As yet further evidence that my memory is essentially useless: Ellen and I had two delays on our trip, not one. And the second was lengthy enough for us to sit down in a restaurant and have a leisurely lunch.
Friend Fae drove us to the airport at about 11 a.m. Saturday, for our 12:50 flight to Colorado Springs. Although we'd been blessed with sunny weather throughout our stay, the last ten minutes of the drive were in pouring rain, that had us all feeling nervous. Indeed, both Ellen and I were worried about Fae having to drive home in that rain, but she assured me in a later email that it stopped as soon as she'd left the airport (it would seem the gods didn't want people coming to the airport, but if you'd already dropped off your passengers, ah, what the hell). After we'd snaked our way through a longish security line that nonetheless moved at a reasonable pace -- and during which a smiling, very young, security guard reminded me that I'd have to dump that water bottle in my hand ("Or you can just dump the water in the bin and keep the bottle," he'd said helpfully, but, thinking about those annoying faucets in the ladies room, where you have to hold your hands just so to get the water to come on, and it can go off any time it likes, I decided against the refill-it-after-the-security-rigmarole substitute for having to purchase a $2.50 bottle of water post-security.) -- and after following the little old white-haired gentleman who had to all but undress (first they had to tell him to take off his belt, but then his suspenders set off the alarm. So then he undid them at the front, but of course that didn't help at all, since the metal clips that had attached to his pants were just as metal dangling down around his knees. Finally one of the security guards helped him undo them at the back and remove them. At least they didn't say, O.K., sir, you'll need to step over here for a pat-down.) through the security gate, we found a Departures monitor and learned that our plane wouldn't be leaving until 1:20. We had nearly two hours to kill.
So we opted for lunch. And not in a food-court kind of set-up, with overpriced fast food, but in a real restau-rant, where you sat down, ordered, and waited for them to cook your food. A first for me, in many years of flying. The place was called Yankee Pier -- more irony -- and served really quite excellent seafood. I had the fish and chips, and while the fish was fried, the flesh was cooked just right, not overcooked, not rubbery, and the batter was very light. Excellent fried potatoes made out of real (as opposed to pop them frozen out of the bag) potatoes. Ellen said her tuna melt was "real" tuna (as opposed to canned), and delicious. It was nice not having to rush, or take the food with us, to clumsily consume while waiting to board the plane.
Of course, this meal did not come cheap, $34 for the two of us, with only water to drink, and no dessert. Ah, well, we just pretended we could afford it.
By the way, re the very nice young security guard: throughout our various flights all TSA workers seemed to be bending over backwards to be pleasant and courteous, and Ellen and I were both wondering if the recent flap over the pat-down business had anything to do with that. At any rate, it was better than being treated like a potential criminal...
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
The unfit traveler
One thing my trip to San Francisco demonstrated to me is how fearfully out of shape I've become. I haven't exercised in months, because I finally reached the point where I just couldn't force myself to do this thing I had always hated doing. (Rather amusingly, my sister was reading on the trip a book on staying fit and feeling good for women "of a certain age," that included a section headed "All the best people hate to exercise.") I knew I would feel better -- though I always feel terrible immediately upon finishing an exercise session -- knew my increased stiffness was due to no exercise, knew it was affecting my stamina, which isn't good at the best of times.
But it took all that hiking up steep hills to convince me that I needed to bite the bit and start exercising again. It wasn't just the Streets of San Francisco, though there I was usually bringing up a limp fourth (Ellen, who exercises regularly, and seems to be made of energy, was always way out in front and never even seemed winded). But there were other demonstrations.
We got in on Wednesday morning, and after lunch Fae suggested we go to nearby "Windy Hill" (which turned out to be appropriately named) from which you can see both the sea and the bay. I later learned, thanks to signs along the trail, that this is part of the Windy Hill Open Space Preserve of San Mateo County. The climb up to the top was neither that long nor that steep, but Fae and I vied for who would get there last. Near the top, in the first "open space" (most of the way up we had scrub brush on one side, and a hillside covered with scrub brush on the other), I saw a bench, and practically cried Eureka. But we weren't quite to the top. Ellen and Jim were already there, taking pictures of the bay. And if you looked off to the west, there was a slim line of the Pacific Ocean, gleaming in the sun. All very nice, if a bit nippy, but I'd been given my first taste of my out-of-shapeness.
Then, Fae's idea for Thanksgiving afternoon, when we were waiting for the turkey to roast, was to walk "up the street" to where one of their neighbors ran a miniature train around his back yard every holiday. Fae knows I love trains, and thought I'd enjoy this. Which I did -- it was an adorable little train, complete with whistle which the "engineer" blew as we went around curves -- but the walk up and up and up the winding, winding, winding street to the neighbor's house had me ultimately collapsing on a guard rail to catch my breath and slow my heart rate. I felt like a little old lady. Since their retire-ment Fae and Jim have been doing a lot of walking, and it has obviously paid off.
So, Melody, it's time to get off the bed where you're taking that nap, or get off that computer where you're doing that admittedly fascinating genealogical research, or get off that couch where you're watching the latest episode of Bones or Fringe or Lie to Me, and EXERCISE.
But it took all that hiking up steep hills to convince me that I needed to bite the bit and start exercising again. It wasn't just the Streets of San Francisco, though there I was usually bringing up a limp fourth (Ellen, who exercises regularly, and seems to be made of energy, was always way out in front and never even seemed winded). But there were other demonstrations.
We got in on Wednesday morning, and after lunch Fae suggested we go to nearby "Windy Hill" (which turned out to be appropriately named) from which you can see both the sea and the bay. I later learned, thanks to signs along the trail, that this is part of the Windy Hill Open Space Preserve of San Mateo County. The climb up to the top was neither that long nor that steep, but Fae and I vied for who would get there last. Near the top, in the first "open space" (most of the way up we had scrub brush on one side, and a hillside covered with scrub brush on the other), I saw a bench, and practically cried Eureka. But we weren't quite to the top. Ellen and Jim were already there, taking pictures of the bay. And if you looked off to the west, there was a slim line of the Pacific Ocean, gleaming in the sun. All very nice, if a bit nippy, but I'd been given my first taste of my out-of-shapeness.
Then, Fae's idea for Thanksgiving afternoon, when we were waiting for the turkey to roast, was to walk "up the street" to where one of their neighbors ran a miniature train around his back yard every holiday. Fae knows I love trains, and thought I'd enjoy this. Which I did -- it was an adorable little train, complete with whistle which the "engineer" blew as we went around curves -- but the walk up and up and up the winding, winding, winding street to the neighbor's house had me ultimately collapsing on a guard rail to catch my breath and slow my heart rate. I felt like a little old lady. Since their retire-ment Fae and Jim have been doing a lot of walking, and it has obviously paid off.
So, Melody, it's time to get off the bed where you're taking that nap, or get off that computer where you're doing that admittedly fascinating genealogical research, or get off that couch where you're watching the latest episode of Bones or Fringe or Lie to Me, and EXERCISE.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Where I left my heart
Went to the San Francisco area for Thanksgiving, with my sister Ellen. I had invited myself to the home of friends Fae and Jim months ago, and when Fae was having a hard time coming up with additional people to invite, I boldly suggested my sister. I knew Ellen had never been to San Francisco -- and while Fae and Jim actually live in Redwood City, about 20 miles south of SF, I knew we would be going into the city at least one day -- knew she could use a special little holiday, rather than sitting at home alone (her only son lives in Hawaii, and was not coming home for Thanksgiving), and felt sure Fae and Jim would enjoy her -- she is a pleasant, agreeable, and very funny person -- and that she would like them (they are pleasant, low-keyed, very hospitable).
It was a really good trip. Even the flying was relatively hassle-free. No, we did not get patted down, or put through a machine that would enable some stinker to put our naked images up on the Internet. Indeed, at none of the airports we went through -- Portland, Maine, Denver, CO, Colorado Springs CO, or San Francisco -- did we see anyone being patted down or zapped with radiation. Nor were we cursed with weather delays. The only real delay we had was in Colorado Springs, when the United agent informed us over the intercom that the flight attendant had "called in sick," and the person who would be replacing her would be arriving at about the time the plane was scheduled to leave. Even then, though we were about half an hour late leaving, we "made up the time?" (How? By flying faster? If that was the case, why don't they always fly faster?)
When we went into S.F. on Black Friday, which, far from being black, was a beautiful, sunny day, I was reminded of why it remains my third favorite city in the world (after London & Paris, and just before Boston). It's beautiful, cosmopolitan, unique. Ellen was the expected delighted by it. We managed to do most of the things she wanted to do. We strolled up Grant Avenue into Chinatown (yes, "Grant Avenue...San Francisco... California...USA!"), and later enjoyed dim sum in a little tea house on an alley off Sacramento Street, (next door to the Willie "Woo-Woo" Wong Playground). We walked up Nob Hill and wandered through the quite gorgeous Fairmont Hotel's lobby, and one of its shops, full of beautiful Indian fabrics, rugs, clothing, decorative boxes, etc., none of which had price tags on them (both Fae and I were afraid to ask the price of anything). We also paid our respects to the Ritz Carlton, which was properly elegant, but not so grandiose as the Fairmont. We took a Powell Street cable car down the hill to Fisherman's Wharf, to join the thousands of other tourists, and the hundreds of seagulls. Ellen got her picture of Alcatraz, and the Golden Gate Bridge.
The one thing she had wanted to do that we just ran out of time and energy to do was visit Haight Ashbury, where I lived for six months in 1966-67 (see Note of June 23, 2008 for some of my reminisces ). But we went home to Redwood City and enjoyed a Maine lobster dinner at a favorite spot of Fae's and Jim's, the Old Port Lobster Shack on Veterans Blvd. -- and yes, we were all amused by the irony of this girl from Maine having Maine lobster in California, but hey, I never have it in Maine because I can't afford it -- and then went home and crashed. A good day, a good visit all around.
It was a really good trip. Even the flying was relatively hassle-free. No, we did not get patted down, or put through a machine that would enable some stinker to put our naked images up on the Internet. Indeed, at none of the airports we went through -- Portland, Maine, Denver, CO, Colorado Springs CO, or San Francisco -- did we see anyone being patted down or zapped with radiation. Nor were we cursed with weather delays. The only real delay we had was in Colorado Springs, when the United agent informed us over the intercom that the flight attendant had "called in sick," and the person who would be replacing her would be arriving at about the time the plane was scheduled to leave. Even then, though we were about half an hour late leaving, we "made up the time?" (How? By flying faster? If that was the case, why don't they always fly faster?)
When we went into S.F. on Black Friday, which, far from being black, was a beautiful, sunny day, I was reminded of why it remains my third favorite city in the world (after London & Paris, and just before Boston). It's beautiful, cosmopolitan, unique. Ellen was the expected delighted by it. We managed to do most of the things she wanted to do. We strolled up Grant Avenue into Chinatown (yes, "Grant Avenue...San Francisco... California...USA!"), and later enjoyed dim sum in a little tea house on an alley off Sacramento Street, (next door to the Willie "Woo-Woo" Wong Playground). We walked up Nob Hill and wandered through the quite gorgeous Fairmont Hotel's lobby, and one of its shops, full of beautiful Indian fabrics, rugs, clothing, decorative boxes, etc., none of which had price tags on them (both Fae and I were afraid to ask the price of anything). We also paid our respects to the Ritz Carlton, which was properly elegant, but not so grandiose as the Fairmont. We took a Powell Street cable car down the hill to Fisherman's Wharf, to join the thousands of other tourists, and the hundreds of seagulls. Ellen got her picture of Alcatraz, and the Golden Gate Bridge.
The one thing she had wanted to do that we just ran out of time and energy to do was visit Haight Ashbury, where I lived for six months in 1966-67 (see Note of June 23, 2008 for some of my reminisces ). But we went home to Redwood City and enjoyed a Maine lobster dinner at a favorite spot of Fae's and Jim's, the Old Port Lobster Shack on Veterans Blvd. -- and yes, we were all amused by the irony of this girl from Maine having Maine lobster in California, but hey, I never have it in Maine because I can't afford it -- and then went home and crashed. A good day, a good visit all around.
Saturday, November 20, 2010
Former masters of the earth
I have been trying to plough my way through Dinosaur Odyssey: Fossil Threads in the Web of Life, by Scott D. Sampson. I am as fascinated by dinosaurs as any 10-year-old boy, but while the book is certainly interesting, and informative, it is also pretty heavy going, at least partly because of all the mind-numbing words like ornitho-mimosaurs, hadrosaurs, ceratopsids, not to mention all the proper scientific names of particular species -- Deinonychus, Tenontosaurus, Coelophysis. I never realized there were so many.
There are a number of concepts I've had a hard time wrapping my mind around, the biggest being that of "deep time." The (approximately) 4.54 billion years the earth has been around, that's an example of deep time. The "160 million-year tenure of dinosaurs," that's deep time. We're not talking a hundred years, not a thousand years, or even ten thousand years -- the approximate length of time human society for which we have plentiful evidence has been around -- we're not even talking about 4.4 million years, which is about how old the oldest humanoid (not human) remains thus far found have been. The last of the dinosaurs died out about 65 million years ago (that's 10,000 x 10 x 65), and this was at the end of their "160 million-year tenure." How can I possibly think intelligently about that kind of time span? And how can self-destructive humans ever hope to compete with that record for longevity?
Of course, they weren't all the same dinosaur species during that 160-million-year stretch. Just as in the more recent past, species came and went, evolved and died out, due to one cause or another. I never thought about that, but living creatures are certainly going to change, evolve, over that long a time span.
Another idea I have trouble with is that the birds of today are the descendents of a certain group of dinosaurs (interestingly, not the flying kind, like pterosaurs, but "small, carnivorous dinosaurs [that] found a way to be-come airborne," and that "managed to eke through the extinction bottleneck that brought an end to the Mesozoic." Admittedly, if you sit and watch a bunch of birds, you can spy very predatory and rapacious be-havior, but that's the closest to anything dinosaur-like that you can easily detect. But at least I'm glad to learn that no one is claiming that birds are the descendents of T-Rex.
One very interesting and highly plausible idea Sampson has introduced me to is that the weird horns/stiff neck "ruffles"/rooster-like crests/and other adornments many dinosaurs sported were less likely to have served as weapons, as originally thought -- many would have been very ineffectual weapons, because of their locations -- or even to assist in getting at or eating food, than to have served as attraction mechanisms for the opposite sex. After all, that's the purpose served by any number of oddities in the animal kingdom today. The elaborate spread of the peacock tail, the brighter coloration of the male of many bird species, the antlers of the deer, the red bottom of female baboons...all of these serve a primary function of attracting the opposite sex. I like to think of a female triceratops spotting a nearby male and thinking, "My, look at the frill on that big guy. I'd like him to be the father of my children."
Only, of course, not really thinking it, but intuiting it. Enabling the reproduction dance to go on, and evolution to continue on its ponderous but ineluctable way.
There are a number of concepts I've had a hard time wrapping my mind around, the biggest being that of "deep time." The (approximately) 4.54 billion years the earth has been around, that's an example of deep time. The "160 million-year tenure of dinosaurs," that's deep time. We're not talking a hundred years, not a thousand years, or even ten thousand years -- the approximate length of time human society for which we have plentiful evidence has been around -- we're not even talking about 4.4 million years, which is about how old the oldest humanoid (not human) remains thus far found have been. The last of the dinosaurs died out about 65 million years ago (that's 10,000 x 10 x 65), and this was at the end of their "160 million-year tenure." How can I possibly think intelligently about that kind of time span? And how can self-destructive humans ever hope to compete with that record for longevity?
Of course, they weren't all the same dinosaur species during that 160-million-year stretch. Just as in the more recent past, species came and went, evolved and died out, due to one cause or another. I never thought about that, but living creatures are certainly going to change, evolve, over that long a time span.
Another idea I have trouble with is that the birds of today are the descendents of a certain group of dinosaurs (interestingly, not the flying kind, like pterosaurs, but "small, carnivorous dinosaurs [that] found a way to be-come airborne," and that "managed to eke through the extinction bottleneck that brought an end to the Mesozoic." Admittedly, if you sit and watch a bunch of birds, you can spy very predatory and rapacious be-havior, but that's the closest to anything dinosaur-like that you can easily detect. But at least I'm glad to learn that no one is claiming that birds are the descendents of T-Rex.
One very interesting and highly plausible idea Sampson has introduced me to is that the weird horns/stiff neck "ruffles"/rooster-like crests/and other adornments many dinosaurs sported were less likely to have served as weapons, as originally thought -- many would have been very ineffectual weapons, because of their locations -- or even to assist in getting at or eating food, than to have served as attraction mechanisms for the opposite sex. After all, that's the purpose served by any number of oddities in the animal kingdom today. The elaborate spread of the peacock tail, the brighter coloration of the male of many bird species, the antlers of the deer, the red bottom of female baboons...all of these serve a primary function of attracting the opposite sex. I like to think of a female triceratops spotting a nearby male and thinking, "My, look at the frill on that big guy. I'd like him to be the father of my children."
Only, of course, not really thinking it, but intuiting it. Enabling the reproduction dance to go on, and evolution to continue on its ponderous but ineluctable way.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Oh they have to win they have to win
All right, I'm willing to concede that professional sports are more than "just a game." They're a competition to see which team is better trained, in better shape, with more finely-honed skills. But what I don't get is why fans identify so totally with their favorite teams. It's one thing if your kid is playing on the little league or the high school team, if a team you're cheering for is from your alma mater, even if you've long since left the place. But just because a professional team is called the Philadelphia Phillies or the Texas Rangers, does not mean it's made up of a bunch of home-grown boys. The Rangers have players from California, Arizona, the Dominican Republic, Venezuela, just to name a few. And every professional team is the same. So what are the fans so invested in? What is it that makes them so hysterical when "their" team wins, so morose when it loses?
This kind of fan fanaticism is something I truly do not understand, and my inability to do so is one of the things that makes me feel I am not a member of the human race. Maybe one of my psychologist friends can explain it to me. Watching game four of the Series, I was amazed by the people in the stands that the camera would catch, some of whom looked tense and miserable, as if they might cry at any moment, some of whom actually looked as though they were praying, many of whom just looked depressed. All because it really did look like "their" team was going to lose (which it did). And of course when a favored team wins the fans jump up and down, scream, cry, hug one another, and, when they get out to their cars, drive up and down the streets with horns blaring, screaming out the windows.
Why? Why is winning or losing so important? What does it prove? That a particular team, for that game at least, was better at their job than the other team. But their expertise has literally nothing to do with the fans, or I guess I should say the fans have nothing to do with their expertise. Are not responsible for it, cannot take credit for it, really have no right to feel proud of it. And remember these are not local boys -- many of them will be playing for other teams in a year or two or three. Winner's hysteria seems to be saying 'this team, whoever it may be made up of at the moment, has a name and a home base connected or close to where I live and they've won; therefore I'm ecstatic, feel triumphant.'
And Melody doesn't get it. Is it just the old us-against-them mentality, played out in sports? A kind of tribalism, that sometimes seems genetically fixed? Melody herself is such a weird spectator of sporting events that she can actually appreciate a good play by the other team, instead of despairing because it results in them scoring a point, or otherwise furthering their cause. And I have such a strange idea of good sportsmanship that I think in a situation like the one on Monday night, when the Series was lost to a team that just plain played better, someone over the loud speaker should have called for a round of applause for a game well-played by the winning team, and should have gotten it, from a bunch of disappointed, but gallant, Ranger fans. Wouldn't that have been cool? In the best of all possible worlds...
This kind of fan fanaticism is something I truly do not understand, and my inability to do so is one of the things that makes me feel I am not a member of the human race. Maybe one of my psychologist friends can explain it to me. Watching game four of the Series, I was amazed by the people in the stands that the camera would catch, some of whom looked tense and miserable, as if they might cry at any moment, some of whom actually looked as though they were praying, many of whom just looked depressed. All because it really did look like "their" team was going to lose (which it did). And of course when a favored team wins the fans jump up and down, scream, cry, hug one another, and, when they get out to their cars, drive up and down the streets with horns blaring, screaming out the windows.
Why? Why is winning or losing so important? What does it prove? That a particular team, for that game at least, was better at their job than the other team. But their expertise has literally nothing to do with the fans, or I guess I should say the fans have nothing to do with their expertise. Are not responsible for it, cannot take credit for it, really have no right to feel proud of it. And remember these are not local boys -- many of them will be playing for other teams in a year or two or three. Winner's hysteria seems to be saying 'this team, whoever it may be made up of at the moment, has a name and a home base connected or close to where I live and they've won; therefore I'm ecstatic, feel triumphant.'
And Melody doesn't get it. Is it just the old us-against-them mentality, played out in sports? A kind of tribalism, that sometimes seems genetically fixed? Melody herself is such a weird spectator of sporting events that she can actually appreciate a good play by the other team, instead of despairing because it results in them scoring a point, or otherwise furthering their cause. And I have such a strange idea of good sportsmanship that I think in a situation like the one on Monday night, when the Series was lost to a team that just plain played better, someone over the loud speaker should have called for a round of applause for a game well-played by the winning team, and should have gotten it, from a bunch of disappointed, but gallant, Ranger fans. Wouldn't that have been cool? In the best of all possible worlds...
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Take me out to the ball game
I have watched most of the first three games of the World Series (which should surely be called the National Series...how presumptuous of us!), and am looking forward to the fourth game this evening (although the competition is a new version of Sherlock Holmes on Masterpiece Theatre. The game may lose me for an hour.)
This kind of sports enthusiasm is unprecedented for me. Although I've always liked baseball, I've never been much for watching games on television. However, this summer I found myself watching at least part of the occasional game on Fox, and was reminded of what a terrific game it really is. For one thing, you can see what's happening, as opposed to American football games. You are able to clearly see both individual skill, and beautifully-executed teamwork. Indeed, with today's long-range cameras and instant replays you can see amazing detail, can see exactly what makes a particular play impressive. Surely there are few things more satisfying than a flawless double play. As someone who has always "thrown like a girl," I can't help but be impressed by an outfielder who scoops up a ground ball, sends it like an arrow clear across the field to the second baseman who tags the runner and then zings the ball to first base. And of course it's exciting when you're not sure, you're not sure, but...yes! It's a home run!
And the game is not just a matter of big lugs plowing into one another, trying to put one another out of commission (a la American football), or of purposely starting free-for-alls (ice hockey). It's a matter of skill and teamwork, rather than brute force.
But I have to say that, as I watch, I can't help but think of it as a kid's game that grownup kids are playing. I mean, think about it. When you hit the ball you have to run as fast as you can around in a circle, being sure to touch a "bag" at three points in the circle. The other side is trying to tag you with the ball before you can do that. Sometimes there's actually a skittish little dance as a runner tries to avoid being tagged. Grown men doing that for a living!
They make it "grownup" by having things like errors ("Come on, you're a pro, you shouldn't have fumbled that ball."), and by having pitchers who throw such fast, sneaky, misleading balls that it's no mean trick to successfully hit them.
I decided I'm rooting for the Giants. Yes, I know, I'm a bad Texan. But I watched the Giants play the Philadelphia Phillies this summer, and so enjoyed this "bunch of misfits," as they are frequently described, that when I learned they were playing in the Series, I decided they were "my" team. (Since the Red Sox aren't playing.) I'm especially impressed by pitcher Tim Lincecum, who looks about 16 -- it doesn't look like he shaves yet! -- who is skinny, and yet delivers his pitches with amazing power.
I'm happy the Rangers have made it to their first "National" Series, and I won't be heartbroken if they win -- after all, this is "only a game" -- but...go Giants.
Am wondering if my friends Bob and Mary, big Giants fans, attended either of the games that were held in San Francisco. Rather amazing location for the ball park, right next to the water...
This kind of sports enthusiasm is unprecedented for me. Although I've always liked baseball, I've never been much for watching games on television. However, this summer I found myself watching at least part of the occasional game on Fox, and was reminded of what a terrific game it really is. For one thing, you can see what's happening, as opposed to American football games. You are able to clearly see both individual skill, and beautifully-executed teamwork. Indeed, with today's long-range cameras and instant replays you can see amazing detail, can see exactly what makes a particular play impressive. Surely there are few things more satisfying than a flawless double play. As someone who has always "thrown like a girl," I can't help but be impressed by an outfielder who scoops up a ground ball, sends it like an arrow clear across the field to the second baseman who tags the runner and then zings the ball to first base. And of course it's exciting when you're not sure, you're not sure, but...yes! It's a home run!
And the game is not just a matter of big lugs plowing into one another, trying to put one another out of commission (a la American football), or of purposely starting free-for-alls (ice hockey). It's a matter of skill and teamwork, rather than brute force.
But I have to say that, as I watch, I can't help but think of it as a kid's game that grownup kids are playing. I mean, think about it. When you hit the ball you have to run as fast as you can around in a circle, being sure to touch a "bag" at three points in the circle. The other side is trying to tag you with the ball before you can do that. Sometimes there's actually a skittish little dance as a runner tries to avoid being tagged. Grown men doing that for a living!
They make it "grownup" by having things like errors ("Come on, you're a pro, you shouldn't have fumbled that ball."), and by having pitchers who throw such fast, sneaky, misleading balls that it's no mean trick to successfully hit them.
I decided I'm rooting for the Giants. Yes, I know, I'm a bad Texan. But I watched the Giants play the Philadelphia Phillies this summer, and so enjoyed this "bunch of misfits," as they are frequently described, that when I learned they were playing in the Series, I decided they were "my" team. (Since the Red Sox aren't playing.) I'm especially impressed by pitcher Tim Lincecum, who looks about 16 -- it doesn't look like he shaves yet! -- who is skinny, and yet delivers his pitches with amazing power.
I'm happy the Rangers have made it to their first "National" Series, and I won't be heartbroken if they win -- after all, this is "only a game" -- but...go Giants.
Am wondering if my friends Bob and Mary, big Giants fans, attended either of the games that were held in San Francisco. Rather amazing location for the ball park, right next to the water...
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Paying our respects
Well, here I've actually gone and done something. I flew to the Dallas/Ft. Worth area to visit various friends and relatives, living and dead. The main reason for my trip was to see my friend Clifford, who has known me since the day I was born. One of my father's oldest friends (they knew each other from the seventh grade on), Clifford and two other of my father's friends brought a big, soft, pale blue teddy bear to the hospital in honor of my birth. I still have that bear (Joe), though the pale blue has long since faded to grey, he's lost his stuffing and been restuffed more than once, with negligible results, and the big black eyes were at some point replaced with pale pink pearl buttons, that somehow make him look cross-eyed. Nonetheless, I love this bear.
Clifford is now the only one of "the gang" left, and has reached the impressive, but somewhat unsettling, age of 90. I thought I should check in on him. I also did some grave-hopping while in Ft. Worth. At my father's and stepmother's grave, which is located on a hill over-looking the Trinity River, it was so windy that I realized I was not going to be able to leave the flowering plant I'd brought, as it was quite likely to get blown away. I later picked up a heavy ceramic planter at Walmart's garden center, tucked the basket with the plant inside that, and made a second trip out to Oakwood to put it in place. It looked like it would now be able to withstand that Texas wind, and, if no one steals it, should be available for future "plantings."
I was accompanied by my sister-in-law, Karen, on this trip (on the first it was Cliff). Karen is the widow of my stepbrother who died in 1999, while I was spending three months in France. I didn't even know he had died until I returned home, and had never yet been to visit his grave. I had also never been to visit my stepbrother Dean's grave, though I had attended his funeral, in southern Louisiana. Both of these brothers died at sadly young ages (54 & 53), and I was reminded of how sad that was, standing at their graves. But it was great watching Karen in action. Not only had she brought artificial flowers which she tucked in amongst the ones still there from her last visit ("Very unusual that they're still here," she said. "When they mow they usually take them away."), but she had bought little plastic pumpkins full of candy for each grave (she tended a total of six, all her husband's relatives, not hers, which shows you what kind of person Karen is), as well as a package of Twizzlers for Mike's grave, as that had been his favorite. I loved the efficiency combined with affection with which she freshened and tidied the graves.
And I also visited my own husband's grave, in Terrell, the morning of the day I flew back to Maine. Here, I cried. I always do. Micheal also died too young (58). All these men who don't take proper care of themselves, dying early.
But I didn't just grave-hop. I also spent some time with one of my high school classmates, whom I try to see whenever I go to Ft. Worth. On my first evening there he and his mother took me to dinner at Pappadeaux, which doesn't get very good reviews on Trip Adviser, and which was too noisy, but which served me up a delicious almond-crusted talapia. (The next night, when Karen and her partner took me to dinner, I had crab-stuffed talapia. I said it was pretty ironic, coming from a coastal state to this land-locked city and having fish twice in a row.)
Our second evening together Robert and I drove to Dallas to visit yet another high school classmate, where I admired his beautiful town house, with a view from the bedroom balcony of the Flying Red Horse, Pegasus, atop what was once the Magnolia Petrolium Building, and is now the Magnolia Hotel. This building, at 29 stories, used to be the tallest in Dallas -- I can remember driving from Ft. Worth to Dallas as a kid, and spotting the building's winged red horse soaring above the city -- but now this iconic sign can barely be discerned amongst all the city's much taller buildings. But from Steve's balcony you have a very nice view of it. At Steve's we consumed lots of champagne, the hottest Thai food I've ever had, and did lots of reminiscing, which is one of the things old friends are for. Thanks to the champagne we were all extremely amusing.
My final evening was spent with my Dallas cousins, in the first house I had been in in four days that was always cool enough for me. Temperatures were in the 80s while I was down there, which as we all know is too hot for my tastes. Jim and I are both heavy into tracing the family tree, and had a bang-up time pouring over a bunch of old photos he'd inherited from his mother, who'd inherited them from her mother. I hadn't seen either of my cousins, or their families, in over six years, so it was good to see them all again.
All in all, a satisfying visit, during which I did everything I intended to do, saw everyone I intended to see, and didn't hyperventilate too much, driving in all that mad traffic.
Clifford is now the only one of "the gang" left, and has reached the impressive, but somewhat unsettling, age of 90. I thought I should check in on him. I also did some grave-hopping while in Ft. Worth. At my father's and stepmother's grave, which is located on a hill over-looking the Trinity River, it was so windy that I realized I was not going to be able to leave the flowering plant I'd brought, as it was quite likely to get blown away. I later picked up a heavy ceramic planter at Walmart's garden center, tucked the basket with the plant inside that, and made a second trip out to Oakwood to put it in place. It looked like it would now be able to withstand that Texas wind, and, if no one steals it, should be available for future "plantings."
I was accompanied by my sister-in-law, Karen, on this trip (on the first it was Cliff). Karen is the widow of my stepbrother who died in 1999, while I was spending three months in France. I didn't even know he had died until I returned home, and had never yet been to visit his grave. I had also never been to visit my stepbrother Dean's grave, though I had attended his funeral, in southern Louisiana. Both of these brothers died at sadly young ages (54 & 53), and I was reminded of how sad that was, standing at their graves. But it was great watching Karen in action. Not only had she brought artificial flowers which she tucked in amongst the ones still there from her last visit ("Very unusual that they're still here," she said. "When they mow they usually take them away."), but she had bought little plastic pumpkins full of candy for each grave (she tended a total of six, all her husband's relatives, not hers, which shows you what kind of person Karen is), as well as a package of Twizzlers for Mike's grave, as that had been his favorite. I loved the efficiency combined with affection with which she freshened and tidied the graves.
And I also visited my own husband's grave, in Terrell, the morning of the day I flew back to Maine. Here, I cried. I always do. Micheal also died too young (58). All these men who don't take proper care of themselves, dying early.
But I didn't just grave-hop. I also spent some time with one of my high school classmates, whom I try to see whenever I go to Ft. Worth. On my first evening there he and his mother took me to dinner at Pappadeaux, which doesn't get very good reviews on Trip Adviser, and which was too noisy, but which served me up a delicious almond-crusted talapia. (The next night, when Karen and her partner took me to dinner, I had crab-stuffed talapia. I said it was pretty ironic, coming from a coastal state to this land-locked city and having fish twice in a row.)
Our second evening together Robert and I drove to Dallas to visit yet another high school classmate, where I admired his beautiful town house, with a view from the bedroom balcony of the Flying Red Horse, Pegasus, atop what was once the Magnolia Petrolium Building, and is now the Magnolia Hotel. This building, at 29 stories, used to be the tallest in Dallas -- I can remember driving from Ft. Worth to Dallas as a kid, and spotting the building's winged red horse soaring above the city -- but now this iconic sign can barely be discerned amongst all the city's much taller buildings. But from Steve's balcony you have a very nice view of it. At Steve's we consumed lots of champagne, the hottest Thai food I've ever had, and did lots of reminiscing, which is one of the things old friends are for. Thanks to the champagne we were all extremely amusing.
My final evening was spent with my Dallas cousins, in the first house I had been in in four days that was always cool enough for me. Temperatures were in the 80s while I was down there, which as we all know is too hot for my tastes. Jim and I are both heavy into tracing the family tree, and had a bang-up time pouring over a bunch of old photos he'd inherited from his mother, who'd inherited them from her mother. I hadn't seen either of my cousins, or their families, in over six years, so it was good to see them all again.
All in all, a satisfying visit, during which I did everything I intended to do, saw everyone I intended to see, and didn't hyperventilate too much, driving in all that mad traffic.
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