Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Recollections

Craig decided, some years ago, that we would take up tennis. I am reminded of this because of an obnoxious blue that emanates from the warm, transitional colors of autumn in the park across the street. The tennis courts, as a result of the city's recent resurfacing project, traded its worn, innocuous green for magic marker blue. A child's rendering of a swimming pool comes to mind each time I walk down the driveway, glance out of the living room windows or attempt to bask in the seasonal colors on the front porch. The day-glo view is blinding and I end up watching the casual tennis that gets played on these courts, reducing the matches to comical displays much like Boise State football games.

All of Craig's hobbies start out the same way. He decides to take something on and then inundates himself with knowledge, gear and persistence until he becomes the model fly-fisherman, backpacker, carpenter. My track record with competitive sports was no secret. The time spent debating which team would be stuck with me at family gatherings did not cease when Craig came around. He even participated (more than once) in the gentle ejections that siblings and in-laws alike subjected me to. Craig played racket ball once a week for a couple of years with friends and long ago dabbled at tennis but he insisted that we would learn together.

Santa brought tennis rackets and multiple containers of tennis balls that year and Craig brought home videos from the library for us to watch and mimic. The girls, at the top and the bottom rungs of toddler hood at the time, excitedly wheeled around on primary-colored bikes and riding toys on the empty side of the gated courts while Craig and I, in the dead of winter, took up tennis. My abilities did not advance with Craig's. They did not advance at all. The girls began hanging out behind me to collect all of the missed balls.

The session that killed our tennis phase also confirmed the limits of Craig's patience. He stood in position to serve as he tried to go through the motions of actual tennis. My only objective was to hit the ball over the net (with the racket). Sometimes, when the ball came my way at an unexpected angle or my racket sent the ball up rather than out, I covered my head with my hands, afraid I might get struck. This may seem irrational and un-tennis like. It drove Craig insane (temporarily). Craig served the ball and I swung the racket, incorrectly. Even I could tell. I suspected that the ball flew straight up and waited, head covered, for a few seconds for the ball to crash down on me. Nothing. I looked up. No ball. I looked over at Craig.

"Did you see where it went?" I asked, still expecting the ball to drop at any second, anywhere. Craig stared at me, frustration filling out his narrow face.

"Did you?" I asked again. Maybe we'd have to scour the treetops to find the landing spot.

"Look at your racket!" Craig ordered, unamused.

The ball sat wedged between the racket face and the handle of the racket in my hand. The discovery was too much for me and I fell onto the court in helpless laughter. Tears found their way to the corner of my eyes and reminded me of the chill temperatures that even a mild day in mid-winter can bring. Craig didn't laugh. Maybe he did, a little, later, after a glass of wine, but I found the debauchery a wonderful summary of my foray into competitive sports.

No one else thought the story very funny (so don't feel bad if you don't find this at all humorous). So I stopped telling the story. Only my sister, Kami, recognized the same hilarity of the moment as I did, laughing with zeal when I recounted the events over the phone for the first time. Every now and then, deep into the night and a bottle of wine on a summer evening at our parents' home, Kami will beg me to tell her the tennis tale or the big ass lamp anecdote and together we laugh with a shared sense of humor that appears to be ours exclusively. She will recall a mishap with a boyfriend or her part in Jonathan Livingston Seagull and we will fall deeper into our laughter sending anyone that tried to linger through our bout of goofiness away. The tears and loss of speech usually climax with the shared memory of inappropriate behavior through a long ago holiday mass.

We are two sisters quite unlike each other. She, full of beauty and adventure, free-spirited and unreserved, continuously expressing herself and her art, unmindful of the outcome. I am more domestic, reserved. We do, though, share a love of many things. We connect through books and writing. And laughter.

Monday, October 11, 2010

Autumn Flights

Autumn is dipping its toes in the water, not quite ready for a full plunge but satisfyingly wet in Asheville. The sourwoods’ burgeoning reds and the creeping yellow emerging on the tulips poplars dot the mountainsides and neighborhoods with color. Our park, too, blushes among the green. I love October and its characteristic blue skies that beckon to be faced full on and I find myself on my back along a bench, against the leaf-littered grass, on soccer turf, my face yielding completely to sky and sun. The intermittent clouds seem to sit against a glass floor, pressed flat into the same plane below and typically cumulus above. They gather in small groups, if at all, and my teenager find this curious, “as though,” she remarks, “they’ve all been invited to the same party.” (My teenager, while accommodatingly miserable and angst ridden on facebook is surprisingly charming and enjoyable at home.)

Even the night skies seem especially clear and star-laden despite the electricity-infused glow from the earth. As the kids prepared to camp together at my brother’s home, I found myself gazing toward the heavens from the Atlanta backyard and following the busy traffic that moved among the stars. I grew envious of the travelers shooting across the wide, sparkling sky over the world below with its vast expanse of dark and over bustling pockets of artificial glimmer. The girls settled into sleeping bags, searching for another bite of favorite family camping trips that age like wine over time into rich, full-bodied memories of togetherness and the outdoors, unmarred by recollections of unceasing rain and leaking tents or bug-obstructed views. Although the day had been warm enough for the kids to swim in the creek where we picnicked for Miren’s birthday, the night quickly turned cold and I left Lise, Lauren and Miren for the warmer house.

The temperatures plunge even deeper in Asheville and the night’s chill lingers in the rooms and settles on the leather couch where Rem and I snuggle under a fleece throw while I sip through a rather large mug of coffee and he, still smelling like sleep, finishes waking. Unlike summer’s bright, glaring illumination of dog hair and dust bunnies, the autumn sunlight casts an amber glow through the house that is diffused and inviting. Inviting also to our winged friends.

Our ambient lighting is killing birds. Doves, orioles, robins. Suddenly, the birds want our dining room door to serve as a portal to the opposite side of the house rather than fuss above or around the back of our home. Alas, the door serves as a portal of death as birds slam into the glass leaving a round smudge like a giant finger print before falling. Broken-necked birds lie on the deck below, the pose unnatural but otherwise the bodies strangely serene and intact. I jump at the quick, staccato thump of the late-morning death flights but Rem rushes excitedly to the door. “No dead birds this time,” he announces, somewhat disappointed, as he returns to play. Not all attempts result in death but enough do to make the three-year old’s shrill description of the lifeless creatures at the back door send a chill up my spine.

Followers

Contributors