We got back late Sunday night after a week spent with our younger son and his family in North Carolina. It was a great visit, featuring a lot of quality time with Patrick, Susan, Cyrus and young John, who decided his grandparents’ visit would be a good time to start walking in earnest. Though they’ve had a cooler spring than normal, it warmed up so we were able to enjoy a couple of trips to the beach, along with our usual sampling of the area’s excellent seafood along the shore.
And I got to wear my shorts.
Not that the sight of my winter-white legs was a special treat for anyone else, but I was more than glad to finally get to put on something other than winter clothing.
Then we came home.
Back to cold, wet weather and my dazzling collection of sweatshirts, sweaters and rain gear. Home from green grass, trees in full bloom and flowers bursting all around, to the sight of Star Courier shorts-wearing fashion leaders Rocky Stufflebeam and Mike Landis staring gloomily at the weather report.
Spring has, indeed, taken its own sweet time about coming around this year. And maybe that’s OK, because once it does, maybe it will stick around for good.
Maybe.
An Early Spring
An early spring is a wonderful thing
With grass turned green and birds that sing
I feel I can do anything,
When there’s an early spring.
My spirits start to readjust
Springtime things shake off their dust
And out-of-doors becomes a must
When there’s an early spring.
We find out what the snow has hid
And rake and pile and trim and rid
Our yards of all that winter did
When there’s an early spring.
From deep below, there comes a surge
As flowers from their rest emerge
And burst forth in a gaudy splurge
When there’s an early spring.
But here’s the thing, a springtime warning
You may wake up some early morning
To find the season is in mourning
When there’s an early spring
Winter hates to lose its grip
And likes to really let it rip
With snowy, blowy winds that whip
When there’s an early spring.
That’s when that season is the worst
And seems so evil and perverse
I swear I heard a robin curse
When there’s an early spring
But spring will finally win the fray
The April sun will have its way
And bring to us a glorious day
When there’s an early spring
The wonder of the springtime dance
As warms winds whisper of romance
God’s given us another chance
When there’s an early spring.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Notes from a Road Warrior
Cue the music.
It’s my feeling you might enjoy this column more if you read it to music. Something like Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” or even “Wagon Wheel,” by Bob Dylan.
Got it going? Then read on, because, after a three-month stay-at-home period, we are, indeed, on the road.
We hadn’t seen any of our kids or grandkids since Christmas, so it’s been a long, winter’s wait. But with Easter break upon us, there was no doubt we were going to visit someone. But who?
Well, let’s see. Younger son, Patrick, lives in North Carolina, where spring has sprung and our newest grandson was waiting to amaze us with all the things he’s learned to do since we saw him last.
Bad dad that I am, I just couldn’t bring myself to go a-sandbagging with older son Colin, who lives with his family in Moorhead, Minnesota, just across the raging Red River from Fargo. I think that trip ought to wait for the full arrival of spring in the great northern plains. From what the natives say, that should be somewhere around the Fourth of July.
So the plan was made to head for Eastern North Carolina as soon as school was out last Friday afternoon. I was pretty sure that was unlikely to happen, but years of marriage have taught me it’s better to remain silent and wait for reality to occur. All last week, I maintained a checklist of “things to do before we go,” that I kept on the kitchen table.
“That’s quite a daunting list you’ve got there,” she said.
“Yes,” I said bravely. “Yes, it is.”
Finally about Thursday, with the list down to a few things that absolutely required both of us to be involved, she acquiesced.
“There’s really no way we’re getting out of here on Friday, is there?”
“No,” I said sagely. “No, there’s not.”
Instead, we ran errands, did laundry and packed bags, remembering as we did that, while we were driving to North Carolina, we were leaving a vehicle and flying back. So we had to travel light.
After a few hours of sleep, we got up very, very, very early on Saturday morning and hit the road. This was not to be one of the meandering, fact-and-fun-filled drives I treasure. There would be no detours for a look at the Indiana Earthworm Museum or the World’s Biggest Hairball in Luck Tree, Ohio. Instead, the plan was to stick to the interstates and go full speed ahead. We took the northern route, that travels through Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia and Virginia, before entering the Tarheel state near Mount Airy, the town favorite son Andy Griffith used as his model for Mayberry.
“We’re making great time, aren’t we?” she said brightly.
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “We are.”
“I bet we could just drive straight through instead of stopping for the night,” she continued
Not quite what I had in mind, but, again, those years of marriage--and travel together--have taught me that a reasonable night’s sleep, a hotel hot tub and that free breakfast they’re always talking about were not in the cards. Instead, it would be a late-late-night drive, with the main goal being to get to that grandbaby as soon as possible. I knew, then, that I was paying for that no-go Friday.
“Really,” she said. “I’ll drive, too.”
A few minutes later, the reality of that offer came to light, as she spoke to me in that special language we often share late at night, the language called “Sleeplish.”
Me: “Did that sign say route 70 turns left?”
She: “Whxxx? Nfngrx rfng ylp.”
But we finally made it at about 3 a.m. Son Patrick and his amazingly gracious wife, Susan, woke up as we crept into the house, welcoming us and showing us our digs in the guest room/baby room occupied by grandson John. He woke up briefly, then fell back asleep as we settled in, A little later, he woke up again and, seeing us in the bed across the room, decided it was time to play. We, of course, agreed.
Dawn broke as John Sloan--my grandson and namesake--and I dozed off together. Believing as I do, that every encounter should be a learning experience, I began to teach the little fellow how to snore.
Life is good. Live from North Carolina.
It’s my feeling you might enjoy this column more if you read it to music. Something like Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again,” or even “Wagon Wheel,” by Bob Dylan.
Got it going? Then read on, because, after a three-month stay-at-home period, we are, indeed, on the road.
We hadn’t seen any of our kids or grandkids since Christmas, so it’s been a long, winter’s wait. But with Easter break upon us, there was no doubt we were going to visit someone. But who?
Well, let’s see. Younger son, Patrick, lives in North Carolina, where spring has sprung and our newest grandson was waiting to amaze us with all the things he’s learned to do since we saw him last.
Bad dad that I am, I just couldn’t bring myself to go a-sandbagging with older son Colin, who lives with his family in Moorhead, Minnesota, just across the raging Red River from Fargo. I think that trip ought to wait for the full arrival of spring in the great northern plains. From what the natives say, that should be somewhere around the Fourth of July.
So the plan was made to head for Eastern North Carolina as soon as school was out last Friday afternoon. I was pretty sure that was unlikely to happen, but years of marriage have taught me it’s better to remain silent and wait for reality to occur. All last week, I maintained a checklist of “things to do before we go,” that I kept on the kitchen table.
“That’s quite a daunting list you’ve got there,” she said.
“Yes,” I said bravely. “Yes, it is.”
Finally about Thursday, with the list down to a few things that absolutely required both of us to be involved, she acquiesced.
“There’s really no way we’re getting out of here on Friday, is there?”
“No,” I said sagely. “No, there’s not.”
Instead, we ran errands, did laundry and packed bags, remembering as we did that, while we were driving to North Carolina, we were leaving a vehicle and flying back. So we had to travel light.
After a few hours of sleep, we got up very, very, very early on Saturday morning and hit the road. This was not to be one of the meandering, fact-and-fun-filled drives I treasure. There would be no detours for a look at the Indiana Earthworm Museum or the World’s Biggest Hairball in Luck Tree, Ohio. Instead, the plan was to stick to the interstates and go full speed ahead. We took the northern route, that travels through Indiana, Ohio, West Virginia and Virginia, before entering the Tarheel state near Mount Airy, the town favorite son Andy Griffith used as his model for Mayberry.
“We’re making great time, aren’t we?” she said brightly.
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “We are.”
“I bet we could just drive straight through instead of stopping for the night,” she continued
Not quite what I had in mind, but, again, those years of marriage--and travel together--have taught me that a reasonable night’s sleep, a hotel hot tub and that free breakfast they’re always talking about were not in the cards. Instead, it would be a late-late-night drive, with the main goal being to get to that grandbaby as soon as possible. I knew, then, that I was paying for that no-go Friday.
“Really,” she said. “I’ll drive, too.”
A few minutes later, the reality of that offer came to light, as she spoke to me in that special language we often share late at night, the language called “Sleeplish.”
Me: “Did that sign say route 70 turns left?”
She: “Whxxx? Nfngrx rfng ylp.”
But we finally made it at about 3 a.m. Son Patrick and his amazingly gracious wife, Susan, woke up as we crept into the house, welcoming us and showing us our digs in the guest room/baby room occupied by grandson John. He woke up briefly, then fell back asleep as we settled in, A little later, he woke up again and, seeing us in the bed across the room, decided it was time to play. We, of course, agreed.
Dawn broke as John Sloan--my grandson and namesake--and I dozed off together. Believing as I do, that every encounter should be a learning experience, I began to teach the little fellow how to snore.
Life is good. Live from North Carolina.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Praise the Lord, and Pass the...Gravy
Thank God for churches.
That’s kind of an understatement, I know, but besides the many ways these houses of of worship can feed our souls, there’s another way they, and any number of other organizations, schools and other groups, can feed us.
Like literally.
The woman in my life is a great cook, but she’s just plain busy most of the time. And once she’s home for the evening, chances are, I’m off covering a sporting event, which really reduces the incentive for whipping up some gastronomic delight that’ll be cold by the time I get home. And while I might have more time some days, my “let’s throw something frozen into the crockpot with a can of cream of mushroom soup and see what happens” approach to entrees has worn a little thin. Besides, most of those recipes are on the “10 Most Unwanted list,” according to the American Heart Association and other health authorities.
Actually, we manage pretty well most of the time, with both of us relying on a fairly healthy catch-as-catch-can diet. But sometimes, I get a hankering for some old fashioned home cooking...the kind that contains equal parts of calories, carbohydrates and love. Kinda like mom used to make before moms got too busy to cook or, even worse, went on a diet.
That’s where the aforementioned churches and other groups come in, because the church supper (or breakfast or luncheon) is truly where it’s at.
We recently went to a production of “Church Basement Ladies” at Circa 21, which is a delightful musical comedy set in--you guessed it--a church basement. The theme of the play has to do with the events surrounding the never-ending task of churning out meals for the wide variety of fundraisers, seasonal dinners, weddings and funerals that the church hosts.
Watching it, I suddenly realized that, if you pay attention, there’s no lack of opportunities to take advantage of this hallmark of American cookery. Walk into a church basement or hall on the right day and the right time, and your senses will be suddenly turned topsy-turvy with a bountiful barrage of sensuous scents.
Put more simply, it smells darn good in those church halls when they’ve got something cooking in the kitchen.
Pancakes and sausage.
Homemade casseroles and jello salad.
Baked ham and scalloped potatoes.
Soups and stews lovingly made from scratch.
Pies and cakes and cookies of every description.
These are some of the staples of church food, though I admit, I have my favorites, like the late, lamented corn beef and cabbage feed at the Kewanee Knights of Columbus and the Friday night Visitation fish fry. Or the supreme carryout, the ham loaves put together at Grace United Methodist Church in Galva. Though I guess soup and bread is meant to be some kind of sacrifice for the season, I’m more than fond of the lenten soup suppers we have at my own church, St. John’s in Galva. It’s hard to beat the combination of somebody’s favorite soup recipe along with a veritable bake-off of fresh-baked bread. A side benefit for us is that anytime it’s our turn to provide the soup/bread combo, we always overestimate how much is needed, resulting in a few day’s worth of good eats at home, too.
The company at all these gatherings is pretty good, too. I especially like the way those church ladies always seem to insist I double up on dessert.
Ahhh...dessert. That’s yet another highlight of those meals I love. Imagine choosing between three or four different kinds of pie. Or imagine not choosing at all, but trying each and every one of them. And while we’re talking sweet tooths, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Galva’s top two seasonal treats: Messiah Lutheran’s spritz cookies at Christmastime (I always buy an extra box as my personal stash) and the First United Methodist hand-made chocolate Easter eggs (today’s the day...be still my heart.)
So here’s the deal. If I could just find the time and organizational skills to get on the full-time meal circuit, I’d probably be a happier guy, though somewhat larger, as well. Not long ago, we scored a “2-fer,” as we enjoyed pancakes at one church in the morning, then soup, bread and dessert at another that evening. But I’m holding out for the ultimate...a veritable trifecta of overindulgence...breakfast, lunch and dinner all in one day, at three different places. It’ll probably never happen, but, hey, you gotta have faith.
After all, it’s church.
That’s kind of an understatement, I know, but besides the many ways these houses of of worship can feed our souls, there’s another way they, and any number of other organizations, schools and other groups, can feed us.
Like literally.
The woman in my life is a great cook, but she’s just plain busy most of the time. And once she’s home for the evening, chances are, I’m off covering a sporting event, which really reduces the incentive for whipping up some gastronomic delight that’ll be cold by the time I get home. And while I might have more time some days, my “let’s throw something frozen into the crockpot with a can of cream of mushroom soup and see what happens” approach to entrees has worn a little thin. Besides, most of those recipes are on the “10 Most Unwanted list,” according to the American Heart Association and other health authorities.
Actually, we manage pretty well most of the time, with both of us relying on a fairly healthy catch-as-catch-can diet. But sometimes, I get a hankering for some old fashioned home cooking...the kind that contains equal parts of calories, carbohydrates and love. Kinda like mom used to make before moms got too busy to cook or, even worse, went on a diet.
That’s where the aforementioned churches and other groups come in, because the church supper (or breakfast or luncheon) is truly where it’s at.
We recently went to a production of “Church Basement Ladies” at Circa 21, which is a delightful musical comedy set in--you guessed it--a church basement. The theme of the play has to do with the events surrounding the never-ending task of churning out meals for the wide variety of fundraisers, seasonal dinners, weddings and funerals that the church hosts.
Watching it, I suddenly realized that, if you pay attention, there’s no lack of opportunities to take advantage of this hallmark of American cookery. Walk into a church basement or hall on the right day and the right time, and your senses will be suddenly turned topsy-turvy with a bountiful barrage of sensuous scents.
Put more simply, it smells darn good in those church halls when they’ve got something cooking in the kitchen.
Pancakes and sausage.
Homemade casseroles and jello salad.
Baked ham and scalloped potatoes.
Soups and stews lovingly made from scratch.
Pies and cakes and cookies of every description.
These are some of the staples of church food, though I admit, I have my favorites, like the late, lamented corn beef and cabbage feed at the Kewanee Knights of Columbus and the Friday night Visitation fish fry. Or the supreme carryout, the ham loaves put together at Grace United Methodist Church in Galva. Though I guess soup and bread is meant to be some kind of sacrifice for the season, I’m more than fond of the lenten soup suppers we have at my own church, St. John’s in Galva. It’s hard to beat the combination of somebody’s favorite soup recipe along with a veritable bake-off of fresh-baked bread. A side benefit for us is that anytime it’s our turn to provide the soup/bread combo, we always overestimate how much is needed, resulting in a few day’s worth of good eats at home, too.
The company at all these gatherings is pretty good, too. I especially like the way those church ladies always seem to insist I double up on dessert.
Ahhh...dessert. That’s yet another highlight of those meals I love. Imagine choosing between three or four different kinds of pie. Or imagine not choosing at all, but trying each and every one of them. And while we’re talking sweet tooths, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention Galva’s top two seasonal treats: Messiah Lutheran’s spritz cookies at Christmastime (I always buy an extra box as my personal stash) and the First United Methodist hand-made chocolate Easter eggs (today’s the day...be still my heart.)
So here’s the deal. If I could just find the time and organizational skills to get on the full-time meal circuit, I’d probably be a happier guy, though somewhat larger, as well. Not long ago, we scored a “2-fer,” as we enjoyed pancakes at one church in the morning, then soup, bread and dessert at another that evening. But I’m holding out for the ultimate...a veritable trifecta of overindulgence...breakfast, lunch and dinner all in one day, at three different places. It’ll probably never happen, but, hey, you gotta have faith.
After all, it’s church.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
The Bishop is Coming! The Bishop is coming!
There are big doings around St. John’s church in Galva this week. Bishop Daniel Robert Jenky, the eighth Bishop of the Diocese of Peoria, is coming to town. The reason? Confirmation for 12 Galva students, plus eight more from St. John’s in Woodhull. The Diocese of Peoria serves 26 Illinois counties and nearly 200 Catholic Churches, with almost a quarter of a million parishioners in the central part of the state, so it’s a pretty big deal when the Bishop comes to Galva, with the last time being around 1996, I think.
I’m probably understating things when I say that this visit has set off a few alarm bells around St. John’s. A number of people have been busy, busy, busy cleaning, organizing and rehearsing for the big event, which, actually, took place last night. I’m writing this column, as always, on Tuesday, so you have the advantage over me as to how it went. But, I want to go on record right now as saying that if it didn’t go well, it was probably my fault. There have been moments in the process leading up to Wednesday night when I’ve had an inkling of how those early Christians felt just before they were fed to the lions, because, dear friends, I seem to find myself right smack-dab in the middle of this Sacrament of Confirmation, an important step in an individual’s life in the Church.
First off, my wife (who has specifically and firmly asked not to be mentioned by name in my columns from now on) and I are the teachers for St. John’s Confirmation class, which is made up of eighth and ninth grade students. She, as a trained teacher, devoted reader of scripture and responsible adult, has done much to prepare our students for this day over the past two years. I, on the other hand, have specialized in more esoteric faith-based matters, such as how to pick out a really cool-sounding Patron Saint name and how to wangle the last marshmallow at a church picnic. So, if our students tell the Bishop that Jesus had an apostle named Ringo, it’s on me.
Next, I’m responsible for the music for the Confirmation Mass. Now, I’m not unaccustomed to playing music at church. For awhile, I was even a part of the Bishop’s own pontifical choir at St. Mary’s Cathedral, until I was dismissed for singing the Latin parts with a Swedish accent. Even now, all the religious education students at St. John’s join me on a monthly basis to lead the congregation in song. But this is an important occasion. And the Bishop will be listening. My fear is that, in my nervousness, I’ll revert to the one song that I can generally remember all the words to, no matter what.
Frankly, I’m not sure “The Hokey-Pokey” is a good fit for such a solemn event.
I’m also charged with taking pictures of the Bishop and the newly confirmed students. As my colleagues at the Star Courier can tell you, my picture-taking skills can range from bad to worst. Oh, I’m not too bad at catching a point guard in mid-air on his way to the basket, but give me a group picture to take and I show an amazing talent for catching every eye closed and every mouth open.
But the task that truly keeps me tossing and turning at night is that of “Master of Ceremonies” for the events leading up to the actual Mass. I’ve been asked to be the guy who keeps the Bishop moving once he hits town. That means I’ll need to show him around the church and rectory, and keep track of time as he poses for pictures, greets parishioners, interviews the students and shares a meal with some of the clergy who will assist him with the ceremony.
I’m reminded of Rowdy Yates, the trail drive ramrod played by Clint Eastwood on the old “Rawhide” TV series. It was Rowdy’s job to keep things moving, too, but I’m also reminded of a line often used on that show:
“Don’t spook ‘em boys, they’re apt to stampede.”
Really, now, do I seem like the kind of guy who can tell a Bishop to “get a move on?” Will I have the will to tell the Bishop, a man who has a direct historical lineage dating back to the original twelve apostles, that he doesn’t have time for dessert?
But hey, by the time you--and I--read this, it will all be over. The young people will be confirmed, and that’s all that really matters. And who knows, Bishop Jenky and I may hit it off. He might even be Pope some day and decide he needs a bossy, guitar-playing photographer in Rome with him. What’s-her-name and I could live in the Vatican, eat pasta and learn to speak Italian.
Or maybe he’ll just decide to do the right thing, and turn me over to St. Jude, the Patron Saint of lost causes.
I’m probably understating things when I say that this visit has set off a few alarm bells around St. John’s. A number of people have been busy, busy, busy cleaning, organizing and rehearsing for the big event, which, actually, took place last night. I’m writing this column, as always, on Tuesday, so you have the advantage over me as to how it went. But, I want to go on record right now as saying that if it didn’t go well, it was probably my fault. There have been moments in the process leading up to Wednesday night when I’ve had an inkling of how those early Christians felt just before they were fed to the lions, because, dear friends, I seem to find myself right smack-dab in the middle of this Sacrament of Confirmation, an important step in an individual’s life in the Church.
First off, my wife (who has specifically and firmly asked not to be mentioned by name in my columns from now on) and I are the teachers for St. John’s Confirmation class, which is made up of eighth and ninth grade students. She, as a trained teacher, devoted reader of scripture and responsible adult, has done much to prepare our students for this day over the past two years. I, on the other hand, have specialized in more esoteric faith-based matters, such as how to pick out a really cool-sounding Patron Saint name and how to wangle the last marshmallow at a church picnic. So, if our students tell the Bishop that Jesus had an apostle named Ringo, it’s on me.
Next, I’m responsible for the music for the Confirmation Mass. Now, I’m not unaccustomed to playing music at church. For awhile, I was even a part of the Bishop’s own pontifical choir at St. Mary’s Cathedral, until I was dismissed for singing the Latin parts with a Swedish accent. Even now, all the religious education students at St. John’s join me on a monthly basis to lead the congregation in song. But this is an important occasion. And the Bishop will be listening. My fear is that, in my nervousness, I’ll revert to the one song that I can generally remember all the words to, no matter what.
Frankly, I’m not sure “The Hokey-Pokey” is a good fit for such a solemn event.
I’m also charged with taking pictures of the Bishop and the newly confirmed students. As my colleagues at the Star Courier can tell you, my picture-taking skills can range from bad to worst. Oh, I’m not too bad at catching a point guard in mid-air on his way to the basket, but give me a group picture to take and I show an amazing talent for catching every eye closed and every mouth open.
But the task that truly keeps me tossing and turning at night is that of “Master of Ceremonies” for the events leading up to the actual Mass. I’ve been asked to be the guy who keeps the Bishop moving once he hits town. That means I’ll need to show him around the church and rectory, and keep track of time as he poses for pictures, greets parishioners, interviews the students and shares a meal with some of the clergy who will assist him with the ceremony.
I’m reminded of Rowdy Yates, the trail drive ramrod played by Clint Eastwood on the old “Rawhide” TV series. It was Rowdy’s job to keep things moving, too, but I’m also reminded of a line often used on that show:
“Don’t spook ‘em boys, they’re apt to stampede.”
Really, now, do I seem like the kind of guy who can tell a Bishop to “get a move on?” Will I have the will to tell the Bishop, a man who has a direct historical lineage dating back to the original twelve apostles, that he doesn’t have time for dessert?
But hey, by the time you--and I--read this, it will all be over. The young people will be confirmed, and that’s all that really matters. And who knows, Bishop Jenky and I may hit it off. He might even be Pope some day and decide he needs a bossy, guitar-playing photographer in Rome with him. What’s-her-name and I could live in the Vatican, eat pasta and learn to speak Italian.
Or maybe he’ll just decide to do the right thing, and turn me over to St. Jude, the Patron Saint of lost causes.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
One Last Thing about Basketball
Spring is in the air.
There are certain signs: The robins are back. Kids are riding bikes and playing in the park across the street from my house. The light and the breeze have a certain flavor about them that says that now, maybe, hopefully, winter is over and spring is finally here.
And, oh yeah, basketball season is over.
You might think I had written enough about the game already, but there is, for me, a little more to say.
This season was kind of a long haul at times, punctuated by wintry, cross-country drives; desperate searches for wi-fi hotspots in out-of-the-way places; and fast, post-game runs to the office to write quick stories and hastily upload pictures in time for our often too-early deadline.
But, I liked it. In fact, I loved it, at times.
I loved watching the way our kids and coaches sometimes displayed a level of skill and intensity that even amazed themselves.
I loved it when, in the heat of the moment, they suddenly found themselves having a good time just playing a game in front of their friends, fans and families.
There are a lot of great memories that go with this basketball season and the teams I covered. The Annawan boys’ run to the state finals is one, of course, along with the wonderful, historic season the Bravettes posted. The Boilermakers played an intense, uptempo brand of basketball that was enormously entertaining to watch and enjoy, while the Boiler Girls surprised a lot of teams with good, steady fundamentals and some inspired shooting and rebounding. The Flying Geese and Lady Geese, both led by record-setting individuals, coalesced into teams, with other players stepping up and making a difference, especially as seen in the boys’ marvelous undefeated Lincoln Trail season. Down Stark County way, there’s a pair of programs that showed some real talent, and should have opposing coaches and players worried, as both the boys and girls teams displayed a combination of youth and athleticism that will doubtless bear even more fruit in seasons to come. Galva, my alma mater, had its ups and downs this year, but has a youth moment of its own that gave valuable experience to underclassmen, who now have the opportunity to establish themselves in future leadership roles.
But the most important game-day memory, and the thing I loved most of all, was seeing the ways some of those kids developed as players and people over the course of the season.
Annawan coach Ryan Brown probably said it best when referring to his three senior captains: “They’ve become better basketball players and better men.”
Because, sports fans, that’s what games like basketball should be all about. Playing high school sports exposes our kids to so many of the events and emotions they’ll face as adults. Like success and failure. Like winning gracefully and losing well. And, most importantly, being a part of a thing that is bigger than any individual, whether he or she is a superstar or the kid way down at the end of the bench.
I loved seeing the players who, win or lose, kept their heads up and their eyes on the prize. Who learned to respect the game, their coaches, their teammates and, most importantly, themselves.
No matter what the record books say, they are surely the winners.
There are certain signs: The robins are back. Kids are riding bikes and playing in the park across the street from my house. The light and the breeze have a certain flavor about them that says that now, maybe, hopefully, winter is over and spring is finally here.
And, oh yeah, basketball season is over.
You might think I had written enough about the game already, but there is, for me, a little more to say.
This season was kind of a long haul at times, punctuated by wintry, cross-country drives; desperate searches for wi-fi hotspots in out-of-the-way places; and fast, post-game runs to the office to write quick stories and hastily upload pictures in time for our often too-early deadline.
But, I liked it. In fact, I loved it, at times.
I loved watching the way our kids and coaches sometimes displayed a level of skill and intensity that even amazed themselves.
I loved it when, in the heat of the moment, they suddenly found themselves having a good time just playing a game in front of their friends, fans and families.
There are a lot of great memories that go with this basketball season and the teams I covered. The Annawan boys’ run to the state finals is one, of course, along with the wonderful, historic season the Bravettes posted. The Boilermakers played an intense, uptempo brand of basketball that was enormously entertaining to watch and enjoy, while the Boiler Girls surprised a lot of teams with good, steady fundamentals and some inspired shooting and rebounding. The Flying Geese and Lady Geese, both led by record-setting individuals, coalesced into teams, with other players stepping up and making a difference, especially as seen in the boys’ marvelous undefeated Lincoln Trail season. Down Stark County way, there’s a pair of programs that showed some real talent, and should have opposing coaches and players worried, as both the boys and girls teams displayed a combination of youth and athleticism that will doubtless bear even more fruit in seasons to come. Galva, my alma mater, had its ups and downs this year, but has a youth moment of its own that gave valuable experience to underclassmen, who now have the opportunity to establish themselves in future leadership roles.
But the most important game-day memory, and the thing I loved most of all, was seeing the ways some of those kids developed as players and people over the course of the season.
Annawan coach Ryan Brown probably said it best when referring to his three senior captains: “They’ve become better basketball players and better men.”
Because, sports fans, that’s what games like basketball should be all about. Playing high school sports exposes our kids to so many of the events and emotions they’ll face as adults. Like success and failure. Like winning gracefully and losing well. And, most importantly, being a part of a thing that is bigger than any individual, whether he or she is a superstar or the kid way down at the end of the bench.
I loved seeing the players who, win or lose, kept their heads up and their eyes on the prize. Who learned to respect the game, their coaches, their teammates and, most importantly, themselves.
No matter what the record books say, they are surely the winners.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
About Face(book)
I have 67 friends.
I’ve never been driven to actually count the number of people in my life. But Facebook is.
I kind of accidently joined the popular social networking website a few months ago when I received an email with a “friend invitation.” Intrigued, I followed the link to a relatively simple registration and, voila! I was in.
In what, though?
Things were pretty quiet for several weeks and I, frankly, even forgot I had joined. But all of a sudden, my inbox started flooding with more invitations. Many were from folks I could see every day anyway, but an equal number came from a surprising worldwide mix of old acquaintances, friends of my two sons, and a smattering of people I hardly knew at all.
I briefly felt like Sally Fields when she gave her 1985 Oscar acceptance speech:
“You like me, right now, you really like me!”
But then, after I came to my senses, I decided to see if I could understand what online “social networking” is all about. My answer to this somewhat complex question is this:
I don’t really know.
According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, “(Facebook) users can join networks organized by city, workplace, school, and region to connect and interact with other people. People can also add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves.”
To me, it’s kinda like this: Imagine you are in a big room. Everybody you know is in the same room...and they’re all talking at the same time.
A key feature on Facebook is a question at the top of your homepage that asks, “What are you doing right now?”
Well, it seems the logical answer would be “sitting in front of my computer trying to think of something to say,” but nobody seems to want to offer that. Users can also share pictures, notes, and other timely bits of flotsam from their lives, plus they can comment on the items posted by their friends. If I get a new friend or join a group, that’s reported, too. The messages, etc., which are then posted on every friend’s own page, range from informative and interesting bits of news to things that I’d survive quite nicely without ever knowing.
For instance, I was delighted to hear our friend Betty (note: all names changed to protect the privacy of my 67 friends) was in labor with her and Tom’s first child. I got to see pictures of their brand-new baby and add my congratulations to a list of good wishes sent from around the world. Less compelling, to me, at least, are the on-the-spot reports I’m now receiving on the baby girl’s diaper changes. But, I guess that’s the price you pay for being in the know.
The list of things I now know about those 67 friends of mine could go on. And on. And on. And it does.
And that can be a good thing. Sometimes.
I’m interested in the significant events in people’s lives that involve their families, jobs hobbies and pets, but I’m not sure if I really care about who’s hungover, mad at their spouse, doing their laundry or struggling with the sniffles. Nor do I think it’s always the best use of time when folks sit at their computers instead of getting out and doing a little “social networking” in a real, face-to-face way (as opposed to facebook-to-facebook.) It may well be my age and attitude that makes me a full step behind a brave new world that so freely replaces genuine human interaction, with all its mysteries and misunderstandings, with cyber-talk that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Meanwhile, I’d better check my page.
I might have missed something.
I’ve never been driven to actually count the number of people in my life. But Facebook is.
I kind of accidently joined the popular social networking website a few months ago when I received an email with a “friend invitation.” Intrigued, I followed the link to a relatively simple registration and, voila! I was in.
In what, though?
Things were pretty quiet for several weeks and I, frankly, even forgot I had joined. But all of a sudden, my inbox started flooding with more invitations. Many were from folks I could see every day anyway, but an equal number came from a surprising worldwide mix of old acquaintances, friends of my two sons, and a smattering of people I hardly knew at all.
I briefly felt like Sally Fields when she gave her 1985 Oscar acceptance speech:
“You like me, right now, you really like me!”
But then, after I came to my senses, I decided to see if I could understand what online “social networking” is all about. My answer to this somewhat complex question is this:
I don’t really know.
According to Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia, “(Facebook) users can join networks organized by city, workplace, school, and region to connect and interact with other people. People can also add friends and send them messages, and update their personal profiles to notify friends about themselves.”
To me, it’s kinda like this: Imagine you are in a big room. Everybody you know is in the same room...and they’re all talking at the same time.
A key feature on Facebook is a question at the top of your homepage that asks, “What are you doing right now?”
Well, it seems the logical answer would be “sitting in front of my computer trying to think of something to say,” but nobody seems to want to offer that. Users can also share pictures, notes, and other timely bits of flotsam from their lives, plus they can comment on the items posted by their friends. If I get a new friend or join a group, that’s reported, too. The messages, etc., which are then posted on every friend’s own page, range from informative and interesting bits of news to things that I’d survive quite nicely without ever knowing.
For instance, I was delighted to hear our friend Betty (note: all names changed to protect the privacy of my 67 friends) was in labor with her and Tom’s first child. I got to see pictures of their brand-new baby and add my congratulations to a list of good wishes sent from around the world. Less compelling, to me, at least, are the on-the-spot reports I’m now receiving on the baby girl’s diaper changes. But, I guess that’s the price you pay for being in the know.
The list of things I now know about those 67 friends of mine could go on. And on. And on. And it does.
And that can be a good thing. Sometimes.
I’m interested in the significant events in people’s lives that involve their families, jobs hobbies and pets, but I’m not sure if I really care about who’s hungover, mad at their spouse, doing their laundry or struggling with the sniffles. Nor do I think it’s always the best use of time when folks sit at their computers instead of getting out and doing a little “social networking” in a real, face-to-face way (as opposed to facebook-to-facebook.) It may well be my age and attitude that makes me a full step behind a brave new world that so freely replaces genuine human interaction, with all its mysteries and misunderstandings, with cyber-talk that leaves nothing to the imagination.
Meanwhile, I’d better check my page.
I might have missed something.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
A Season of Change
I was covering a basketball game a week ago Wednesday and, while talking to a spectator, noticed he kept glancing at my forehead. Then I realized there were faint traces of the ashes I had receive early that morning still lingering there. It was Ash Wednesday, the beginning of the season of Lent.
The encounter reminded me of an incident that happened soon after Megan and I were married. It was long before I converted to Catholicism, and I was not aware of many of the beliefs and traditions of what was to someday be my faith. We were living in Marquette, Michigan at the time, which is an area heavy with Catholics of Finnish and Italian descent. We were at the supermarket when I noticed one of my fellow shoppers had a large, black smudge on her forehead.
“Wow,” I thought. “That lady has dirt on her forehead and no one knows how to tell her.”
Then I saw another shopper with the same mark. And another and another.
Finally, I turned to Megan and muttered, “Either I’m having some weird hallucination, or there are a lot of people in here with dirt on their heads,” I said.
“Those are ashes,” she said. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”
Oh.
I’m a Roman Catholic myself, now, and lent has become a special time for me and for members of my church family. But, whether or not you are a part of a religion that recognizes the season of lent, it remains a time that can--and should--produce a sense of change in every heart.
The word “lent” simply means spring, and derives from the Germanic root for “long,” because, in spring, the days begin to visibly lengthen. We receive ashes (which are made from palms used during the previous year’s Palm Sunday) to remind us that it is a time for repentance and humility, as in the scriptural phrase: "Remember, Man is dust, and unto dust you shall return." Lent is a time when we should remember and anticipate the sacrifice Jesus made for all of us, while we prepare for the great joy we feel at his resurrection at Easter.
It has long been a custom to “give something up” for lent, whether it be a favorite food or television show or something else that’s important to the person who does it. It is thought that those small sacrifices can bring better awareness of the big one Jesus made for us.
So you quit eating chocolate bon-bons for 40 days, then hit that Easter basket like there’s no tomorrow. Temporarily giving up something is fine. Heck, you might even lose some of those winter pounds. But Lent means more than a few weeks without chocolate or some other favorite thing. Remember, Lent means spring, and spring is a time of great change and renewal. That’s why it’s important to spend these days trying for some permanent, significant change for the better in our lives.
No one can tell us what that “thing” is that needs to change. I, for one, can think of plenty of ways I could be a better husband, father and person. The deepest meaning and purpose of Lent is to joyfully embark upon a journey of personal conversion. It is a time for us to examine our attitudes, our habits and the priorities we place on different aspects of our lives. You don’t have to be religious to believe in the value of conversion. You only need to believe in the value of being better.
It is a time for small sacrifices. And great change.
++++++
It would be difficult to think of sacrifice without thinking of Schuyler Patch. May God bless him and his family.
The encounter reminded me of an incident that happened soon after Megan and I were married. It was long before I converted to Catholicism, and I was not aware of many of the beliefs and traditions of what was to someday be my faith. We were living in Marquette, Michigan at the time, which is an area heavy with Catholics of Finnish and Italian descent. We were at the supermarket when I noticed one of my fellow shoppers had a large, black smudge on her forehead.
“Wow,” I thought. “That lady has dirt on her forehead and no one knows how to tell her.”
Then I saw another shopper with the same mark. And another and another.
Finally, I turned to Megan and muttered, “Either I’m having some weird hallucination, or there are a lot of people in here with dirt on their heads,” I said.
“Those are ashes,” she said. “It’s Ash Wednesday.”
Oh.
I’m a Roman Catholic myself, now, and lent has become a special time for me and for members of my church family. But, whether or not you are a part of a religion that recognizes the season of lent, it remains a time that can--and should--produce a sense of change in every heart.
The word “lent” simply means spring, and derives from the Germanic root for “long,” because, in spring, the days begin to visibly lengthen. We receive ashes (which are made from palms used during the previous year’s Palm Sunday) to remind us that it is a time for repentance and humility, as in the scriptural phrase: "Remember, Man is dust, and unto dust you shall return." Lent is a time when we should remember and anticipate the sacrifice Jesus made for all of us, while we prepare for the great joy we feel at his resurrection at Easter.
It has long been a custom to “give something up” for lent, whether it be a favorite food or television show or something else that’s important to the person who does it. It is thought that those small sacrifices can bring better awareness of the big one Jesus made for us.
So you quit eating chocolate bon-bons for 40 days, then hit that Easter basket like there’s no tomorrow. Temporarily giving up something is fine. Heck, you might even lose some of those winter pounds. But Lent means more than a few weeks without chocolate or some other favorite thing. Remember, Lent means spring, and spring is a time of great change and renewal. That’s why it’s important to spend these days trying for some permanent, significant change for the better in our lives.
No one can tell us what that “thing” is that needs to change. I, for one, can think of plenty of ways I could be a better husband, father and person. The deepest meaning and purpose of Lent is to joyfully embark upon a journey of personal conversion. It is a time for us to examine our attitudes, our habits and the priorities we place on different aspects of our lives. You don’t have to be religious to believe in the value of conversion. You only need to believe in the value of being better.
It is a time for small sacrifices. And great change.
++++++
It would be difficult to think of sacrifice without thinking of Schuyler Patch. May God bless him and his family.
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