He reeked of 15 million pounds of salmon – the ocean dumped out and left to warm and rot on the floor of the processing plant. He worked on the docks of Seattle, processing the shiny, glimmering corpse-bodies until they were racked in tidy filets, perfect for the summer barbeque with the neighbors.

For years, I’d watched him leave in the dark hours of the morning dressed in coveralls, Igloo lunchbox in hand. He kissed me goodbye and called me cherub. He made me macaroni and cheese for breakfast. It was quiet in the mornings when he left and when he hugged me he smelled subtly of industrial-strength detergent mixed with halibut.

In the evening he’d come home wrapped in the smell of 13 hours of warming fish and I’d feign disgust screaming, “Papa – - You stink!” as I sprinted down the hallway to my day bed, where I put my head under the pillow and screamed, “SHOWER!!!!”

Occasionally he still had his beard net on – a flimsy papery cover with strained elastic attempting to contain the red, unkempt wedge of whiskers that we called his “rainbow”. The beard net amused me to no end.

I was 17 when I went into the city with him to pay my dues on the line.

I’d been selling Armani suits to men in a fancy store near, but not in (an important distinction for me), the mall. I was an almost-legal teenage girl with blond hair and green eyes and the sales job felt a little bit like taking candy from a baby aside from the fact that I never felt a stitch of guilt. Babies cry. Men just pull out plastic.

I held up coordinating shirts and ties and called the in-house tailor over when we found a winner. I tacked on a second suit at 50% off because I could. They looked at me and nodded their heads. I wore skirts and shoes with heels. I knew exactly what was going on. I made them confident. It was good money and they were going to knock ‘em dead in that important interview. Everyone was winning. I didn’t think twice.

Then the store went out of business abruptly and there I was, jobless in the summer. It was prime money-making time and I was headed to college in September. I needed to bank cash – and fast.

Dad had a spot on the line. He’d been made manager by then and faced the daily challenge of putting together a crew that could mow through a truckload of fish at lightening speed. There was a strategy to selection. There was a pecking order to the processing line.

The filet guys were on top. They held long, deathly dramatic knives, which they sharpened against one another in a soft, fast motion that looked dangerous and poetic. Occasionally they missed. Finger casualties were part of the deal.

The entire crew was Filipino and they spoke only Tagalog while working. The radio station of choice was a local soft rock station. Without true peers, I passed the hours with Rod Stewart and Phil Collins. I learned all of the words to Sussudio but still cannot tell you what it is about.

The music was the least of my worries. I was well aware that I was Queen Whitey, daughter of the line manager, slumming it for a few months before flitting off to cash in on my full ride at a private university. The disparity weighed on me and I vowed not to accept special treatment. I busted ass. My green eyes won me no favor here, so I kept them turned down and focused on the work.

It was harder than it looked. I started as a de-boner, working with a pair of pliers to pull every slender, near-invisible rib out of the pink filets. I was slow at this. Possibly terrible. We worked in a large freezer and my fingers were cold and clumsy.

They pulled me after a few hours – I was slowing down the progress of the line. It was a demoralizing blow. Here I had fingers that could rip out an AP English timed-write with exact precision and excellence but I could not pull bones out of a fish fast enough?

I was demoted to the racking position, which was the very last step in the process. I couldn’t create a bottleneck if they stationed me at the end of the line. The shame was stinging.

Racking was easy. Lay 6 filets on a large aluminum sheet and then smash it onto the large rolling rack next to me. The rack gets full and I roll it into a holding freezer. Simple enough, but the large rolling racks were made of industrial metal – heavy when fully loaded. I threw my body weight against them and moved them, inch by inch, to their final destination. Here I was – All-League in Cross-Country and I couldn’t move a rack of fish? So much for fitness.

The days were long. Sometimes as long as 14 hours. If you have never stood on your feet in a freezer with plastic gaiters on your arms and a paper hairnet on your head for 14 hours, I’m telling you, you’re missing out.

The aching started in the arches and moved up. The stupor in the brain spread to the heart and infected the guts. My eyes saw nothing but scales and silver, so many fish splayed out and severed in my hands. Shining like metal. Dead and soon-to-be delicious.

The day ended without fanfare. I thought we should celebrate. High fives at the end of a Saturday 12-miler. I wanted companionship and camaraderie.

I got fish.

As the rest of the line wrapped up, I hustled to rack the bodies that were coming down the aluminum table at me. One more rack to move. One more slog to the freezer.

I slammed the last 6 filets into place and leaned hard against the lumbering rack, which had grown heavier as the day went on. No luck. I felt the press of hard metal edges into the bones of my shoulder. I applied my weight lower down and dug my shoe into the concrete in a desperate lunge at the risk of toppling the whole contraption right on top of me. I could see the headlines already, “Queen Whitey Crushed by Defenseless Dead Salmon: Revenge of the Hunted”.

I didn’t care. I die for you, salmon. I fucking give my life for you. I pushed and closed my eyes. Behind my eyelids, flashes of silver and scale shooting erratically. It was pain mixed with delirium and disappointment.

And then, all at once, the rack lightened and moved. It glided easily and I lost my footing as it slipped away from it. I held on, following. I pretended to push. I could see my father’s hand above mine, thick and scarred with fingers disfigured from untreated broken bones.

We reached the freezer and stopped.

“Kid,” he said, laughing, “You look positively gray. Go get changed.”

In the break room, I pulled the plastic gaiters down and rinsed them in the sink. Hung the plastic apron on the hook. Trashed the little paper hairnet helmet.

My timesheet CLUNKED as I clocked out and I did the math in my head. $6.50 an hour. 14 hours. $91 bucks. Bank it, baby. Eat my dust, Phil Collins.

Dad and I took the bus home that night. It was a 55-minute trip and the seats around us cleared as we stumbled up the back stairs and sat down.

For the first time ever, I could not smell the fish on my father. I was aware of the glances. The glares. The repulsion. For the first time, my green eyes won me nothing but a piercing message of rejection and horror. We were monsters, my father and I. Fishy monsters. I wanted to roar.

Papa pulled out a novel and I fell asleep slumped onto the Igloo cooler with my head on his shoulder. He woke me when our stop came and we drove the little red truck from the Park N Ride to the house.

Dinner was hot soup. Mom ran me a bath. Dad said, “You did good, cherub.”

The alarm went off the next morning at 4:45am.

Related posts:

1. My Father Crushed my Hand – A Father’s Day Post It happened when I was about seven. Thanksgiving Day. I...
2. Nutrition Tip #3: Fish Oil I don’t believe that you need to take a ton...
3. The Daily Shake: Today’s Smoothie Monster of Death I’ve taken to drinking a morning smoothie instead of the...

It happened when I was about seven. Thanksgiving Day. I remember clearly.

We were out in the garage mashing aluminum cans because as an enterprising young whipper-snapper I’d noticed that the junk man’s aluminum price had recently sky-rocketed. I was preparing the final batch in what would be my most epic aluminum can delivery. Sure to break world records. Guaranteed to bring me enough money for the Cornsilk Cabbage Patch Kid of my day dreams.

Cornsilk Cabbage Kids had *real* hair, not this yarn crap that you saw everywhere. I would not settle for yarn. I’d been collecting cans for months.

Here’s how can mashing went: I set down a couple dozen in a long row and Dad would follow with feet that we liked to call “clod-hoppers”. They were size 13 and, when stuffed into the appropriate boots, they turned Diet Coke cans into tiny slivers of aluminum, about the size of a large coin.

It was a thing to behold.

Papa and I established a nice rhythm and we were really flying. I could smell the turkey and stuffing in the kitchen and I knew that my sister was probably making some mean mashed potatoes. We were nearly done when I came to the V8 can. It was hard and compact and heavy. I wagered that it was not made of aluminum. I suspected tin. I did not know what to do.

I hesitated, not wanting my father to hurt his foot on an uncrushable V8 can. As I put my seven-year-old hand down to retract the can, my father’s annihilator descended. He saw me just in time to slow the acceleration a bit, but not in time to avoid mashing the soft flesh of my palm into the tiny circle of metal.

“DADDY!”

I grabbed him and he swooped me up. I had my hand behind him, hugging as hard as I could. I didn’t want to see it. I was sure my fingers would be dangling by little ligaments. I think my father feared the same.

We stayed frozen like that for a few seconds while I wailed and pressed my face into his chest to cover my eyes. My hand had been stamped by the clod-hopper!

“You have to show me.” he said. And though I didn’t want to face what was surely permanent disfigurement, I brought the hand into view.

Five fingers intact. A perfect circle of blood.

“Look! They’re all there!” he said.

About that time, Mom appeared in the doorway holding a spatula. “What’s going on?”

“Dad tried to cut off all my fingers!” I was sobbing through a smile, having realized that I would not have to learn how to play first base with a stump in my glove.

“Oh, Geez.” he said. I could see the guilt in his face.  “I mashed her little hand. I’ll take her to urgent care.”

While we sat in the waiting room he showed me his big, calloused hand and told me the story of every crooked finger and permanently swollen knuckle. This one broken in a farm accident, this one mashed in a doorway, that one… that one he can’t remember exactly. Every digit had been broken at least once. He never bothered with doctors for such trivial injuries, so they’d grown back at jaggedy, gruesome angles. His palms were thick and rough.

Waiting there with pain shooting up my arm I felt an unexpected feeling creep in.  A tinge of pride. A sense of belonging.

I belonged to this crazy man with gigantic, scarred hands and twisted fingers. This was my fate. These were my people.

This was my father.

And if, during my lifetime, my hands became only half as beautiful and maligned as his were, I should consider myself lucky.

I looked down at my bloody circle and smiled through stupid tears.

“I can do better than this.” I thought.

And I have.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad! May your feet always be big and your fingers misshapen! I love you more than cyclocross and fancy beer!

xo,
Heidi

Related posts:

1. A Special Dad’s Day Post from Kermy There are a number of things in my life I...
2. I Used to Be a Pipsqueak (A Guest Post) My mother and father have been reading my blog intently...
3. My Father, the Fish Monster Daddy smelled like fish. That was the fact of it....

More often than not, it seems, the two fall on the same day. It’s unfortunate for my mom – like the kids who have to share their birthday with Christmas. In theory, everything should be twice as good but rarely is. Lucky for me, Mary Swift doesn’t seem to mind too much.

I no longer make homemade cards with cut out hearts and crayon poems inside. (Speaking of Hallmark, I used to create the Hallmark “crown” logo on every hand-crafted card I produced, an eerie inversion of creativity and even more disturbing tribute to my very clear understanding/misinterpretation of the significance of brand names.)

But though I’ve ditched the crappy scissors and Elmer’s glue, I still have craft. It’s here. This typing noise I’m making right now.

I know you can’t hear it, but it sounds like an eruption of clacks followed by a short pause, maybe some muttering, a few mashes on the delete key. Then another eruption of clacks. Repeat ad nauseum.

So Mom – Happy Birthday, Happy Mother’s Day, Happy Everything – this collection of clacking fits is for you.

Ladyfingers

My mother is fucking nuts. I learned this when I was six.

We were eating seafood linguine around our circular laminate kitchen table in front of the window that I’d broken a few years prior while shooting a sling shot. I remember the seafood linquine specifically because the tiny clams looked like ashen hearts that had been ripped out of some poor, tiny animal. I imagined myself a giant having just annihilated an entire colony of these gray-hearted beings. I was eating their hearts in a victory celebration.

I had an active imagination.

It was Fall. I remember the coolness of the air through the window.

Which is why we were all surprised when Mom pulled out a long string of ladyfinger firecrackers.

To this day none of us can produce an acceptable explanation for what happened next.

She lit the entire stack of them and threw them into the kitchen sink. Right there in the middle of dinner.

If you’re unfamiliar with ladyfingers, they’re about half the size of normal firecrackers – and maybe twice as powerful. I’m not even sure how we’d acquired them because my mother, who was normally obsessively cautious particularly with fireworks, didn’t approve of these highly dangerous and technically illegal explosives.

Maybe she just wanted them out of the house. I guess that was one way to go about it.

Nevertheless, the effect of tiny explosives in the white porcelain sink was terrifying and grand. They hopped and boomed and stained the white surface with black.

The show lasted only a matter of seconds, during which my mother stood back against the stove screaming at the top of her lungs while we covered our ears and ducked lower into our seats across the room.

When it was over the kitchen hung with the smoke and the smell of sulfur. I took my hands away from my ears and looked at my 14-year-old sister Heather, who’s big brown eyes had ballooned to great new proportions. She was a tough girl – a little wild. Hard to shock to be sure.

My dad let out his patented cackle and I realized that I was holding my breath.

Mom screamed: “That was awesome!!!”

Heather remained still as a rock.

Performance Art

I was the youngest in my family and my sister was 8 years my senior.

This meant that from a very young age, I was employed as the household jester.

I was a cantankerous and vocal three year old. Instead of coddling me sweetly through that difficult time, they leveraged my toddler angst for entertainment.

Mom could tell when a tantrum was about to start and she’d call out to Sister and Daddy: “Come quick! Show’s about to start!”

Then they’d sit on the couch and watch me like the television as I kicked and screamed and wailed. They still love to tell me that their favorite part was a toss up between when I would try to hold my breath until I died (this never worked) and when I threatened to call “1-800-4-a-child”.

Yes, actually I did have the national child abuse hotline number memorized.

*

I started talking early and my mother took great pride in teaching me entertaining phrases like, “Hey big boy, wanna fool around?” It was one of her favorites. At the age of 3 I’d say it while doing a toddler-style impersonation of “the twist”. I’m not sure how these two things went together, but my audiences seemed to love it.

About that time, my mother discovered that I had a memory for lyrics. I couldn’t carry a tune to save my life, but I could remember words and little kids can get away with a lot so I became a party performer.

Our schtick was Mom would do the introduction – something at which she was truly gifted: “Introducing the AMAZING, FABULOUS, FANTASTIC, UNBELIEVABLY WONDERFUL HEIDI SWIFT!”

Then the audience – usually my sister, father and some unfortunate dinner guest – would applaud dutifully. Mom would “Woo hoo!!” to add to the effect.

This was my cue to climb on the wooden kitchen chair, which served as my stage, and begin my warbly rendition of my favorite song: “Oh Lord, It’s Hard to Be Humble.”

I sang it with a distinct country twang, attempting to exactly imitate the way I’d heard Mac Davis do it.

The chorus was, of course, great fun:

Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble
when you’re perfect in every way.
I can’t wait to look in the mirror
cause I get better loking each day.
To know me is to love me
I must be a hell of a man.
Oh Lord it’s hard to be humble
but I’m doing the best that I can.

But it was this verse that I loved the best because it got the biggest laugh out of my doting fans:

I guess you could say I’m a loner,
a cowboy outlaw tough and proud.
I could have lots of friends if I want to
but then I wouldn’t stand out from the crowd.
Some folks say that I’m egotistical.
Hell, I don’t even know what that means.
I guess it has something to do with the way that I
fill out my skin tight blue jeans.

Over the years I learned renditions of my mother’s other favorite songs including Carly Simon’s “You’re So Vain” (another crowd pleaser and a personal favorite of mine to this day) or my father’s favorite, Tim Lehrer’s “Pollution”.

Mac Davis on the Muppets is not to be missed and the glory of YouTube has actually made this gem of my childhood just a few clicks away.

And just because it’s super awesome – Tim Lehrer’s “Pollution”

All the Little Girls in the Whole Wide World

Our evening ritual – after Dad had given me a horsey ride to bed and tucked me in and called me cherub – was this:

Mom: If God put allllllllllll the little girls in the whole wide world in one room and said I could choose whichever one I wanted, do you know who I’d choose?”

Me: Sharon?

No!

But Sharon has long brown hair. My hair is very short.

I don’t care about Sharon’s hair. Who do you think I would pick?

Melissa?

No!

But Melissa has more merit patches than all the rest of us Bluebirds combined.

Melissa’s mom is the Bluebird leader. Besides, I wouldn’t pick Melissa.

Ok then, who?!

You! Of course!!

Really?

Yes, of course.

Out of all the girls on the entire planet?

Absolutely.

Night, Mommy.

Night, Warm Bunny Rabbit.

*

Related posts:

1. Happy Birthday to the Shecko He cooks, he cleans, he tunes our army of bikes…...
2. Happy New Year! (And other small things) Clock ticking over.  Random drunkenness.  Kissing? It’s the new year,...
3. Happy Pants Playlist Rides Again I posted this on my old heidiswift.com site last year...

Big open spaces with free-flowing floor plans and no walls sounds really fucking cool in a tree-house kind of way. And – to be honest – it sort of is. But the hipster-modern factor definitely has its drawbacks.

Which is why I spent the first 10 minutes of every dinner party we held in 2005 explaining why we had 7 bicycles lined up in the living room next to the faux Eames.

They were all Sal’s but for one – the blue and orange Pinarello that I’d required him to buy for me before he could move on to his second, third, fourth, fifth, ad nauseum.

The bikes were conversation pieces. Always good for a laugh.

Besides that, the Sicilian kept them in pristine condition, cleaning them with a shop rag and  an old toothbrush on the north facing patio while I sat at the wooden table smoking fat Macanudos and sipping whiskey in over-sized sunglasses (which was my favorite hobby from the ages of 23-25).

Those bikes were his pride and joy and it showed. They gleamed. Constantly.

I suffered them mostly because he suffered my cigars. And because they consistently gave me 3-4 hours of uninterrupted reading time on any given weekend day. The boy went to the bikes and the girl went to the books. With whiskey. Usually.

Evening was cocktail time and I specialized in resurrecting old classics like White Ladies (contains egg white and gin!), Vodka Gimlets, and Dark N Stormy’s. At night we tucked in on the second level and listened intently to see if there would be another brawl spilling out of Cafe Cocomo. The infamous dance club was more than three blocks away but when the fights went off they always went big: gunfire and dramatic chases and such.

The cats were a constant worry in those days. The skinny one hated the idea that we would sleep for eight hours and leave him bored and lonely. The fat one could not understand that his little paws and claws would not allow him to walk on the smooth, curved banister that cordoned off the upper level (he fell a full story twice – a dramatic endeavor for a 16 pound monster).

We routinely fell asleep at night worrying that A. the skinny cat would steal our breath and leave us for dead in the middle of the night or B. the fat cat would once again perform a suicidal leap.

The Fat Cat was nervous. And by nervous I mean scared.  He flinched at everything and curled into me whenever I sat still for more than 30 seconds, begging for consolation from the cruel world. Probably the Skinny Cat (since verified to be the spawn of the devil) was torturing him when we weren’t looking. Either way, that cat was 100% cowardice.

Which is probably why the winding cord of Sal’s big headphones scared him. Which is probably why he attacked them at 1am on one peaceful Saturday night. Which is probably why he became entangled in the springy cord and fled.

Having no other choice, the headphones attached to the cord chased him, of course.

Which is probably why he panicked and continued to bolt, though there was really nowhere in our 1100 square foot kingdom for him to go.

The sound was rumbling at first – like an earthquake. I woke up with my heart in my throat thinking, “Intruder!”

Sal sat upright staring at me with wide eyes as we both tried not to breathe.

And then it happened.

Traumatic events always happen in slow motion. At least that’s what they say. But I’d never heard of traumatic sounds happening in slow motion until this day. It was the kind of smashing that could only come from the Ultimate Destruction of Every Belonging I Had Ever Worked For.

A great shattering, a huge encompassing roar.

The sound of one Fat Cat pulling an expensive set of headphones through, over and under everything in the living area. The sound of a freestanding bookshelf liberating itself of our designer toys, meticulously arranged books, quirky antiques and box of carefully selected and tirelessly researched cigars. The sound of said freestanding bookshelf tipping wildly into the perfectly arranged line of Beloved Bicycles.

The sound of Pinarellos scratching, frames crunching, components digging into soft (and expensive) bamboo flooring.

Bicycle destruction.

And then it was quiet.

I covered my face with my hands. Sal hit the light next to the bed: he was visibly red, blood rushing to the surface of his skin.

“Tell me that did not just happen.” he said through gritted teeth.

I started laughing – an unfortunate outlet for nervous, terrified energy. My outburst was not appreciated.

Slowly, we leaned over the banister behind the head of the bed, craning down through the curtains to look at the living area below. City lights through the wall of windows illuminated what looked like a war zone.

The cat was sitting in a corner next to the mostly destroyed headphones. Having finally managed to free himself of their evil clutches, he appeared to be gloating.

He looked up at us and blinked in that innocent cat way. He looked at us with an expression that said, “What?”

We pulled the covers over our heads and agreed to pretend that nothing happened. I dreamed of Cat Kabobs and feline fur stoles.

In the morning, Kitty Kat Hell Hangover hit like a freight train and we crept downstairs to begin the reconstruction process. Miraculously, none of the bikes were seriously damaged – but there were enough significant scratches to send the Sicilian into a fit of grief worthy of stopping clocks and covering mirrors. (Luckily, he opted to skip the wailing and rending of clothing.)

It took us three days to restore order.

Three days in which the fate of the Fat Cat alternated between taxidermy and banishment. He sat on top of the shelves and watched us clean and superglue, waiting.

In the end, of course, he remained untouched. Maybe even newly loved. We snuggled him and forgave him. He purred a big fat-boy purr and curled into a gigantic ball which we found irresistible.

He showed us his belly. I’ve been told is a sign of submission which makes me wonder if the people who discover these cat behavior meanings have actually ever had a cat. Because all I saw in his eyes that day as we rubbed his belly and kissed his forehead was this:

“I own you, bitches. Believe that.”

The patio bike shop.

Typical Sunday: cigars, wine, Rushdie.

The culprit.

An attempt at bloated innocence.

The Skinny Cat. aka “The Spawn of Satan”, aka “Biddy”

Fat Cat planning his impending attack on our living space.

The Peaceful Kingdom.

Related posts:

1. Love For Sale. (Pinarello, Batavus, LeMond, Specialized Stumpjumper!) Ok, boys and girls – it’s the Grit & Glimmer...

The woman who answered the phone when I called to book our room at the Aster Inn was kind enough to give me her account of the situation: “There’ll be a little white on the ground for you when you get here, honey – but we haven’t had a flake fall down in days and they say it’s supposed to be clear and bright all the way through the new year.”

Last year at the Aster, 18 inches fell overnight and the crazy lovesick couple in the unit next to ours woke up giggling like children. Times were fatter then so we were staying on the courtyard, instead of out front next to the freeway. I had to shove my weight into the door to get it to open and when I finally did, the world was marshmallow fantastic.

The lady from the lovesick couple waded out into the drift in her slippers and pajamas, hair in a shaggy ponytail, her lover’s hoodie around her shoulders.  She was still laughing as she turned herself into a human plow, carving out the shape of a heart before throwing herself down in the middle of it and calling back into her room for John to come and see.

“She’s nuts!” Sal whispered from the bed behind me.  I shut the door.

“Confirmed.” I said.

I pulled my camera from the bag and slapped on a wide angle lens.

In the end it wasn’t a good photo.

We called my father for a ride and he showed up in the old black Jeep to shuttle us up to the cabin that my parents call home. Sal built a swooping sled run. I dressed up as the Sasquatch and hid in the woods hoping someone would catch a glimpse of me. When my family finally proved too oblivious, I made my way to the back porch, cracked a Rainier beer and sat on the stoop.

For the record, I hate Rainier beer.

The Sasquatch-in-the-snowdrift act was an exclamation point at the end of a dramatic winter that caught all Pacific Northwesterners off guard.  Portland was buried for over a week and everyone was forced to slow down and actually look at one another for a change. The effect was startling. The snow sent people out on foot. Impromptu orphan-Christmas celebrations popped up everywhere. The Potluck ruled the day and secret family recipes were wielded with bravado and pride.

The snow forced the issue. Holidays were mandatory. Slow the fuck down and drink a glass of mulled wine, ok?

But this year? Nothing. Not a flake in Portland and an unprecedented dry spell in Cle Elum.

The lack of storm left the roadways clear, so we took the back way up to the cabin heading North on 97 through the center of Washington State with big, barren landscape stretching out to the left and right. At the Aster we checked in to learn that we were the only guests for the next two nights which is to say that most people probably don’t spend Christmas in a po-dunk motel on the side of a highway.

The thing is, during Christmastime my parent’s cabin is a 700 square foot wooden structure with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a living room a bathroom, 8 human beings, 5 dogs and 2 cats. Things can get a little tight.

On top of that, my dad (god bless ‘im) sleeps with a darth-vadar machine strapped to his face to stop the monstrous snoring that terrorized me in my youth.  It sort of works. Sometimes. And the walls are thin.

This year, my mother offered to “try an adventure she and Dad had always talked about”. Her plan was to sleep on the porch to create more room inside the house. This is funny for many reasons, not least of which the average temperature was predicted to be a balmy 10 degrees. But what was really hilarious (and kind of disturbing) was the fact that, if encouraged, I knew she would make good.

I can almost hear her: “No no, honey – it’s plenty warm. Look, we have Grandpa’s old army blankets.” (We’re not the sort of family to have fancy sub-zero sleeping bags laying around.)

Let the record show that my mother is 60 years old.  And she’s going to hate that I published that on the internet.

It would be different if the cabin were actually a cabin in that romantic way that most people tend imagine it. A nice, weekend getaway outfitted with rustic furniture, carefully selected for the perfect degree of implied rustic-ness.  A cozy little escape where we all converge for a few days and then disperse back to our otherwise urban and suburban existences.

Not so quick, bright eyes.

Sure, the cabin is nestled in the woods and yes, by all means, it’s cozy.  You’ve even got a wood-stove and a few rustic light switch plates in the shape of moose. But at the end of the day, the cabin isn’t some dreamy second home. It’s the only home. And it’s got a well that never quite has enough water, a cistern that perpetually breaks, and a small hot water heater that never quite gets the tub hot enough for mom’s liking, forcing an endless procession of saucepans filled with boiling water.

The “driveway” freezes over at the slightest drop of the mercury, leaving a luge-worthy death trap of an incline (a personal point of pride for my mother who values isolation and interprets the treacherous passage to her home as a kind of modern winter moat).

I phone Dad when we arrive.

“How’s the driveway?”

“Sheet of ice. Need a taxi ride?”

“Yep. We’ll see you in fifteen.”

We’re probably pansy-asses, but in 2001 Sal put the CRV into the ditch on our first attempt at reaching Cabin Summit. I phoned up and Dad was on his way down in a matter of minutes hauling a huge sack of cut-rate kitty litter on his shoulder, two shovels in his hand (my dad has big hands), and a coupla two-by-fours under his arm.

I walked the rest of the way to the cabin and left them to it. I figured it was good man bonding time.

They got the car out that day, which was better than my sister did a few years later. She lodged her All-Wheel-Drive Volvo in so tightly that all the 100% Poppa Certified Kitty Litter Two By Four Magic in the world couldn’t save her. When we called for a tow truck they explained that there was only one truck this side of the mountains with a winch strong enough to handle our predicament. That truck was in Wenatchee and, well, we’d just have to wait.

We decided to keep her company, mostly so we could mock her relentlessly, and by the time the truck arrived we’d killed a six pack of the good stuff. We cheered as he pulled up to our position and cheered again when the slow-moving winch begin to retrieve the wagon.

Putting cars in ditches can be entertaining when there’s enough beer, but I’d rather leave the CRV intact at the Aster Inn and call the Papa-Taxi.

He likes to gun it a little over the bumpy parts, just to give you your money’s worth. And when he isn’t sure that we’ve fully appreciated the thick sheet of ice upon which we are driving (studded tires, Jeep, 4WD), he slams on the brake to emphasize his point. The resulting slide is simultaneously exhilarating and terrifying – just the way I like it.

[Dear Mom, if you're reading this then disregard the last paragraph. Of course Dad would never really send us into a semi-controlled ice skid for entertainment purposes alone.]

It didn’t snow this year, but up at the cabin my niece was still begging with big puppy dog eyes to get someone to let her open presents. Five dogs were running circles around each other to  be the first to own us with a thick layer of slobber.

It didn’t snow, but we still stoked up a new bonfire big enough to take the chill off an eleven degree night as we sat outside watching Christmas movies projected onto a sheet. Dad baked enough cookies to choke a Godzilla-sized Santa Claus and there was a pumpkin pie in the oven. My sister stole half the skin off the 22 pound turkey before it hit the platter and her youngest demanded one of the drumsticks and then proceeded to eat it with ketchup. (Blasphemy!)

We ate off paper plates anywhere we could find a place to sit down and then shot each other in the head with Nerf guns.

It didn’t snow, but it was perfect.

Because sometimes the Christmas spirit doesn’t come in the form of a winter storm. Sometimes it hits you in the temple while you’re scooping a spoonful of the World’s Best Mashed Potatoes into your piehole.

Related posts:

1. Home Sweet Hillbilly Sal laughed and said, “Heidi, stop drinking out of those...
2. Christmas in 1981: Showdown on the Sledding Hill Merry Christmas Eve to all! I hope everyone is enjoying...

Christmas, 1985.

I tear into a shiny metallic package from Santa Claus to reveal a long-coveted toy: a motorcycle noise-maker for my bicycle. I beg my father to install it immediately and then sit on my hot pink banana seat in the garage revving my new engine with a wild, reckless look in my seven-year-old eyes.

The harder you pull back on the toy throttle, the louder it roars. In its deafening and aggressive crescendos, I can hear the sounds of my future. There on that bike, in the murky dampness of our garage, I realize that I am going to take over the world.

There’s only one problem – these blasted training wheels.

My friends have long-since learned to balance their bikes and my inability to reach this important milestone is a stinging source of shame. Not since flunking shoe-tying three times in kindergarten have I experienced such failure.

How can I possibly begin my ascension to world-dominance if I can’t keep a bike upright?

Bolstered by the angry cry of my new motorcycle throttle, I resolve to lose the trainers once and for all.

Two weeks later, I make good.

It’s a perfect winter day – cold and clear. My older sister lets go of my seat and for the first time ever, I don’t wobble and tip over sideways. Delusions of my infinite greatness consume me.

I am all-powerful!

I hit the pedals harder and speed away as my sister calls out: “Where are you going!?” She is running after me, but I’ve already opened a gap.  She’ll never catch me.

I rev my engine as loud as it will go (I have been practicing) and shout back over my shoulder, “To the school!  To the school!”

And then I’m gone. I am not supposed to be riding to the school by myself.  But now that I’ve finally got this thing moving, you better believe I don’t intend to get off any time soon.

I execute a perfect right-hand turn and get a tickly feeling in my belly-button. The speed is addictive.  I rev my engine twice for effect.

I am owning this bicycle.

But then, something goes terribly awry. Coming into a sharp left hand turn, the bike slides out from under me in slow motion and I skid along the pavement before slamming unceremoniously into a handrail.

Just like that, my reign is over.

And as my sob turns into a wail, I clasp my palms over gravel-crusted bloody knees, and entertain the idea of my imminent death.

I am two whole blocks from home, alone and bleeding. No one will ever find me. This is it.

I reach for higher decibels worthy of my final hour. The blood runs in rivulets down my skinny legs and begins to soak into the top of my ankle socks.  As my voice finally cracks and I dissolve into hyperventilated sobs, my sister appears from nowhere.

Rescued!

Back at the house, I prepare to be punished for my escape attempt but instead my sister covers for me and shouts, “Mom!  Heidi rode without the training wheels!”

The blood is caked into the creases of my palms as I reach up to receive the high-five that Mom delivers. Half a bottle of hydrogen peroxide and one ice cream bar later I have come to terms with this hiccup in my quest for global domination.

Certainly kingdoms are not won without some bloodshed, I reason.

The motorcycle toy is badly chipped but still functional and in the morning, knees and elbows bandaged, I ride again. I grip the throttle and pull back hard as it roars out my dominating comeback cry.

Related posts:

1. World Domination From a Hot-Pink Banana Seat: Christmas in 1985 My last column for 2008 will run in tomorrow’s Oregonian,...
2. There are Only So Many Matches (Banana Belt 3 Race Report) Does anyone remember the story of the Little Match Girl?...
3. Single Speed World Championships – The Pre-Party SSCXWC contenders descended upon a time-trial qualifying course at a...

I’m going to be honest and admit to being a little bummed about not being snowed in like last year, but we’re headed north in the big rig and preparing for QT with family, an outdoor movie theater with the Polar Bear Express, and probably some fun photo-making.

We’re not bringing bikes. Or probably even thinking about bikes. Which is rad sometimes, ya know?

In the spirit of balance, I give you a Christmas Re-Run (Christmas is the best time for re-runs, yes?)  Sledding hill showdown is one of my favorite pieces of family lore of all time. I posted it this time last year, but I wager it will be new to some readers.

Tomorrow I’ll re-issue “World Domination from a Hot Pink Banana Seat” – a tale that is not without bloodshed, but ultimately relives a moment of childhood two-wheeled triumph.

[Note: The photo above is an actual photo from the sledding hill in question - unfortunately you cannot see the hockey patch on my yellow jacket.]

Showdown on the Sledding Hill

I am four years old.

My entire family is packed into a tiny, yellow 1969 super-beetle. My parents bought it way back in the long, long ago… brand new off the lot. It is our family car.

Besides my sister and I in the back seat, there are also our two full-sized dobermans, Greta and Soldier. They go with us everywhere. As far as we are concerned kennels are for assholes and dogs are family.

It is December 23rd and we are headed to a small Bavarian-style town in the mountains. It is a 3 hour journey and we are 1.5 hours in. We have just hit the snow-line and I am going bananas.

We have to stop to put chains on so I am allowed to play in the bank next to the highway. My sister is 12 and pelts me with a snowball square in the noggin. I am wearing a yellow, quilted jacket and my hockey patch is sewn onto the left shoulder. The figure skating patch is on the right shoulder but right now I am really into hockey.

Ok. I am really into anything that my sister is doing. And she plays hockey. And she is a lot better than the boys. But I’m used to that by now. She beats them at everything, even football.

Boys are dumb. Even my Dad says that (and he should know).

The dogs are looking bewildered. They are brother and sister, both about 8 years old. Soldier is impressed by the snow for about .479 seconds and then climbs back in the bug. Greta is trying to catch snowflakes with her tongue. After a while she gets distracted and walks a few steps away to make yellow snow.

Later that night we are all bundled in winter gear and headed to the Christmas tree lot. The great thing about buying a tree on December 23 is that you get to cut a deal with the guy at the lot. Mom and Dad chat him up while my sister and I hem and haw about which side of the tree is the best. We have spent the afternoon making chains out of construction paper and popcorn and cranberries. I like the way the cranberries bleed when you poke them with the needles. I always do it nice and slow.

Dad says I have always been a little bit morbid. Since I was strong enough to clasp my hand in a fist I have had this thing for pulling his chest hairs. He used to lay me against him and I would tug and tug and tug.

We are a rough family and that is mostly because of my dad. He grew up having pitch-fork fights with his siblings. He was one of the middle boys out of a 5 (there were also 4 girls) and so he got it the worst. He is good at wrassling and he will let me bop him right in the belly with all my might. It never even phases him.

I am infinitely impressed by this.

He carries the skinny tree home and sets it up while my sister and I bounce up and down holding our popcorn chains and screaming for him to hurry! hurry! hurry! mom has brought a box of our ornaments and when she opens it we begin to vibrate. I squeel when I find the ones that I made for her. My sister’s are better but that’s ok because she’s older. I know how it works.

Heather. Heather is my sister and she is tough. She takes care of me a lot because mom sometimes has to cover the police beat. Or sometimes she covers the schoolboard meetings and they can go all night if you get the parents angry enough. She has lots of stories about angry parents.

On late nights Heather makes me macaroni and cheese and she usually hides broccoli under cheese so that I’ll think it’s good. I fall for that trick more times than you’d wager.

The last thing to go on the tree is the star. My parents brought the star back from Mexico way back when they were first married. It’s made out of tin and painted bright colors. It’s constructed so you can lace the lights all through the inside. They reflect off the angles of the tin and cast light onto the wall. It’s probably the best star in the whole world. That is my assessment at the early age of four years old.

The rest of the ornaments are little fragments of memories and time. Felt things that my grandfather sewed after the muscular dystrophy first came and put him in the big chair all day. That man was always industrious. Before he lost control of the muscles in his arms he would sit around after our card games and make loop rugs and high-tech paper airplanes. He couldn’t walk so he constructed. Who needs walking?

With the star on the tree there was only one thing left to do. Heather and I had to make our appearance on the infamous sledding hill.

Leavenworth is a small, Bavarian style town. The center is a park that is built on a small hill and in the winter every tree is covered with an impossible number of Christmas lights. The BIG ones. Carolers stroll through and the church bells bang out a familiar tune every few minutes. Every kid with any sense in their head at all is on that hill after supper time.

This year, I am making my big-kid debut. Heather and I are sent out alone. She is dragging the big, orange toboggan sled and walking at a pace that I am having trouble matching. I don’t want to complain though. I need to be tough.

I have a red roll-up sled under my left arm and I am watching my big moon-boots as they tromp tromp tromp through the snow. I am at a slight jog. My sister is built like a beanpole and dad says I will be too – I’m just not quite there yet. Her legs cover ground that I can’t even think about.

When we get to the hill I case the joint. It only takes one look to figure out that my sister is going to own this hill. This is the cool part about being with Heather. She kicks the ass and I make sure to take the names.

There are a bunch of wimpy, dumb boys at the far end of the park and they appear to be making a jump. O dude. My sister is SO the queen of jumps. These dudes are toast.

We set to work. I want to make a run but I’ve never gone by myself so I stick close to my sister. This means helping build her jump, which needs to rival that of the boys. Building a killer jump takes time and effort but she is a work-horse and she is doing triple time compared to those chumps. They’re watching us and I know it. I push the snow around as best I can.

Finally. It is time.

Heather has to test the run, to make sure that the jump isn’t too big for me. That’s what she says anyway.

She takes a running start with the orange sled in her right hand. Just as she hits the crest she throws it in front of her and takes a flying leap, landing on her belly, with her skinny nose just point over the front edge of the sled. O baby, this is the big time. Belly down on the first run? I told you those bozos were toast.

She is gaining speed like nobody’s business. She is a madwoman. She always gets this incredible glaze in her eyes when she is on the edge. And she is almost always on the edge of everything. Hell, she almost got kicked out of pee-wee football for being too rough.

She hits the jump like a runaway train and dangles there in the air like an ornament. One leg raised slightly for balance, keeping her from flipping. One arm out to the other side. The sledding hill is silent and my eyes refuse to blink. She is up there forever.

When she lands it is terrific. Smooth but solid. It makes a big noise that makes you think it hurt like you wouldn’t believe. But as soon as she slows she is springing off that orange sled with her fist in the air. She is sprinting back up the hill toward me in a show of strength and triumph and ownership. We haven’t even seen those boys take a run and we still know who owns the park.

“C’mon it’s your turn! C’mon, get ready! It’s great – it’s the best jump ever!”

I’m a little worried. It’s a big jump and she’s got 8 years, 2 feet and at least 60 pounds on me. But I can’t lose face now. This is my big-kid debut. If she thinks I can do it then I can. That’s the way it’s always been. That’s the way it is tonight.

I roll out the red sled and she stops me. “No way. That thing won’t work. You have to use the toboggan.”

And she hands me the sacred toboggan. The BIG big kid sled. O my god. This is like the day she let me ride the Green Machine. O my fucking god.

I don’t go belly down. I’m no fool. I sit with my legs straight out in front of me. Fat, little-kid fingers clutching the sides. I have an off-white hat on with a little puff-ball on top. As she gives me a push I imagine the way my little puff-ball is gonna dance when I hit the ground on the other side of that jump. My eyes are full of big-kid dreams.

All at once the nose of the sled meets the front edge of the jump. I bear down. Somewhere in the black night air my voice is pulsating. A little, four-year-old scream. High and clear. Terror.

I Am. Flying.

The town unfolds before me and the church bells are everywhere. The lights are a blur. The snow is perfect. The trees are my minions. I am so high. I own everything. And I can hear my sister’s voice cheering for me in the background. I am light so I soar long and far.

But contrary to what you’d expect, I land HARD.

I land so hard that my teeth shake in my head. My fingers are white-knuckling the edge of the sled. My legs rattle.

I am still flying. Only not in the air anymore. I am speeding along the well-padded snow. I am racing.

And unlike the big kids who drag their feet or roll over, I have no idea how to stop. I just keep going.

Soon there is a tree. I see it and know it wants me. I know that I can’t be that girl who ran into the tree. Especially not with Heather’s rep on the line. I shift my weight and veer hard to the right. Out of the line of the tree but over another completely invisible bump instead.   It’s tiny so no one really even notices. Except for me. It makes my tummy tickle a little bit and I feel funny.

It is an all-star performance.

But something has gone awry. My bottom becomes slowly warm. This is gonna be bad.

Heather is rushing toward me. She is all congratulations and exclamations and loving me with her words the way she always does. And I am smiling and trying to be big and not look scared. But I’m not a good actress yet.

“What’s wrong?”

Her face drops.

“I. I. I’m not sure. I feel. Wet.”

Her face is a crinkle.

“It’s the snow.”

It’s not the snow, we find out. It’s me. It’s a little four-year-old girl who hit a bump and peed her snow-pants. I am warm and wet but the warm part is turning to freezing cold.

“O Jesus.” She rolls her eyes.

She never does this so I know I am in trouble. I ruined the sledding hill and you just don’t mess with the sledding hill.

“Do you need to get home?”

I am non-committal. Trying to stay out of trouble and still get her to take me home. No one knows but still I am humiliated.

“I’m. I’m getting a little bit cold down there.”

It is too much. I start to cry. I am uncomfortable and a failure. An uncomfortable failure.

“O god,” she groans, “Get up. C’mon. Let’s go home.”

So that’s it. One run each. That’s all we get for the big debut. She is disappointed but I am secretly happy.

Later, when mom puts me in a warm bath, I explain to her how we owned the sledding hill. You know… until that thing happened.

“It was an accident.” I repeat.

“I know it was an accident, baby.” She says, “You’re my little warm puppy dog.”

When she calls me that I know I’m not in trouble any more so I play imaginary games where my fingers are people and they all crash their boats and drown.

Dad always said I had a morbid streak.

My sister is outside with dad building snow forts in the yard. In the morning there will be a great snowball war and I will do my part by losing miserably.

For now it is me and mom in the tub. Me drowning the finger-people and wondering what is in those packages under our homemade tree in the living room.

For now it is me, the little warm puppy dog. Dreaming of owning the sledding hill again tomorrow night.

Related posts:

1. Christmas in 1981: Showdown on the Sledding Hill Merry Christmas Eve to all! I hope everyone is enjoying...

(For the record, my sister was the emergency room queen – I was the projectile vomiter.)

***

While digging through the debris of a four year old move I came across a treasure chest of family kid lore.

Old photographs in envelopes and banded bundles were jumbled in with report cards, athletic letters, homemade birthday, Mothers Day and Fathers Day cards. Drawers full of the stuff had been dumped into the box in the rush of packing.

I’ve never been good at sorting things like this. I read. I fondle each precious artifact and get lost in the drama of a child’s first trip to the emergency room, the slapstick awfulness of projectile vomiting, and the joy of watching a determined little girl with a bloody knee ride without training wheels for the first time. Memories take over. If my wife didn’t decide I was shirking some obligation and drag me back into the present I might be stuck in those happy yesterdays until sometime next week, Or dinner time, whichever came first.

In that big box I found a Fathers Day card our eldest daughter had carefully printed in asymmetrical, mostly backward, wavering letters, undoubtedly delivered with a huge brown eyed smile, a hug and a sweet little kid kiss. I found another from our youngest with her signature hand made fake hallmark insignia on the back. I found piles of team pictures.

I thought about all those years of helping my wife coach baseball. (I got to be the good cop) I relived the endless hours of soccer, tackle football, hockey, basketball, cross country, volleyball, track, proms, school elections, birthday and Halloween parties and on and on. It made me tired just thinking about it all.

There are a number of things in my life I would do very differently or not at all if I had the chance. My girls, my wife and all those hours and hours spent as an over enthusiastic spectator, or coach, or Santa Claus, or the “house of terror garage” creator / operator are things I wouldn’t change for the world.

None of us gets to be a perfect father. But kids are like baseball fans that fill the stadium for the 105th loss. How can you not love fans like that? How could you not glow like 500 watt bulb when a six year old gives you a giant hug and tells you you’re the best dad in the whole world?

Fathers day is almost here again. These days the cards are purchased but the sentiments are not. The kids will celebrate their dad. This dad will celebrate getting to be their father. It remains the hardest, most wonderful job I have ever had. It’s As varied as a child’s moods and imagination, as difficult as disciplining someone you just want to hug.

~Kermit Swift
(aka Kermy, Pops, or Bee-Ba)

Related posts:

1. I Used to Be a Pipsqueak (A Guest Post) My mother and father have been reading my blog intently...
2. My Father Crushed my Hand – A Father’s Day Post It happened when I was about seven. Thanksgiving Day. I...
3. Guest Post: Why Not Eat a Box and Other Crazy Ideas for Weight Loss By some stroke of unfortunate web surfing, I just landed...

My mother is a newspaper columnist.  Or was.  Still is, I suppose, because it runs through her blood and she absorbs human interest stories like oxygen.  If I have any talent at all, then this is the woman to blame.

The PI folded.  I guess everyone knows that now.  It’s the second paper to fold underneath my mother – readership and friends and community and income and lifeblood all falling away in so many swoops.  It’s a headline to us now: Seattle P.I. shuts its doors.  She’s a statistic, a casualty maybe, depending on how you look at it.

What matters is that writers don’t stop writing because newspapers have not figured out how to be businesses.  What matters is that my mother still channels human love and human hurt and human suffering and human triumph unlike any other person I know.  She’s a master.  And she classically gives herself less credit than she deserves (a characteristic that she admonishes me for regularly).

Right now we’re regrouping and plotting and planning.  Backed into corners, Swifts have been taught to come out swinging.  Eyes rabid, possibly frothing.

In the meantime, she and my father are circling the wagons as most of us are.

And you know what?  I’m still calm.  I’m still riding my stupid bike.  I’m still admiring the way that spring is sneaking in on us.

And my father, another family writer, is still reading my blog, which is interesting both from a sociological and family psychology perspective… but I digress.  He has observed my current bike mania and wishes to illuminate my former pipsqueak-ness for you.

Enoy.

“I Used to Be a Pipsqueak”
by Kermit Swift (yes, Kermit is his real name.  And, for the record, he is older than the frog.)

Heidi Swift, known for her bike blogging, was famous for writing about softball first and foremost. Never mind that her life seems to have been overtaken by bike porn and the exquisite pain of rollers and asphalt kissing crashes. I knew her when she was Heidi the pipsqeak, base runner for the older kids. This is my favorite (and true) baseball story of Heidi-Ho. It marks the beginning of an awesome, (and soon to be renewed?) softball career.

It Began on a muddy little field under buzzing, crackling power lines. Skyway park, at the time, had small swamps near first and third base and usually a nice ten foot stretch of mud approaching both. It was a wonderful place to teach sliding to ten, eleven and twelve year old girls. On this soggy diamond Heidi’s mom held court with her old golden bat. Smoking grounders to the crouching infielders and sending flies deep into the outfield.

The problem with this scenario was that base running practice, badly needed to sharpen infielding skills as much as base running , was almost always short at least one runner, leading to the imaginary runner phenomenon. It was sort of like Bang-I-got-you! in war games. The ball would eventually get to the right mitt and the team would loudly proclaim that the runner was out by a mile while the curmudgeon assistant coach chimed in, “Thank goodness the runner fell out of her wheel chair…”

Enter the pipsqueak. Heidi was four during her sisters last year in majors.

She was at the field every day. She was fast for a pipsqueak. She was recruited as a replacement for the fantasy base runner early in the season and since she loved to play “sliding in the mud” (cyclocross in the rain anyone?) she was a natural. So Heidi ran and she slid and she learned when to run and when to wait, and when to go back , but she didn’t learn to run over the catcher who was her tall, tough, twelve-year-old sister. Nope -  she went around every time.

Incidentally she learned to use a glove pretty well, considering hers has about half as big as she was.

The next season Heidi chose to play T-ball instead of ballet because “they don’t cheer for you in Ballet” She ran bases for the big kids between her practices.
This all leads me to my very favorite of all the many Heidi baseball stories.

Somewhere in her first T-ball season Heidi’s team came up against a team coached by a big noisy, belligerent, overly-competitive man.

Heidi was the first base person because she usually caught the ball and unlike virtually all the boys on the team, she knew what to do with the ball when she got it. All that base running had paid off.

Games were limited to 4 or 5 innings or a certain amount of time. In this game the inning limit was reached rapidly and there was time left on the clock. Heidi’s team was one run ahead. They should have won at that point. By the rules the game was over. But Mr. manly competitive, “show your five-year-olds true sportsmanship” went ballistic. He bellowed like newly neutered herford bull. (I grew up on a farm. I know these things): There was time on the clock! His kids deserved a chance to come back! The rules said the game wasn’t over till the clock ran out ! The poor umpire was just a parent who was drafted for this game. He had no idea what the T-ball rules were this year. He caved.

Neutered Bull’s team was up and Heidi’s team of five-and-six-year-olds stopped celebrating and bouncing around the dugout and hunting for lost sweatshirts and mitts and toy airplanes and took the field. Their concentration, always nearly non existent, had evaporated.

Ignoring abusive stares and comments from almost all the fans, Mr. Man, the coach, was yelling enthusiastically and trying to hype his kids into a killer offensive mode. It must have worked.

First batter up hit an infield single. It dribbled off the T about a third of the way down the third base line. Heidi was yelling “get the BALL!” but the third baseman and the pitcher and the catcher had each decided the other should be doing that. The single became a double.

Next Kid hit a slow dribbler to the pitcher who threw it to the third baseman. Runners on first and second nobody out.

Batter number three hit the ball a few feet past the third baseman. Who picked it up and ran toward home plate where he handed it to the catcher. (huh?)

Nobody scored but the bases were loaded.

It’s unlikely more than two kids playing defense really knew how bad things were. The center fielder was drawing circles in the dust with a stick. Right field was twirling around to make himself dizzy and starring into space each time he stopped. The shortstop and third baseman were arguing about what the third baseman should have done on the last play.

Neutered Bull was frothing at the mouth. His kids were going to win this easy. Already he had his Victory strut on as he sent his best hitter, a lefty, to the plate. It didn’t matter that the other team had another at bat. He figured a two run lead would do the job. The way Heidi’s team was playing anything fair would tie game or put the other team in the lead.. Some of the tough guys kids had caught his brand of sportsmanship and were yelling rotten comments about their hapless opponents.

Heidi ‘s mom’s team was the Patriots. Heidi had had it drummed into her towheaded little noggin’ that patriots talk with their bats and their mitts only.

Unlike some of her teammates she said nothing. Her little pipsqueak cleats dug into the dusty field a few feet off of first base and just behind the baseline. Concentration etched furrows into her brow. Grim straight lipped determination and a beady eyed stare directed at the batter completed the pose.

Pipsqueak was ready!

The batter was as good as his reputation. The first swing sent the ball high (relatively, he was six) in the air toward very shallow right. In T Ball this is a double at least. A triple or homer was not out of the question. But Heidi was wearing the glove where doubles and triples go to die. She was off at the clink of the bat running back and toward second.

Big guy coach was going berserk, and frantically waving his kids around. He KNEW the game was over.

But Heidi’s quick little cleats scampered over the infield dust almost back to the grass while the big mitt waved in the air like a tan tulip at the end of an undersized stem. Heidi reached way up and back as far as she could reach. The BALL dropped softly into the tulip. All of the runners had taken off when the ball was hit. Heidi sprinted to first base and stepped on the bag. Two outs! Neutered Bull had suddenly stopped celebrating and began to bellow at his kids to “GO BACK”.

Heidi wasn’t sure the second baseman was in there. She ran the ball about half way to second base before she could get his attention. She didn’t have the howitzer arm yet but she threw the ball straight and the kid caught it on one bounce.

He did that just before the returning runner got to the base. THREE outs! Triple play! Game over. Neutered Bull screamed NOOOOOooo! Then he glared viciously at Heidi , who didn’t notice, herded his stunned team back into the dugout and glared at the umpire and the opposing parents, all of whom grinned back at him like a bunch of cats with canary feathers in their teeth

Heidi trotted back to the dugout with the big mitt and was mobbed by all four of her team mates who understood what had just happened and the coach and mom and dad who were about to burst with pride.

At that precise moment a car full of budding ballerinas was unloading in front of the dancing “academy” next to the field. Their Fluffy tutu’s bobbed above snow white tights. Delicate pink ballet slippers dangled from clean pink little fingers. No cleats. no mud. no glory.

“This”, declared pipsqueak snarky-pants , “is definitely better than Ballet”

Related posts:

1. A Guest Post for Bicycling Magazine: Chocolate Cake and Bourbon Last week, Bicycling Magazine invited me to write a guest...
2. I Used to Ride Bikes. A Lot. (Guest Post by Matt O’Rourke) My dear friend Matt O’Rourke wrote this earlier this week...
3. Guest Post: Why Not Eat a Box and Other Crazy Ideas for Weight Loss By some stroke of unfortunate web surfing, I just landed...

Full report and a  few photos from Ivar Vong are up over in The Cycling Diaries on iWend.

Hold on to your drama hats!

*

*

Related posts:

1. Piece of Cake RR Report at iWend Last year’s piece of cake was stale. No – not...
2. The Killing Fields: Kruger’s Crossing Race Report is Up, Complete with Dead Rat Photo: Kenji Sugahara Hey – is Thanksgiving tomorrow?  How the...
3. In Loving Memory: Sublime Sublimity Tomorrow, the Hardest of the Hard Oregon racers will tackle...