Making It Up As I Go Along #366

SATURDAY...
— Work is pretty slow. And I also go to a fastpitch evaluation. Some fielding at shortstop and 2nd base... caught a couple of pitchers... and batting practice. It all goes pretty good, although my shoulder has a cranky day. Should know Monday if I’m drafted by this league.
— Only get through two periods of hockey tonight. Poor Montreal looking pretty bad against Boston.

SUNDAY...
— Work alone today... Phil takes it off. Pretty quiet morning and just comfortably steady in the afternoon.
— Vancouver does me good in hockey tonight. But I’m already running into hockey pool troubles with San Jose, Carolina and Philadelphia going in the wrong direction.

MONDAY...
— Busy day... go to the bank... get my mortgage taken care of. A lower rate this time means I’m saving about $22 every two weeks.
— Work goes fine... pretty quiet night.
— I’m drafted in softball. Joining a team as a backup catcher and infielder/outfielder. Looks like they’ll put my utility abilities to the test. Should be fun.

TUESDAY...
— Mom and dad are here. A pretty slow going day until I go pick them up in the evening. Then it’s some groceries, some supper, and some TV. Nice to have them around.

WEDNESDAY...
— Busy day, to IKEA with mom and dad... getting some bedroom stuff for the spare room... lunch there and back for work on the room. Watch a little HD TV in the evening... and dad and I watch the Calgary vs. Chicago game at night.
— Montreal out... not surprising but fairly depressing. Oh well.

THURSDAY...
— Out with mom and dad bringing my old computer to recycle and getting some stuff for the house. Lunch at Dick’s is good... softball practice in the evening (slowpitch practice). It’s fun... mom and dad go for a walk while I do it. Supper on Montana’s and then some TV in the night.

FRIDAY...
— Really testing out the GPS as mom, dad and I go to Lake Placid. A nice day and good drive. The village is really nice and going through the hockey rinks (1932 Olympic rink and the 1980 “Miracle on Ice” rink that it’s connected to) is really something. Walk the main street, take pictures, and stop for supper before walking back to the hotel.

SATURDAY...
— Go check out the ski jump site... the platform is huge. Go back through the main street again and get an Olympic shirt (thanks to mom and dad). We take our time heading back to Ottawa, stopping along some of the small towns on the way.
— Mom and I go out for some food and we all hang out at home and watch some TV afterwards. It’s raining tonight and it was a hot day... around 30 with the humidity.

SUNDAY...
— Get rid of TV box finally... Bless the Salvation Army. Walk around Mer Bleue with mom and dad and do some time at Price Club.
— Paula, Eddie and the baby come for supper. Mom does a very good roast and we hang out for some pretty good times.


Fries With That?
I have often spoken badly of commercials. Grey Power Insurance causes me to change the channel, cursing their name as that crazy woman thrashes about her car. Charmin toilet paper has made my boycott list. I’ve seen too much of the lives of pretend bears. No more cartoon bears bringing a newspaper to the tree for a five minute bout of alone time! No more bits of toilet paper left on the butts of young bears. No more... please God no more.

There are the kids blathering on, talking all serious like about believing in our Olympians. I don’t know how I can endure a year of this. And then there’s the four eyed infant (that is to say he has glasses on, not that he’s a mutant). He advertises East Side Mario’s, talking longingly about his good ol’ days in Italy and causing me to mutter with much hatred at the invention of computer graphics.

But if I should boycott Charmin and East Side Mario’s. And if I should speak harshly of Grey Power. I suppose that means I should give business to those who have put on advertisements that I like.

With that logic, I am forced to get myself to the golden arches of McDonald’s. I don’t know if it’s me suddenly being attacked by the father bug, if I’m getting soft with maturity, or if I just need to drink more beer and watch more wrestling. But the girl in the McDonald’s commercials... the one sitting in the store with her dad, nervously asking him if he ever wished she was a boy... that girl is just too good. She seems like a thoughtful, smart, cool kid.

Of course, with my luck, if fatherhood ever does come my way, I’d likely have that teenage doofus in the Delissio Pizza ad who catches his parents roll playing the pizza delivery boy/naughty lonely woman routine. “No wonder I don’t have any friends” doofus proclaims. “There’s more reasons than that”, I say in reply. Fool.

So does McDonalds get me thinking of continuing the Brown line? Will someone, some years from now, thank the fast food giant that feeds us near poisonous food, for their very life? It could make for a McDonalds commercial in itself. Not only the restaurant that entertains families as they eat, also the restaurant that creates families.

At 37, am I past the point of patiently handling babies? That girl in the McD’s ad makes me consider the possibilities. The doofus in the Delissio commercials makes me fear the alternative.

Delay

Just in case someone happens by and wonders why there isn't anything too new, it's been busy and I haven't had good sit down time at the computer with the parents here. A full update will be done either Sunday night or Monday evening.

Although I think if anyone is looking for anything new, the last update (see below) has probably only been read by me... so knock yourself out if you're so inclined.

In the meantime, attached here is a few pictures of Lake Placid.

Returning to Canada, of course there'd be a heard of buffalo.

An hour from Lake Placid, St. Regis Falls.

The facade of the 1932 Olympic hockey rink, Lake Placid.
(the white section to the left is the link from this building to the 1980 rink)

The site of the Miracle on Ice, the 1980 Olympic rink where team USA beat team USSR 4-3.

Making It Up As I Go Along #365

FRIDAY...
— Very quiet Good Friday at work. Phil and I have to look for things to do for a good portion of the day.
— Watch some of the Master’s golf on TV after work. You know HD is good when you decide to record second round coverage of a golf tournament just to be able to watch in such clear detail. Although I do like the Master’s anytime.

SATURDAY...
— Another slow day at work. After it’s over, Sheila takes me for supper at Dick’s. No burger this time... I switch it up and try the grilled cheese... still good stuff.
— A bit of hockey on TV for the night and some of the stuff I’ve recorded on the PVR after that.

SUNDAY...
— Up around 10:30 on Easter Sunday. That’s not as impressive a sleep in when you consider I stayed up until almost 5:00 AM. But hopefully I’ll be good for night shift now.
— Watch some baseball and hockey then go for a nap... awakened early from the nap by mom phoning. But hopefully I got enough sleep to be okay for the shift and it was right to talk with mom and dad on Easter.
— Again, work is pretty slow. We get pizza... and I find that it looks like I lose a hockey pool by one point. I hope the official scoring tomorrow will give me that extra point but I think it’s second place for me.

MONDAY...
— Quiet time at home and I’m pretty tired. Got one of those tired headaches.
— Work is quiet once again. A very quiet week over the Easter weekend. And I drive home with the eastern sky pretty bright. No more driving to and from work in the dark anymore. Winter really is over.

TUESDAY...
— Up just before noon. Watch some TV, call home for a chat, and go out for some groceries and a walk around the pond.

WEDNESDAY...
— Up and out early. Well, early for a day off two days after night shift. Up at 9:30, gone at 10:15. To Mazda to get the car looked over and get the snow tires off. I go for a walk in the area while I wait. Sad to see there’s a children’s school there, in the middle of an industrial park setting. Not ideal for kids.
— Go to Sportchek after the garage and get some softball gear. New bat and glove, a bag and batters gloves. First new glove in 20 years. A player’s relationship to their glove is a unique thing.
— Getting home, I pop a seam in the bag putting gear in it... and a couple of stitches pop on one batting glove. So back to Sportchek I’ll be going tomorrow for an exchange. Top notch stuff!
— NHL Playoffs begin. Many other cities now try to allow the fans to sing a section of the national anthem... but nobody does it better than the fans in Vancouver.

THURSDAY...
— Snoozing pretty much until 1:00 this afternoon. That is to say, asleep until 10:00 and pretty much in and out of nap from then to 1:00 on the sofa.
— In to work for a meeting. Then home again for hockey with Sheila. Watch Montreal lose even though they played pretty well. They likely won’t get out of that series against Boston.

FRIDAY...
— As I sit to write the blog, a Yankee game comes on TV. The pre-game has a little tribute to public address announcer, Bob Sheppard. The art of the public address announcer at pro sports events has been lost. There needs to be more Bob Sheppards... those guys who are distinct in their voice and professionalism. Today’s PA announcers want to come off as a fan with a microphone. They drawl out the names of hometown players... putting an exclamation point on the end of every sentence... some (the guy for the Boston Bruins, for example) give a “woop” after announcing a goal. Pathetic!... Woo!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vj434vCtNRw&feature=player_embedded

See above for a tribute to a real public address announcer.


Thirty Years of Gloves
I have played ball for most of my life. My first memories of playing were back in the days of our old Volkswagen Camper. We’d be at our campsite and would break out the two old gloves that were always thrown into the van come summer. One glove was dad’s, the other mom’s but we’d share them up among the four of us to have a catch. I loved those gloves... dad’s especially. Funny how the same exact glove has it’s own differences. Looking at it now, it’s the way the glove is broken in... how it feels on the hand and how it closes over a ball. But back then, when I was six or seven years old, it was a difference in personality. One glove was more worn, more floppy, more comfortable on the hand... it was like a laid back friend versus a casual acquaintance. That was the difference between dad’s glove and mom’s.

Today, dad’s glove sits in my storage closet. A couple of times a year I’ll be looking for something else in the closet and spot the glove. Every time I need to pull it out and put it on my hand again. It’s a bit more worn now. A splotch of dark brown where I dabbed an ink marker on it by accident. The inside leather against the hand, now so worn that it is torn and holey. I actually adopted this glove as a street hockey goalie scoop too. In fact, that glove spent more time making saves than fielding grounders. Many a time I jammed a half frozen hand, complete with wool glove, into that glove... near frostbite... the price of goaltending.

I had other gloves before dad’s. But I have no memory of using them in a game of ball. My first was a little vinyl glove. Blue and red in color with the Montreal Expos emblem on it. Often that glove would be among my toys, but rarely did it go outside. Years later, I would play with it in the basement. Tossing a little rubber ball against the basement drawers and fielding the one hoppers and line shots that ricocheted back at me.

Another small glove took this one’s place. Again, I have no memory of using it on a field, but it was the obvious leather glove to take the place of the vinyl one. That one is also in my storage closet now... I think... if not it’s in mom and dad’s basement. I know I saw it within the last couple of years. That glove became my main rubber ball glove. Making glove saves or fielding line shots down in the basement. It would be so small on my hand that I’d imagine myself as one of those old time ball players you see in black and white footage from the 1920s. Those gloves just covered the hand, doing nothing more.

The first glove I remember buying was a catcher’s mit. I didn’t catch at the time but I always loved the look of the mit. Mom brought me downtown where I could look at a wall of gloves. I love looking at the glove walls of sports stores. The different sizes and shades of leather. Being able to pick one off the rack and the comfort of the leather covering your hand as you try closing the yet unbroken in glove.

Back then, I was drawn to a Cooper catcher’s mit. And mom got it for me. I still have it. Up in the closet. And even though I never used it in an organized game, I’d take it for games of pick up or when I’d go out with a friend and we’d take turns pitching. The pop of the ball hitting that glove made you feel as though you threw it a hundred miles an hour.

My first glove, bought specifically for me to use in organized ball was a big black Cooper glove. I used it at first base, even though it wasn’t a typical first baseman’s scoop. Another glove still in my storage closet. It’s worn now. In retirement and more grey than black from wear. That glove always had a ball in it. Be it me catching balls at first or it sitting on the dugout bench while we batted, a ball in it’s pocket waiting for me to take it to the field and warm up the infielders when our bat was over. As years went by, that glove followed me into the outfield on those occasions when someone else took a turn at first.

My next glove was bought about twenty years ago. And is still in use. A light colored Mizuno. When I first got that glove, it was when I started moving about the field. My black Cooper was broken in with too big a pocket to be useful at second base, so the new Mizuno came onto the scene to be used around the infield while the old Cooper would come out when I ventured back to first base or the outfield.

Another catcher’s mit came into my possession as the years went on. A black D&R mit that started off as the team mit for our men’s league team. Shared between the three of us who took turns behind the plate. And when the team disbanded, the glove came with me. It waits to come into use again this summer as I make a comeback to the world of fastpitch. That mit popping much like the old Cooper when of my childhood. Catcher’s mits are fun for their popping.

And this week, a new chapter to my glove world. With wear, my twenty year old Mizuno’s pocket is becoming a bit too deep. So it will go as my old black Cooper went before, to first base and the outfield. And a new, smaller black Rawlings glove has joined the team to be used at shortstop and second base.

So I once again begin the process of the break in. An elastic band keeping the glove closed around a ball. Taking it up, putting it on, and throwing balls into the pocket. Awaiting it’s first game of catch. Examining the stitching... not looking for frays but getting to know my new glove... admiring the ins and outs of it. Smelling the new leather and feeling the comfort of the inner leather against my palm.

There’s nothing quite like a ball player’s glove.

Making It Up As I Go Along #364

Suburban Sunrise, Monday April 6

THURSDAY...
— First day of work. Phil leaves at lunch so it’s a busy afternoon for me. A nice day... sun and 15. But I’m inside all day working. Oh well.
— My foot gets lots of notice because I’m wearing light running shoes with dress pants and a shirt and tie. It’s all to help out with my stubbed toe but looks stupid... and I hear about it from a good half dozen people today. Between that and Rihanna comments when contributors calling in ask for my name, it’s a pretty repetitive day.

FRIDAY...
— Kind of slow day which is weird for a week day at work. But the office is pretty empty after 11:00 due to Tom Leroux’s retirement luncheon. It’s pretty well just Phil, Sarah, Terry, Bree and me left in the building.

SATURDAY...
— Quiet shift at work. I do the gym tonight as well. Was quite tired before going to work. I was ready for my 2:00 PM nap by 12:30... but I waited and made it to 2:00. Why I was so tired I’m not sure.

SUNDAY...
— Quiet work night. Phil and I get pizzas. I get an interesting thing happen right near the end of shift... which isn’t ideal to be getting perked up with something you don’t often see after working eleven hours... but oh well.

MONDAY...
— Rainy, cold day. I sleep until about noon and veg out the rest of the day. Some baseball and hockey on TV are about the bulk of things.

TUESDAY...
— Wet snow keeps me inside. I don’t even go get the mail today... wet snow at this time of year is not to be tolerated! Watch a few movies and some baseball on TV, nap a little as well. Not much else going on.

WEDNESDAY...
— More lousy weather. Some rain and some snow and cold. I go for groceries but there isn’t much else going on today.


The Best Sense
Going to bed at sunrise is a whole lot better than at sunset. Come the middle of summer, that’s basically how it is. Day shift will have me aiming for bed about the time the sun goes down. And boy will that be depressing.

But there’s something restful and relaxing about bed time when the sun is on it’s way up. Sleepy people are trying to kick themselves into gear. Preparing to start a day. And I’m ready to climb under the covers.

It makes me really take note of a sunrise. It happened this past Monday. The picture that accompanies this weeks contribution was taken just prior to me heading to bed. Looking out the spare room window at 6:30 in the morning. By the time I awoke, some five or six hours later, the clouds rolled in and rain was falling. But the still of the early morning with clouds glowing pink and the hallway of my home sharing in the glow... it’s one of those things that make you thankful for eyesight.

In fact, I couldn’t imagine not being able to see. HD TV has proven to be another example of being thankful for sight. It sounds pathetic to admit some of the things you’ll watch. This week I watched a one hour, commercial free program of a... you guessed it... sunrise. There was no music and no commentary. Occasionally, the camera would zoom in to a portion of the scene and three or four times in the hour, a quick fact of the site comes up to read. But I was sitting there held to the TV watching the sun come up in Alaska with seals bobbing in the inlet of the sea and a volcanic mountain still holding some snow in the background.

I actually recently heard that, even with the economy doing so poorly, the sale of large and expensive HD TVs has gone up. The explanation, people can’t afford to go to sporting events or travel to exotic destinations... so instead they’ll watch it on TV.

That’s a sad and wonderful thing all at the same time. On one hand, people should get out and experience things for themselves. If an entire life is spent in a living room watching TV, is it a rewarding life?

But on the other hand, learning about new places in this world... places you never realized existed... it’s a lot better than watching the latest episode of Dancing With the Stars.

I’ve watched from a helicopter view as strangers walk down the street of a coastal Italian village. And it makes me want to go there. I don’t need to jump off a cliff or mountain bike along a mountain trail in some far off land. I find I’m fascinated by other people’s ordinary. I’d love to spend a few days trying to blend in to that coastal Italian village. Seeing how life is there. When I was in Greece, I was happier glued to the window of my bus as we drove through the countryside than when we wandered through a shop full of touristy nick knacks. Others tried to sleep the bus trip away, I tried to drink in the small roadside communities we passed through.

This is what HD TV does. It acts as your own personal window on the bus, taking you to other corners of the earth. The key is, you must remember to occasionally hop off the bus.

Making It Up As I Go Along #363

WEDNESDAY...
— Course day. Five of us go to the west end of the city for a Photoshop computer course. It’s alright.
— I’m angered when I get home. A bill from Bell and they’re still charging me for phone services I had cancelled last month. I e-mailed them tonight and will have to call tomorrow. Stupid big companies are quick to charge you for an extra service... but willing to drag their feet when you cut things with them. Slimy.
— Survivor on HD is a pretty cool show to watch.

THURSDAY...
— Ok day at work. Morning is quiet and the afternoon busy. I get a nice mid morning bite to eat thanks to Janice... and lots of birthday wishes all day today... including facebook, e-mails, texts, and a call from Jim. Talk to mom, dad and sister once I’m home... but before that, a nice night out with Melissa at Mountain Equipment and Dick’s for a burger. Good birthday.
— I even get a well timed DVD from Columbia House. The latest James Bond movie waiting for me on my birthday!

FRIDAY...
— Nice day. Sun and between 10 and 12 today. I get new stickers for the car, and work is ok. Hit the gym tonight and get some laundry in before hitting bed Saturday morning.

SATURDAY...
— Too nice a day for work... sun and 15. But work it is all the same. It goes fine tonight.

SUNDAY...
— Sleep until about 11:30 and then hang out lazily until 3:00. Off to ball from there.
— Our last game of the winter season is our best. 21 to 5 victory to win two in a row to end. Crazy the difference.

MONDAY...
— A house work day. Since it’s cool (2 to 5 degrees) and wet out today, it’s no real waste. So I hit the spare room and rearrange stuff there. The old TV is now up there and hooked to the old VCR. The bed is moved and the room is actually a bit more useful for guests now.
— After the room was done, I stayed on the role and cleaned some downstairs. Now all that’s really left in need of cleaning is my bathroom. Tomorrow perhaps.

TUESDAY...
— May have fractured a toe today. Don’t know... but I stub my pinky toe and it’s pretty purple along the inside of the toe within a couple of hours. Putting the boots on to go get some groceries wasn’t real pleasant either. I’m guessing it’s more likely sprained than cracked though... but with pinky toes, it’s hard to tell.


Rocky Journeys
In the beginning it’s mud. A conglomerate of silt and sand and tiny stones all deposited on a sea floor and covered over by years of other silts, sands and tiny stones.

Time goes by. So much time that none of us can even think about it and clearly understand the length. If you sat on your sofa as that material sits on the sea bed... and you just sit there doing nothing, not moving from that spot, you’d pass so many lifetimes that, if time went backwards, when you reached that period when seas were parted, burning bushes spoke, and the son of God just came into being... you still wouldn’t be a tenth of the way there.

So much time passes and so much weight of other materials compresses this deposit of which I speak, that it begins to harden.

As snow crusts and eventually turns to ice at the bottom of a pack, this mud has crusted and turned to rock on the bottom of the sea.

More time goes by. More time that we can’t fathom. Enough time that continents shift and move about. Sea beds rise and mountains slump. And when great sheets of ice come, burying the land and scraping away the top layer, our little conglomerate of silt, sand and tiny stones, which have since hardened to one solid mass, suddenly finds itself sitting outdoors.

Up from the sea and breathing fresh air with that great blanket of soil and stone atop it now pulled away by ice.

Water rains upon it. It finds cracks and depressions within it and, at the right time of year, freezes within. This shrinks the conglomerate down. Splintering it at these points of weakness.

Lichens come, clinging to the sides of it tightly. Yellows, oranges and shades of beige painting it with life.

Insects crawl about it. Some sunning themselves atop it’s pebbly surface and others slipping into that space between it and the soil. Insect worlds under a stone. Generations of insects have lived and died in this space. When it comes to life, one’s whole world can be as simple as that which lies under a stone.

Birds perch on it, pecking into crevices in hopes of fishing out a crawling lunch. Shrews huddle against it when caught in a driving rain blown in from the sea.

Thousands of seasons go by in this way. The nearby ocean blasting against it’s nearby neighbours further below. But by luck, this rock escapes the harshness of the sea. It’s perched atop the sea cliffs where forests begin.

People come. Paths are worn around it. The feet of soldiers marching along the coast, keeping an eye across the hills and seas, searching for their enemies. The rock wobbles with the shifting weight of these soldiers as they cross the barrens to the outpost, too caught up in people dramas to notice a wobbling foothold beneath them.

Then others come, many years later but only a short time for such an old rock. Fathers who walk slowly and pause next to the rock as they stare out over the sea in a trance that only the sea can bring. Children, not yet struck by sea spells, run and scoot along... a seven year old balances upon the wobbling rock long enough to prepare for the great leap off... plummeting some two inches to the land below.

The pet dog hops about happily. Barking at overhead gulls, lapping at the sea air, and sniffing about the rock it’s master’s child just leaped from. Over and over this routine has happened, for tens of years. With those children who once balanced upon it, now standing over it, pausing and staring out over the sea, having been found by that trance they had once evaded. Their own children now discovering the rock and testing their own balancing skills atop it. Sometimes the pet dog has his sniff and wanders on, other times he lifts a leg over the rock and rains down upon it, marking the spot as his.

One time, a lone man comes by the rock. Breathing in the sea air and shifting his glance from the horizon, over the sea, across the cliff and to the forest. Taking in all he could on a final trip to this favourite place before moving far away.

Seeing the rock, he stops and tests himself with it. Big, but not too big. Heavy, but not too heavy. The man lifts the rock, dusts off as much of the clinging soil as he can, and deposits the rock into his back pack. The rock is nothing special. It doesn’t stand out among these cliffs and has been left here unmoved ever since emerging from the sea and ice. But this is why it’s chosen. It represents the place. It stands out as being from here and this is what the man wants.

Boxed and put aboard a truck, the rock goes a few weeks hidden from the light. Across the land and over the sea, it reaches new shores and makes it’s way inland.

Thus begins the new life for the rock. Still with remnants of lichen and a look of the sea, it’s unboxed and laid atop a carpeted floor within a temperature controlled room. No wind, no rain, the rock sits there against the wood of a stairwell atop the polyester of a carpet.

A fine retirement for a rock. Out of the harshness and cared for in this home, displaced but sharing in it’s displacement with the man who no longer lives by the sea.

Sometimes the rock misses it’s home. Misses the winds and rains and insects beneath. Yesterday was such a day. Feeling hard done by and bitter towards the man who brought it all this way from its home... the rock strikes out. And where once lichens grew, and insects crawled... where children wobbled and soldiers marched... where rain fell and ice carved... where pressure made mud into stone... now a toe strikes upon the rock. Bare and lazy, fresh from sleep, the toe collides with the hardness of the rock... and the toe loses. The man stumbles and bemoans the pain. The toe turns purply black. And the rock...

The rock is shifted slightly... in hopes that such a collision will not happen again. And time goes by for the rock, just a little tighter to the stairs atop a new bit of carpet... in rock retirement... longingly looking back to when a river of mile high ice pulled back it’s blanket... so many years ago.