The scars of mobility

I don't remember learning to ride a bike. I do have some pictures in my mind of somebody learning to ride on the street in front of the house where I grew up. But my memory wires often get crossed between my own childhood and the childhoods of my children.
Was it me learning to ride on the purple bike with the banana seat and pink and white streamers on the handle bars? Or was it one of my daughters? Was it me who took off pedaling and forgot how to put on the brakes and ran into the back of a parked car?
Come to think of it, that was me.

Pre-mobile days.

Bike riding added such a grand dimension of freedom to my young life. Just like that, I became mobile. Not only was I mobile, I was also in complete control of my mobility. It was wonderful. But at the same time, as a solo bicyclist, I suddenly had important decisions to make that could impact my life in the best and worst ways.
Should I ride my bike to Chisholm Park? It could be fun. There were ducks and a swimming pool and a big metal rocket in the playground. However, while it was only 2 1/2 miles from my house, once I got there I'd also have to ride that same distance back home. Was it worth risking heat exhaustion (because it was always the middle of summer, you know), dehydration, hunger and missing "Father Knows Best" and "Leave It To Beaver"? Decisions, decision.
I think I made the trip one time. Once was enough for me to discover that the fun did not outweigh the risks.
Yes, kids sometimes have to learn things the hard way, and I was no different. I learned another difficult lesson on another summer day, after the mosquito truck made its rounds in our neighborhood.
The mosquito trucks were operated by the city. They drove around belching giant clouds of toxic fumes that allegedly controlled the mosquito population. My brother and his friends were daredevils, of course, and they liked to ride their bikes through the fog. I can still see them pedaling fiercely down Yucca Trail, their loud war-whoops trailing to whispers as they disappeared into the fumes. On this particular day, I watched their backs as they biked away and thought to myself, "If they can do it, surely I can do it too." I stood for a moment at the end of the driveway, staring down the street and weighing my chances. I could see nothing past the house next door, just thick gray smoke.

Weapon of mass destruction sans streamers.

But I took a deep breath anyway, jumped on my bike and took off without another thought. I made it almost to the corner where Yucca intersects Cimarron before I hit the curb. I was barefoot of course, so the top of my right foot and shin scraped 10 feet down the rough concrete before I finally came to a mangled stop. My wounds were impressive, bigger than peaches, gaping, bleeding.

I can't remember what happened next. I'm sure there was some crying involved. I probably limped home in the dissipating fog, pushing my bike, tears and snot dripping from my nose and chin. My mom probably tsk-tsked my ignorance as she cleaned me up and administered Band-Aids. I'm sure my dad consoled me with ice cream and candy and slipped me quarters for my piggy bank.
I learned a valuable lesson that day indeed. I learned it was not a good idea for me to ride my bike into mosquito fog, regardless of what my brother and his friends did.
And so I never did it again.

Anatomy of fun

Red light, green light. Freeze tag. Hide-n-go-seek. Truth or dare. Candy store in the backyard clubhouse. Elaborate Barbie cities. Swimming by moonlight. Walking barefoot on freshly tarred streets.
Lying on my back on the driveway under the streetlight, dreaming of a future that I knew nothing about but could feel in my head and my heart.
When I think back to those days, my childhood, these are the things I remember. We had fun, so much fun - me, my brother Derek and his friends Carroll, Joey and Jimmy, my best friend Kathleen and her little brother Steve, the Ratliffs and Jackie down the street, Scott and John, the Youngbloods, and the rest of the neighborhood crew.

Just before the stink bomb went off.

Even the mean treatment I got from Derek and his friends seemed fun to me then and now. I was always on my guard when they were around. I never knew what practical joke I would be the butt of next, so I was wary, always wary. When I heard strange noises outside my window or when Derek said, "Hey, Kristi, come 'ere a minute!" with that sly half-grin on his face, red flags flew up and I responded with caution.
Sure, I was pretty mad when they tricked me into eating Gravy Train dog food candy they made in the garage. But I got over it pretty quickly, about as fast as the story became legend. Really, I didn't mind. Derek and his friends (being three years older than me) could have just ignored me completely. That would have been a far more terrible fate to me than being teased and pranked. Besides, not only did they deem me worthy of teasing and pranking, I was also included in their fun play - street games of Frisbee, garage ping-pong tournaments, marathon Monopoly games lasting into the wee hours of the morning, tree forts and baseball diamonds in the field behind our neighborhood. I could sense their admiration of me when I was the only girl who would play football with the boys. It made me proud.
We had the most fun.
I've always been a big advocate of fun. I believe we should make the most of life and have the most fun we can possibly have, day in and day out. In fact, fun has been my motto since my divorce six years ago. Of course, I was also concerned about other important things like working, going back to college, surviving. But fun is important too. If you don't have fun on a regular basis, all those other "serious" things can drag you down.

San Juan River kayaking trip.

I think I've been pretty successful thus far. I've had more fun in the past six years than I had the first 42 years of my life. I've danced and hiked and traveled, listened to some great music from some talented artists, met some interesting and awesome people and developed deep and lasting friendships. I white-water kayaked, camped out in beautiful, snowy mountains, and soaked in primitive natural hot springs at 8,000 feet. I flew through Utah's Valley of the Gods in a hot-air balloon and sun-bathed in the middle of Alpine flowers.
I've had the most fun.
And it ain't over yet. My journey into fun continues, and now, I have someone to share all my life adventures with. How sweet is that?
A friend of mine asked me the other day if Chuck and I have fun together. I answered with an unequivocal "Yes!" No doubts at all. No stopping to consider the question.
"We both love baseball, so we watch all the Rangers games together, and we go to games and talk about baseball, and we play softball together, and we like to look at houses together, and we both love movies, we watch movies every single night and also go to the theater. And we both love music and going to concerts, big ones and little ones." - deep breath - "So yes, we have a lot of fun."
When I did allow myself to further explore my friend's inquiry, I realized that I have fun with Chuck no matter what we do. Just sitting on the couch together, eating our "Chuck Chow" (healthy nutty chocolately fruity snack mix), is fun to me. Playing with our dogs and picking out new fish for the aquarium is fun.

Here's to fun.

Talking to him about life and family and friends and finances is interesting and comfortable and satisfying and, yes, fun. I hope he feels the same way. In spite of all my wonderful traits (heh!), I know I'm no walk in the park. I can be difficult, I know, but hey, I'm probably the funnest person he has ever known! I think so, anyway.
Couples having fun together is an integral part of a successful relationship. That's not just according to me, it's also a popular and ancient belief of the world. Dr. Steve Stephens, author of "Blueprints for a Solid Marriage," wrote that "couples who know how to play and have fun together develop a bonding that can carry them through the most difficult of times.” Yes, I agree.
And old King Solomon, who is often considered the wisest man ever to have lived, told men to "Enjoy life with your wife..." Amen and amen.
Fun. If you're not having any, it's never too late to start.

My morning sacrifice

7:30 a.m.
I just wandered out to the backyard. It's a beautiful morning. Very cool and very sunny. I'm not usually up this early, and even if I am, I'm not standing around outside observing the beauty of nature.
I'm not a morning person. Never have been and probably never will be. But lately, anytime I am up early and out and about, I'm amazed at how great it makes me feel. Maybe because it's something new and different these days. Believe me, all the times I ever had to get up really early to go to work some job, I was not filled with amazement and wonder and good feelings on my daily commute.

My little house in Cortez, CO.

Except for the time I lived in Cortez and drove 60 miles to work in Durango every day. Now that was a wonderful commute through Colorado mountains. I tried to schedule my departure from the house so I could catch Garrison Keillor's "The Writer's Almanac" on KSUT (Durango's public radio station) on the trip over. After listening to Keillor's soothing, melodic voice read the daily poem, I was usually inspired to write one myself. But alas, I was driving and always running late. So making a pit stop on the side of the road to wax poetic was not an option. I tried to make voice notes on my cell phone recorder, but that's no good. It's not the same. Trying to go back to the notes later and be inspired on demand does not work for me.

Spot: "Why are you up so early?"

So anyway, I dragged myself out of bed this morning because Linsy the JRT was doing her frenzied squeaking routine right outside my bedroom window. That's how she barks at the squirrel who makes his home in one of our backyard trees.
"Squeek, squeek! Squeek, squeek!"
Like fingernails on a chalkboard.
I knew the squirrel was probably teasing her, as always, sitting on the tree just out of reach of her amazing running climb up the trunk. It's a pretty big squirrel. I've seen it. And it's very bold and fearless. It drives Linsy nuts. Spot, our other JRT, couldn't care less about the squirrel and lets his sister do all the carrying on about it while he sits in the sun surveying his domain.
I've found that if I go out into the backyard when the squirrel is in tormenting mode, and stand under the trees for a little while, Linsy calms down. Perhaps the squirrel gets tired of waiting for me to leave and moves on to tease and torture some other dog in the neighborhood. Maybe my presence makes Linsy feel safer and her backyard more secure. I'm not sure why exactly, but it does work. So getting out of bed to stop her annoying squeaking is well worth the sacrifice.

Giant coffee cup. Yum!

Before I went outside, I grabbed a big cup of the coffee Chuck made for me before he left for work this morning. It smelled good and it seemed like the right thing to do.
So my giant coffee cup and I stepped into the backyard, fending off leaps and licks from the JRTs. I stood under the trees, staring up into the branches, trying to catch a glimpse of the tormentor. But I saw nothing.
Then I noticed the garden, which has turned into a lush, flowering plot of land in the middle of the yard thanks to Chuck's careful and consistent watering and the rain we had the other night. Lord knows I had nothing to do with its success, beyond expressing my desire to plant a vegetable garden way back at the beginning of spring. But Chuck, he knows how to make plants grow. Squash blossoms, pepper blossoms, tiny green Roma tomatoes drooping on the vine - they're all there. It's a beautiful sight.

Squash blossom.

And as I said, the air was very cool. My sleep attire - a thin tank top and shorty-shorts - was not enough to ward off the chill, and I was reminded of Colorado summer mornings. For a moment, I felt grateful that days like this exist in Texas too.
I didn't stay out there long, just long enough to finally see Mr. Squirrel balancing on the power line above the fence. His tail flicked nervously but he didn't move, not even when I waved my arms and yelled at him to "Get out of here!" He only stared at me from the corner of his eye, as if to say, "Whatever, lady, go put some clothes on."
I did go inside then, but not to put clothes on. I chose not to bow to the demands of a mangy squirrel in my own backyard. No, instead I poured a little more coffee and grabbed my laptop.
It was no Garrison Keillor morning in the Colorado mountains, but it was inspiring just the same.

Dance Until You're Sweating

I love watching people dance who absolutely do not care what anyone thinks of them and are only wrapped up in the pure joy and freedom of the uninhibited moment.
Most of the time, I would prefer to be dancing myself rather than watching. But there have been times when I am stuck to a wall or chair, in observation mode, for whatever reason. Good thing, because I have seen some really great dancing from that position.
I had a good friend in high school who had no sense of rhythm and didn't seem to notice or care. She danced with abandon, and I danced self-consciously beside her, pitying her awkward flailing moves. Who do you think had the most fun at dances? It certainly wasn't me.
One of the many things I loved about Colorado was that people there love to dance - everyone and everybody, to any kind of music. If there's a trio busking on the sidewalk downtown, chances are somebody is dancing. At music festivals, small and large, in city streets and mountain meadows, people dance.
In Texas, not so much.
A couple of weeks ago, we went to a BBQ cookoff in Austin. Some of Chuck's buddies from work were cooking on a team there. A great band was playing classic rock on a flatbed trailer and a handful of people were standing around watching. Nobody was dancing. I told Chuck, "If this were Colorado, those people would be dancing."
I admit, I was not dancing either. Although I have overcome most of the shy self-consciousness that has plagued me most of my life, I still haven't gotten to the point where I will dance alone.
Ok, I take that back. I have sometimes danced alone but that only happened after I imbibed too many cocktails in a very short span of time. My life goal is to someday have the confidence and freedom to be that uninhibited on my own, without alcoholic influence.
Last year, I went to Big Barn BBQ to watch a band play. I went alone but there were other friends of mine there, distant acquaintances. I did not dance that night either, but I watched a couple on the dance floor. They were older than me, probably in their late 50s. They didn't touch and rarely made eye contact, but they moved together like the gears of a clock. Their 1960s groove was in pure sync - the lady frugged and spun in circles, her man shimmying around her. They reminded me of the couple dancing in "It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World," and I loved it.
My Central Texas Social Club recently met at the Walburg Restaurant biergarten. The large outdoor area was full of people, and so was the dance floor. We sat at a picnic table in back, behind the dance pavilion. Folks were having a great time - children, teenagers, adults and senior citizens. Daddies danced with their little girls, grandmas danced with babies. My cousins danced, but I did not. My sweetie is not a dancer, and I was in a semi-foul mood for no particular reason. So I observed instead, sipping my beer and chatting with the cousins.
But next time. Oh, next time, I will dance. If I have to, I will dance alone, shuffling and twirling, shimmying and swirling, eyes closed then lifted in wonder and abandon to the band and the people around me.
I won't care who's watching or seeing or judging, because I will be there. Dancing.

"And then take yourself out dancing, to a club where no one knows you, stand on the outside of the floor until the lights convince you more and more and the music shows you. Dance like no one’s watching because they’re probably not. And if they are, assume it is with best human intentions. The way bodies move genuinely to beats, is after-all, gorgeous and affecting. Dance until you’re sweating. And beads of perspiration remind you of life’s best things. Down your back, like a book of blessings."
- from "How To Be Alone" by Tanya Davis