Joe and I are in the "Indian Summer" of our weekend afternoon walks, literally and figuratively. Fall is here, and it feels like it today, with the high temperature in the low 70's. Soon it will be too chilly for our walks. And, just as soon, he'll begin to nap in his crib on weekend afternoons (as he does not during the week).
And just like that, it will be over. One of my very favorite things about being a father will have come to an end. First, J.P. and now, Joe. I feel melancholy just thinking about it, actually.
I'm at Bongo Java as I write this on a Sunday afternoon and Joe is sleeping in the stroller beside me. My friend, E.J., has fired up a music mix featuring "Uncle Tupelo" (a top 5 all-time band for me), which kind of fits my mood. Mellow and nostalgic.
Damn, I'm going to miss these quiet Saturday and Sunday afternoons at Bongo Java. It won't be the same without Joe (or in another life, J.P.), sleeping in the stroller beside my table.
(I posted this out of order, as it was originally written in early October.).
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Blue Mitts
This afternoon marked the conclusion of the fall season for the "Blue Mitts," J.P.'s baseball team I coached in the West Nashville Sports League. To say I enjoyed it would be the understatement of the year. The truth is it may have been the most rewarding experience of my life.
The Blue Mitts were Wyatt, Brennan, Bennett, Benton, Cash, John, Cooper, Harrison, Luke and J.P. and I absolutely loved coaching each and every one of them.
The highlight of my weeks this fall has been leaving work early on Friday, meeting my boys at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ and playing baseball with them as the sun sank lower and lower into the early evening sky. First, we stretched in left field, then I raced the boys to the fence in right field and back (At practice Friday, Wyatt "tied" me and was ecstatic). Next, we took batting practice, as I sat on one knee close to home plate and pitched ball after ball to the boys. Last, the boys ran the bases, twice. In the background, throughout practice, parents watched and talked quietly and the boys' siblings laughed and played together.
When practice ended, J.P., his grandpa and I usually stayed behind so J.P. could hit another bucket of balls. Often times, his teammate, Benton - a serious, quiet boy who is the most talented athlete on the team - stayed for extra hitting, too. I especially cherished those times, pitching balls to J.P. and just spending quality time with him at the end of a busy work week.
Games were Saturday afternoons at Warner Park (field # 2), usually at 1 p.m. Normally, each team batted through their order two times, then we called it a day. Today, in the final game of the fall season, each team batted three times, which was nice. J.P. batted last, which he loved, because he got to the run the bases when he hit the ball.
For me, there was something special abut coaching these boys. I can't put my finger on it, but I think it has to do with their age, 5-6 years old. They're all so innocent, not a care in the world at practice or games. Truthfully, they seemed to enjoy practicing and playing baseball, but their favorite part was chasing each other and playing "diaper tag" afterwards.
Also, because it was "coach pitch," it's so easy to make a real connection with the boys when I'm pitching to them. As each boy steps into the batter's box, I'm so focused on that boy and he on me. I want so badly to give each one a good pitch (or pitches) to hit and for him to get a good hit. As I would kneel on one knee 10 or 15 feet away from home plate, each boy stared out at me wide eyed and expectantly, a look of complete trust on his face.
I can't help but laugh, thinking of my first practice at Sevier Park, on a makeshift baseball field in the grass. I was more than a little apprehensive, as Jim White (J.P's grandpa) and unloaded the gear from my truck before practice. Thankfully, I found my groove pretty quickly, and by the second or third practice we were off to the races. I started out wondering if I could coach and I ended up realizing not only was I a pretty good baseball coach, I enjoyed it tremendously, as well.
I'm smiling as I sit at Bongo Java, Sleeping Joe beside me, thinking about the fall season, from beginning to end.
The Blue Mitts were Wyatt, Brennan, Bennett, Benton, Cash, John, Cooper, Harrison, Luke and J.P. and I absolutely loved coaching each and every one of them.
The highlight of my weeks this fall has been leaving work early on Friday, meeting my boys at Harpeth Hills Church of Christ and playing baseball with them as the sun sank lower and lower into the early evening sky. First, we stretched in left field, then I raced the boys to the fence in right field and back (At practice Friday, Wyatt "tied" me and was ecstatic). Next, we took batting practice, as I sat on one knee close to home plate and pitched ball after ball to the boys. Last, the boys ran the bases, twice. In the background, throughout practice, parents watched and talked quietly and the boys' siblings laughed and played together.
When practice ended, J.P., his grandpa and I usually stayed behind so J.P. could hit another bucket of balls. Often times, his teammate, Benton - a serious, quiet boy who is the most talented athlete on the team - stayed for extra hitting, too. I especially cherished those times, pitching balls to J.P. and just spending quality time with him at the end of a busy work week.
Games were Saturday afternoons at Warner Park (field # 2), usually at 1 p.m. Normally, each team batted through their order two times, then we called it a day. Today, in the final game of the fall season, each team batted three times, which was nice. J.P. batted last, which he loved, because he got to the run the bases when he hit the ball.
For me, there was something special abut coaching these boys. I can't put my finger on it, but I think it has to do with their age, 5-6 years old. They're all so innocent, not a care in the world at practice or games. Truthfully, they seemed to enjoy practicing and playing baseball, but their favorite part was chasing each other and playing "diaper tag" afterwards.
Also, because it was "coach pitch," it's so easy to make a real connection with the boys when I'm pitching to them. As each boy steps into the batter's box, I'm so focused on that boy and he on me. I want so badly to give each one a good pitch (or pitches) to hit and for him to get a good hit. As I would kneel on one knee 10 or 15 feet away from home plate, each boy stared out at me wide eyed and expectantly, a look of complete trust on his face.
I can't help but laugh, thinking of my first practice at Sevier Park, on a makeshift baseball field in the grass. I was more than a little apprehensive, as Jim White (J.P's grandpa) and unloaded the gear from my truck before practice. Thankfully, I found my groove pretty quickly, and by the second or third practice we were off to the races. I started out wondering if I could coach and I ended up realizing not only was I a pretty good baseball coach, I enjoyed it tremendously, as well.
I'm smiling as I sit at Bongo Java, Sleeping Joe beside me, thinking about the fall season, from beginning to end.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
VU Jane
My mom (aka VU Jane) is having surgery tomorrow. I'm not going to go into the details of what type or why, out of respect for her privacy, but it's not a small thing. If all goes well, she will get to come home tomorrow evening. I suspect she'll spend the night in the hospital, though.
I'm not sure where to begin in describing how much my mom means to me. I don't know a stronger, tougher woman. She lost her husband (my father) at age 31 and was widowed with 2 young children. She moved us back to Tennessee from California in 1972, first leased an apartment in Bellevue, then bought a house in Brentwood (the same house she's living in today, 41 years later). A few years later, her father died. Then, her older sister, Ann, died. Then, when I was a fresman in college in 1984, her oldest sister and best friend, Sue, died.
She took care of her aunt, Margaret, until her death. Then, she took care of her mother, Mary Alice, and her mother's sister, Sarah, until she died. So much death and hardship, yet she never complained to me, not once. She just got up every morning, loved them and loved us, and did whatever it was that needed to be done that day. And then she did it again the next day.
She paid for Tracy, Alice and I to go to college, ultimately returning to work as a nurse. For 17 years, she worked nights as the charge nurse at Baptist Hospital. She touched so many lives during her time working on the 3500 (rehab) floor. Simply put, my mom was born to be a caregiver. It is her blessing and her curse, as she always has cared for others first, herself last.
I have marveled at the fact that since she retired a few years ago, she's been busier than when she was working, mostly helping other people. Just tonight - the night before her surgery - she visited an older woman she checks on regularly, providing her with conversation, company and the occasional batch of cookies or a similar treat. That's just who she is.
My mom raised Tracy, Alice and me, all on her own. For the most part, Tracy was pretty easy to raise. Alice and I, not so much. As the oldest child and her only son, I constantly tested her limits and tried to exert my independence. Losing my father at such a young age, I think I grew up more quickly than some of my peers. I know I lost a lot of the innocence that children have and that affected my world view somewhat. We fought, at times, when I was a teenager, but I always respected the fact that she listened to me, respected me enought to let me have my say, then made the decision she thought was best for me in a particular circumstance.
In truth, my mom has been my best friend. I have always been able to talk with her - to tell her anything. She has been there for me on every single occasion I have needed her. And that's something. She's been my rock, my example, my pillar of strength. I aspire, every day, to be as strong as she is. I fail, but I keep on trying.
My mom has lived a life of service to others. She epitomizes the word "selfless." My mom has lived a life of service to others. She epitomizes the word "selfless."
I've said this many, many times. I believe there's an express lane at the pearly gates near the entrance to Heaven. I also believe my mom will be in that line, the one that says "12 items or less," when the time comes.
Jackie Robinson said, "A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives." My mom's entire life has been about impacting other lives.
I love you, mom, and I'll be praying for you tonight and tomorrow.
I'm not sure where to begin in describing how much my mom means to me. I don't know a stronger, tougher woman. She lost her husband (my father) at age 31 and was widowed with 2 young children. She moved us back to Tennessee from California in 1972, first leased an apartment in Bellevue, then bought a house in Brentwood (the same house she's living in today, 41 years later). A few years later, her father died. Then, her older sister, Ann, died. Then, when I was a fresman in college in 1984, her oldest sister and best friend, Sue, died.
She took care of her aunt, Margaret, until her death. Then, she took care of her mother, Mary Alice, and her mother's sister, Sarah, until she died. So much death and hardship, yet she never complained to me, not once. She just got up every morning, loved them and loved us, and did whatever it was that needed to be done that day. And then she did it again the next day.
She paid for Tracy, Alice and I to go to college, ultimately returning to work as a nurse. For 17 years, she worked nights as the charge nurse at Baptist Hospital. She touched so many lives during her time working on the 3500 (rehab) floor. Simply put, my mom was born to be a caregiver. It is her blessing and her curse, as she always has cared for others first, herself last.
I have marveled at the fact that since she retired a few years ago, she's been busier than when she was working, mostly helping other people. Just tonight - the night before her surgery - she visited an older woman she checks on regularly, providing her with conversation, company and the occasional batch of cookies or a similar treat. That's just who she is.
My mom raised Tracy, Alice and me, all on her own. For the most part, Tracy was pretty easy to raise. Alice and I, not so much. As the oldest child and her only son, I constantly tested her limits and tried to exert my independence. Losing my father at such a young age, I think I grew up more quickly than some of my peers. I know I lost a lot of the innocence that children have and that affected my world view somewhat. We fought, at times, when I was a teenager, but I always respected the fact that she listened to me, respected me enought to let me have my say, then made the decision she thought was best for me in a particular circumstance.
In truth, my mom has been my best friend. I have always been able to talk with her - to tell her anything. She has been there for me on every single occasion I have needed her. And that's something. She's been my rock, my example, my pillar of strength. I aspire, every day, to be as strong as she is. I fail, but I keep on trying.
My mom has lived a life of service to others. She epitomizes the word "selfless." My mom has lived a life of service to others. She epitomizes the word "selfless."
I've said this many, many times. I believe there's an express lane at the pearly gates near the entrance to Heaven. I also believe my mom will be in that line, the one that says "12 items or less," when the time comes.
Jackie Robinson said, "A life is not important except in the impact it has on other lives." My mom's entire life has been about impacting other lives.
I love you, mom, and I'll be praying for you tonight and tomorrow.
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