People Die

I really think being human is overrated.

Even when I can come to terms occasionally with the fact that humans aren't perfect and make mistakes, I still come hard up against the truth that humans are mortal. People die.

Sometimes, it's not too hard to let go of someone you love. When she's lived a full life, and she's ready to go, it's easier to tolerate her death. But when she's a 16 year old girl, stricken with a cancer she conquered once only to have it return again within a few months, it's much harder.

Why? What's the purpose? I want to believe in a heaven, a "better place", but I can't. It sounds too much like something we'd make up in order to not look into the abyss of eternity. A nice little story about being happy forevermore. I wish I could believe that it was true.

I don't know what happens after we die. Most of the time, I don't care; far more important is what's going on right now, today, this moment. What happens after this life is out of my control, and isn't really relevant to today, I tell myself. I found it easier to have faith in God once I stopped worrying about all those big questions like whether God existed or not, or what happened after we died. I don't know, and that's okay.

Except today. It's not okay today, because I heard that a friend's daughter is dying. Today, I can't celebrate her life, because it has been too short. I mourn for all that she will never do. I mourn for her little sister, left to find her way without her big sister. I especially mourn for her mother, watching a piece of her heart die.

I mourn, and shake my fist at God, and ask why? But there is no why, other than that core truth: People die. God doesn't stop that. God just walks along beside us saying, yeah, I know, it hurts. God weeps with us, but doesn't deny us our humanity.

Being human is overrated.

Heartbreaking

I'm a sports fan. I have been my whole life, as long as I can remember. I have a long history of falling in love with teams, and so I have a long history of teams breaking my heart, as they always do at some point.

I remember the first team I fell in love with. It was the early '70's, and my dad had season tickets for the Austin Peay Governors' men's basketball team. My brother was deemed too young to go to the night games, so my mom stayed home with him, and my dad and I went to the games. Coach Lake Kelly was bringing a new excitement to old Memorial Gym; Austin Peay was putting together a competitive team in the Ohio Valley Conference for the first time in forever. I still remember the players: Mickey Fisher, Richard Jimmerson, Percy Howard, Danny Odum, and the incomparable, indescribable Fly Williams.

On Sundays, the team would go out to eat together at Three Brothers Pancake House, which was our usual family destination after church. My brother and I would look up at these titans in awe. As basketball teams go, they weren't really that tall, but they seemed gigantic to us. We listened to the games on the radio when we couldn't see them in person, and thrilled as they made the NCAA tournament for the first time. I'll never forget watching them beat Jacksonville in the tournament on TV, back in the days when teams like Austin Peay never appeared on TV. That they were blown out by Notre Dame in the next round didn't break my heart; the expected outcome only brings dull pain.

The Governors didn't break my heart on the court, they did it off the court. Fly Williams and Danny Odum were ruled ineligible over irregularities in their admission to Austin Peay. Richard Jimmerson fell in a construction accident over the summer, lucky to survive but ending his basketball days by shattering both legs. And Lake Kelly went off to Oral Roberts, to try and bring the magic spark there. The team fell apart, and I grew up and moved away. Austin Peay has had some memorable tournament moments since then, the highlight of which was defeating second-seeded Illinois one year, but I wasn't there, and they no longer had my heart.

There's a difference between being a fan of a team and giving a team your heart. As a fan, you're happy when they win, sad when they lose, and you go to a few games. When you give a team your heart, you're joyous when they win, devastated when they lose, and you know the middle name of every player on the team. It doesn't happen overnight. You have to watch a team build up and have them work your way into your heart slowly, one player, one game at a time. The Pittsburgh Pirates did that to me. I didn't particularly like the Pirates when I moved to Pittsburgh, and they were an awful, lousy team. But I liked baseball, and at least they were in the National League, so I went to the games. Watching a bad team means opens your heart to them; they're so bad, you can't find it in you to root against them (unless they're the Dodgers.) Then, they get a new coach, a good young player here and there, and you're watching them develop into something. You're hooked now; these are your players. You've seen their major league debuts, you watched them weather sophomore slumps, you've spotted the glimmer of hope.

The Pirates were on the cusp of coming through on that hope when I moved away, but they were still my team. I followed them from afar, and when they made the playoffs at the end of that season, I bought World Series tickets and plane tickets. I was going to see my team in the World Series! Then, the heartbreak: Francisco Cabrera rounding third, the throw too late, the Braves coming from behind to win Game 7 and claim the World Series berth. The Pirates haven't come that close since.

But I had moved on, and the Pirates faded from my heart. A new team captured me, even though they weren't a terrible team. They were actually a very good team, coming off a national championship. "We need season tickets for the Stanford women's basketball team," I told my husband, who knew very little about basketball and wasn't a fan. But he was game to try it, and we fell in love all over again with a new team. Every year in college basketball, there are careers ending and careers beginning; we were sad to see the seniors go, and thrilled at the new crop of freshman. Then came the class, the group of freshmen who were a level above previous years'. This group, this special group, was sure to take Stanford back to the national championship.

Kate Starbird. Jamila Wideman. Charmin Smith. Vanessa Nygaard. Kristin Folkl. A starting lineup, right there, from point guard Wideman to jump out of the gym Folkl. We didn't get to see them together all at once that first year; Folkl redshirted to play volleyball, and Nygaard injured her knee in the first exhibition game. But this class, backed up by a second strong class right behind them, did do special things. Their second year, Stanford went to the Final Four, and made it back their third year, both times falling short of the championship.

Then came their fourth year. Starbird was the Naismith player of the year. They had a deep, experienced, talented team. We just knew  that this was the year. We held our breath as Stanford fought its way through the first four rounds, and finally they were back at the Final Four. They faced Old Dominion in the national semi-final, and at first, looked totally dominant. But ODU didn't make it that far by giving up, and they fought back, and had the lead late in the game. But still, we knew that this was the year. Charmin Smith stepped to the free throw line and sank both shots, tying the game and sending it to overtime.

Time running out in the overtime, Stanford trailing, the ball in the hands of Jamila Wideman at the top of the key, we still knew  that they were going to win. Wideman was not a great three point shooter, but we had seen her hit that three pointer when it mattered most too many times to doubt her now. The shot flew, Clare Machanguana came down on her, but we knew no foul would be called in that situation. We didn't think it mattered; that shot was just going to go in, no doubt about it. When it hit the rim, and bounced off, we were in shock. It couldn't be. It just wasn't possible. Kate Starbird couldn't be done. Those seniors, that class, it couldn't be over without a national championship.

I've been a sports fan my whole life, and I've given my heart to teams, but nothing before and nothing since ever hurt as much as that loss. I had watched those girls grow up right in front of me; I couldn't stand it that their fabulous careers had ended in such painful disappointment. No team has ever wormed its way into my heart as deeply as that team, and I'm not sure I'll ever let a team do that again. Bart Giamatti said that baseball is designed to break your heart, but nothing in baseball compares to the pain of watching college seniors end their careers in bitter losses, as happens every March. The nature of the tournament means that most players finish with a loss, a sudden, unexpected awareness that it's all gone in an instant, there isn't next game or next year.

Now that's designed to break your heart.

Bookends

In the fall, my mind starts turning to basketball. Baseball is still going on, but I'm looking ahead, obsessively checking the news for tidbits about women's college basketball. This past season, though, I wished I could avoid the news I found. In late September, Shawtinice Polk, star center for Arizona and certain WNBA draft pick, collapsed and died at 22.

So, the season began in sadness. Polky was an engaging young woman, and a fun player to watch. I had watched her since she was a freshman in the Pac-10, as teams struggled to stop this 6'5" woman from dominating the game. Then, suddenly, she was gone.

But the games go on, and the season was soon underway. There were new stories to follow, new exciting young players. Tournament time came around, and I was glued to my television set. The first weekend of tournament play is one of my favorite times of year. Teams you never heard of are upsetting higher seeds, and even when the upsets aren't happening, you're finally getting to see some teams and players that are never highlighted during the season.

One of the best stories in this year's tournment was Maggie Dixon. She was hired by Army less than two weeks before the beginning of practice, but coached her team to a Patriot League championship and a spot in the tournament. Coincidentally, her brother coached his men's team to a spot in the tournament as well, the first time that had been done.

Dixon's Army team got blown out in their first round game against perennial powerhouse Tennessee, but the game was interesting because of Dixon. She was one of the highlights of the tournament, despite her brief stay on the national stage.

The season ended, a champion was crowned, and basketball was done until next fall. Except that this season that began with a death, ended with a death. Maggie Dixon, only 28, collapsed and died.

Shawtinice Polk and Maggie Dixon, your stories ended much too soon.

Boiled Custard

As was the custom in the South, I always called them Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody. They lived just down the road from my grandparents, but I always enjoyed visiting them more than my grandparents.

They had lost their only son to illness when he was only six years old, and had more or less adopted my father as a replacement. They were probably better parents for my father than his own parents. He was the oldest of six children, and his mother suffered from mental illness severe enough to require hospitalization a couple of times. Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody did what good parents can do for a child: open up a sense of possibility. I doubt my father would have gone to college were it not for their influence; none of his siblings did.

We’d usually visit my grandparents first, where my grandmother would be more interested in her Chihuahua than her grandchildren and my grandfather would either be gone fishing or watching television. We’d do our duty there, then go visit Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody.

Christmas time was the best time to visit. There’d be a warm fire in the fireplace, goodies to eat, and the drink that eggnog aspires to be: boiled custard. I’ve never encountered boiled custard outside of the South, but every Christmas, Mrs. Nancy would make wonderfully rich boiled custard. Like many Southern delights, it was tooth-achingly sweet. I’d sit on the hearth next to Mrs. Nancy’s chair and sip the boiled custard, and it was reward for having tolerated another trip to my grandparents.

Instead of the grossly overweight neurotic Chihuahua Granny had, Mrs. Nancy had a calm German shepherd named Ellie Mae. In the summertime when we’d visit, we’d have ice cream instead of boiled custard, and Ellie Mae would eat a bowl of ice cream with us. Sharing store-bought ice cream with a dog was fine, but Ellie Mae didn’t get any of the boiled custard. Making boiled custard was time-consuming and labor intensive; it had to be stirred constantly over a low heat until it reached the right consistency.

I was in college one of the last times we went over there at Christmas time and had boiled custard, before Mrs. Nancy grew too frail and forgetful to make it anymore. We were sitting around her kitchen table, and Mrs. Nancy was washing dishes, because she had cooked for Mr. Woody’s brothers and sisters that day. Seeing that she had too many dishes to fit in the drainer, I got up and grabbed a towel and started drying. She turned to me and said, “Oh, I was hoping you were going to do that, but I didn’t want to have to ask.” I felt like I had passed a test, a test of maturity.

Mrs. Nancy and Mr. Woody are both gone now, as are my grandparents. I haven’t spent a Christmas in the South in ten years. But this Christmas, as every Christmas, I’ll make a batch of boiled custard, and remember Mrs. Nancy. Sometimes, the best family is the family you choose.

Boiled Custard
(makes 3 quarts)

½ gallon whole milk
2 cups sugar
6 whole eggs, beaten
1 teaspoon vanilla
1½ tablespoons butter

Combine milk, sugar, and eggs in a 6 quart pan. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly, until the mixture coats a spoon. Remove from heat, and stir in vanilla and butter. Strain through a small mesh sieve. Chill well.

The Cello, Part 2

I did leave my cello out while my parents were visiting. I even picked it up and played with it while they were here. So, what happened?

Nothing. No comment, no reaction, no response of any kind.

Whatever.

I did start cello lessons the day after they left, and am discovering how hard it is to learn to hold the bow correctly. I'm trying to remember that I'm doing this for fun, not to satisfy my teacher, and that I'm in charge, but it's a struggle. I get frustrated because I know I'm not doing it right, and because my teacher is very particular about the mechanics. About half the time, I want to quit the teacher and just play, but that's just the frustration.

The teacher is not being negative, just particular. He was actually happy with the progress I had made last week. I know that if I can learn good mechanics, it will make everything easier later, but right now, it's a struggle.

As a perfectionist, my tendency is to not do something at all if I can't do it well. Kind of limiting, I realize, and really pointless in this situation. I'm learning to play the cello because I want to; there is no need to be great at it, or even good. I can be bad at it, and still enjoy making music from it, if I let myself.

So what if I don't do it right? Doing it right is not the point. It just feels like it is.

The Cello

My Mom is coming for a visit next week.  I’m having a hard time resisting the strong urge to hide some things from her.  Not bad things, nor things I’m ashamed of.  Just things that reveal who I am.

Like the cello.  A couple of weeks ago, I rented a cello.  I’ve never played cello before in my life.  The only instrument I’ve ever played is piano, and I haven’t played piano very much in the last 25 years.  I rented a cello because I like the way the cello sounds, and for the past year, I’ve had this nagging thought at the back of my head that maybe I’d like to learn to play the cello.  

In the past, I usually ignored those niggling little ideas like that, the ones that seem stupid and pointless and self-indulgent.  I don’t have time to learn the cello, I’m too busy.  What’s the point, anyway?  I’ll never be very good.  I’m never going to perform.  And I’d stick that dream in the drawer with all the other dreams, and lock it up tight.  Then I’d have another drink to forget it all.

I don’t drink anymore, so it’s harder to forget those silly little dreams.  That drawer of denied dreams got too full, and it exploded all over me.  The mid-life crisis may be a cliché, but waking up at 40 and realizing that you don’t know whose life you’re in is a pretty disorienting experience.  

So now, I try to listen to those little dreams.  Okay, so even now it takes me a while, but a year is shorter than forever.  I rented a cello and I bought a couple of books and began to teach myself the cello.  Why am I teaching myself?  Because it took a couple of weeks for me to be willing to ask for help from a teacher.  

Taking lessons from someone makes me feel vulnerable.  This little dream is fragile; it wouldn’t take much criticism for it to just curl up and die.  I grew up in an environment where fragile little dreams weren’t nurtured into being.  Instead, my mother told me all the reasons my dream was impractical, unattainable, and not really what I wanted, anyway.  I learned to hide those dreams.  

While my instinctive reaction is to find some closet to tuck the cello away in when she comes to visit, I keep reminding myself that I’m a grown-up now.  I don’t need her to validate my dreams, and I don’t need anything from her to chase my dreams.   So, I’m going to leave the cello out.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to go so far as to actually pick it up and play it while she’s here, but just leaving it out will be a step forward into the light.  

It’s so hard to turn loose of those old defenses.

No Doormat for Me, Thanks

I was behind the backstop that day, earning a few bucks as the scorekeeper. I’d been doing it a couple of years, even though I wasn’t much older than the boys on the field. I wished I could have been out on the field instead of behind the backstop, but the recent court ruling requiring Little League to allow girls had come too late for me. So, I kept score; it paid better than babysitting, and was easier work. Usually.

One of the all-teams playing was from Hometown American, which had produced a state champion just a couple of years before. They were expected to handily win this district tournament, but weren’t having an easy time of it against the boys from the neighboring town. Even though I had scored for a different league, and had no connection to Hometown American, I had heard of the Hometown American’s coach’s reputation. He was a quick-tempered man, regularly giving the umpires a hard time. The closeness of the game wasn’t improving his mood, either.

The trouble began after an inning ended. Hometown American had been batting, and after the third out, I totaled up the inning summary and announced it over the PA system: “Hometown American scored 2 runs on 3 hits and no errors. After 3 innings, the score stands Hometown American 4, NeighborTown 3.”

The coach’s head snapped up at my announcement. “We scored 3 runs!” he shouted as he came down the line to the backstop. Soon, he was in my face; we were separated only by the chain-link of the backstop. He was an adult, a professor at the local university; I was a young teenaged girl. But I was never an easily intimidated teenaged girl.

I walked him through my scoresheet for the inning, showing him where all the runners had gone. He had been attempting to keep score himself, but he was also coaching third base. The thing about scoring a baseball game is, it requires a surprising amount of attention. If you try to do anything else while you score, it’s very easy to miss something. He had missed an out; a baserunner that had been put out on the basepaths, his scoresheet had scoring a run. It should have been obvious; after all, it takes three outs to end an inning, and he only showed two. If he was right, the inning would still be going on.

But he was in no mood to see the obvious, and besides, I probably seemed a better target than the umpire, who was another adult and a veteran ump. The coach kept yelling that I had missed a run, but I stood my ground. I didn’t yell back at him, but I knew I was right, and I wasn’t going to give them a run they didn’t score. The umpire had come over, and heard my explanation, and he backed me up. He was trying to calm the coach down; he kept saying, “She’s right, Jim.” Eventually, the coach had no choice but to back down and continue the game. He didn’t file a protest, because he knew there was no point; I had the official scoresheet, and it balanced; the number of hits plus runs plus outs for the inning equaled the number of batters who came up that inning. Hometown American did go on and win the game. The coach never acknowledged his error, but I still felt pretty good for having stood up to him.

That is, until later that evening. Mom had been at the field and had seen the whole thing. She had not been all that happy at seeing her teenaged daughter going toe-to-toe with a grown man. She had to admit that I was right, but didn’t think it was very ladylike for me to be arguing with the coach. I guess she thought I should have let the umpire handle it. I suspect that had it been my brother out there standing up to the coach, she would have been proud of him, but not so her daughter.

I never have been able to figure out how to balance my own self-respect with her idea of proper lady-like behavior. Looking back, I’m still proud for standing up for what I knew was right, but still disappointed that my mother wasn’t proud of me.

I myself have never been able to find out precisely what feminism is: I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat. -Rebecca West