn of the Century, I eyeballed a painting on the wall I'd never seen... so, asked, "When'd we get that?"   About two years ago.

 Am I the only soul out here that can be naive to paying attention to it all?  Recently, I took onea them tests online..  usually a list of ten or so questions, for all to take, see their score.  You know the annoying ones (Victor, I come here to relax, stop). Ahem, you know the annoying ones "I got 10 outta 10", of course you did.  Or, "Cinchy".. well hells bells, no breaky you arm patting yourself on the back...  OK, my test was about current events, movies, TV, actors, actresses... I think I got 3 right out of 20.  I don't pays no attention sometimes, but, there are moments I actually like me.

I wrote all that about this..  I was trying to think of the lyrics of that song "If you want to be happy for the rest of your life" and I couldn't remember the next line. IE (Can you do 'ie' in CAPS?  Ain't never seen it that way.)  ie, I wanted the gist of the blog to be about 'how to be happy.'  Anyways, the next line (after "If you want to be happy for the rest of your life" - "Never make a pretty woman your wife."  WELL THAT AIN'T gonna work.

So my brain, thoughts, raced like the dad gum dot on the old game "Pong".. this thought, no, that thought, huh uh...

I thought about the living room I grew up in.  My sister and I didn't really have a regular ole regular place to sit, but mom and dad sure did.  Mom had a comfy chair and ottoman.. Of course a lamp nearby (avid newspaper reader).. in earlier years, cigs, ashtray, scads of magazines, 'Her spot." Thinking of her spot made me happy.  Dad sat at the South end of the sofa. A wooden 'rack' on the end table next to him accommodated a nifty supply of 'pipes', whichever one he wanted to use dependent upon his mood.

Your grandparents?  When that thought comes up, I see my grandfather on the metal swing on the front porch listening to Cardinal baseball with his transistor.  i 'see' my grandmother at her chair in the living room, much the same as my mother's chair.  These thoughts make me happy.

That.  Thinking of that made me happy.

Then I thought about little kids.  Little kids make me happy.  Some of the best 'dates' I've ever had in my life consisted of my date, her grandkids, me, my grandkids, and a high school (or junior high) play.  Truly, enjoyment for all. Plays made me, my date, and the grands happy. Win win. Beat the hell outta droppin' a hunnerd at The Hereford House. 

And then I thoughta music, going to concerts...  sports..  sitting in the bleachers (or on the bench.)  Me?  My comfy chair.  Hell to the yes.  Gimme the remote, pull the blinds, pull that wooden arm so it lays back, my legs are up.. yum. It's Monday, I don't have to work until Thursday, jump in my chair (ok, plop), leave me alone until Thursday morning, yes!

And then, what is in common with ALL OF THOSE WONDERFUL THINGS that bring happiness?

A butt. They all include a butt.  Sitting on my butt makes me happy.  They paid me for twenty years to do so.  These college basketball coaches, I don't get it.  They work their way up (jr high, HS, small college asst, small college head coach, big ole college asst, finally, big ole college head coach), finally, money that would make a spouse happy, and WHAT DO THEY DO?  They stand the whole game.  It's no wonder they ain't got no fingernails, have heart problems, gripe at the refs, and get short with reporters in interviews.  Sit down dadgummit.  Sitting makes one happy!

"People who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up."  Ogden Nash (I agree Og, 'cept for them hardheaded coaches.)

A friend's brother recently broke his arm, can't do his job with a broken arm, so, he's at home. Friend told me "He's completely fine with just sitting at home."  ME TOO!

Car rides.  Park benches. Ferris wheels. Go carts. The view from a ski lift. Canoe trips. Front porches, back porches. Breakfast out and a newspaper.  BUTT I get it!  Happiness is all about the tush!

"You know an odd feeling?  Sitting on the toilet eating a chocolate candy bar."  George Carlin (I think so 2 George, no pun intended.)

Playing cards.  Playing Cards Against Humanity except for when you gotta read something really raunchy and you don't know the people you are playing with very well.

EATING.  Eating makes me, and my waistline happy!  (All those years sitting in the cubicle, the "Wellness" kick came into fruition, employers became concerned for your personal health, which, is fancy for howinthehell do we keep health insurance rates low?  Anyways, nurses would come, give everyone tests on wellness.. taking blood, blood pressure, heartrate, yada.. and one of them was measuring your waist to help attain one's BMI..  "OK, now I'm going to measure your waist"  Oh you don't need to do that (I said).  I've worn size 36 jeans forever.  "Yeah but, but we don't measure there, we measure here (and she pointed up higher where my damn belly was sticking out.  How did I get here?  Oh yeah, sitting, eating makes me happy.

It is normally par for the course for me to say "Please know I ain't preaching, I'm here, talking to me, hitchhikers welcome."  BUTT, in this case. I'm preaching.  SIT ON IT.  Sitting on one's butt makes happiness.

And if you're ever in a tiff with someone and they disgustedly tell you to "SIT ON IT!" just reply, I THINK I WILL!

"I have no philosophy.  My favorite thing is sitting in the studio."  Arne Jacobsen

"Being alone and actually sitting with your own thoughts can lead to such growth and realizations that are rare in our everyday busy lives."  Kourtney Kardashian

I read your mind and I DID NOT say anything close to "Kardashian, big butts."

Butt, maybe it's not such a bad thing. My second favorite boss ever usedta tell us "Get you one'a them (women) that you don't have to shake the sheets to find."

If you want to be happy for the rest of your life, never make a pretty woman your wife...   Sit down, stay awhile - and enjoy.

By Henry Gibson             Forward by Sitting Bull

Love, Victurd

Hamilton Beach.......

It's pretty obvious, I've got a big mouth.  Actually, I don't (in 'real' life), but here, yes, I talk too much.  Victor, they ain't belted in.  I know that, you know that, they know that.  Anyways......

I Googled "things you shouldn't share" expecting numero uno on the list to be "Exactly how things went in bed with Susie last night."

The things you shouldn't share list that pulled up:   Underwear, Deodorant, Pumice stones/emory boards/hairbrushes..  makeup.. toothbrushes..  water bottles..  razors/tweezers... towels..  (They missed rectal thermometers.)

No, no, no, I mean "what things should you keep private?"  I found a list of 6.  The first to keep private "Your biggest dreams and goals." This confused me, for, ever since we've been old enough to steal other kid's toys outta the sandbox, we've been asked "What do you want to be when you grow up?"  You get teacher, artist, cook, doctor, lawyer, nurse, bus driver, musician, yada..  Mine was cinchy, I wanted to be a ball player.  Well, I made it, kinda.  I played for 7 decades, I just never made a dime doing so. (That ain't a brag, it's more about a love.)  Like my very cute 5 year old niece back in the day.  She loved dogs. "I want to be a vegetarian when I grow up."  Certainly obtainable!   The article said letting others know your dreams and goals to actually accomplish them later.  Forever, I've been a simpleton, I'll admit. i just don't get this one,

2. Your private life.  OK, I get it. Scroll back to my big mouth.  I don't mean any harm here.  I hopefully, occasionally bring a smile, or, conjure up a memory about something in your world, life.  We all share some private things, kinda sorta.  I mean, we spend time looking at friends travel pics (their private life), recipes, sayings, fun memes, or watching video of little Ethan's soccer game where he scores a goal in the wrong goal.  Fun, private kinda stuff. I do understand one shouldn't share sensitive information, gotcha.

3. Your family problems. OK, gotcha.  Although, I do remember once, or, seven times, mentioning "she rode off on a Harley."  Hey, I was telling a story, it was needed info!  I abhor reading comments about family problems. Agreed.

4. Your material belongings.  There all right behind me now, here. I'd take a picture but it's pretty messy. There's a garden hose.. a log chain I bought when I wrecked my car, hooked it around a tree, straightened the frame in the rear of the car.  That's about all that are worth anything.  Not a problem for me.  Victor, in a way, you're violating two rules.  #2 up there, your private life, how po' you are. and #4, lack thereof.  Ahm, OK.  Send me to the principal's office. I hope it's a female and she's got a big ole paddle.  Begesus Victor, surely SEX is #5, don't share sex.  Well, OK, but may I ask, do you share sex, or, do you keep it to yourself, you little pervy!  Move on Victor.  OK said Alvin.

5. You acts of kindness.  Comprende.  You don't hear it said often, but happens.

6.  Your money.  What about lack thereof?  VICTOR!  Sorry, kinda.

See, I was gonna do a blog about that..  then.. I didn't like it.. So I was gonna do one about the sandbox..  You know, where we learn the rules of life.  Ask before taking. This would include shovels, trucks, toy road graders, trucks, purses, billfolds and catalytic converters.  You should say things like "May I use your shovel....or your purse.. or your converter."

"When you share with others, they will share with you."  Sometimes I'm a giver, moreso hopefully verbally than physical gifts (there you go again Victor, TMI).. and we could combine #2 (private life) plus #3 family problems plus #5 money, but then, I think most of us have children, so we "get it."  Sorry to gripe, kinda.  

"Respect other kids' sand creations."  Sure, understand.  Most sandboxes ain't very big however.  Most in sandboxes can't say words with two syllables, so this might be tough to teach.

"Use kind, strong words. Encourage your child to use kind, strong words to stand up for himself or ask for what he needs in the sandbox. If someone takes a toy he was using, refrain from swooping in and retrieving it for him. Instead, help him find the right words to ask for it back."  You mean like, "Look here bitch, hand me that bucket over or I'm gonna open a skull wound on them curly locks with my shovel!"  (VICTOR... please keep your private life to yourself.  I CAN'T!  I was once in an inner circle of friendship with someone that taught first grade.  This person didn't do the 7:30am to 3:30pm first grade thing, this person was that 'teacher' (I call it 'character') 24/7, every way, shape or form, but mostly dialect.  It was very strange to be in a room of 20-30-somethings to here someone speak to the crowd as if we were five.  I wanted to open a skull wound..VICTOR!  Sorry.

OK, so we kinda get the Hamilton Beach blender thing.  You were having trouble (again) coming up with something to write, so you did multiple things, TMI, things you shouldn't share (items and otherwise)... life in the sandbox.. and we kinda get the "Beach part" of Hamilton Beach due to the sandbox, is that what you meant?

Well, kinda.  Yes, blender blog.  Yes, kinda sorta sand, beach.  Moreso, I remembered back to a glorious time I was at a Beach on St. Thomas.  Four of us.  Sitting at the edge of the ocean, watching, feeling, enjoying as the waves came in, and out, and in and out.  There was a gal that walked a mile or so along this sandy beach, back and forth to the Corona shack, bringing us Corona's. By the time we'd sat there for an hour plus, both me and the other fellow stood up to walk to the car and we each had like two pounds of sand in our cracks (and sacks, TMI, sorry again.)  You prompted that story. I wasn't gonna tell it.  Really not all it's cracked up to be.

I'll go.

Tune in tomorrow when I'll tell that story of the time I was in bed, heart racing, I'm talking huge palpitations, sweating profusely, the bed was a rattlin', sweet nothings were being whispered (and hollered) and then.... and then... I woke up. Yeah, that's it.  We'll talk about dreams.

Victor?  Yes. You are aware you just cut that guy in the SUV off aren't you?  He's probably gonna come back and kill us.  Relax, he was happy!  In fact, he was telling me he was from California because when he passed he waved and said "SUNNY BEACH!"

Some blogs are better than others.

Love, Victurd

A substitute... Make memories...

 Today you get a break from me!  This morning, when I opened the Kansas City Star to read.. there was, front page of the sports... an article with a local (Liberty North High School) connection. And, my opine, hopefully a connection with the basic themes of checkenginelight:  Struggle.  Perseverance. Humor, within struggle.  Memories.  Warning, it's a tear jerker. God Bless them both, father and son.

BY SAM MCDOWELL

SMCDOWELL@KCSTAR.COM

A 54-year-old high school basketball coach stood on the floor of the Liberty North Fieldhouse this week, a setting in which he has watched hundreds of games, knowing his doctors believe this visit could be his last.

Rob James, a lawyer-turned-coach, has been an assistant at Liberty North for a decade now, but last week, head coach Cy Musser informed him of a change in plans. James would slide two feet to his left and occupy the chair of the head coach for one night.

His son's final game...   and maybe his too.

“That,” James said, with an emphasis, “was an emotional discussion.”

Last summer, doctors put a timeline on James’ life. Told cancer offered him only 12-18 months left, James set a goal — to live long enough to see his son, Quinton, graduate high school.

Well, he had two goals, actually.

The graduation. And he wanted to make memories along the way. The latter has become a rallying cry of sorts. If you’re around him for a few minutes, you’re bound to hear him say it at least once, probably more.

Make memories.

He got a pretty good one this week.

Quinton scored a career-high 10 points in Liberty North’s win Tuesday against Lee’s Summit North, complete with a play in the fourth quarter drawn up especially for him to reach double digits for the first time in his career.

In his last home game.

With his father as head coach.

“My dad, he deserved that moment,” Quinton said. “But this is going to be something that I’ll never forget, either.”

Two years ago, after feeling pain in his right buttock, James was diagnosed with undifferentiated pleomorphic sarcoma, a rare form of cancer that originates in soft tissue. For the ensuing 24 months, life has entailed a never-ending cycle of chemotherapy treatments as he fights to beat a disease he’s told is incurable.

He insists on enjoying the ride.

The journey began with a buttockectomy, which is exactly what it sounds like, a removal of soft tissue in the gluteus maximus, to which he now says, “I’m literally half-assing my way through life.” The cancer has affected his physical appearance — through chemotherapy, his dark brown hair gave way to a shiny, bald head — but not the demeanor his friends say make him the most positive person they’ve met.

While running a one-man law firm 15 years ago, he took a side job as a high school assistant basketball coach so he could better influence kids. He’s a romantic in that way. An eternal optimistic. And as his family already knew, someone who will try to find the good in everything.

Even a death sentence.

“If you don’t smile about some of this stuff,” he said, “it will send you over the edge.”

But it’s tested him. During his first treatment, which arrived at the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic, he developed an infection that required two procedures and placed him in the hospital for six nights. Subsequent treatments have entailed a drug known as “The Red Devil” for its rich red color and its side effects, and James has experienced complete exhaustion. One morning, changing the batteries in a thermostat prompted a two-hour nap.

The cancer has metastasized to James’ right lung. After treatments last year shrunk a tumor there last summer, a recent scan showed slight growth.

But there’s one thing he still rarely misses.

Practice.

He attends almost every day at the high school, even if on some afternoons he needs to sit on a stool and just watch.

“It’s two hours with my son,” he said. “And the other part is you want to set an example to these kids that you can’t let stuff stop you.

“My dad always told me to show up and do the work. So I try to show up and do the work.”

On the day James learned of his prognosis —the day he heard “12 to 18 months” — he first thought of his 18-year-old son and two step-children, in their mid-20s. He spent the car ride home not in mourning but rehearsing a speech for how he’d tell them. When it came time, he fell silent. The words wouldn’t come.

Quinton spends his day trying to distract himself from the reality of it all, but in quiet moments, it consumes his thoughts. He doesn’t know how many memories he and his father have left to make.

One of their most special — his father’s one-night promotion — arrived this week, though the idea came to Musser, Liberty North’s head coach, months earlier. Musser informed the team of his plans Monday. Although he struggled to get through the speech, he did say this:

“(James) has shown up for us every single day, whether he felt good or not. I hope we make sure we show up for him.”

Musser moved up senior night on the schedule so that Tuesday evening would belong to James.

Instead, it belonged to a father and son.

Earlier in the day, teammates had been encouraging Quinton, a point guard, to shoot the ball more, a plea that, frankly, his mom has been telling him all year. Get yours, his teammates said.

He finally took it to heart. What better time?

Quinton opened with a three.

Then another.

Then a bucket.

Then Musser, who had tried to stay in the background for most of the night, suggested one play call. Liberty North executed it flawlessly, and Quinton buried an open layup for a new career-high.

With a double-digit lead in the final minutes, Liberty North emptied its bench. For nearly a decade, James has stuck out his hand, on the receiving end of high-fives from hundreds of players.

On Tuesday, his senior point guard walked straight toward him. James opened his arms for a hug. Quinton wrapped his arms around him and placed his chin on his father’s shoulder.

“It seemed to go so quickly that I’m glad I got the picture to hold onto it,” James said.

The next day, he opened his iPhone and set its lock screen and wallpaper image for the first time in his life.

The hug with his son.

A memory made.

8 ball, corner pocket.

Trouble (oh we got trouble)
Right here in River City (right here in River City)
With a capital "T" and that rhymes with "P" and that stands for pool
(That stands for pool)
We've surely got trouble (we've surely got trouble)
Right here in River City (right here)
Gotta figure out a way to keep the young ones moral after school
(Our children's children gonna have trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble...)

This is where I'm supposed to acknowledge whointhehell wrote the above for whatinthehell, but, since I don't make a wholehellofalottamoney doing this (other than pure joy of doing so), I ain't gonna.

Victor, you recently did a blog on Bud's Pool Hall.  Yeah yeah yeah, I think I remember.  This one's about pockets though.  But.  But, Bud's was unique. It's where we learned howta roll up a pack of Camel nonfilters in one's short sleeve sleeve.  It's where we heard things like "And so is your old man."  A right of passage. Out on our own, first time, in public, with, sorry in advance, our first pubic hair.

Editor's note.  I never understood Snooker.  It was an old man thing.  All along, common belief was your balls got bigger as you aged, nuh uh, not in Snooker.  The balls were smaller, the pockets even smaller.

Victor, is this where you're gonna tell the story of you and Jeff as 9-year olds, in the basement of Mattingly's and one of those old ladies (about your age now) accused you two of stealing a football inflation needle, and she frisked you both, reaching into your pockets?  Well, ahm, you just told it, thanks.

Old age is all about losing it, and cold beer.  Yesterday, I did both.  I no havey washer-dryer in my apartment, so, laundromat for three loads. I go every time I'm down to one paira undies.   Day before, I'd been to play golf with buddies.  When playing golf with buddies, it's imperative the beer is kept cold.  So, (whisper whisper... hey Charlie.. how do you spell %%^^&%$...yeah, that's it, Koozie, thanks.)  So, one places their beer in a Koozie.  Koozies are made outta some kinda material that keeps beer cold, and they usually come with the names of a niece or a nephew, cousin or good friend, who got married ten years ago, passed those things out as gifts, and they've been divorced for seven years now, but, the Koozie still works it's magic.

Where was I?  Oh yeah, laundromat.  You know those basta's raised the rate a quarter to $3.50?  In all seriousness, I just may have to start flippin my undies.  Bottomline, "losing it, and cold beer."  As I grabbed my jeans outta the dryer to fold up, there in the back pocket was my Koozie, "love Angel and Charlie" whoeverinthehell they are.  Yes, I'm losing it.  Yes, my beer was cold.

But that ain't really what this is all about.  Victor, you've already mentioned how joyous it is when you put on a pair of jeans and there's a $20 in the pocket.  Yes, yes I have, and tomorrow you're gonna write the entire damn blog, deal?

I Bubba Shrimp Googled 'pocket' and it had pictures of all kinda pockets.  About all I know are the ones in jeans.. you know, that little pocket inside the regular pocket.. hells bells, if you put something in there, you can't get it out.  They say it was made for the day and age of pocketwatches, but I ain't seen no pocketwatches that small.  It redline underlined pocketwatches, but I ain't gonna go back and find the proper way, you get the drift.  Apparently, redline is redlined too.  Bite me auto-person. 

I ain't much on organization. The only time I organize my pockets, is golf:  Big, long tees in front left pocket, little bitty tees in front right pocket.  Other time, laundromat.  Quarters in front right pocket, all other denominations in left front pocket.

In life, pockets are personal.  We keep things close.  They're 'ours', not belonging to anyone else in the whole wide wide world of sports.  Unique.

I am gonna suggest two pockets.

You know those crap jeans kids wear nowadays?  Victor, that sounded REAL old.  Well, I am.  Those crap jeans that have holes allover 'em to make 'em look worn I guess.  Knees sticking out, upper thigh, lower shin, cracks, lines... hell, even sometimes buttcheeks stick out.  Well, the other day, I saw some torn to badly they had POCKETS sticking out.  I've never understood youth in dress, even when I was a youth.  Bellbottoms?  Really?..  

OK, just a suggestion, I think everyone should buy a pair of those ripped, torn, bullcrap jeans where the body skin sticks out allover, and yes, the pockets stick out too.  Inside those pockets.  Or, as Mrs. Sumpter who would turn up the volume when she wanted us to remember something, INSIDE THOSE POCKETS place every shitty thing said personally to you your entire lifetime.  You know, the ones that grab you when you're sitting in the easy chair.  You wish like hell you'd never been attacked like that, but it was said, and it wasn't said with a dry erase pen, it was a PERMANENT MARKER.  Your brain goes back to it often,and when it does you get down, you wanna go take a nap, another Wellbutrin, maybe have a cocktail.  A lifetime of misery we've allowed that person to impose on us.  This is where I call bullshit   Stick 'em (all those horrific things people said about you, to you, about some aspect of you that depressed you), stick 'em all in that pocket that's hanging out.  THEN (thanks Mrs.Sumpter).. THEN, cut that bastard off, immediately throw it in the trash, then immediately take the bag out to the trash bin outside and be rid of those awful 'sentiments'.  Rub your palms together a couple times like they do when you get ridda something.  Be done with those 'sentiments.'

The other pocket, lets call it our hip pocket.  Yeah, I like that. Our hip pocket.  Our hip pocket is reserved for those people that keep us afloat.  There's not one damn thing we could do to ever make them stop being there for us. Those.  Them kinda people.  That's what our hip pockets are for.  You know, the people that make us feel good about ourself.  That kind.  Them kind.  They're kind.  Emphasis on kind.  That kind, in your hip pocket.  Your hip pocket is close, or should be, because anytime you get down, just reach that hand down in the hip pocket, and whoop, there it is, or there they are.  Our blessed friends, loved ones that make us feel good.  All revel hip pocket friends!

A buddy.  A buddy, who forever and a day, for what kinda reason I dunno, he's been in my hip pocket about writing.  Today, the same.  Some very encouraging "DM's" I understand you young folks call it. He's in my hip pocket and I'm so very thankful for that.

Don't ever forget to go out and forget to wear your pants.  We all needs those hip pocket kinda people on instant standby.  Life.  It's all about walking through molasses.  Driving at night where you can't see those damn white lines.  It's about getting you a bullshit protector so you can ward off any future Debbie Downer statements from evil intending 'friends'.  Thankfully, they are few and far between.

Hip pocket, always nearby.  8 ball, corner pocket, even if you scratch, it's ok.  Game = Fun.  Life, it's a good thing, thanks in large part by those in our hip pocket.

By Henry Gibson                           Forward by Levi Strauss

Love, Victurd

Gateway to fellowship.......

And galship I guess it would be called.

There is something about a porch. In the Bubba shrimp world of porches, there are Arizona rooms, Screened porches, Sleeping porches, Rain porches, Porticos, Loggias, Verandas, Lanais, Sun porches, Stoops.

Band camp, we usedta drive to Eureka Springs with a group of friends.  We'd rent a house with three bedrooms, and two cottages - one on either side. Of course, vacations include out-and-about, and there's plenty to do in Eureka.. a brief recap for us:  shopping (complete with a rabbit that takes your credit card, then hands you your receipt), the heavenly views of NW Arkansas. a kajillion places to dine (including an old haunted hotel), a halfa kajillion places to hear live music (including the one that was next door to the house/cottage we rented.  Saturday night was live music, Sunday in the bar was church service, uh huh, you read it right). But.........

From the tippy toes of morning...first one up makes coffee of course.. we all plopped on the front porch that runs the width of the house.  We spent most of our kajillion hours on this porch.  Tippy toes (early am) to top of our head (late, late at night.) Stories, about nothing in particular. Laughs, about all of us in particular. People watching.  Hiding safely from the rain, sun. Porch = relaxation.  We coulda saved a lotta money and rented a house in town where we live, but, there'd be no rabbit, beautiful, mountainous NW Arkansas, employed rabbit, or, bartender turned pastor.

That's just one porch.  I'm certain you have fond memories of a specific porch, and, that you enjoy planting your bod there still today. I dated a gal that "I wouldn't live anywhere that didn't have a screened in porch."  We helped a guy, in one weekend's time, enlarge his 8' by however long into a 16' by however long porch.  He was quite proud, in fact, had a Tee shirt made with the picture of a 2x4, "I've got a BIG deck."  We calmed him down a bit and told him "With your BIG deck, you're going to need to make more friends."

Friends gather on porches.  Relatives gather on porches.  "Can Timmy come out and play" happens on porches.  Door knock or doorbell ring, pamphlet handed to you, "No thank you" brief conversation, or lengthy JW conversation.

Forgive me, as I know I've related this before.  Dad would pickup my 86 year old grandfather, he'd immediately head to the front porch, swing back and forth and back and forth on the porch swing. (Porch + porch swing = double relaxing.)  Then, he'd go for a walk.  We lived in a white house with a front porch the width of our house.  Grandpa would not come home, and would not come home - where it got to the point of concern. I'd go with dad in the car, and uh huh, 7 doors down, there on the front porch that ran the width of our neighbor's white house, was grandpa swinging back and forth and back and forth.  I can hardly await the neighbor porches I can explore someday, the Good Lord willing.

Apartment living is interesting.  I have very small porch (and no, I'm not going to buy a Tee Shirt documenting same).. Thrice.  Thrice in this big ole house turned into three apartments I've had my shivers timbered by THREE... VERY LOUD..  VERY QUICK..  KNOCKS (RAPS)..  KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK. Normally, it takes my almost 70-year old body awhile to put my drawers on, huh uh, them three knocks skeered me..  drawers on, door opened, there on my porch, TWO, two cops.  "Are you so-and-so?"   No.  He/She lives in #1, or, #2.  Whew.  The only times I can remember a porch not being fun.

"I'm an old-fashioned guy.. I want to be an old man with a beer belly sitting on a porch, looking at a lake or something."     Johnny Depp

Minus the lake, I'm already there Johnny, and I agree.

Regardless of what I'd told my "I've got a BIG deck" friend, numbers don't really matter.  Front porch with just one person is heavenly.  No noise, no electronics, no commercials, no CNN, Fox, no nuttin', but you, and nature.

Porch for two can, of course, be really, really yummy.  Witness the cartoon meme of the naked couple and the comment "Since we started doing this, our neighbors built a privacy fence all around our yard at no cost to us."

Memories.  Parents. Grandparents. Siblings. Cousins. Friends.  Best bestus friends.  Neighbors. Teammates.  If we close our eyes, we can go back there.  I love moments in life where we go back and visualize what once was. If it was baseball season, it was assured my other grandfather was on his front porch, transistor tuned to the St. Louis Cardinals. We all have memories of "Man I wish I could see that again" so, why don't we close our eyes and do that.  Color me crazy, I do that.

I see fellow neighbor kids, in their age back then, back when we could all run, sled, jump, skateboard, kick..  yummy.  There.  There on the front porch I can see/hear them come knocking at age 9... or 12.  

I very much like the person who is presently the MU basketball coach.  (I'm not as hep on how his team's have done, but peoplewise, dunno if there is much better.)  He was raised very, very poor by a single mother, and I assume little or no porch.  She would gather him in the car when he was a child and take him to Open Houses with spectacular front porches, verandas, et al.  "You can be this" was the message.  Proudly, he has.

The front porch is a place of discern. Do you have a mask on?  Can I see your vaccine card?  JUST KIDDING.  We are here to relax.  It is a place of discern the matter of business of those you don't know (say maybe, a kajillion Girl Scout cookies bought) or, some entrepreneurial snotnose with snowshovel in hand, or, lawnmower parked just off the porch).. 

Or, if friend or foe has been established and it's a yummy friend, hugs, laughter, visits, often topped off by hours of relaxation on the porch.  The back porch, I think, is more like Johnny Depp was talking about.  Oh the backyards, views.  Fido, running to and fro chasing squirrels, neighbor kids, cars (we had an alley between our house and neighbor house.)  BBQ grills on the porch. Please no makey fun of my friend who has caught two, count 'em two, back porches on fire whilst cooking a Thanksgiving turkey.  A forever porch story (or two.)

Last one, and I promise I'll get out of your hair.  Yes, and I'm sorry, I've told this one before too.  For years, we'd often sit on the front porch and welcome our mailman friend Ronnie.  Ronnie, may he rest in peace, was loved by all.  All, except Magic, our small yap dog.  Magic would be on a chain to use potty or simply enjoy the weather.  But, when mailman Ronnie was spotted 3 doors down and heading our way Magic would begin FRANTIC coronary-like yip-yip-yipping, bark-bark-barking.  Ronnie would deliver our mail, then, knowing exactly how far Magic could go on his chain in his little circle, Ronnie would sidestep him en route to  our next door neighbor's house. Magic's barking volume had to be heard all the way to the old Downtown Square.  This. Went. On. For. Years. And. Years. He hated Ronnie, and Ronnie was such a great, great man.

Anyways, we moved.  Ronnie was the softball manager of our old guy team. House we moved to, proudly, had a BIG deck on back.  Steps away was the swimming pool.  End of season BBQ for softball teammates, spouses, kids.  There musta been 30 of us on the back porch, all clad in our softball unis, or, shorts/tees, swimsuits and the like.   Magic was having a hayday.  You see, they'd (all our friends) had been vetted at the front door, so there was no need for Magic to discern friend or foe.  Until.  Until that is, Ronnie, with only a big old smile like Ronnie had, said "VIC!  Magic doesn't recognize me!", katy bar the door, Magic recognized the voice and it took three of us to separate his jaws from the death grip he had on Ronnie's ankle.  Porch ouch.  Porch fun.  A porch story.

I hope you too have a yummy recall of porches, times past. Tune in next time and I may tell you about the 37 times I repaired the screen on our front after baseballs had someone found their way through them.

"I want to be that cranky old man that stands on his porch and yells at the neighborhood kids."  Robert Lansing.

No I don't.  I love children.

"I'm not the type to sit on the porch and watch life go by."  Sally Rand.

I am.  I love sitting on the porch, watching life go by.  (I think it was Sally and her hubby that had the neighbors build their privacy fence for free.)

Love, Victurd

No touching.........

You know anyone on the planet that EVERYONE likes?  Me too.  A buddy of mine is fun, funny, self deprecates to infinitum, never in a bad mood, yada yada.  BUT (Damnit Victor).. But.. if you by chance touch him, even if on accident, you will hear "touching... " and if touching is continued, the volume will swell "TOUCHING!"...  No one is really sure if he's serious, but it's now a fun game to play, so we do it on purpose!

The other day, in a college basketball game, Wisconsin was beating Michigan by 15 points, with 15 seconds left.  By this time, scrubs, 2nd teamers, walk-ons were in the ball game for Wisconsin.  With 15 seconds left (and possession of the ball), Wisconsin called a time out. My opine, you just don't do that. Wisconsin coach version "we were going to get a 10 second violation for not crossing the midcourt line."  This, no suity with the Michigan coach. After the game, both teams did the customary two line "Nice game" high five thing - but it went awry.  Michigan's coach was going to walk past the Wisconsin coach and not shake hands, Wisconsin's coach grabbed the Michigan coach by the shoulder, to which he replied with a haymaker that happened to land on the face of a Wisconsin assistant.  Ollie woulda said to Stan, "This is a fine mess you've gotten us into."  tbcnp (to be continued next paragraph.)

Michigan's coach admitted after the game he was mad (don't really blame him actually), then he said "He touched me," which, I guess from his shoes granted him the right to cold cock someone.  After much dissection, fines and suspensions have been handed out.  tbcnp

"Touching"... "No TOUCHING!"..  Let it be, so to speak, but pardon me boys, I think it'll take awhile for this to be forgotten by either team.  Not here to judge, just pointing out the "no touching!"

For many a year, the Beatles were my favorite group.  Victor, the Olympics just ended and I didn't see no tea, whatinthehell does this (The Beatles) have to do with the above (ie, the price of tea in China.)?  tbcnp

Good question. As ANOTHER aside, The Rolling Stones have now surpassed the Beatles as my fav (Queen may even be #2), but, I will always love the song Let It  Be.

When I find myself in times of trouble
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

I 'no proffessee' to be a music expert.. nor, Walter Cronkite "And that's the way it was", but what follows is Bits and Pieces (not to be confused with The Dave Clark Five)..er, bits and pieces of stories about the song.

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Lennon hated the song for it's religious overtones (perceived "The Virgin Mary") , announced before recording it "And now we'd like to do Hark The Angels Come." He hated it so, in fact, he made sure it was followed on the album by Maggie Mae, a song about a Liverpool prostitute.

Paul, whose mother was named Mary, passed away when he was 14.  He indicated, one night when he was paranoid and anxious, he had a dream where his mother came to him (she'd been gone by 10 years by this time), came to him in his time of trouble, speaking words of wisdom and that had brought him much peace.  Let it be she, she told him.

And when the broken-hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer, let it be
For though they may be parted
There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be

When Paul wrote this, there was discord in Ireland, war in Viet Nam (and other places)... so, hopefully, there will be an answer.

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah, there will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

Now, back to The Dave Clark Five, haha, and bits and pieces about Let It Be:

Again, Paul says it was written about what his mother said, but, he's fine if some believe it to be a spiritual version as well.

Mal Evans, a Beatles assistant do-all, claims it was written about him, not Mary.  "Was supposed to go along the lines of...in times of trouble Brother Malcolm comes to me."  In fact, in sometimes when they were rehearsing Paul would say "Brother Malcolm" insteada Mary.

George Harrison got mad, quit the band.

Billy Preston was brought in... Paul wanted to make him a Beatle.  Harrison returned some 12 days later after the group agreed to scrap a live performance he didn't wanna do.

Throw in a spice of turmoil (This would be the group's last song), Preston's cool, calm demeanor kept their tensions at bay, and much better than when he first arrived.

Let it be, let it be
Ah, let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

And when the night is cloudy
There is still a light that shines on me
Shine on until tomorrow, let it be
I wake up to the sound of music,
Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be

Let it be, let it be
Let it be, yeah, let it be
Oh, there will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, yeah, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

The song, it be popular.  To the tune of it being sung at Linda McCartney's funeral.  Years later, Paul and Billy Joel at Shea Stadium.  Jennifer Hudson recorded it. Kris Allen too. Fitty years after the Beatles debuted on Ed Sullivan, the tribute special "The Beatles, the Night That Changed America" John Legend and Alicia Keys sang it.

Victor?  Yes?  Finished?  Nope. The fellers on Sesame Street recorded it with the title changed to "Letter B" and it was used to teach snotnoses words that begin with B.  Reader?  Yes?  Done now, at least with those other folks that sung it (and of course there are many more)..

Much like us Demlicans and Republicats of today, the Beatles basically agreed to agree that they disagreed.  Let's see.. there was the original version, the single. (Which, BTW, wasn't released by them first.. Paul sent anudder band demos, Aretha Franklin recorded it with them... you get bored, seek it out on youtube, there's a real nifty sax solo within.)

The album version.

The Anthology version.

The Let It Be.. Naked version... and

The Bubba Shrimp version.

Just kidding on that last one.  There was much, much more discourse, story to tell.  This is the Cliffs Notes, or, Dave Clark Five Bits and Pieces version.  I'm trying, albeit in too many damn sentences, to basically say........."Touching."..   "TOUCHING!"..  "NO TOUCHING!"

Leave it the hell alone.... or, perhaps more concisely, Let It Be. 

By Henry Gibson                 Introduction by Billy Shears

Love, Victurd

*If you print this, turn it upside down and read it backwards, you will learn that Paul is dead. He was shot by deputies one day after he frantically and sweating profusely entered the studio and recorded "I Shot The Sheriff."

"I have to go to........".. "NO... you GET to go..."

A friend posted similar the other day and I wanted to run and hug her because it's truly how I've TRIED to live life. Emphasis on the try to.

Sure, things get mundane, but, stir 'em up, add a splash of hope, and yum, they can be spectacular!

"I've got to take my daughter to soccer practice."  NO, you GET to take your daughter to soccer practice.

"I've got to go to my son's little league tournament ALL weekend." NO, you GET to go to your son's little league tournament ALL weekend." 

"I've got to run by and check on my mom right after work."  NO,  you GET to run by and check on your mom right after work."  Victor, we get the drift.

"I've got to go to the dentist next Tuesday."  OK, maybe get to doesn't always fit, grant you that. Ya never know though... could be that cute, new dental hygienist.. remember?  Last time you about swallowed your partial when you saw her!

You too, along life's yellow brick road, can be a pain in the ass just like me reminding folks "No, you GET to....." on stuff.  I jest, but not really.  I think all too often we put our bodies on auto-pilot, which is fine and dandy if like, you gotta go pee or poop, sorry, kinda, it's a life thing.  I much prefer shutting the damn auto-pilot off... tbcnp (to be continued, next paragraph.)

I have a buddy.  I hate (LOVE) him because he ALWAYS has fun.  You've probably seen the meme, "pick friends who make simple things like going to the gas station to fill up your car, fun." That's him.  If he sees this, he'll probably get it tattooed on his butt or something, somewhere.   Anyways, when he gets an idea, he hums (and I know I'm gonna butcher the spelling, the sound of it, but hopefully you get the idea..) he hums the first line or two of "Off We Go Into The Wild Blue Yonder"..."nnnnght ta daaaa. nnnta daaa dddaaa daa dddoooooddaaaa nnnnnnght ta daaa, dada da daaaa".  It's the acrylic paint version of "I GET to" insteada the mundane, lull me to sleep GOT to.  Hell to the yeah.

Bottomline, a good time. He makes a good time.

I know, I know, I know.. there are those who simply wanna crawl up in a ball, stay the hell away from anyone, silence, THAT is their idea of a good time.  When I wrote that, in the back of my mind I saw a boss I had 40-some years ago.  Not fair, because he's a truly good guy - but, he no likey little children.  We were in sales for an airline, so, we had to fly.  A lot.  Never failed, he'd get 37B, and in 36C there was a 2 year old.  Crying. Hollering. Laughing. Maybe trying to hand my boss over what remains of his cupcake. Talking a decimal or eight over norm.  He no likey.  He furrow eyebrow - the whole trip.  tbcnp

Now, place my"nnnnght ta daaaa. nnnta daaa dddaaa daa dddoooooddaaaa nnnnnnght ta daaa, dada da daaaa" buddy in 37B and I can just see him, looking at said 36C toddler with his eyes crossed... picking his nose.. sticking his thumb on his nose, flipping his four fingers.  Looking at the toddler, turning his head in a millesecond when the kid catches his eyes, and back again, and turning again... shaking his head yes.. shaking his head no..  he'd have fun.  He'd have "I GET to take this whole flight with this little guy" insteada "I've GOT to take this whole flight with this brat."  I love perspective in Art, and it's really really cool in real life too.

Good times.  What makes good times?   Walking one foot infronta the other 'cause ya gotta? Or, taking a relaxing stroll, eyes wide open, letting Mother Nature, God, friends, family, good times take their course? Uh huh.

Victor?  Yes?  Are you SOMEBODY?  Do you think you be a po' man's Joel Olsteen and it's your job to tell us how to live?  Again, borrowing one of my favorite sayings of my stepson, "Not no's, but hells no's".   i don't.  Honest. I simply try to observe life, the creatures within, and then mimic the ones that seem to have fun. Snoopy, versus the Red Baron.  Tim Conway, insteada Ed Sullivan.  Steve Martin, insteada Ferris Buehler's teacher.   Marvelous vs mundane.

A drive to nowhere, can be... point A to point B.  Or, it can be "Did you see that architecture.. little old man holding that little old lady's hand.. how green that guy's damn lawn is... those yoga pants!... I counted seven, SEVEN twirly birds all at once in the air..  MY FAVORITE SONG!... ohhhhh seeing that reminds me of good ole (enter loved friend from the past here.)" You tell 'em Joel, I'll pat ma' foot.  KMA, hehe.

Of course there's a time and a place for rolling up in a ball get the hell away from me.  Of course there are times, places where we've GOT to go.  But, (Victor, for the 37th time, you can't start a sentence with "But"..  OK, how's this (tbcnp)

"Nnnnght ta daaaa. nnnta daaa dddaaa daa dddoooooddaaaa nnnnnnght ta daaa, dada da daaaa" BUT, when there is no predicated doom and gloom to wherever it is you're going, I certainly vote for my friend's GET to take on life.

I've got to to go to breakfast now.  I know, I did it on purpose.  I get to go.  Besides, one never knows when yoga pants could be in the future.  Forgive me Father, I'm single, and, (VICTOR!)

Thank you for choosing Mundane Airlines Sir..  you will be seated in 37B.  I know it's not a window seat, but try to have fun. (My buddy, let's call him Mike, for all you Kansas Citians..) Mike's got this.

By Henry Gibson.   Forward by Ace Farnsworth, School of Aerobatics Instructor

Love, Victurd

Editor's note:  My "nnnnght ta daaaa. nnnta daaa dddaaa daa dddoooooddaaaa nnnnnnght ta daaa, dada da daaaa" buddy?  He lived that dream.  He's been a devoted, wonderful pilot for Life Flight for over 30 years.  Nice.

I get knocked down, but I get.............

You maybe thought I was gonna write "up again, you are never gonna keep me down."

Ah, but this time, I'm retired.  I get knocked down, but i get in bed and take a nap.

I love naps.  I find they are an either/or thing.  Some say, "If I take a nap, who knows, could be two hours before I wake up, therefore, I don't take 'em."

To which I reply, you don't know what you're missing.  The older I get the more I love 'em.  The older I get, the more I take 'em.

I usedta couldn't believe old people and their want to jump in bed for the night at 9... some even 8.  Now I am them.  It takes a REALLY good half of basketball for me to stay awake and watch the second half of 7pm game.  Usually, I leave the TV on in the living room so I can hear it, to be sure to keep tabs with who ultimately wins.  Uh huh, right.

I'm really boring, which kinda makes me chuckle due to the fact that I am, and you are here anyways.  I hold my (plugged in) phone in my hand and play Sudoku, my version of counting sheep. I never finish a game, and usually when I awaken, some 5, 6 hours later, I've got 4 wrong numbers entered, I've somehow turned my phone to do not disturb, and I buttdialed my eye doctor at 3:23am. It is then and there I make the decision for my day. Do I get all hot, bothered, mad, get up on the wrong side and have a predestined crappy day - or do I laugh and hopefully have a fun, funny ha ha day.  Most times I choose wisely.  I do have my "Stay outta my yard kid" days, but, generally, happy.

Breakfast out.  Victor, who cares? Me. I do.  We're talking naps, tis the subject, I'm xplaining Lucy. So I've had my 5, 6 hours.. "Your usual?" "Uh huh, 2 eggs, scrambled, sausage patties, hash browns, wheat toast." Now, I've read all the paper, said my hellos to Amy, Karen, Dixie, Wayland and Willie and the boys.  Beeline, to........

Bed. I'm 2, 3 hours behind in sleep. I'm retired. I no likey soap operas on TV.  Aware that now there are 272 other channels, don't care, must take nap. Same pattern, dive into bed (OK, plop works).. phone/Sudoku.. TV on so I'll be sure (uh huh) to listen to the morning news... blankets to cover me.. I hug my girlfriend (relax... it's my long, long pillow.)  We've 'dated' for like 9 years now.  And I zonk.  Soon.

Then, I get up and don't do much.  Victor, who cares?  Right.

So, I go to the Community Center, head for the jacuzzi in hopes of six or ten really really hot ladies to join me there.. .then, uh huh, the arthritic water aerobic class ends, and soon, ten ladies at least as old as me, a couple even as fat as me, help me fill the jacuzzi. I wanna opt for "Stay outta my jacuzzi lady" but then, I stare at MY belly... hell, they have just as much right as I do to be there.

I actually do exercise a tad... sit in the sauna for a short.. then, home.

I tried to diet for two weeks.  OK, one.  Didn't work, so, I said to heck with it and went back to processed food. Seen the $5.99/lb ground beef?  Uh huh, me too.  So. Stouffer's frozen Meat Lovers Lasagna, $2.69 at WallyWorld, nuke it for 6 minutes. Grab me two pieces of the dreaded white bread [it's .19 cents cheaper than wheat, scroll to diet not working]..yum.

Oh, sure, I take a little time to traverse FB...  Click a few likes, loves.. Have a baby "Stay outta my FB page!" moment, then, remember a post from a friend "Every storm runs out of rain", so, I tried me my hardest not to be in an ole grumpy mood.

The word storm kinda makes me sleepy, SO... I get out my internal calculator.. lemme see.. I had 6 hours sleep last night... plus that 45 minute nap.. HEY! I've got an hour and fitteen to kill!  To bed I go for a nap!  But Victor?  It's still light out? I don't care.  I'm retired.

I skipped the pee part. I always pee before a nap, sorry, kinda.  Well, you see, my apartment ain't big, but it's long.  Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down here is the bathroom, and waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay down here is my bedroom.  There's a kitchen and a living room between.  See, I already got my exercise at the Center, don't need it again until tomorrow.

Plop.  Phone, Sudoku.  'Girlfriend'. Covers.  Yum. Some 47 minutes later, I'm up and at 'em.  Only three wrong Sudoku entries... I've dialed Cricket somehow, and there's some feature on my cheap phone (it ain't Alexa, but something like her) and she's asking me what I want.

"I usually take a two hour nap from one to four."  Yogi Berra.

Me too Yogi.

I know this has been extremely educational.  If you don't like it, "Get outta my blog kid".  Just kidding.

Tune in tomorrow when questions will be answered:

Does he then make the bed three times a day?

He never mentioned brushing his teeth... does he?

I hit 'Control F', searched for 'rinse, repeat', does he ever shower?  Wash his hair?

Has anyone ever answered your 3am buttdials?

Does your girlfriend have a 'name'?

Do you EVER stay awake and watch the 2nd half of a basketball game?  He's an MU Fan, or course not.  Shuddup Schwabby! "Stay outta my Spectrum!"

Which reminds me... I'm still in need of 28 more minutes nap to get to 8 hours total sleep. Phone, plop. Girlfriend.  Covers.  My bad.  Pee, phone, plop, girlfriend, covers.

He drinks a Whiskey drink, he drinks a Vodka drink
He drinks a Lager drink, he drinks a Cider drink
He sings the songs that remind him of the good times
He sings the songs that remind him of the best times
(Oh Danny Boy, Danny Boy, Danny Boy)

I get knocked down, but I get in bed for a nap.

Night.

By Henry Gibson.   Forward was by Mr. Pillow, but I ripped it to shreds when I found out his true colors.  Sorry.  Kinda. Not really.

Love, Victurd

Curveballs....

This blog will be brief (I hope).

Life is all about curve balls.   We start with T-Ball.  "This is a cinch.".. 

We then move to 'machine pitch'.  Every pitch takes the same, exact same, path. "Can deal with that, successfully."

On to coach pitch.  The coach that is your/our/my coach.  He/she WANTS us to be successful, thus, pitches are grooved.  "It's easy peasy."

Then life moves to Clayton Kershaw mode.  If by chance you don't know who Clayton Kershaw is, he's one of the most successful pitchers, ever.  Why?  The main reason, his pitch comes at you, and it's straight, on a line, just like machine pitch, just like coach pitch (albeit at 90+ miles per hour.) Then, in a literal millisecond, it dips, drops, turns, and you're left to readjust your swing, which is funny haha, and trying to hit it is like a tractor trailer driver attempting to stop on a dime.  it just ain't gonna happen.  When he signed his contract with the Dodgers a three years ago, I did some math.  For the length of his contract, every time he blinks his eyes, he will earn $86. That equates to a pretty damn good curveball.

Teammates = friends, loved ones. Curve balls = real life.

We all sit on the bench of life and watch our 'teammates.' At the end of the season, stats are posted, and right there in black and white you have a list, and every player on the list is ranked, in order, by 'success', ie, batting average.

It would be simple to sit back, look at the list, say "Oh, there's a success.. oops, not that one.. another one doing well..  ahhh, not sure this one is ever gonna be a .250 hitter."

Not the case in life. Unlike batting average, the success rate (or lack thereof) cannot be posted. The .187 hitter in actuality may have just had an even more admirable season than the .303 hitter.

He/she went through sore arms, legs, back, shoulder, strawberries, pulled hammies, broken fingers, thumbs, et al.  That's all certainly possible, and all well and good in listing the things we think of as far as 'dealing with the curve ball' in baseball.  It takes a greater look inside though, when it comes to overcoming life struggles,

We''ve watched, IN AWE, our life's teammates deal with, overcome much.  You name it, we've all got teammates that DAILY deal with personal loss, physical affliction, emotional/mental demons, much. We have friends who admit to basically vomiting as they look in the mirror. And we KNOW we have teammates who wouldn't begin to tell you that be the case, but we can know with certainty, it is the case. To this day, we still get shocked several times a year when someone relates to us a struggle they are going through. It literally tears us up.

THEN, we watch them soar. We watch them be 'regular'.  We watch them smile when we know damn well their innards don't match that.

We all know someone who has trouble with basics.  Basics like not answering the door. The phone.  The text.  The email. Oft times, we have no idea the reasons why. For some, having a full sink of dishes, or a basket full of dirty laundry, even maybe getting dressed for the day can feel like it is just as debilitating as loss of limb, or hearing, or eyesight. (Note, OH BABY, we have some teammates who deal with that too, loss of limb, hearing, eyesight, and MAN OH MAN are we proud of your 'can do' approach in life's batter's box!)

This post is to say I/we are proud of you each and every time you step in the batter's box, even if, this time, you might miss a third strike. We know you'll come back to the batter's box. To the teammates who we are mutually aware of a specific struggle, we are so dang proud of your every step into the batter's box.  Of your every morning getting out of bed against that internal want, not to. We cruddy men can be cruel. Take a wonderful golf shot, for instance. "Nice shot" is oft times followed by "Don't let it go to your head." In this case, in your case, LET IT go to your head. Celebrate victory, even though it may seem small, even moreso.

Known teammates who struggle, THAT doesn't include an it's for certain longer list of those whose struggles we're unaware of.  Please continue to never give up, ever. When it gets the darkest, stop for a sec.  Know, there's a set of bleachers right behind you -JUST when you think no one is there.  We are. Cheering.  Loving.  You.

Continue to celebrate victories, no matter how small they may seem to you. We know they are for real,  humongous.

Curve balls are a bitch.  Life can be a bitch. Know we cry right along with you. Also know, please continue to not stop in believing in yourself. We're here to tell you we're proud of you, and amazed by you.  You know who you are, so smile, right now.  Yes, aware that can be hard, but we have seen you do it time, and time again. You got this. Again. May sound hard, but in reality, it's as easy as 'just be you', it's a good thing.

Know, there is not a single one of us who hasn't struggled with a curve ball. You ain't alone. Live, love, laugh.................. Godspeed

Victor

And I ......... will always love......

Spring, Summer and Fall..  (Winter and I are separated.  That's sepArated with an A. I learned that, I think, 2nd divorce.)

Victor, you just did a blog on things you love.

I will always love that there are so many things to love. It don't take much.  Open one's eyes, and boom shaka laka - whoop, ther' it is... much... much to love.

The gift.  The gift of eyesight.  God Bless those that don't posess it, they teach us so well. Life is for loving, eyesight is not to be taken for granted.  It's a literal wonder.

Sports.  Turn left if it ain't your thing, and that's cool. Participation, back when the body agreed to participate. I loved me some teammates who very much disliked losing. I loved awaiting at the dugout gate for my teammates arrival from running to home - the high five, the excitement he had for scoring a run, the appreciation for the high five.

Sports are (should be) full of compliment. You might kick someones butt on the tennis court, or, in ping pong, but... if it's a team sport, it ain't (just) you babe.. I said a no, no no it ain't you.  It takes a bunch.  I love that about (team) sports. If Patrick took the field by himself against the Bills, it would be a hella long day.  He very much understands that.  Appreciates that. Compliments those.

I love when a single is stretched (I think maybe I can make it to 2nd) to a double thanks also to the first base coach who frantically waved him on..  The guy who backpedaled to the wall and made a spectacular catch?  Sure, it was wonderful, but it'd never happened had not the outfielder next to him been his eyes and megaphone for his path to the wall as he intently followed the ball.

Yes, that pitcher has a mean-ass fast ball, an impossible to hit curveball, but the ball would bounce stupidly to the backstop if it tweren't for his catcher - the one who knows exactly what pitch to call, when, and the guy who scoops up strike three outta the dirt, throws to first to retire the batter.

That guy who doubled.  He can maximize his lead because the dude coaching third tells him "you watch 2nd, I got the shortstop.  One out, go hard on anything hit to the rightside."  It's not all about Maury, Ricky or Lou, but, they wouldn't be bad teammates to have.

We saw Mecole Hardman fumble the punt, give the other team the ball on their side of the field.  We saw as he sprinted to the bench, covered himself up with a big coat, saying to himself "I can't believe that happened, I feel crappy, my teammates will lose their trust in me."  Then, Travis walked by, pulled the coat off, said "Next time baby, it's all you next time."  Mecole put the coat back on.  Patrick ran to him, uncovered him, "We NEED you.  You're gonna make a play."  He did.   That's a little thing I like about sports. Man helping man.  Or, woman helping woman.

After the game. Uh huh, played organized stuff until my age or inability told me I could not play organized stuff - then I played slowpitch. I loved me some slowpitch.  Especially after the game.  It's where one got their ego pumped up, or, deflated, made three errors and asked by a teammate if per chance they'd buy back that glove you got at the garage sale.

For years, I COULD NOT BELIEVE people actually strike out in slowpitch.  I told myself "If I strikeout, that's it, I'll see you guys later, hasta la vista."  Then, I struck out. In addition to having to buy a 30 pack of beer for the next game, I heard the play by play of my strikeout for over an hour as our team sat beyond the right field fence having a cold one.  OK, maybe I'll rearrange my 'take' to, "When I become a detriment, yeah, that's it, when I become a detriment, THAT's when I'll quit."  That's all fancy for, "Oh shit, I struck out, it CAN'T be over, for I love it so much." (It could be worse, guys on one of the teams we played, if they struckout, they HAD to wear a tutu on the field the next half inning.) Another reason I love sports, that stuff.

Opponents. If there weren't opponents, there would be no games. In our Sunday night "Beer League", which I make no apologies for playing decades in, you know, love, your opponents.  Mostly after the game, but sometimes even during. You know them, where they work, their wife and kid's names, what they drive, and you even let 'em know when their taillight is out. There is humor. Turn left here if your ears are easily offended.  Band camp, a guy came to the plate, good hitter, fun, funny guy.  Longtime opponent. We'd all seen him bat 500 or more times before. "He goes both ways!!!" the shortstop hollers. "Yep" the first baseman agreed.  IE, all, be ready.  I was catching.  That's where they put guys that really should have ended their careers a couple of years ago, but it's a numbers thing, and you're needed.  So, I told the good hitter, fun, funny guy "Did you hear what they are saying?  That you go both ways?"  He looked me dead in the eyes and said "Eh, 20 bucks is 20 bucks." Sorry, kinda, but I did warn you.

Apple.  That's a nickname.  Sports, softball = nicknames.  Orville.  T-Bird. Toad. Toad's son Tadpole. Chump. Delbert. DW. Wags. Chief. Tuna. Mad Dog.  Softball is where you spend 20, 30, 40 years of happiness, then you think back, "The hell was that guy's real name?"

Where was I.. .Oh yeah, Apple. We were playing in the hole in Excelsior Springs they call a ballfield.  It gets wet, lasts forever. I think it's where mosquitoes originated.  Anyways, a bright, sunny day. Exceedingly high pop up. To short. To Apple. Apple is the smartest, probably the most capable, calmest person I've ever played with. A popup to him, you don't even watch, you head to the bench if there are two outs. Apple was balding, but we only made fun of him for that on days that end in Y.  Apple wasn't wearing a hat.. we complained, lovingly, of the glare. He maybe cracked a smile.  A little one. He was camped.  Under the ball. The very last second, I mean THE very last second, he lost it in the sun.  I'd said he was the smartest.  Lemme think about that for a sec.  My face ain't perty, but, if it were me camped under the ball and I lost it, I'd put my head down and run like hell the other way.  Not Apple.  He continued, for that millisecond he had, to look for it. That noise when a hammer hits concrete?  That.  THAT's what it sounded like as it careemed off his skull into space.  So high into space, we weren't sure if the ball was in Ray or Clay County. Those of us not near the play were, sure, concerned that Apple was OK, but first, we rolled on the ground in laughter until the ball came down. It did, finally, what seemed to be a full one minute later. Chump.  Chump was playing third - he caught the ball. We, sure, were concerned for Apple's well being, but Chump catching it only extended our laughter, our rolling on the ground.

Apple was OK. He had a smile. No, not on his face, but on his forehead, from where the seams embedded as the ball crushed his skull.  In all these thirty years since it happened, we never ever said a word about it to Apple, unless of course, the day of the week ended in Y. That seam mark on his forehead lasted a month. It was kinda like a hickey, cept you couldn't wear no turtleneck to cover it up. You'd think he'da wore a cap to cover it up.  Wasn't his way. Good dude.

Good dudes.  Life is about good people. Ya gravitate toward 'em.  Why, we never figured, wives, girlfriends would come watch, AND stay for the two and a half hours we'd sit beyond right field after the game to talk about our one hour game. Maybe the reason one or two of mine forgot to follow me home.  Eh, all good. I loved me some softball.

Softball teammates are special.  You love 'em like the coal miners ya work with.  Like your cousin that lives in Indy.  Like you're wife's sister's husband, even though he may drink all your beer when he comes over. (I made that one up, I think it was the other way around, but he loved me still.)  IE, once a softball teammate, always a lifetime friend. You battled together, which, is fancy for, loved, teased, threw water balloons at, threw 'em knuckleballs when you warmed up just to piss 'em off and make you laugh even more..   Forever stuff.  Good stuff.  Maybe you had to be there. I was. For five decades.

I Googled to see how many pill's Carters has.  Couldn't find it.  I've had more teammates than Carter has pills, i feel safe to say. Yes, we shared some beer. (Went thru 'fads' of Schlitz, Hamms, Oly, PBR, Old Style, Bud, Bud Light, Miller Lite, you name it.)  Like life, there were changes. Changes at shortstop, right center field, manager, sponser, changes of wives, girlfriends, trends.. gloves lost.  Gloves soaked, laces busted. Windshield's busted. Hot dogs for 200.  Ice. Of course for beer, but also for strawberries, sore arms, pop-ups off the forehead, and sure, to ward off heatstroke.

Small towns, big towns, perfectly manicured fields, fields where the grass was so high, if you didn't get the ball before it stopped rolling, you may never find it. Crappy umps, crabby umps, fun umps, umps who didn't show up. Races to the preferred dugout that had shade. Laughter.  Laughter to tears.

There was even this one time.  Small town up North.  There was an old lady (no, she didn't live in a shoe) who supplemented her income by collecting aluminum cans.  She was truly pretty old. We'd seen her there a few times, and we weren't sure if she even spoke she was so quiet. She wore a dress. Hat. Saddle oxfords. One smartass on our team, after a game and after a couple of whatever the fad beers it was we were drinking, tied an empty can to the line on his fishing pole.  He would 'cast' the empty beer can out, await the little old lady - and as she bent, reached for it, he would wind it in a tad, rolling it a few feet.  She'd try again.  Same thing. For shame for shame, his teammates were laughing.  He finally stopped and she picked up the can, broke the fishing line off, put it in her bag.  They even say, the next day, this smartass dressed up in a dress, hat, saddle oxfords and pretended to be her. I don't believe it. I'm from Missouri, Show Me. (Twas the days before cell phones). Forgive me Father, I did sin.  Not proud, but, a story I've heard retold a hunnerd and seventy-two times since.

I'll get outta here.  I will never play softball again - but you can never erase the fun, memories of it all.  Seven of my ten fingers are still straight.  One of my two thumbs look normal.  My IRA would probably be double had I invested properly insteada purchasing the ice, fad beers, hot dogs, gasoline for trips, Icy Hot, towels, gloves, bats, balls, hats, uni's, spikes. (The bastas made fun of me because I wore Puma spikes. I think 1970-something was the last year they made 'em. What's so funny about that?  They lasted!) 

Softball been berry berry good to me.  You maybe had to be there.  ZERO REGRETS. Truly glad I was.

By Henry Aaron Gibson            Forward by Hillerich and Bradsby

Love, Victurd