Our daughter got a couriered package in the mail last week. What could someone be sending a 5 five-month old?
In the hopes of coming into some extra travel cash, our entrepreneurial little one is looking for an endorsement deal, but we are looking at Reviews by The Motley Fool for stocks online first. What do you say, Mr. Christie?
And while I’m at it posting pictures, how about a bath shot?
Good night, one and all.
Some of you know that we run an approved mental health home. This involves living with and caring for four adults who need a little extra structure and guidance to keep their lives running smoothly. When I say it that way, I think that I could stand to move in on most days.
Anyway, one of our fellows gets things mixed up sometimes. He listens to the radio and TV as do many of us, but he comes out consistently with things I can’t imagine were actually in any broadcast. on the planet. But you can be sure that it keeps his stories fresh–I can assure you of that!
A couple days ago, he came upstairs while I was at work. He’d been listening to something about the Masians. but seemed a bit confused. Shannon is right there with him in that state, as he shares what he’s “heard”. Eventually, she gets enough info to deduce that he MEANS to say “Asians”.
Apparently, some programs add a silent M to the front. Or he heard some redneck broadcaster ranting about “them Asians”, and transferred the M from word to word. Or none of the above.
Mystery solved.
When Shannon pointed out to him that it was “Asians”, he did that nod and rolling “ohhhh”, as we all do upon enlightenment. Then he added a question…
“Where’s Asia? Is that in the states?”
I just got out of a post-hockey shower, so a blog post is in order while my blood is still pumping.
I can still remember learning to skate. I was four or five years old, and my skates were Microns–those plastic molded skates that had removable cloth inserts. I had pairs like that a few years into my hockey career. Take note that this is a sure-fire way to NOT be one of the cool kids.
Those Microns and me skated all over the ice at the old Mortlach rink, pushing a chair around like some sort of pre-school skating walker. My mom says she remembers watching my first hockey games, laughing at how much we looked like giant bobble-heads on ice.
I played all through my younger years, right up until the end of Pee Wee. A couple things saw me sit out a season, pick up a basketball, and move on.
Until recently…
Upon returning home to Canada from China, our church hockey team had a few spots open. Some off-season bargain-hunting rounded me up my equipment, and within the first minute on the ice, I knew I had missed this game more than I’d realized.
There are so many small things about hockey that set it apart. Of course, there’s the speed, skill, and excitement. But I’m talking more simply right now…
The smell of the rink after the zamboni pulls off.
The sounds of blades and sticks on ice or of a puck ringing off a post.
The feeling of a sharp turn or quick stop on your skates.
The feeling of a pass perfectly placed or a shot finding the back of the net. (Note: I’m better informed about the other three pleasures than these particular ones.)
Simple pleasures to a simple fellow, I suppose.
Anyway, my resurrected hockey career has confirmed a few things: It was a smart move to go to college instead of trying for the draft, it was a poor move to have never learned how to slapshot, and I’d better hold on to my two or three great hockey stories from a previous lifetime. I don’t appear on the verge of creating many new ones. When I was ten years old, everyone told me what a great skater I was. After enduring several years of figure skating, I should have been!
The problem? I’m still a great skater… for a ten-year-old.
Twice lately I had the opportunity to be a sore thumb. In the midst of them, I thought, “It’s probably a good thing every so often to be the outsider in some way.”
A couple weeks ago, I walked home from work. I was decked in my winter gear for the 25-minute trek. My path took me down and across a short stretch of the #1 highway, along with a few service roads and back streets (not the ones that rock your body). Part of my way also went through a couple ditches filled with snow, and into the back end of a parking lot for such shops as Future Shop and Home Depot.
Upon re-entering civilization from down in the ditch and up and over a grader-made snow mountain, my “outsider feeling” arose. It’s like I could feel the questions in the minds of the drivers: Where did that guy come from? What kind of fellow walks through the ditches anyway? What’s he got in that bag he’s carrying?
I felt like I was in Narnia, being checked out by SUV’s in place of talking animals.
Now I confess that my over-active imagination may have been running a touch ahead of itself, but it’s amazing how a simple exercise of pedestrian-ing through a made-for-driving world can make you think.
A week or two earlier, I was in a mall. All I was carrying with me was a book. My intent was to grab a drink, sit in the food court, and read. But before I did, I stopped to browse in a video game store. I’m not much of a gamer–I’ve never played half of the systems that are popular right now, and I don’t even recognize half the game titles on the shelves. Mario, Mario, where for art thou, Mario?
Actually, he’s still around–in a hundred forms. But he’s one of the few familiar faces. And I mustn’t have the look of a gamer, who fits in.
So the store…
I walk in with my book.
And that’s where the outsider role became mine again. From some of the looks I received, you’d think I’d just walked into a vampire convention with a wooden stake. People moved out of my way; conversations stopped. It’s a book; not a bomb! If you check your game case, there’s probably a baby of the species inside. They call it a booklet. Time for the food court–and make it a stronger drink than you were planning on!
It’s a funny feeling being the outsider, but it’s good to feel it sometimes.
I like to think it might teach me how to be sensitive and welcoming to those who find nothing funny about being on the outside looking in.
Some of you are thinking I’ve finally realized that February’s twenty-eight days have got me and my pitiful blog beat—so I’m bailing out.
Oh so no!
What I’m bailing out on is a book I’m reading. Am I the only one who has trouble doing this?
I’ve made appointments with myself. I’ve laid down on my own couch and asked myself penetrating questions. I’ve even paid myself for the counsel and booked another appointment. But no answers.
Why do I feel compelled to finish a book? It might be a hope-the-best-part-is-still-coming attitude. Or it could be a simpler desire to not quit—a thought that somehow the quest of finishing will be worth itself. Or it may be simple stubbornness that says, “This book isn’t going to get the best of me.”
Well, I’m getting off this train.
I’m 2/3 into a memoir. You could even label it a “spiritual” memoir, if you’re into labeling. It’s not a bad book. I’ve read much less fruitful pieces. But I know the hours I already sunk into its pages, and I know the more that finishing will require, AND I know that my available hours are only decreasing.
So I’m saying, “Enough!”
“Of making many books there is no end”… that’s from Solomon, 3000-ish years ago. He didn’t know the half if it! So I’m upping the power of my screening process. If I AM what I read (or something like that), then I just want to maximize my page consumption.
And current memoir… you are out.
To the authors out there, you’ve got about thirty pages to get me. Being flooded in writing, I’ll gauge your tone, character, and substance. If it’s what I need, I’m in. If not, there’s plenty of shelves where you can hang out with friends.