Pacemaker

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“I tried to get through your text without crying but it didn’t work,” George’s daughter Melissa texted me.

Pickle ball has changed my life. After back surgery for a herniated disk, my husband was worried I’d not be able to play tennis again and he found this new sport for me. Pickle ball is played in a gym on a badminton size court with a whiffle ball and a paddle and it’s a game of mixed doubles. Men and women of all shapes, sizes and ages all play together. It is a fast, aggressive game combining tennis with badminton and some people say Ping-Pong. I don’t see the Ping-Pong part of it. It’s an incredible work out but also an amazingly fun and addictive sport. I now play between 5 and 6 days a week for between 2 to 3 hours. It’s like my job, that and speaking about Gorillas and Chimps at the Dallas zoo 2 days a week. Lucky me. My recovery from the surgery was so excellent, I could easily play tennis, but I have no desire! My new love is Pickle ball.

I have met so many people and I have many very close friends in Texas as a result of Pickle ball. I am in awe at the support and camaraderie this PB community provides.

Not long ago, several of our Dallas police officers were shot and killed in a race relation issue. The next day at Pickle ball, one of the players called us all together and asked that we bow our heads in a minute of silence for the men who died. You could have heard a pin drop in that gym. It was powerful.

A couple months later right before we began play, a woman asked us to gather as she had a sad announcement. One of our dear Pickle ball friends Sarah, we were told, just lost her 48-year old daughter a day or two before. Again, we gathered, bowed our heads in silence and surely a lot of prayer for one of our own. Then the coach, Dave, went to get a bereavement card, which we all signed and he sent it. Sarah is not back yet but our community is there for her when she is.

Recently, one of our wonderful friends, George found out his heart rate was way too low. George is very athletic and otherwise a very healthy 72 year old, but his doctor was insistent on a pacemaker. He was going back and forth, stressing out about the decision because he felt so good and was playing Pickle ball several days a week aggressively. He was finally convinced it was what he needed to do.

George had the surgery to install the pacemaker on a Monday morning. Most everyone in our Pickle ball community knew. Shockingly, on Tuesday afternoon George sauntered in to the gym. He didn’t have his paddle with him and he didn’t intend on playing but he felt great and wanted to see us. Here is what I texted his daughter later, of whom I am very fond even though I don’t know her well.

Hi Melissa!  I wish you could have seen the scene when your father walked into the gym today.  The only word I can think of, and I don’t think I have ever used this word before, is “Fellowship”.  Several women jumped up to embrace him.  Our coach then went over to give him a hug and handshake and brought him a cushioned chair so he wouldn’t have to sit on the hard bleachers.  Then as games ended, men began walking up putting their hands on his shoulder or shaking his hand asking about his procedure and how he was doing.  He was the prince of the ball and everyone was quietly rejoicing in how well things went and how fabulous he looked.  Then a much older man than George took the padded seat and your father, of course, didn’t say a word and sat on the hard bleachers. He’s a special man and I know losing his wife was devastating as it was for you losing your mother.  But as a family, you have each other, and now know you can take comfort in that your father is a beloved member of a huge Fellowship of Pickle ball people.  Love, Andie

Here is Melissa’s response:

I tried to get through your text without crying but it didn’t work. What a wonderful thing to read. Thank you. Thank you again and the Fellowship of PB’s for caring about him so much. I’m so glad you’ve all gotten to know the awesome man I’m lucky to call “Dad”.

I’m kinda starting to like Texas….

Let Me Save Your Life

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“C’mon little guy,” I said under my breath, “let me save your life…”

I love animals and I know it sounds weird but I also care about bugs, worms and lizards. I simply can’t stand it when there is any kind of critter in my house who I know will die a slow painful death if they stay in my house. They will either die from starvation, lack of water or exhaustion from frantically trying to get out of the house as some insects do. Lizards are a little more low-key than that, but boy, are they fast when you try to capture them. (Little do they know, however, of my in-depth experience from when I was 12 or 13!) All these guys need to be outside to survive and I suppose they get in my house by either flying in when the door is open or riding in on our dogs.

I cannot focus on anything else when one of them is in my house trying desperately to get out knowing it will be dead if I don’t do something about it. I know what you are thinking, How in the world does she even know these things are in her house?! How does she hear them or see them? The answer is my house is very quiet unless the dogs are going nuts about something and also very uncluttered so I probably see and hear things people with noisy, cluttered houses and closets don’t see and hear. I even save flies, I don’t think most people care about flies and I get that.

I have created a sophisticated tool kit for capturing small creatures I find in my house. Here it is:

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It is a half of a manila folder and a green drinking cup that has the Masters Golf Tournament logo on it. I have no idea where this cup came from because while my husband and I both enjoy golf, neither of us has ever been to the Masters. Just ask my husband; I will sometimes spend upwards of half an hour trying to save bugs, lizards and worms with my tool kit. (Well, worms don’t take that long….hehe.)

Today as I was getting ready for Pickle Ball, I was in my closet and some movement on the hardwood floor caught my eye. I didn’t have my glasses on and I’m pretty much blind without them so I ran out to get them, put them on, entered the closet just in time to see the most adorable, tiny, baby lizard run for cover. This guy was beige colored with brown dots all over him. He had the cutest face I’ve ever seen all full of the brown dots. He was no more than 3 inches long. I ran for the pantry where I keep my sophisticated tool kit and set to work. I’ll tell you, I know lizards but this one was savvy. I was throwing my hung clothes out of the closet onto the floor, I moved my Elfa organizing shelves out of there and was trying desperately to get this little sweetie pie in my green cup and out to the back yard.

No luck. The lizard was out smarting me. I was begging with him but to no avail. I was heartbroken. Finally, I had to leave for Pickle Ball and arrived half hour late.

I forgot all about it. When I got home 3 hours later sweaty and happy from the sport I adore, I took my dogs out back and sat on a chair while they pooped and peed. I suddenly remembered the adorable little lizard and my heart sunk. Maybe he’ll be slower now because he is hungry and thirsty. God, if he’s still even in there and if I can even find him, no chance, I thought.

I retrieved my tool kit and determinedly headed for the closet. The clothes were still on the floor and the Elfa shelving was still out. I knew the chances of finding this lizard were slim but OMG, there he was! Tucked into a corner and yes, a little slower than he had been earlier in the day. I chased him around a little and said a prayer and begged him quietly to let me save his life. The challenge with the sophisticated tool kit is that once you’ve got the critter trapped in it, for instance you’ve got a butterfly trapped against a wall with the cup, is that when you shimmy the manila folder against the wall to secure the capture that you don’t break a fragile wing or leg or whatever. Ya know?

Anyway, this adorable lizard made what could have been in the wild his fatal mistake but in this situation saved his life. He was tired and hungry and thirsty so for whatever reason he thought his best bet was to climb up the wall in a corner. I am SO grateful to the Master’s organization that their green cups are so cheaply made that I was able to literately bend it to the degree that was like a corner! What’s that called you smart people? A 45 degree angle? A 90 degree angle? I used to know all this crap but I just don’t care anymore. I care about saving lives.

Little guy fell into my cup and I covered it with the manila part of my sophisticated tool and brought it outside. I set the little guy free in my back yard on the dirt under the foliage where he so wants and needs to be.  I saw his tiny head move from side to side. I can only imagine what his lizard joy must have been.

Poo Poo

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I’m a person who has memories from a very young age.  It’s kind of surprising from a psychological standpoint because my childhood was pretty traumatic.  I remember once being in my mother’s arms and hearing her tell my father that his raised voice ‘made the baby cry.’

When I was a very young child, anything I didn’t like I referred to as “poo poo.”  My mom never corrected me likely because she was happy I wasn’t saying crap or shit like she did.  I think she thought poo poo was harmless.

Then we got a new babysitter.  She was ancient in my eyes.  Probably at least 39.  She looked old!  I mean, when I was 3 my mom was 24.  Even at 3 I did not like this woman.  Our dog Heidi was allowed under the kitchen table when we ate our meals and the four of us little girls would swing our bare feet over her fur.  She loved it.  She also loved the crumbs and other goodies that would drop from the table during our meals.  This lady hated Heidi and would not let her under the table and if I remember correctly, I think she kicked her once.  I was livid, but I was only 3 and the old bitch was 39.  What could I do?

One day I called something I hated poo poo.  She grabbed me by my wrists and said that if I ever said that again God was going to do something very, very bad to me immediately.  (Great caregiving  ….eh?)  (Yes, “eh,” my grandmother was Canadian.)  I did not for a second believe her but I had to prove it to myself.  When she let go of my wrists I turned toward my bedroom and walked away.  “Yes, have a good cry about it,” she called after me.

Uh, no.  That’s not what I did.  I went as deeply into a cluttered and disorganized (beyond belief) closet in the pitch black, made myself comfortable on a pile of clothes on the floor and whispered, “poo poo.”  And then I waited.  Nothing bad happened.  I emerged from the closet and I waited all afternoon and nothing bad happened.

I never trusted that woman to begin with but now I knew she was a liar.

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