A Letter to #54

Dear #54:

How's it going out there on that field? Things are probably not as good in the stands as you might think, so I  thought I'd fill you in on the fact that you playing football  FREAKS ME OUT BEYOND ALL REASON.

Here's the thing- I don't know where this football thing came from. One day it was like "Hey I want to play football" and I was like "Oh OK." (because I am dumber than a box of hammers at a rock throwing contest.)  I even asked your brother "Hey what's with this football thing, do you want to play too?" Without hesitation, Andrew bellowed  "ARE YOU KIDDING, I MIGHT BE SMUSHED LIKE A ROTTEN EGGPLANT!" 

So far you haven't been squished like a champagne grape in some linebacker's toes. But today you got knocked around a bit here and there and it reminded me when I let you roll off of the ottoman when you were a baby- it freaked me out but you were sufficiently squishy that it didn't cause permanent damage.

I'm not brave like Gage's mom. I'm a big chicken and I don't even know what to cheer for. I guess it's good when people get mowed down like bowling pins, but I'd rather you stayed upright. And, it's got to be better for your brain and the math homework to stay in an upright-y type position. Should I call the coach?

Anyway, you looked good out there- at least from what I could see between my fingers since I was covering my eyes and trying not to scream like a girl.

Love Mom

Frozen?

The phone rang on Sunday. It was my mother in law telling us to head for the river bed. She's not Moses and we're not fleeing an oppressive people, but we needed to see for ourselves how low the river was.  The Maumee River dumps into Lake Erie and after a day or two of 40 mile an hour winds and some weeks of dry weather the river is dried up like a giant rock filled raisin.

We had to obey so we ran to the car. Actually, me and Tim ran to the car. A&P thought we were insane. 

Me: Ma says you can walk across the River. Let's go check it out.
Andrew : Is it frozen?

Frozen? Have you been watching a few too many episodes of "Ice Road Truckers"? Seriously.

Here's Peter inspecting the river bed at Buttonwood. He looks skeptical. And angry. I think you're perennially angry when you're 13. Do you suppose 14 is any different?

We tried to get the boys to go with us to Grand Rapids, but they complained about homework or some such thing.  Had I not been wearing flip flops and if it were not nearly dinnertime, I would have walked across.

In Andrew's defense, it does look frozen.

Watermelon Shoes

Can I tell you a secret? I obsessively read obituaries. I've done this since I learned how to read. I stopped reading them for a while after my Uncle Steve died unexpectedly because I was chicken. Now I'm back to reading them and thinking about what a gift every darned day is.

So there I was, reading the obituaries on Saturday night, in the New York Times. (I am so Tim's dream girl!)The Saturday death notices are easier to tackle and I can read them with less "short attention span theatre" in my brain. At the end of the section was an obituary that commanded me to get up and do something IMMEDIATELY. That's  a new one- when have you been commanded by a recently passed away person to get up and do something- do not pass go- do not collect $200 just go do it right that very minute. 

The direction? Google "Watermelon Shoes." Fine, I'll google Watermelon shoes.

The first article that pops up is a NYC blog from May, 2009 about a cool old guy from Manhattan that wears shoes decorated like two watermelon slices. Eccentric, yes, but here's the best part, he only wore them 13 times a year.

Tim said, "Maybe he should have bought more than one pair and he could wear them as much as he wanted."

I guess, but that's not the point. He savored his watermelon shoes and wore them only on very obscure days that meant only something to him.  The last sighting of the shoes appears to have been some time in August of this year.

Riveted I plastered the instruction"Google Watermelon Shoes" on my facebook page. Not many people saw it or, knew quite what to do with it. I am strange like that. My friend Dan wrote back and asked "what would your 13 days be?"

In my tracks I stopped cold. I have no idea. Boxing day? My birthday? Or something pedestrian like Thanksgiving or maybe historic like April 14th when Lincoln was shot.   Or is every day special enough for watermelon shoes?

Got to get me some of those shoes.

The Watermelon Shoe guy just died of a massive heart attack. He was so proud of his shoes and the blog about him that he commanded everyone he met to "Google Watermelon Shoes."

Do it. Now.

Love from me and mine to you and yours.