Golf Carts

   Jim asked me recently if I would like to play golf sometime this summer with Jeff Swearingen and his wife, and I immediately said yes.  Yes, however, I quickly added, only if we could rent a golf cart.

    I haven’t played much golf in years, haven’t really thought about playing golf in years, although for some odd reason I bought a set of women’s golf clubs at the St. Matthew garage sale last spring.  But as soon as Jim brought up the idea of playing golf, the thought of driving around in a golf cart popped into my head and all of a sudden I was grinning.  

    I’ve always had a bit of a love affair with golf carts!  

    My favorite Florida vacation spot is the Plantation on Amelia Island because we always rent a golf cart for the week and I get to spent my time cruising the byways of the resort.  To this day, whenever I hear the Beatles singing about that Yellow Submarine, I’m immediately transported to Amelia Island and a long ago trip home from dinner with Leslie, Dennie and Amanda Novak, and me singing Yellow Submarine at the top of our lungs as we drove through the towering trees back to our condo.

    When I think back on the golf experiences of my childhood, what I remember most is laughing my way around the Marshall golf course with Chris Bennett as we hit one wild shot after another.  The best part was hopping into her dad’s golf cart and careening all over the fairway to find our wayward balls.  Before we could even legally drive a car, we were pushing the pedal to the floor and speeding up and down what hills there were on that central Illinois course.

    Although I love my old house in central Champaign with its big trees, brick streets, and own private boulevard, I’m always a bit envious of my friends who live on the outskirts of town on the edge of the country club golf course because most of them have golf carts parked in their garages.

    Looking back, I think that my love affair with golf carts traces directly back to my dad.  My dad was a gentle, unassuming man whose passions were my mother, his children, the Chicago White Sox, and golf, in that order.  He wasn’t a man who asked a lot out of life or who needed a lot to be happy.  My mother was devoted to him and until the day he died he thought himself the luckiest of men to have won her hand.  My sister and I were relatively easy to raise.  The White Sox were a continual disappointment, but there was always next year...

    One of the best things about small towns is that there is very little distinction between the ‘haves’ and the ‘haves not quite so much.’  My family was definitely in the second group, but that didn’t stop my dad from joining a golf club.  My dad grew up in Chicago and he spent much of his teenage years caddying for rich members of Chicago’s many country club golf courses.  Marshall didn’t have a country club, but it did have a very nice nine hole golf course that was open to anyone who wanted to join for a very nominal fee.  Dad may have saved his pennies all winter, but come opening day, he was there with his membership form and his driver!

    And that membership wasn’t the only thing Dad saved his pennies for.  Shortly after I was out of high school, Dad, notoriously tight with a dollar, bought his first golf cart.  (Could he have known about some of the wild rides I took with Chris?)  He bought the cart used, but to him it was pristine, perfect.  Chris’s dad was a lawyer, and he drove a Cadillac to the golf course while my dad drove a Chevy.   But, up until the day Cas died, Dad and Cas Bennett parked their golf carts side by side in the Cart Barn.

    I don’t really know what my dad thought about all those hours and days and years that he drove that golf cart up and down the fairways of the Marshall golf course.  I don’t know if he was remembering all the miles he used to walk carrying someone else’s golf bag on his back.  I don’t know if he was just savoring the wind in his hair and the sun on his face.  I don’t know if he was remembering where he had come from or just was enjoying where he had ended up. I don’t know if he was proud or satisfied.  But I do know that he was happy.

    As am I, when I remember my dad, and when I get behind the wheel of a golf cart and push the pedal to the floor!

  

Things My Grandma Friends Didn’t Tell Me

    I was just about the last of all my friends to become a Grandma.  So for years I’ve listened to all those other Grandma’s expounding on all the special joys of Grandmotherhood.  But there are some things that those other Grandma’s forgot to tell me.

    They all told me that the best part of being a grandma was that when you got tired, someone else takes the baby home.  What they forgot to tell me was that sometimes, even though you’re tired, you sort of wish that the baby would stay.  In fact, some days you would like it if that baby would just move right in!

    They all told me that the best part was watching your child become a wonderful parent.  What they forgot to tell me was that sometimes, even though your child is a very wonderful parent, you have to bite your lip VERY hard so that your own (outdated, though they may be) parenting ideas and suggestions don’t come bursting out!

    They all told me that the best part was getting to watch that beautiful baby learn all sorts of new things.  

    Like maneuvering all over the house in the brand new walker that his loving grandma and grandpa picked out even though the Academy of Pediatrics strongly recommends against them.  (For the record, because of the recommendations of the Academy of Pediatrics, even though I think there is nothing cuter than a baby sound asleep on her tummy with her little butt up in the air, I always, always put James and Zoe to sleep on their backs.  And, even though sometimes, it felt a bit chilly in their bedrooms, I never, never cover them up with even the lightest of blankets.)  (and  furthermore, for the record, we did pick out a walker with all sorts of safety mechanisms, including a stair brake and extra wide sides to prevent babies from going through doors.)

    Just like those other Grandma’s said, it’s been great fun watching Baby James streak around the ground floor of his Chicago house, shrieking at the top of his lungs from the sheer joy of movement and freedom and accomplishment!

    But those other Grandma’s didn’t tell me what is the very best part of being a Grandma.   The very best part of being a grandma is that sometimes, not very often, but sometimes, if you turn your head just right or just quickly enough when you hear a happy baby shriek, you catch a momentary glimpse of another much loved baby, one that was loved just as much, one that grew up a bit too quickly. 

    The very best part of being a Grandma is loving your child’s baby and remembering just how much you loved your own.

Jury Duty

    Several years ago when she was the Public Defender for Clark and Edgar counties, my sister Jeanne found herself defending two brothers on a murder charge.  The alleged crime took place a decade before, and no bodies were ever recovered.  Using her considerable skills Jeanne was able to convince a jury to deliver a non-guilty verdict based on reasonable doubt.  Shortly thereafter, the mother of the defendants gave Jeanne a large handmade wooden plaque carved with flowers and etched with the words:  “To Jeanne Sathre, a Rose in the Thorns of Justice.”

    When I got my notice to appear at the Champaign Court House to serve a week of jury duty, it occurred to me that while I was never going to be a Rose in the Thorns of Justice, this might be my chance to be part of the bouquet!

    This was not my first notice to appear for jury duty.  Almost thirty years ago, when I came home from the hospital with my newly born twin daughters, waiting for me, along with five year old Steve and three year old Leslie, was a summons from the Champaign County Clerk.  I remember calling the Clerk’s office and telling some anonymous person that “I would be happy to serve, but that currently I was recovering from a C-Section and trying to take care of 4 children under the age of five,including two newborns.”  I distinctly remember that person saying,  “Oh you poor thing, don’t worry about it!”  I can only infer that this sympathetic person put some sort of giant star by my name and buried my name under piles of bureaucratic red tape since my name never again came up on the jury roster until now.  

    All these years later I walked into the Champaign Court House fully confident that I was very well prepared to be a standout juror.  After all those years of refereeing battles between the aforementioned twins, after years and years of watching reruns of Law and Order, after reading every John Grisham book, after years of observing the telltale signs of four teenagers speaking less than the full truth, I was ready to bloom in a courtroom!

    But, as is too often the case, neither John Grisham nor Law and Order had prepared me for the reality of jury duty in Champaign, Illinois.  Day 1 I reported as ordered to the jury room where, along with 150 of my fellow potential jurors, I watched a video that told me what to expect, all of which I already knew from those Law and Order episodes.  Then half of us were excused for the day while the other half were told to come back for the afternoon.  I was in the returning group, so after a quick lunch, I soon found myself back in the jury room.  Where I remained for quite a long time, long enough to get well into a police procedural mystery book.  Finally, however, my wait was over, and my foray into the halls of justice was about to begin.  As a group, forty of us were led upstairs to a third floor courtroom where a jury for a residential burglary case was ready to be empanelled.      

    Four potential jurors were called to the jury box, and the judge began asking them questions.  ‘Did you,’ he asked, ‘recognize the defendant, or either attorney?’  “No,” I answered to myself.  ‘Did you,’ he asked, ‘recognize any of the names of potential witnesses?’ “Mmm,’ I thought, ‘well, I knew the policeman from the soup kitchen backpack program.’  ‘Do you have,’ he asked, ‘any close friends or family members who are attorneys?’  ‘Well,’ I thought, ‘my sister is a public defender and a thorn in the side of Justice.  And then there’s Helen Grandone and Peg O’Donoghue and Jim Hagle and Bill and Andy Hatch and Dick Joy....’  While I was still naming attorney friends, the judge was continuing, ‘Do you have, he asked, ‘have any close friends or family members who are police officers?’  ‘No,’ I thought.  And then the killer question, the one that was going to keep me off this jury.  “Have you or your family members ever been a victim of a crime?’ he asked.  And I silently gulped, remembering the time in Chicago that I was the victim of armed robbery, the time my apartment was broken into.  I remembered the time in St. Louis my car was stolen.  I remembered the time Steve was mugged on the Illinois campus, the time he was arrested in Madison for disturbing the peace, and the time a roommate fraudulently wrote checks on his account.  I was still coming up with crimes when the judge asked ‘Have you or your family members been convicted of a crime?’ and I was happy to realize that, discounting traffic tickets, we were a non-felonious family.

    I sat for an interminable afternoon as more and more of my fellow jurors were called to the box, as more and more were rejected for cause.  I was pretty sure that my own residential burglary, albeit one that took place almost 40 years ago, would be grounds for the Assistant DA to reject me.  But I never got a chance to find out.  A full jury was picked before my number was ever called, and the rest of us were thanked, told to call in to see if we were needed the following day, and dismissed.

    Disappointed, I called the jury coordinator’s number that evening, only to find that numbers 1-50 were required to show up the following morning.  Ever optimistic, I headed out on Day 2, sure that this would be my chance.  After all, surely there were many crimes beside residential burglary, armed robbery, car theft, mugging, check fraud, and disturbing the peace that occurred regularly in Champaign. 

    After another long wait in the jury room where I finished the police procedural mystery that I began the day before, potential jurors 1-50 were told that the case had been settled, no jurors were needed, and that we were dismissed for the day.  But please call and see if we were needed on Day 3.

    Day 3, jurors 51-150 were needed.  Number 11, me, was not needed.

    Day 4, no jurors, including #11 were needed.

    Day 5, no jurors, including #11 were needed.  

    ‘Thank you for your service’ we were told.  

    No one etched it on a wooden plaque.     

        

Aging

    I read an article about aging recently that pointed out that most individuals don’t take on new personality traits as they age.  Rather, aging tends to exaggerate traits that have always been present.  For example, a sweet tempered person doesn’t usually become grouchy.  It’s the person who always was a bit of a complainer who becomes downright crotchety.

    This phenomena was very apparent in my parents.  Dad, who was always frugal, became extremely parsimonious as he aged.  Late in life he discovered the Goodwill store, and from then on, it was his favorite place to shop.  My mother, who had always been a fashionista, albeit on Dad’s frugal budget, and who was by that time disabled by Parkinson’s and by debilitating eye problems, ended up wearing clothes that Dad lovingly picked out with an unerring eye for what was the least flattering!  Dealing with cataracts himself, the new clothes that Dad picked out for himself usually had stains or spots he didn’t see.  If pants didn’t fit, rather than spend money on tailoring, Dad just hemmed them up with staples!  At Christmas Dad’s grandchildren learned to express their gratitude with a straight face for the bags he put together every year, filled with Goodwill treasures he’d collected for months.  Dad also loved to shop for bargains at the grocery store, particularly at the meat counter.  Jeanne was the frequent recipient of steaks sold for half price after their expiration date.  Eating a dinner that Dad cooked always felt like a bit of a gamble.  Dad, however, was always the most loving and sweet tempered of men, and, even after a debilitating stroke, he remained cheerful, loving, and happy.

    Mom was always a bit of a worrier, and this trait magnified as she aged.  Where once she worried but also delighted in new experiences and opportunities, as she aged, she began to only see hazards.  No, Alex shouldn’t go off to Yale, it was too far, too big.  No, Leslie shouldn’t study in Rome or Paris for the summer, she didn’t speak the language, she might get lost.  Mom’s propensity for worrying eventually led to the family’s withholding information from her to spare her distress, but it also separated and isolated her.

    As aging begins to hit home as something that is happening, not just to other people, but to Jim and me, it’s a bit disconcerting to think about what traits we have that may become exaggerated.  Unfortunately, this phenomena is not something that we have any control over.  We can’t pick what parts of ourselves we’d like to enhance!  Nor can our children--and I’m sure that they’re concerned!

    Jim, already a man of few words, will probably become even more terse.  However, his hobby of photography will probably become even more annoying now that he has grandchildren to take pictures of.  And there is the possibility, if unchecked, that he could end up one of those pathetic old men who end their days in a house filled from top to bottom with clutter.  Not a pretty thought!

    I will probably end my days lazing on the couch, reading ever trashier novels, in a house filled to overflowing with mermaids and Marlene paintings.  The voice inside my head that occasionally says “Enough, ellen, stop nagging,” will be permanently silenced, and I will spend my declining years critiquing everything from my children’s spouses to their wardrobes and their hairstyles.  And I will probably sing a lot!

Lightning Bugs

   Six years ago I was surprised to get a postcard from Mary Kay Tiefel Hedges, the mother of Robbie, my best friend growing up on North 8th Street in Marshall, Illinois.  It said “I’m sending you something that reminded me of the summers when you girls were growing up.”  

    Robbie and I grew up in a small town in the days before houses were air conditioned, before televisions had kids’ programming on all day long, before video games, ipods, and dvd players were invented, before most mothers worked and most kids spent their days at day camps or sports camps.  We spent our summer days outside with a big group of neighborhood kids playing hopscotch and baseball, roller skating, running through sprinklers, swimming in backyard kiddie pools, daydreaming, coloring, riding bikes, playing paper dolls, playing monopoly, playing school, playing house, jumping rope, putting on plays, running kool-ade stands.

    I spent the week before Mary Kay’s package arrived trying to imagine what she had found that reminded her of those long ago idyllic summer days.  Could she be sending colored chalk for making hopscotch squares or even a perfect flat throwing rock?   Maybe a skate key, like the ones we used to wear tied around our necks?  Maybe she had found an old set of Betsy McCall paper dolls like the ones we used to scatter all around her living room?  MIckey Mouse ears?  A Davie Crockett coonskin cap?  Bright red paraffin lips?  A Nancy Drew book?  To this day I always think of Mary Kay whenever I eat cinnamon toast, a favorite treat I first tasted in her kitchen, but I’m pretty sure that she wasn’t sending a tin of cinnamon.

    Mary Kay’s package finally arrived several days later.  I tore it open to find.... A Bug Jar!!!  A bug jar just like the old mayonnaise jars that we used to carry around on warm summer nights and fill with the lightning bugs that flashed and flitted and turned those evenings into magic times.  Looking at the jar and laughing, I remembered so many evenings running through yards with Robbie, chasing the illusive creatures that would blink right in front of you and then disappear into the darkness as you grabbed for one and too often ended up empty handed until you spotted another one blinking again a few steps away and off you ran.  I remember filling the bottom of the jar with grass just in case the lightning bugs wanted something to eat and poking holes in the lid so that the poor creatures could breathe.  I remember sometimes crawling into bed and falling asleep watching a jarful of lightning bugs blinking away as they climbed up the sides of the jar, but more often my mother convincing me to free my captives before I went inside.  My mother was wise in the ways of lightning bugs because watching the bugs crawl to the very top of my jar and then launch themselves off into the night was another kind of magic, much better than waking in the morning to find them dead at the bottom of the jar.  

    My prime lightning bug catching days were back in the 1950’s. It’s been more than fifty years since Robbie and I spent summer evenings chasing after lightning bugs.  These days there seems to be fewer lightning bugs flitting around and fewer children chasing after them.  Although my four children grew up in the era of air conditioning and 24-hour children’s programming on tv, they, like me, also grew up in a neighborhood filled with children and with a mother who shoved them out of the house on warm summer nights to play Kick the Can and Hide and Seek--and to chase after lightning bugs.  (Johanna was the acknowledged neighborhood lightning bug champion.  My most patient child, her jar always contained the most bugs.  My softest hearted child, she always was the first to set her bugs free before bedtime.)  But it’s been years since they or I have captured a lightning bug.

    Not everything has improved in the last fifty years.  But my new bug jar is certainly the new improved version.  Although the jar arrived without air holes poked into the top, it came with something better.  It came with its own battery operated lightning bugs.  Last night I crawled into bed and fell asleep watching my jarful of lightning bugs happily blinking away.  And when I woke up in the morning they were all still blinking!

    Mary Kay died several years ago, but my lightning bug jar blinks on.  Already this spring the days are filled with sunshine and the evenings are growing warmer.  Soon, soon the lightning bugs will begin their summer dance.  

    Mary Kay’s lighting bug jar was a truly magical gift, reminding me again of the magic of memories, the magic of summer, and the magic of childhood friendships that last a lifetime.