Wearing his usual striped tie with the navy sportcoat over his shoulder
Today I think about my dad on the 19th anniversary of his passing. He taught me most of what I know about life, love and how to be a good person.
He also taught me 99 percent of what I know about baseball. I don’t even remember when we started watching games, I must have been six or seven, but I loved the time with Daddy and I loved sharing it with him.
I wanted to play baseball, but the closest thing to Little League for a girl in Arkansas in the 1960s was YMCA softball, so I signed up. The fly balls and grounders Daddy threw me in the front yard made me a pretty good third baseman and what he taught me about hitting earned me the cleanup spot in the lineup. I loved watching the outfielders back up when I came to the plate.
Every year we spent the better part of a week in St. Louis watching Cardinal games in person. I sat next to Daddy so I could listen to him talk about the game. He taught me to fill in the scorecard, told me about Stan Musial and how the catcher gives signs to the pitcher. We went early to watch batting practice and get autographs.
Sundays at home were baseball days; we watched on TV each Sunday after church and in the evenings during the week; we listened on the radio in the car on our way home from trips to the lake.
You can barely see the words “National League”
I’ve got lots of old baseball moments from the 60s and 70s — here are the highlights:
Watching Bob Gibson warm up, standing about 10 feet away. I still remember the intensity, the concentration, the sound of the ball hitting the glove at 90-something miles per hour.
Getting Lou Brock’s autograph
Catching a foul ball in the bottom of the second inning, after getting hit with a foul ball during batting practice
Meeting Stan Musial and getting his autograph (true to his reputation, he was kind and gracious)
Getting a photo of Hank Aaron looking right at me and waving, the year before he broke the home run record. Sadly, some idiot stole the roll of film from our hotel room.
Over the past two years, I’ve made some new baseball memories: last year’s St. Louis trip with the family, September’s amazing comeback, playoff race and the World Series. Game Six — enough said. And less than a month ago, a chance to see the World Series trophy at AutoZone Park.
When Stan Musial’s wife passed away recently, my first thought was, “Daddy just met Mrs. Musial.” I love the thought of him watching Game Six from heaven. And, boy would he have loved to see that trophy.
Better yet, remember when you used an actual potato to play with Mr. Potato Head?
I do.
The older I get, the more nostalgic I become. Maybe it’s because I have increasingly more things to look back on.
What I didn’t remember is that, according to the folks at NowIKnow.com, Mr. Potato Head originally came with a pipe, which he donated to the American Cancer Society to help promote anti-smoking efforts.
In 1964, the plastic potato head was created as the pegs that allowed you to insert the pieces into potatoes and other fruits and vegetables were deemed too sharp for children.
I’m all for child safety, but, try as I might, I can’t remember ever hurting myself on a Mr. Potato Head peg.
Then again, I remember sitting on the armrest in the front seat of the family station wagon on the way to the grocery store. I never wore a helmet when I rode my bike and I never wore a seat belt.
How on earth did I survive these dangers and make it to the advanced age of 53?
Yesterday was an epic day in my baseball world. We went to AutoZone Park to enjoy a Redbirds baseball game, some postgame fireworks and the main attraction, the World Series trophy. The same trophy former manager Tony LaRussa held proudly after the historic 2011 series; that was displayed on the field at Busch Stadium on Opening Day, next to Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and other Cardinal greats.
Trophy close-up
It represents an incredible comeback triumph, the thrill of watching it unfold and an evening that has come to be known simply as Game Six.
My sister and her family joined us for the game and fireworks, but the real goodness was standing inches from the trophy and reliving those moments together.
A very long time ago, when I had a tiny baby, someone told me that successful parenting is a series of letting go moments. I didn’t believe it then. But now that I’ve lived it, I know it’s true.
I remember holding her, rocking her, inhaling the baby smells, feeling her little head nestling on my shoulder and thinking there was no way I was ever letting go.
Then one day I held her in my lap and felt her pull away, lean forward and try to sit up on her own. I let go and she sat up.
A few months later, I let her pull up on the coffee table and stand, sort of, on her own two feet.
Then she took a step, by herself, without my hand in hers.
After that, she learned to use the potty and sleep in a big-girl bed. She wanted to dress herself and she chose some interesting combinations of clothing. We took her to church in an outfit that didn’t match and we didn’t (much) care what anyone thought.
It seemed only moments later when I drove her to preschool, stopped the car and watched as she hopped out the door to go fingerpaint, run on the playground and listen to someone else read to her.
Soon she began Kindergarten — all day long. She learned to read and to write her name. And while she still wanted me to read to her occasionally, most of the time she wanted to read to her baby dolls and stuffed animals.
When it was time for the middle school dance, I couldn’t believe I was letting her go. To a dance? With a boy? But I helped her choose the perfect dress, watched her curl her hair and put on just a little blush, lip gloss, the tiniest bit of mascara and shoes with heels that were way too high. And she was beautiful.
Her freshman year, it was her first high school dance. She wore a long red dress and she looked way too grown up. But I let her go and after the dance, in the wee hours of the morning, she told me about her first kiss.
We taught her to drive cautiously and to concentrate on the road, knowing full well that when driver’s permit became license, away from our watchful eyes she would turn up the music and drive too fast and ride with boys. We were scared to death, but we watched her drive away.
All too soon we packed the car with her belongings and moved her into a tiny dorm room to live with another girl she barely knew. We helped her arrange her room, find a place for the mini-fridge and then I hugged her, afraid to let go, because I knew I was letting go for real this time.
A year or so later, we moved her into her first apartment. We bought a couch, a TV, a bed, gave her hand-me-downs from the attic, helped her hang pictures and cautioned her to always lock the door. Somewhere else became her home; now she comes to visit. When it’s time to go, she says, “I have to go home.”
One day, she’ll hold onto Jim’s arm as he escorts her down the aisle. She’ll let go and take the hand of a young man who loves her enough to never let go. Then someday she’ll become a mother and she’ll read this post and understand.
And that’s parenthood. It’s okay to let go. All of the growth is in the letting go.
Twenty-five years ago this moment I was doing my nails and fluffing up my 80s hair in preparation for my wedding.
The Back Story
Jim and I dated in high school. I was two years older, so I had to drive on all of our dates. He had a shiny new Toyota in the garage that he couldn’t drive until his 16th birthday. I looked forward to riding in it, but, alas, our relationship did not survive that long.
Years later, I was finishing my graduate audiology program at University of Memphis and Jim was fresh out of Rhodes College (he would want me to point out that he actually graduated from Southwestern at Memphis), working here in Memphis at his first job, writing credit union software. During the Thanksgiving holiday in 1983, he made an unexpected drop-in visit to my family home in Jonesboro. We chatted for an hour or two and agreed to meet for a drink at some undetermined time. A few weeks later, in need of a break from thesis writing and preparing for comprehensive exams, I spontaneously called him to take him up on that drink. We stayed for dinner, arranged a second date, a third, a fourth … and in June of 1986, in the driveway of my family’s lake house, he proposed. We were married on November 30, 1986 in a small chapel at Christ United Methodist Church. The chapel’s capacity was 75. We invited 150 people. So even though our wedding was the Sunday after Thanksgiving, the place was packed.
The Last 25 Years
These years have been filled with moments of uncontained joy, raucous laughter, inside jokes, crazy dreams and common goals. We’ve shared a chronically-messy home, countless tubes of toothpaste, 25 Christmas trees and what I estimate to be more than 20,000 meals. The peaks have been lofty, the valleys deep: the loss of our brand-new weddings rings in an armed robbery, career ups and downs, deaths of friends and family members, my diagnosis of breast cancer, unemployment and countless others that time and perspective have made less tragedy than minor setback.
When we were first married, Jim gave me a plaque with the following lines from a poem by Robert Browning.
Grow old along with me!
The best is yet to be,
The last of life, for which the first was made:
Our times are in His hand
Who saith “A whole I planned,
Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!”
Most people quote the first two lines, but my favorite is, the last of life for which the first was made … This makes me think of a fine wine. For some of the finest wines, maturity brings a richer, more complex and multilayered flavor. The distinguishing tones — fruit, floral, earthy — become more noticeable even as they meld together to form a smooth, rich wine worthy of savoring.
Much like us. Rather than longing for youth, we choose to revel in the richness of these days. Of adult children who challenge and inspire as they become more friend than responsibility; of wisdom and perspective to treasure and appreciate more deeply the blessings entrusted to us. We’re fuller and richer for the struggles, the tears, the sacrifices — and for all of the moments of both the first and the last of life.
For the past few years, I’ve made a complete Thanksgiving dinner at our house before we celebrate with extended family. It’s the one time each year we get out the china, silver and Waterford crystal and eat by candlelight in the dining room. It takes all day to prepare the turkey, dressing, side dishes and pumpkin pie and it’s always been one of my favorite times of the holiday season.
This year was different. My work schedule didn’t allow the time to make the dinner, but we were not willing to give up the special family evening. So instead of making turkey and dressing, I made a reservation at one of our favorite east Memphis spots, The Grove Grill. They have this cozy private dining room that was perfect for the six of us: Jim and me, our girls and their long-time boyfriends.
Part of our tradition at the table is a time of sharing the things we’re thankful for, but this year the cliche, “I’m thankful for my family and friends” answers wouldn’t do. So as our appetizers were served, I gave notice: no generic answers this year. Instead we would express to each person, individually, the things we’re thankful for about them.
I thought the younger folks would roll their eyes at my corny suggestion; instead, everyone shared heartfelt and meaningful sentiments, laced with laughter and a few tears. Things we probably wouldn’t have said to one another without the prompting of corny old Mom.
Sometimes we don’t share those thoughts as readily as we should; we take for granted the ones we should treasure and appreciate the most.
Here’s a challenge for this holiday season: sit around a table with those you love. No TV, no cell phones, no distractions, just eye contact. Say the unsaid, share the thoughts that have remained unexpressed for the sake of pride or the fear of awkwardness. Above all gifts, let the warmth of love light your holiday season.
Elizabeth finished the Atlanta Marathon with an unofficial (as of now) time of 4:40. She’s exhausted and hurting all over and on her way back to Memphis. Congratulations, sweetheart, we’re so happy for you! Here’s what she had to say about it on Twitter.
LOVED IT. Great feeling to finish. Marathons are awesome. If you're athletic at all DO IT. Something I'll always love. Can't wait til next 1
Elizabeth with her medal from the St. Jude Marathon
Just a few minutes ago, I got off the phone with Elizabeth, my oldest daughter, who in 2009 ran her first marathon. She called me just before getting in the car with friends to travel to Atlanta to run her second.
It was a very cold morning in December of 2009 as we sat in AutoZone Park to watch her cross the finish line. We had been there with her since the start and had waved to her at several points along the way. As excited as we were to share this day with her, I was completely unprepared for its emotional impact.
When she crossed the finish line, the tears of joy came as we watched her accomplish a feat that only one to two percent of Americans can claim. I admired her discipline, her commitment and the courage she found to finish nearly half of the race with a badly-sprained ankle.
But most of all, I admired her. The baby with blonde curls whose first wobbly steps thrilled me as much as her 26th mile.
I wish I could be in Atlanta this Sunday to see her cross another finish line. But my heart and my prayers will be with her. Run fast, my girl! We’re proud of you, not for the steps you run, but just … because.
I’m not much of a museum person. But this one is different. It’s a baseball museum. Precisely, the Louisville Slugger Museum and Factory. For $10, you get to see the museum and take a tour of the factory where the famous Louisville Slugger bats are made. If you’ve ever played softball or baseball, chances are you’ve swung one. (I have. I batted cleanup on my softball team in the sixth grade and played a decent third base.)
I knew this was going to be a great day when I walked into the lobby and saw a wall of small wooden tiles with signatures; the signatures of the players who were under contract with Louisville Slugger, made from the plates that were used to stamp the signatures on the players’ custom bats. The first one I looked for — and found — was one of my favorite players of all time, former St. Louis Cardinal Hall of Famer Lou Brock.
When you enter the museum, one of the first things you see is an area that is staffed by an attendant. There are actual game-used bats from several baseball legends, which you can hold if you put on a pair of gloves. This is me holding a bat used by Mickey Mantle. I’m not a Yankee fan by any means, but Mickey Mantle is … Mickey Mantle.
I love this one, as I followed Hank Aaron’s home run challenge to Babe Ruth’s record closely back in the day. This is the bat Aaron used to hit the 700th home run. This was pretty darned thrilling.
This bat was used by Babe Ruth; it may not be visible in the picture, but you can see the notches Ruth made in the bat for each home run he hit. Chills.
Ok, now here’s a little confession. I broke a rule. You are not supposed to take photos inside the factory tour. But I just could not help it when I saw these billets (cylindrical pieces of wood) that will soon become St. Louis Cardinal Lance Berkman’s personal bats. So I snapped this on the sly with my iPhone during the tour. I know, I know …
And, even though I hate pictures of myself, I love this one. It’s me holding Mickey Mantle’s bat. Yeah, I know my stance could use some work. It’s been a year or two … or 40.
If you’re ever in Louisville, don’t miss the chance to visit this place — even if you’re not a huge fan, you’ll love the simulation of a 90-MPH fastball. It features a video of Phillies ace Cole Hamels winding up and a machine that shoots a fastball right at you as you stand behind a protective wall. There’s a reason Albert Pujols gets the big bucks.
Special note: It’s only appropriate that I post this on this date; it would have been my Daddy’s 77th birthday, and he was the one who instilled in me the love of baseball. He loved the Cardinals and his favorite player was Stan Musial. Though I never got to see Musial play, he’s one of my favorites as well.
Unremarkable. It means ordinary, lacking distinction. Not something we generally consider a compliment.
But medical terms are strange. A test result that is negative is usually a good thing; positive means you have whatever awful thing they are testing you for. So unremarkable is a medical compliment. As in, the biopsy done during my surgery is unremarkable. Which means I do not have cancer.
Yesterday was my follow-up appointment and my first time out of the house since the surgery. I was excited to actually see something past the end of my driveway. Jim took off work and Sara Ann came along too. I did my hair, put on makeup and a clean t-shirt with my warmup pants and off we went.
I had looked forward to that appointment as the day the doctor would tell me I can drive again and medically clear me to get on with my life. Unfortunately, I still don’t feel like driving, leaving the house was so exhausting I needed a nap afterward and I’m still very slow and weak. The patience I wrote about last week? Um, I still need to work on that.
So here are a few observations from week two:
Facebook is really, really awesome if you want to live vicariously through your friends.
Having surgery during baseball season was an excellent decision on my part. The Cardinals regaining first place would further enhance my recovery, I’m sure.
Hulu is my new best friend, Hell’s Kitchen is awesome and people who work in restaurants don’t get nearly enough appreciation. Especially if there’s a British guy yelling, cursing and constantly berating them.
There really is no limit to the height that dirty dishes or dirty clothes can be piled. This theory has now officially been scientifically tested. I’d have photos if I weren’t so embarrassed by our slovenliness.
As crappy as some people can be, the really good ones make up for it. And I seem to be blessed with a ridiculous number of the amazing kind of folk. The kind who bring you fabulous dinners for three solid weeks so you don’t have to think about what you’ll eat. And the one awesome friend who showed up with a bottle of wine and a 20-pack of Diet Coke “to fill all my beverage needs.” And then there’s the one who showed up today with delicious soup, right at the time I started getting hungry for lunch — and another who brought dinner and sat down for a glass of wine and conversation.
And it all started with my mom, the long-retired nurse who still has all the skillz. She came from Jonesboro the night before surgery and stayed with me 24/7 in the hospital. She knew exactly where to put the pillow when I rolled over so it would support my back. She slept so lightly that every movement of mine or squeak of the hospital bed had her asking what I needed. And she knew that her car would be less bumpy on the ride home than my SUV. She did laundry, cleaned house, fluffed my pillow, fetched my meds and took care of me. Some things never change.
And after all these years, I still find it humbling, comforting and … remarkable.
I’m going to preface this by saying that sometimes I have weird dreams. And weird thoughts. So maybe this is one of them, but it’s a kind of a fun mental game I’ve been playing for quite some time.
A few weeks ago, on the way home from our last lake trip, I shared my mental exercise with my family over lunch. They thought I was nuts. They still do. And they are probably going to roll their eyes if they read this (I’m used to it).
So I offer to you:
Let’s say you were being held against your will in an undisclosed location and had the opportunity to speak to your family in the presence of your captors. What would you say that is so out of character for you that your family would know you were in deep trouble?
For me:
I sure wish I had a cold beer (I hate beer).
Boy, do I need a good, hot cup of coffee (hate coffee too).
Ugh. All they are playing here is Simon & Garfunkel and it’s driving me crazy. Those guys can’t sing at all.
Just saw the most awesome ad set in Comic Sans and Papyrus.
I’m dying for that new Dell laptop (that one would have Jim sending the people in the white coats to carry me away).
You get the idea.
Some other favorites:
Jim: I’m craving broccoli. Ha.
Sara Ann (19-year-old daughter): My favorite word is crusty.
Elizabeth (22-year-old daughter): Sports are boring.
Ethan (Sara Ann’s boyfriend): I’m craving licorice and bell peppers.
JP (Elizabeth’s boyfriend): Sports are boring.
You get the idea. If you know these folks at all, you’d know that Jim despises broccoli, Sara Ann can’t stand the word crusty, Elizabeth and JP are sports fanatics and Ethan feels about licorice and bell peppers the way Jim does about broccoli.
I realize this has absolutely no value to anyone, but, please, I’m recovering from surgery, ok? Gimme a break.
So … how would I know if you were in trouble? Hit me up in the comments.
A good support system is a must. But it’s crucial to actually let them help. I don’t like being physically dependent on others and I feel guilty imposing. But family, friendship and community mean that sometimes we carry one another for a while and sometimes we let our loved ones carry us.
Mental rest is important too. My body is aching, tired and hurting. And my mind is as well. I had great ambitions for all the reading I’d do, but it’s hard to concentrate. Maybe it’s the anesthesia, the pain, the disruption in my schedule, but it’s hard to focus. I’m so glad that few people have need for anything my addled brain cells can put together right now.
Whatever you do, never Google a health issue. A couple of nights ago, I felt chilled and achy and started poking around on the Internet to see if that’s normal. Next thing I knew I was sure a trip back to the hospital was imminent and pictured myself in a post-op-complication-induced coma. Chances are if I’d read the instructions from the doctor I’d have been less freaked out. (Update: I’m ok. Probably just tired.)
Time. It does just take time for body and mind to heal. It’s funny how speed-obsessed we get. My DVR-addicted mind gets restless during a 30-second ad on Hulu or a TV commercial. I want my Web pages to load fast or I’m gone. Click. But beyond the common-sense things I can do to speed recovery, there’s no fast-forward button. Time to work on patience.
Stay connected. A lot of folks would probably tell me this is a good time to unplug. And honestly, I have to some extent. But I’d have missed so many sweet words and thoughts from friends that have given me needed encouragement and support. Letting go of connections now would be isolating and depressing for me. And the asynchronous nature of social media allows me to take it what I can handle and ignore the rest.
Freshen up. Find new interests. I’ve recently rediscovered my affinity for photography. Don’t ask me about F-stops and shutter speeds. I’ll relearn what I used to know about that stuff soon. For now, I’ve subscribed to some new sites with interesting and artistic photos and have been paying more attention to Instagram on the iPhone (where my user name is bethgsanders). Even a new TV show or two can be a breath of fresh air for the mind.
No doubt about it, I am getting better every day. I just wish I were getting more patient.
A hysterectomy is no minor procedure. Like anything involving an abdominal incision, it’s one of the biggies. So when I realized that’s the direction we were going, I made plans to live it up with my family and a few friends before being out of commission for several weeks.
And we did. Beginning with WordCamp Fayetteville. Jim’s and my trip to northwest Arkansas was great. The next weekend we enjoyed one last trip to Greers Ferry Lake with the kids and extended family. And last weekend — my last one before surgery — we enjoyed dinner with long-time friends on Friday night and left early Saturday morning for St. Louis, for what was my first Cardinal game in probably about 40 years.
Old Busch Stadium sometime in the 60s or 70s.
This was a particular thrill for me, as my daddy, who passed away suddenly in 1993, raised me on Cardinal baseball. Watching the games on TV and listening on the radio in the era of Lou Brock, Bob Gibson and the 1968 World Series was a family ritual and Daddy’s comments and insights taught me more than most girls knew about the game.
As I write this, I’ve begun the slow recovery from surgery and am making progress, but it helps to remember this time last week, when we were at the ballpark after a late lunch in Downtown St. Louis with a dear high school friend and fellow Cardinal fan. We got to the stadium early to walk around and see it from every angle. I wanted to see the somewhat-controversial statue of Stan Musial, the smaller statues of former Cardinal greats and just soak in the atmosphere. Pretty much all of Downtown St. Louis decks out in red for game day and lots of folks get there early, as we did, to watch batting practice.
Catcher Yadier Molina (left) and Manager Tony LaRussa (right) in the dugout
After watching the tail end of Cardinal batting practice, we headed for the Stadium Store, to spend the dollars I had earmarked for t-shirts and souvenirs for everyone. We took our bags full of gear and headed for our seats to settle in for the game.
Jim had rented us a Nikon D7000 with a telephoto lens for the trip; I told him I wanted to be able to shoot Albert Pujols’ nostrils. Not really, but I did want to be able to zoom in close. And it was awesome. I started snapping as soon as players and coaches started filtering into the dugout and got really excited watching Yadier Molina strap on his gear for the game and seeing Manager Tony LaRussa emerge from the clubhouse. Sadly, the game was not ours to win, and wasn’t even a decent contest, but I did get an awesome shot of Albert at bat.
And this awesome shot of me with my girls and their boyfriends sitting on the Cardinal dugout.
Win or lose, I’ll always love my Cardinals, just like Daddy raised me to do. I’m so glad we had this time for me to share it with my girls like he did with me — we all agreed it would be a great family tradition to continue into another generation.
And it’s an awesome way to take my mind off this icky surgery …
