Entitlement

A Magpie Tale

artwork by Joseph Lorusso

On February 14th of my senior year in high school, Señorita D flounced into Spanish class, singing out "¿Qué día es hoy?"  What is today?

"Jueves," we all answered with one disgruntled accord.  Thursday.

Señorita D must have been disappointed.  Shouldn't the best and brightest students of a Romance language have a better attitude toward Valentine's Day?  Maybe she should have tried the French class.

I'm sure some of my classmates were attached at the time, but they didn't seem too optimistic.  I knew no one liked me; I wasn't pursuing anyone myself.  Why should anything special happen?

And yet I felt cheated.  Shouldn't Prince Charming Intelligent Witty Handsome Morally-Excellent (royals always have a lot of names, you know) appear and sweep me off my feet?  Just because it was Valentine's Day?  Didn't I deserve that?

I guess I did, eventually.  Prince All That And More and I have been settled for several years now.  We recently heard a presentation given by a younger couple regarding strengthening marriage.  They mentioned the oft-quoted truth that one of the most important things parents can do for their children is to show love for each other.  "It may sound like we kiss a lot," said the husband.  Their seven- and four-year-old children protest these displays of affection, rolling their eyes and saying "Eww."  "But they love it," he claimed.  At least, someday they'll appreciate it.

I reflected: we do plenty of kissing, too, but I've never heard any negative remarks from our children.  Yes, they're all boys.  But they're fairly affectionate ones.

The youngest, at age six, is still on the receiving end of lots of hugs and kisses, since he's still so darn cute.  He gives pretty well, too.

The nine-year-old is getting pretty tall, but still thinks Dad is a good seat, or jungle gym.  

The twelve-year-old is very physically oriented, as likely to trip or throw things at his brothers as to look at them.  But he also freely gives rib-cracking hugs.  We know in whom we'll trust if we need the Heimlich Maneuver.  

Before our oldest learned to talk, he knew when kissing was going on, and would smack his lips to ask for his share.  He's a more stand-offish fourteen-year-old now, but will still wrap his long arms around the group hug when Dad comes home.  

The boys don't see Dad bringing flowers very often, but they do see him doing dishes.  They don't see us go out on dates frequently, but they hear us talk and laugh.  And when there's kissing going on, they either ignore it, or join in.  I think they know our family is based on love.  

I'm entitled to love every day, because I also give it away.

So, if Señorita D were to show up today and ask the same question, I'd probably give her the same answer, but without the bitterness.  It's Thursday, another opportunity to help each other live Happily Ever After.

Keep Your Eye on the Ball

A Magpie Tale

Eww!

Or, Strange Things People Say at

Kids' Baseball Games



My boys have been playing baseball, America's pastime, for a few years now, and it is an educational experience.  I learn another rule or two each spring.  I've also learned some lingo, standard phrases for encouraging young players.  Like most jargon, if you take it out of context, it sounds pretty weird.  Some phrases add a rather violent undertone to a basically civilized contest.  For example:

Good eye!  (When a batter does not swing at an unsuitable pitch)  This refers, I suppose, to the one that's kept on the ball.

Good cut!  (Used to encourage the batter when he has swung and missed)  Is he chopping wood?  Like the term "strike," I think this is an odd way to refer to a lack of contact.

Way to get a piece of it!  (For a foul ball)  How many pieces does it take to accumulate a whole ball?  Or is that a piece of the windshield that just shattered?

Eat it.  (Used by fielding players when a runner's advancement is not worth stopping)  It is a bitter pill, when my son is the catcher and has a true desire to put everyone out.  But when the fielders aren't prepared, he just has to "eat it."  I hope it doesn't hurt his teeth.

Watch the ball hit the bat!  Of its own accord?  People really say this.  But it doesn't work that way.

Protect the plate.  This phrase must come from baseball's cousin, cricket.  The cricket batter's mission is to prevent the ball from knocking down the wicket, so an attitude of protection is appropriate.  Does home plate need the same sort of care?  It does not get it.  Many young batters begin their turn by beating the plate with their bats.  A poorly pitched ball might hit the plate, too, but a batter with a "good eye" will not stoop to stop it.  If given a good pitch, the batter should keep the ball from passing over the plate by knocking it away.  If he does, his next objective is to run around the bases, return to home plate and step on it.  I hope I never need that sort of protection. 

Being too literal-minded, I cannot bring myself to say most of these things.  But I heard a new one this year that might work.  Toward the end of the season, one of our coaches was able to distill his advice into one succint instruction: 

Be smart.  What can we say more?

Growing in the Green House

A Magpie Tale, a little bit late

My sister and the green house, 1983

     I grew up in a green house.  My parents selected the five-bedroom, two-story model from the builders' standard floorplans, and chose the mint-chocolate color scheme from the aluminum siding the builders offered.  They could not have known that no one else would choose the same, nor that the builders would decline to dig the full depth of the basement into the slope.  Thus our green house rose head and shoulders above the beige split levels of the neighborhood.  The only rival for its height was the old willow tree in the yard of the farmhouse behind it.  The old man upon whose tomato fields our home was built apologized when he built a fence around his remaining acres.  "It's not because of you," he promised, offering cucumbers.  His farm provided a peaceful view from my window.  When I gave directions to our home, I always finished with, "It's the green house.  You can't miss it."  Our house, set on a hill, could not be hid.

     It fit our family, though.  Somehow we tended to be culturally distinct from our neighbors.  We shared eclectic tastes in music and literature, and a nearly undecipherable sense of humor.  We spent our vacations in places of cultural interest, not among the cheap pleasures of the local beach resort.  We ate foreign recipes, with ingredients grown in our garden and canned in our kitchen.  Our faith, and our devotion to it, set us apart as well.  Not that we were trying to be unusual.  We just did what we liked, what we felt was right.

     I never grew to be tall, but I found myself standing out at school.  I wore clothes that my mother sewed, from patterns and fabric of my choice.  My choice had little to do with prevailing fashions.  I was leery of popular music and television, mostly because of their popularity.  I preferred to form my own opinions, based on my own standards.  When my friends drew their midday sustenance from a candy bar and a diet soda, I kept packing my peanut butter.  I was a good student, because I could be, and I participated in many activities, because they interested me.  Thus I became well-known, if not popular.  My friends were those who respected me the way I was.

     Many things change, of course, but character remains.  The farmhouse and willow have been supplanted by tall houses with tiny yards.  The trees along the street have grown enough to crack the sidewalks, and perhaps enough to obscure the green house, from certain angles.  My parents have moved to a less obtrusive home in the shadow of the everlasting hills.  But it is also green, and it has room for all of us and our shared history.  I live along a busy street, far removed from my childhood home.  When I give directions to my home, people say, "Oh, the yellow house?  I always liked that one."  And beneath its peaked ceilings, I teach my sons to stand tall, and reach higher.

Cold Determination

A Magpie Tale

and this one is true...

     I arrived at the university full of vague hopes, fond wishes, pleasant dreams, and one concrete goal.  I never wrote it in my planner, but it was clearly defined in my mind, measurable, reportable.  I was determined not to slip and fall on the ice more than once that winter.
     In the maritime climate of my Maryland upbringing, snow was a rare occurrence.  The scarcity of snow led to its identification with delightful surprises.  "Our football team won the game?" a friend might say.  "It's going to snow!" 
     If snow did fall, we thrilled at the sight of the first flakes, and hoped they would stick.  When an inch or two accumulated, my sisters and I would cluster around the radio, listening to the alphabetical list of school cancellations as the various counties phoned in their bids.  One hour late . . . Two hours late . . . Closed.  Jackpot!  If a few more inches fell, the "non-essential workers" would be sent home from the capital.  Beltway traffic was snarly enough in good weather; no one needed those impatient drivers to get stuck in the snow.  Whether the total came to three inches or three feet, with an inch-thick layer of ice on the top, the result was the same:  everyone stayed home and let the snowplows do their work.  We would sled down our front yard, build forts in the back, and try to enjoy the white stuff before it turned slushy and melted in a day or two. 
     My parents, who hailed from a different climate, assured me that in places where it really snows, life goes on.  People put on their snow tires and drive sensibly.  Snow doesn't melt all winter, and schools never close.  Thus warned, I went to further my education in Utah, which boasts the "greatest snow on earth."
     When the first flakes fell that winter, I was thrilled, as usual.  As it piled up on the ground, I wrapped myself in my puffy yellow corduroy coat, put on the most sensible shoes I possessed, and continued to walk all over campus.  I trusted the army of students employed in the Grounds Crew to arise early and apply their plows, shovels, and salt to the walkways.  I watched my step, and stayed upright.
     I was quite pleased with my success toward the end of classes in December.  I even wore ordinary shoes from time to time, but stayed wary.  Constant vigilance was the key.  Then, after studying form and function in my History of the Decorative Arts class one day, I left the Fine Arts building with some of my classmates.  Perhaps I was too eager to eat lunch.  Maybe I was distracted by conversation.  I only remember that when I reached the top of the short flight of icy stairs, my heel slipped out in front of me.  I fell, bouncing as I went.  It was a spectacular slide.  When the others caught up, concerned, I just had to laugh.  I had allowed myself one fall, and it turned out to be splendid.
     Putting that slip behind me, I went forth into the new semester with stronger determination.  I am pleased to say that I did complete my goal of keeping my seat off the concrete for the rest of the winter.
     The next winter was a different story.  I learned that my first year had been rather light on snow, by Utah's standards, and the mountain reservoirs held little for the farmers the next summer.  Returning to school, we were all encouraged to pray for "moisture."  Our prayers were answered with abundant snow.  Having grown complacent in my uprightness, I set no goal regarding slips and trips.  Therefore, I crashed on the same icy spot on my way home every day for a week. 
     I guess the moral of the story might be:

If at first you do succeed,

stick with the program!