…before I chomp down on these little treats…
They tell me it’s business, not personal. What’s next? Tony the Tiger is gonna retire? No more Frosted Flakes?
coloring the night away
Some of my happiest childhood memories are from moments spent on the floor of this living room, coloring. This picture is cracking me up. You can see the aluminum dinette chair with the plastic upholstery in the dining room, and up against the wall is my doll house. Also aluminum.
In fact, our Christmas tree was aluminum, too. With deep green glass ornaments. And a tacky little green spotlight that made the silver tree shine green. Oh. My.
What can I say? My dad was into the space program — we were whooping it up like The Jetsons.
And that’s me, Judy Jetson, with my hair picked up and flopping off the top of my head. I hated that hairstyle my whole childhood. And then I inflicted it on my own girls. Teehee. It’s so cute.
I spent a lot of time sprawled on the floor…listening to the TV, listening to the grown-ups visiting, listening to my mother play Tom Jones and Engelbert Humperdinck LP’s.
Just plain listening.
It’s why I like to distract myself when I listen to things now. I doodle and fill in letters on meeting agendas, and generally make a gigantic mess of any paper in front of me if I’m sitting through something that I find interesting. It takes me back to a time that was carefree — truly free from any cares. My biggest dilemma was trying to figure out what distinguished the green-blue crayon from the blue-green one.
If only my life could be reduced to the simplicity of a Crayola crayons box, with everything neatly labeled.
Meh. It’s only a temporary and fleeting desire. The truth is that more often than not I tried my hand at creating my own pictures. I tired of coloring inside the lines a long time ago, looking for adventure outside the traditional box with the 8 colors. I wanted the box of 64, with the neat sharpener built into the back.
Yeah. I wanted lots of colors.
I got it, too. The big box, that is. I have no complaints, no regrets. In fact, things around here get more colorful all the time, and I’m happy to throw myself on the rug and enjoy it.
I don’t color anymore — I fill up journals now, but it’s kind of the same thing for me…the sound of the pen scratching against the paper takes me into a little world that’s all my own.
Jellybeans and other things
I ran into the woman who coached my basketball team, the Jellybeans, when I was a kid in 1971. I can’t wrap my mind around the decades that have passed.
Few people know that I have this secret past as a basketball playing, pony-tail shaking, trouble-making bookworm.
Well. Maybe you might believe the last part of that. The basketball, though, often comes as a surprise. I’m okay with people looking at my middle-aged “comfortable” body and squinting to see if there ever could have been a lithe athlete in there.
She’s still there, moving slower, and less gracefully, but in some way…full of grace.
It has less to do with the muscle memory that leads to flawless lay-ups, and more about the muscle memory of the heart.
I learned many lessons while playing sports. Research shows that girls and young women who play sports tend to have better self-esteem, better body image, and better mental health over all. They tend to delay sex longer and are better students.
Those physical lessons that led to championship seasons and excellence on the court were secondary to the moral lessons that influenced my character and directly affected the kind of girl I was, and the woman that I have become.
For every suicide that I ran, building stamina and speed, I learned that suffering and pain can sometimes be fleeting and often leads to strength.
For every monotonous dribbling or shooting drill that improved my skill, I learned about patience and commitment, and the rewards of hard work.
For every play that was repeated over and over until we operated in unison, I learned the value of working together and perhaps more importantly, that everyone on a team has unique skills. I learned to ask for help when in a pickle, and to selflessly jump into the fray to help when I can.
The coaches who taught me those important lessons were in my life for a season (ha, how do you like that unintended wordplay?) but their influence has been timeless.
I’ve passed along those same lessons to athletes I’ve coached, students I’ve taught, and adults I’ve advised. I’v passed those lessons along to my children.
I live those lessons, I hope, with humility but determination. To be my best. To do my best. To be a good sport. To enjoy the game. To laugh, and joke, and celebrate. To lose gracefully, and perhaps, too often forgotten, to win gracefully.
To remember to drink water.
And finally, to begin every endeavor, whether large or small, in prayer.
Our Lady of Victory, pray for us.