No, this isn’t about God or anything like that. It’s more about memories. The other day it was blistering hot, about 75 degrees. (Now many of you who are sweltering in 100+ weather may think that 75 degrees is a welcome respite – but here up in the Pacific Northwest – a sunny day over the temperature of 60 degrees is hot……75 degrees and we’re passing out on the sidewalks). I had made a deal with my girls – two chores – and then a trip to Battle Point Park and its wonderful playground.
It took awhile for my girls to do their chores. Not because the chores were herculean tasks, but because my girls are typical children. Mom, do I have to. Why does Emma always get the easy job? Hannah, if you want to scrub toilets you are more than welcomed to. Mom, I finished my chore – can we go now. Did you do X, did you do Y……I did X; I’ll do Y when we get back. No, you’ll do it before. Okay…..two hours later. Can we go now, did you do Y. Not yet. Hmmmm, maybe you should do it now. Ten minutes later, a girl comes rushing upstairs…..Mom, Mom, Mom, where are you. Oh there you are – naturally, I’m on the toilet – God forbid I am able to use the bathroom without an interruption. I’m done. Can we go now? As soon as I am finished here, we can go. Yippee!!! My eight year old exclaims. And then those faithful words come out of her mouth, hurry up Mom – it’s time to go.
We piled into our car, windows rolled all the way down, rooftop open, tunes on the radio. Their brother opted to stay home – quiet time for him. I brought bottles of water, knowing that sooner or later my girls would be begging for drinks. I got lost while driving over to the park; I turned when I should have gone straight. The girls were in the back seat chanting their mantra, are we there yet. Oh well, my zig zag was an adventure – and I must say those mansions on the southwest of the island are pretty spectacular.
Finally we made it to the park, the girls practically jumping out of the car before I had even parked it. My girls were off as I scrambled to get my cane, the bottled water, my knitting (hey, I get pretty bored while they’re off frolicking on the monkey bars), and my hat. I found a place in the shade and began knitting while they we off at a hare’s pace up the play structure to cross the rope bridge.
I knitted and watched them. The sun was beating down. I had ceased to exist for them as my girls were in playground nirvana. Swings, rope bridges, hot steaming metal slides, and bars to practice being Tarzan as they swung from bar to bar.
My mind was wandering from the playground and off to the left I started watching teenagers on the tennis courts. Knit one row. I noticed two teenage boys were getting lessons from a tennis pro. Purl one row. It was obvious who the pro was and who wasn’t. Knit one row. The pro was slamming balls at the boys like some gangster shooting his Tommy gun. Purl one row, pull out more yarn. As I watched them, my mind drifted back to my early twenties. Knit one row. I used to play tennis. I was terrible at the game in high school. I was rather gangly and my legs were about as coordinated as a new born fowl trying to take its first steps. However, in my early twenties – when I was just a mere accounting clerk – I developed poise. I remembered how I used to play a mean game of tennis with a fellow accounting clerk on my lunch hour. I had a wicked serve and a seriously mean backhand. Purl one row. As the instructor lobbed the ball up for a serve, I thought back to my own serve, throwing the ball up and crushing it down with my right arm. Knit one row. Immediately I was ready for the return service from my friend. Purl one row. My mind was drifting, I was the one playing tennis, I was the one running around the court ready to slam the ball back to my opponent. I was the one sweating in the heat, laughing with my friend, running, jumping, making silly lobs, Knit one row.... Mom, I’m thirsty.
I was back in the real world, pulling cool water bottles from my purse, being the mom and my children were calling out – look at me mom, look what I can do. I realized I will never be able to lob that ball up in the air. The pain in my chest, the lack of muscles that were taken out during the mastectomy, the living with stage IV cancer will never allow me to run and play. And so, I looked away from the tennis courts and smiled at my children as they bounded from slides to swings to hanging upside down like monkeys on that playground bars.
