A few months ago, I put on one of those “relaxing scene” DVD’s featuring a beach with waves rolling up to the shore, complete with ambient sounds of breeze, gulls, and surf. Doré couldn’t stand it. “It stresses me out!” she said as she left the room. I thought she was crazy.

This morning was my scheduled stress-test with very-pleasant cardiologist Dennis Simpson. The nurse had just finished prepping me, and as I sat waiting with electrodes attached to burning skin on the dry-shaved patches of my chest, I watched my heart rate on the monitor.

At first it was around 90 beats-per-minute, normal for me at a doctor’s office.  I knew I could bring it down with my thoughts, I was just surprised at which thoughts they were.

First, I put myself at a beach.  96 beats-per-minute.  Not what I expected.

Next, I was strapped into an 800-horsepower American stock car getting ready to fire the engine and roll out on to the track.  Result:  81 bpm.

I sort of expected that.  There’s something comforting to me about having the skills to drive in a race and the perfect vehicle with which to do it, not to mention the state of meditation induced by the level of focus that race driving requires.

Then I tried table-tennis.  I was hitting forehands with Que at the WSUTTC.  That put me up a little, around 86 bpm.

Then I went on a Sunday evening walk.  Result:  97 bpm.

Now I understand.  Those quiet “relaxing” moments are the times when my mind races the most.  Planning and analyzing all the ways I’m going to solve all of my life’s problems.  It’s only the activities which occupy all of the mind’s focus which truly relax me.

This doesn’t mean I’ve changed my mind.  I still think Doré is crazy.

Just like me.

Kindergarten

I think today was my third time taking Novalie to morning kindergarten, and it’s still a haunting experience.  Watching her trot away to the schoolyard with her little blue backpack, I have a hard time resolving in my mind that she is the little baby that I scooped into my arms back in Missouri in 2003.  There must be some kind of mistake.  Someone miscounted the years.  She can’t be five years old.

Grandma’s Funeral

I attended my grandmother’s funeral back in late May.  Many family members who knew her so well had so many important things to say, so I never bothered anyone with my own thoughts.  There are at least two moments from that event that I want to remember.

I was unsure whether or not Novalie should be allowed in for the viewing, since I’ve always thought it to be a bizarre ritual, but she really wanted to go in.  After viewing Grandma Jolley, Novalie became a little sad.  “I miss Grandma Jolley,” she said.  She never met Great Grandma Jolley, but that didn’t matter to Novalie – Novalie feels an instant bond with any and all relatives.  After the funeral, Novalie drew a picture of herself holding hands with Grandma Jolley.

Later, when taking hold of the casket as part of my pallbearer duties, a very clear sentence was spoken inside my mind:  “Grandma, it is an honor for me to lift you now with all the respect I have.”  Those words came to me almost involuntarily, by some wise part of my brain that only surfaces on rare occasions.

219

I made such a big deal about 239, you’d think I’d be in full celebration at hitting 219 lbs., but I forgot to mention it.  This puts me back at my pre-Decagon weight, and maybe even as far back as the year 2000.  I just have to remind myself that when I first ballooned to 220 lbs., I felt ridiculously fat and was sure I’d never allow myself to get any fatter.  I’ve been coasting for a couple of weeks now, since 220 was a big goal for me.  Now it’s time to take the helm once again and chart my way down to 210.

I’ve been keeping a mental list of the coolest names in world sport. Always near the top were names like Tomas Hitzlsperger (German Soccer player), Magnus Hedmann (Swedish goalie), Gigi Galli (Italian rally driver), Jari-Matti Latvala (Finnish rally driver), and Gianluca Pagliuca (Italian goalie). Now I have a new one for the list: Mark Winterbottom.

Before we all start to embarrass ourselves by snickering at something we know we should be below our maturity level, let me just say that Mark Winterbottom is an athlete who deserves respect. The Australian V8 Supercars are not easy to drive. They’re powerful and tail-happy. They require a very careful touch and a lot of car control. Get on the throttle too quickly coming out of a corner, and the car will jump out from under you “like stepping on a cat’s tail.”

After that, it’s just the kangaroos to worry about.

I had been watching a V8 Supercars race on the Speed Channel, when the Australian announcer said something that would change my life forever.

“Up front! Rick Kelly has lassooed Winterbottom!”

It’s especially funny if you imagine it in an Australian accent, and if you pronounce “lasso” the Australian way. “Lassoo.”

This got me thinking about all the winterbottoms I had lassooed over the years. I didn’t have to think too far back. Sure, there are plenty of winterbottoms in the past that I can reminisce upon. Sledding at Carmichael Hill as a child. Anthony Lakes Ski Area 1988. Grand Targhee with Doré in 1995. Really, though, I needed to look no further back than this morning.

It was a tired and cranky Saturday morning in our household, which is fairly typical for us. Doré was feeling sick and tired, and I figured I needed to take Novalie and give Doré some space. I asked Novalie if she wanted to go outside with Daddy. “I want to play baseball!” she said.

After two or three minutes of throwing pitches to Novalie, we spent the next hour throwing snowballs, rolling snowmen, building snow forts, and generally rastlin’ in the snow. Novalie has more of a mêlée style of snowball combat. She likes to chase me through the snow and drill me from close range. I will inevitably tumble to the ground, and Novalie will dive on top of me to complete another victorious round of snowball competition.

Of course, at the end of the hour, we had both earned winterbottoms for ourselves. Winterbottoms that I hope we will both remember for years to come.

The sun had been up for a couple of hours, and was just starting to warm the Southern Idaho desert as I took the exit from Broadway in Boise to westbound I-84. There is something familiar about the desert here, the wide expanse of flat, brown earth dotted with tumbleweeds. Green forest and tall mountains always felt like an implied challenge, but not the desert. The desert doesn’t feel threatening in any way.

There was some personal comfort in that warmth that morning and I began to think that everything . . .

“Daddy, the song needs to be louder!” called Novalie from the back seat. I gave the volume button a tap. “More!” she shouted with enthusiasm. Another bump of the volume.

“Is that good, Novalie?”
“Breakdown!” She screeched, almost in sync with Axl Rose, and so it was loud enough. During the piano and guitar solos, Novalie sang her own lyrics.

“I love! I love who I love!” sang her little four-year-old soul. Has she learned at this age that all songs must be about love?

In later songs, her lyrics changed slightly.

“I want to be! I want what I want to be!” She bellowed. Then I recognized the common feeling in Novalie’s various song lyrics. They’re about freedom, limitless possibility, and making one’s own choices in life.

When I look around, everybody always brings me down
Is it them or me, well I just can’t see
but there ain’t no peace to be found
But if someone really cared, well they’d take the time to spare
a moment to try and understand another one’s despair -
Remember in this game we call life that no one said it’s fair
-Guns N’ Roses, Breakdown

We never found Wal-Mart, and that was just fine with me. I was content to drive in the morning sun and learn about Novalie through her songs. The Taurus could wait for an oil change.

It was too hard not to watch the high school students as they walked past in their various groups. We occasionally watched some football as well.

We decided that it would be good Friday night fun to go to a high school football game. The atmosphere, the energy, and Novalie was sure to love all the noise and commotion. It’s her thing. Just about the time I cheered with the other Moscovites at Moscow’s game-tying 35-yard touchdown pass, I looked over and noticed that neither Doré nor Novalie was watching the game.

“Did you see that?” I asked Doré, knowing full well that she hadn’t.
“Kevin, I’ve just been watching the students walking past this whole time.”

We weren’t seated very high in the bleachers, and we were between the entrance and the student section, so we got to see a large number of MHS students up close. Most of the classic cliques were represented. It was hard not to watch them, try to guess their personalities based on what they wore and how they carried themselves, and to guess what social groups they might belong to. This was clearly the thing that most interested Doré on that night.

“Which group do you think Novalie will join when she’s in high school?”
“I am so scared about that” was Doré’s reply.

Novalie’s attention was riveted to the Moscow High School band. They were just a few feet from us, on the other side of the stairs. As they played, two female students, dressed just like hippies from 1968, danced to each song. The whole thing had Novalie’s full attention, so we spoke to her about it.

“Are you watching the band?” Doré asked.
“You can dance if you want to,” I offered.

Novalie’s thoughts were very different from ours.

“I forgot to bring my harmonica,” she said. She didn’t want to watch or dance, she wanted to join the band.