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.

Welcome to the Blog of Light. This is the first entry.

I used to think that a personal journal was kept for the benefit of its writer, intended as a personal catharsis. I have since learned that this is not true. When we write in a journal, we do so for our family members, and for future generations. This is something I learned at my brother’s funeral.

A blog is not a journal.

A blog is a ridiculously temporary, volatile, and intangible blip on the time line of a life’s history. If God commanded the prophets to engrave their words in gold and brass, then it is only fitting that we fools record our writings in corruptible magnetic patterns laid across fragile hard drive platters.

I remember sophomore English class with Mr. Loss back at Richland High School in the 1988-1989 school year. The first few minutes of every class were spent writing in a journal notebook. Assigned topic, or free write, we were tasked with filling a page in under ten minutes. Most days I used very large handwriting and very wide margins in order to fill my page. This, of course, was contrary to the spirit of the assignment. The purpose of the free writes is and was to practice writing, to draw out ideas from ourselves, and force ourselves to think through an idea.

For me, the web log is the new free write.

I cherish that old high school notebook full of free writes. They are absurd, hilarious, and occasionally smart. I may be the only one who thinks so, and that’s all right. I recognize that aside from Mr. Loss, I am the intended audience.