Truths and Half Truths

Where I Live IV

This weekend my oldest friend in the world, Gord, came to visit.  Gord and I have known one another since elementary school in Winnipeg; he was Best Man at my wedding, has always been my closest (and sometimes only) confidante, knows (almost) every secret I have; and when he and I get together after six months or a year or even two years of not seeing one another, the conversation picks up as if the time before it had ended in a comma.

Circumstances being what they are, Gord has not been down this way before, so this was a chance to show off my Island, albeit at a time of year when it doesn't have its makeup on.  But true beauty doesn't need makeup, does it?

We started off on Friday going into Charlottetown - I live a few kilometres North of the city, which is the largest metropolis on the Island.  And to give you a sense of just what that means, here's a view of the downtown core:

 

Looking for a building higher than seven stories?  Good luck with that.  The two church spires at the left in the distance are the tallest structures on the Island.  There are two (count 'em, two) escalators in town.  The main downtown street has diagonal parking.  That tells you all you need to know about its size. 

As you can see, it was a blustery, rainy day, and after lunch at the restaurant where my son-in-law is the chef, (and it was delicious), we only spent a short time exploring the city.  There was food to buy for supper and a liquor store to hit and other errands, and that night we ate Atlantic salmon and mussels and drank and talked late into the morning.

On Saturday, we did the real Island tour.  We went to the North Shore of the Island.  It's 120 miles long, much of it like this:

And this:

And this:

The surf was up ...

And, as I'd hoped, the Island was both beautiful and dramatic ...

So ... even without makeup, the Island was gorgeous.  I love showing it off to visitors.  Like Gord.  Or ... you know ... like you.

One Last Spurt of Fall Photos

I've added a few more photos to the Seasons album (link to the left).  Here are some samples:

I'm a sucker for fall colours, and water and shoreline does it for me, too ...

One morning, there was this lovely mist hanging over everything - including this pond ...

This photo, with the golfer cropped out, is already in the album.  But the more I looked at it, the more I thought the golfer was part of the whole.

Stanhope, near the North Shore of Prince Edward Island.  In the background is Brackley Bay and Covehead Harbour

Update To The Photo Album

I added a bunch of photos this morning (Saturday), including this shot of the trees in my driveway.  They're just pretty scenery, I know.  But it's where I live and I want you to come visit, so go have a look.

Fall Is All Around Us

A couple of days ago I went for a walk out in the fields behind my house, just trying to capture some of the fall foliage before a heavy windstorm stripped the trees bare.  I've put them into an album with some other pics from my Island, and I'm going to try to have a running photographic record of the seasons and their changes here.

Have a peek at the album  - the link is top left - for some colours that you wouldn't expect to see in nature ...

Sat, Oct. 14 Update! A whack of new photos from Saturday ...

Where I Live II - Frosty Morning

This morning, around 7:00 AM, I took Roxy down to the mailbox with me - it's on the main hightway, about 100 yards down my driveway.  About 3/4 of the way to the road, in the middle of the yard, there's a rusted, overgrown, antique piece of farm machinery  ...

I like to believe that this hulking, delapidated skeleton was once hitched behind a horse and worked the fields in back of my house.  If you look closely at it, as I have, you will see evidence of strain and wear, missing teeth and chipped tines.  And if you listen you can hear the "Hup!  Hup!" from some long-ago summer morning, the farmer urging on a broadchested Morgan through the reawakening land.

I don't know who painted the seat blue, or when - it's really much more gaudy than this picture would lead you to believe, an odd eccentricity that pleases me no end. 

I've resisted all efforts to have it declared as junk and hauled away.  It is, I suppose, junk.  But hard work over generations should lead to a dignified, sedate retirement, and it warms me to provide just that for this old soul.

Roxy waited by the machinery as I went to pick up the newspaper.  It was a chilly morning; 2 degrees C, or 37 degrees Fahrenheit.  A clear, cloudless night meant a heavy front had settled on the land.  At my mailbox, it still clung to the grass, bushes, and trees, its cold fingers yet to be pried off by the first warm rays of autumn sun. 

I love early morning in the fall.  The leaves are only now starting their change.  In a week or two this Island will be a Wonderland of incredible colours.  I only hope my camera  - and my skills - are up to the challenge.

Where I Live

My dear friend Laura at Vitamin Sea has challenged us to "Play tour guide, and photograph your neighborhood or parts of your geographical area that you would like others to see."  She's got a bunch of links up to people who are doing just that.  I thought I'd play along ... so:

To get to where I live, you have to cross a bridge.  And not just a teensy little bridge.  This one is close to ten miles long over the Northumberland Strait between Cape Tormentine, New Brunswick, and Borden, Prince Edward Island.  If you look closely just above the water in this pic, you can see the Confederation Bridge.  (You may have to click on the image to enlarge)

Once you cross the bridge, you're in some incredibly beautiful green rolling hills.  In summer the greens are breathtaking, both in the sheer amount of green and the million different shades:

And beaches?  Why yes, we do have beaches - the entire North side of the Island is one long 120 mile white sandy beach.  Liberally sprinkled with scenes like this:

But Laura wanted us to go out and take photos, not just grab ones we had sitting in a file on our disk.  So this is my 'hood, taken in the last hour:

From my woodpile, which is about halfway towards being safely stored in my shed after spending the summer seasoning, toward the garage (and further to the house):

Our apple tree, an ancient thing that bears very tart apples, perfect for pies and crisps and crumbles but sour enough to make you make a funny face if you bite into one right off the branch:

I have raked probably four bushels of apples off the ground and still, after a windy day like yesterday, this is what I get:

But there is a certain beauty in an apple on a tree.  I can see this one from my office window.  Today.  Tomorrow?  Well, Allie's making pies ...

In Which (Unless You Have A Heart Of Stone) You WIll Quietly Weep For A Little Boy

My friend Wordgirl has some lovely reflections on her favourite time of year, Hallowe'en.  I shared a somewhat sad (but kinda funny in retrospect) story about one Hallowe'en where I got a ride home in a cop car.

But I have a much sadder story:

I was six, i think.  Possibly five years old.  I had (and still have) a somewhat wonky eye - the muscles behind the eye are lax, and when i get tired my right eye will sort of wander off on its own, so that you don't know if I'm looking at you or looking at something over your shoulder.  The name eye surgeons give this affliction is a "squint" ... and I don't know what it has to do with squinting, but hey, they're the doctors.

When one of my kids notices my eye is wandering, she'll say "Dad, your eye is going wonky.  Go to bed."  And after a good sleep, it's fine.  But when I was five, it would happen even when I wasn't tired, and it would cause double vision.  Of course my parents were alarmed, so they took me to an eye doctor.  He scheduled me for elective surgery, but it was months and months down the road.

On October 29th, Mom got a phone call.  They eye doctor was on the line, telling her that there had been a cancellation and that they could get me in on Thursday, two days hence.  My mom was delighted.  I was less so.

Thursday was Hallowe'en..

I wasn't so much upset about the not dressing up.  My costumes were always crap anyway - fifth of six kids, so by the time I got to the costume box it was a black towel for my neck, a crappy plastic Lone Ranger mask, and I could go as my brother "Zorro's" sidekick, "Zero".  Yay.  Plus, my older brother?  Armed with a curtain rod for a sword?  Always fun.  Yeah.  Good times. (twitch)

So I could do without dressing up, and coming home with welts all over my legs from being slashed at by Zorro, and dodging cars in my all-black costume (reflective tape?  Hah!).  What I didn't want to do without was the candy.  But once my mom assured me I could have one-fifth of everybody else's haul (and didn't my brother love that little piece of news!) I was okay to go in for surgery.

I went in on the night before.  I had a bed in a public ward - eight beds, all of them empty except mine.  The nurses were all very attentive, checking on me, making sure I wasn't scared or lonely all by myself in the dark.  Hey, coming from a small house with five brothers and sisters, I was thrilled with having a choice of beds and quite enjoyed having someone to bring me juice or ice cream at the yank of a cord pinned to my pillow.

In the morning, they prepped me for surgery.  I didn't like the needle in my bum very much, but it was over and done with before I could even cry.  My mom was there, which was comforting.  She showed me these cool cuffs they were going to put on my arms, right at my elbows.  They were much like the cuffs they use to test blood pressure, except not flexible at all.

"Here," said Mom.  "I'll put one on you.  They have popsicle sticks inside them.  I betcha can't bend your elbows when you have this on."

I tried, and sure enough, she was right.  The cuff had popsicle sticks inside, running down my arm so that when I tried to bend my elbow, I couldn't.  I giggled.  I never knew popsicle sticks were that strong.

"Here," said Mom.  "Let's try the other one on." 

I did, and pretended I was the Frankenstein Monster, lumbering along, swinging my arms stiffly out.  My nose was itchy and I couldn't scratch it.  Mom scratched it for me.  I was getting sleepy, anyway.

Mom walked alongside as I was rolled down to surgery, still wearing those cuffs.  It was okay.  I didn't feel like moving my arms.  We got into surgery and the doctor said "OK, now you'll feel a little pinch." (I did, and winced, but it wasn't that bad)," ... and I want you to see if you can count backwards from ten for me."

Well.  Easy peasy.  Ten ... nine ... eight ... the light overhead suddenly flared a brilliant white ...

                                                      ***********************

I woke up in blackness.  I called for my Mom.  She was right there.

"I can't see," I said.  I was scared.  So scared.

"It's just bandages," said my Mom.  "They operated on your eyes and now you have bandages on them.  Just close your eyes, rest them a bit.  They'll take the bandages off in a day or two."

But I wanted them off now.  So I reached up to tear them off ... and discovered what the cuffs were for.

Mom soothed me.  She sang to me, rubbed my chest, talked to me in that low, honeyed, mellifluous voice she had.  After a while, I nodded off.

And Mom went home.  Dad was away, flying.  She had kids to get ready.

For Hallowe'en.

                                                           ******************

I woke up to the sound of a child's screams.  A boy?  A girl?  Couldn't tell.  The cries were high pitched, pained, mixed with gurgling, wracking sobs.  I reached for the bandages, to tear them off, to see what horrible thing had happened to this child.   My stiff arms flailed and my hands scrabbled at thin air.  I tried to get at the calling cord, pinned to the pillow, and couldn't reach it, either.

Was this a little boy who fell off the monkey bars and broke his neck?  A little girl who was loading the muzzle of her Daisy Air Rifle with a wad of mud and shooting it and put her eye out?  I knew that breaking your neck and putting your eye out were the two most common childhood injuries, because of all the warnings from my Mom.  But this somehow sounded worse.

Moments later, another child was wheeled in.  Who knows what had happened to him - running from house to house and not looking both ways?  Darting out between parked cars?  His agonized screams drowned out the first kid's. 

I lay there, in blackness, small and terrified and confused, surrounded by the sounds of unseen, unknown horror.  I couldn't speak or cry out, didn't want to draw attention to myself, such easy prey for whatever beast was skulking, slavering nearby.  I lay still and quiet and if the tears stung my useless eyes you would never know it.

Another hurt child came in, and another.  A typical Hallowe'en night for a kids' ward in a hospital, I suppose, but as the other seven beds around me filled with crying, screaming, frightened children my head filled with grotesque images inspired by their wails.  I imagined missing limbs, bodies torn and rendered and shattered, faces turned to bloody pulp ... all of that and far worse, and all within an arms reach of this tiny little boy with no eyes but an imagination so incredibly vivid I could hear the blood dripping onto the floor from the cleaver raised over my head.

I cannot ever be terrified for myself again, after that night.  I have never had, and cannot imagine, a night so filled with galloping, raging fear.  It gripped me and held me for hour after hour.  I don't remember sleeping that night - I may have.  But if I did, I promise the fear never let up for one moment even in my dreams.

My Mom came in the next morning, as early as she could after getting my brothers and sisters off to school.  I can only imagine what she must have felt to find me cowering, sobbing soundlessly, so tiny and helpless and afraid.  I remember that she took the Head Nurse out into the corridor and I heard her voice - not calming and honeyed but whip sharp and acid bathed.  She gathered me up into her arms when she returned, and in the blackness I could hear a nurse start to protest ... and the protest gurgle and die in infancy, the victim of my Mom's venomous glance.

They took the bandages off that morning.  The doctor was reluctant but my Mom promised him that either he could do it or she would but this child would not be blind any more.  She tore the cuffs off my arms and I can still hear her apologies, mouthed against my ear as she wrapped me up in her arms and the doctor unwound the bandages.

I was fine.  My vision was blurred for a few days, I'm not sure how many - that part isn't clear.  Some details you forget.

Some, you never do.

So, Hallowe'en means something a little different to me than it does to some people.  I remember the fun.  I remember dressing up, and playing pranks, and that one year there was an early snowfall and my brother and I were the only two kids to brave the blizzard and how we came home with pillowcases bulging with impossible quantities of candy - good candy, not those disgusting popcorn balls or stupid apples or black licorice but Wagon Wheels and Smarties and Kit Kat bars and Jersey Milk and Crispy Crunch and Lik-M-Aid and Hershey's kisses by the pound.

But I remember the dark, too.  It doesn't keep me awake or anything.  In fact, I don't think about it very much at all.

But it's always there. 

I sleep with a light on somewhere - in the hall, or a bathroom, perhaps the glow from a television; not enought to disturb anybody else, but enough to keep it from being totally black in the room.

Just a little light.  You understand.

Rule of Thumb #56

Sometimes we focus on the wrong thing, and miss the big picture.

Chapter 15 - Eva's Story

June, 1945 - Vancouver, B.C.

Eva Carvell's shoulders sagged as she took the crumpled envelope from Paul's hand.  She recognized the handwriting as Justin's.  She knew instantly that inside the envelope was heartbreak.

Paul shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, unsure of whether to go or stay.  She looked up into his homely, anguished face and offered a wan smile.

"It's okay, Paul," she said.  "You go with your mom and dad.  I'll be fine."

Paul tried his best to soften the blow.  "Eva, it's Justin," he said.  "You know him.  He can be a little bit crazy.  He'll be back soon, and ..."

But she had already turned her attention to the envelope, only now noticing that her hand was shaking.  She opened it and read, "Dear Eva ..."

Paul, God love the poor bugger, stayed right there as she read the short letter, willing to take the bullet for his best friend.  She finished reading, folded the thin paper neatly, put it carefully back in the envelope, and slipped it into her purse.

"Paul, look at your mom and dad," she said gamely.  "They've missed you.  Why don't you go with them?"

"I guess I should," he said, already edging away.  "Look, Eva, maybe when he comes home ..."

"It's okay," she said.  She patted him on the shoulder affectionately.  "Go."

"No, wait," she said, as he took a step.  She tugged at the ring on her left hand.  "Take this.  Have it."

"Me?  But ... what will I do with it?"

"Does it matter?"

She turned and hurried out of the station.  Paul watched until she was swallowed up by the crush of reuniting familes and embracing lovers.  He tucked the ring in the breast pocket of his uniform, patted it twice to reassure himself it was safe, and rejoined his mom and dad.

                                                    ********************

October, 1946 - Vancouver, B.C.

The church was crowded; that was a relief, at any rate.

Eva ducked in the side door, avoiding the ushers who would, of course, have asked her if she was a friend of the bride or the groom.

"Friend of the groom," she thought, with just a tinge of bitterness.

She found a place on a pew far in the back and, like everyone else, rose and turned as the organist began the Wedding March.

The woman beside her leaned in close.  "Isn't she beautiful?"  she said breathlessly.

Eva nodded, her thoughts her own, and settled in with everyone else to witness the ceremony.  When the minister asked if anyone could show cause why this man and this woman should not be joined in Holy Matrimony, she looked down at her hands folded neatly in her lap, closed her eyes, then stood with everyone else as the happy couple were introduced.

Neither Mary nor Justin ever learned she was at the church that day.  If Paul had noticed her as the bride came up the aisle, he never said a word to anyone.  When the ceremony was finished, Eva slipped quietly out the door she had come in and closed the book on that chapter of her life.

                                                         ***********************

August, 1971 - Falcon Lake, Manitoba

Manitoba gets hot in the summer.  It's a dry, prairie heat that sears your lungs, makes the hair on your arms feel crispy and brittle, and conjures up a nostalgia for January (until you remember how the bone-chilling cold would sear your lungs and make the hair on your arms feel crispy and brittle).

It's a land of extremes.

Winnipeg rises up from the parched, sun-baked prairie, its downtown highrises visible from the horizon.  The city perches on a land so flat you can sit on your porch and watch your dog run away for four days.

90 miles east of Winnipeg, the Canadian Shield bursts out of the earth, craggy and rugged with its granite outcroppings and impenetrable pine, spruce and hardwood forest.  The Shield is prime cottage country, its hundreds of sparkling fresh-water lakes and staggering 75,000 miles of coastline liberally dotted with vacation homes both grand and modest.

On a hot August day in cottage country, there's little else to do but sit on the dock in a deck chair, listen to the water lapping at the pilings underneath you and the loons calling out on the water, read a good book and sip from a tall, cool glass.

Which is what Eva Jespersen was doing that afternoon.

She'd come to Winnipeg from her home in B.C. to visit an old friend, Olive MacGregor.  Since the death of her huband Lars two years before, Eva took a couple of trips a year.  When Eva's plane landed and Olive suggested they spend the weekend at the cottage to escape the city heat, Eva was relieved.

Olive's teenaged son Gary was already there, and he had brought along his new girlfriend, a stunning girl, white-blonde hair, athletic and tanned and full of life.  The two lovebirds were already out in the canoe when Olive and Eva arrived, but once the drinks were poured and the two old friends settled into a conversation, she could see the canoe heading back. 

The prow of the canoe bumped the dock and Gary scrambled out, stopping to help his girlfriend.  He hugged his "Aunt" Eva and introduced the sweetie he'd brought to the cottage for the weekend.

"Auntie Eva, this is Andrea Ling," he said.

When the young girl smiled, Eva knew.  In her suddenly rapidly-beating heart, she knew.

"Ling," she said.  "That's an unusual name."

Andrea grinned and said, "Most people expect me to be Chinese."

"But you're not," said Eva.  "Unless that's the best dye job I'll ever see."  Andrea giggled.

"It's Swedish," she said.

"And are you from Sweden?"

"Oh, no," said Andrea.  "My grandfather was.  His name was Nils Ling.  We're from here.  Winnipeg, I mean.  Well, all over.  Dad was in the Air Force."

Eva nodded thoughtfully.  "She's so sweet," she thought.  Then:  "She looks so much like him.  So much like his sister Barbara ...".

Then Eva thought about Carol, three weeks from starting her final year of business school.  A rocky few years as a teenager, but the most adorable child she could ever imagine and now a mature, thoughtful young woman, and the image of Eva as a young girl. 

They'd had lunch just the week before,  Carol had been her rock when Lars had died.  No: they'd been that for each other.

And in those moments she realized that whatever ill she might have wished Justin in the past 25 years (and she'd had some vicious thoughts, for sure), she couldn't help but see that her life had turned out just fine without him.  "She's a lovely girl, his daughter," thought Eva.  "But I wouldn't have had Carol." 

And that, she knew, would have been too high a price to pay.

And finally, she was at peace with that so-secret part of her previous life.  Roads not taken were finally left to grow over and turn to forest. 

She was at peace ... but not without a sly sense of mischief.

"Can you do me a favour?" said Eva.  "Can you tell your father that Eva Carvell says "Hello"?  We're old friends."  She smiled sweetly at this adorable blonde, and thought,  "There you go, Justin;  a bird has come home to roost."

Eva took a sip of her gin and tonic.  It tasted wonderful.  Olive really did know how to mix a drink.

                                                         ****************

August, 1971 - Winnipeg, Manitoba

Justin's fork paused in mid-air.

"Eva Carvell ...?"

"Yeah.  She says "Hi".  That she was an old friend.  She's from B.C."

Justin glanced up at Mary.  She was watching him with a glint of amusement in her eyes.  He rolled his eyes at her and she giggled.  "Wasn't Eva an old high school friend?" she asked, all innocence and sweetness.

The kids were all curious, wrapping their heads around the idea that their father may have actually been young enough to attend high school.

"She was very pretty," Andrea gushed.  "And really nice."

It was Justin's turn to grin as Mary's face darkened.  "Yes, I remember Eva as being very beautiful," he said, straight-faced.  "And she was one of the nicest girls you'd ever meet."

"Bastard," Mary muttered, and Justin burst out laughing.

Over dinner the story came out.  They'd been young kids; the engagement had been an impulse; in the end, it was better for everyone how it turned out.

Four kids around the table.  Four jaws agape.  A flood of questions asked.

"Who is she?" asked Andrea.

"How did you meet her?"  Barb wondered.

"When did you get engaged?"  Kathy wanted to know.

"Can somebody pass the ketchup?" pleaded Nils.  Relationship talk.  With a table full of good food.  No-brainer.

Finally, from Andrea:  "How did you tell her it was over?"

Mary snorted.  "A letter.  He wrote her a letter."

The three girls turned as one to their father.  "A letter?  You broke off your engagement in a letter?"

Nils said, "Is there any more garlic bread?"

"I saw her when I got back.  She agreed it was best.  We were young."

"But a letter?"

"I was young.  I was foolish.  It wasn't the right thing to do.  But in the end, it turned out best for everyone."

"Garlic bread?  Was that the last piece ... ?"

It was an interesting conversation that night.  And the garlic bread was delicious.  And that's the thing.

The course of love may wind and meander. 

But you can always count on garlic bread.

                                          

Looking Cool

Note:  This is not a golf story.  I know non-golfers don't really enjoy golf stories - in fact, you can see their eyes glaze over within a sentence or two.  And if you are a non-golfer, that may happen to you in the first few paragraphs.  Grab some coffee and stick with it.  This story has a larger point.  I hope.

The other day I stood on the 13th tee of the golf course I play at and surveyed the shot facing me. 

It was a shot demanding considerable precision and more than a little courage, especially if you have a relatively good score going and it's getting towards the end of the round.  You don't want to generate yet another of those pathetic stories golfers always inflict on one another ("God ... I was going along so well.  It was one of those games where everything finally came together when dammit, I put four balls into the water on 13."  "Ah, been there, pal ... did I ever tell you about the time I yanked my drive on 17 into the bushes and it took me seven strokes to get it back on the fairway?"  "Well, that's nothing, what about the time ...")

It's not a long hole - a 146 yard par-3.  But the green juts out into the water, forming an enticing but relatively tiny emerald peninsula.  Any shot that catches a gust of wind and strays left; or has to fight the wind too hard, loses, and comes up short; or is struck unexpectedly purely and takes off just as the wind abates and sails long, ends up making a loud and humiliating splash, the kind of splash that causes golfers on the fairways all around you to glance over and think, "Poor bastard.  He should take some lessons."

I got up on the tee, selected my club, then felt a gust of wind, re-considered, and chose a different club.  I took a couple of practice swings that felt right, addressed the ball ("OK, you little white bastard, don't you try anything funny."), and launched my shot.

It was - and I don't think I'm being overly kind to myself here - one of the most beautiful shots ever played in the history of the game of golf.  At the moment of impact I knew in every cell of my body that it was going to be a great shot - it felt so buttery soft coming off the face of the club.  We watched as it soared in a picture-perfect arc, bounced three times on the green, and rolled ... rolled ... rolled ... till it stopped three inches from the cup - very nearly a Hole in One.

My playing partners were in awe.  "Wow.  GREAT shot."  "Perfect."  "God, I thought it was in, terrific shot."  People who were waiting behind us (the course was busy that day, and play was slow) were equally effusive in their praise.  "Amazing."  "Wow."

I leaned down, picked up the broken tee, tossed it aside, slipped my club back into my bag, gave a soft, self-deprecating smile, and said "Well, I imagine we'll be able to find that one."

So cool, so nonchalant for someone whose heart was pounding like a jack-hammer and who wanted to scream "Oh, my God, did you SEE that, with the perfect swing and the flight of the ball and the bounce and the roll and the almost going in the goddamn hole and Christ all it needed was one or two more rolls and I've been golfing for forty-three frigging years, thousands of rounds, too many to even count and I've never had a hole in one and jaysus Mary Mother of God I thought that was it!"

But I didn't.  I just gave a little shrug and smiled what I hoped was a calm, crooked, self-satisfied smile and waited for the lesser mortals to hit their shots, for which I duly (and generously) complimented them, even though theirs were so painfully inferior to the shot we'd all so admired.

"Try to make it look like you've been there before and fully expect to be back."

There's the key to cool.

I used to coach football (oh, yeah - I was a passably good minor football coach for fifteen years.  Not many championships to show for it, but years later grown men have stopped me on the street and - even though I can barely recognize them dressed in a sports jacket and tie and all grown up and pushing a baby stroller - have told me that the time they spent playing for me was the most fun they ever had on a football field.  Rewards delayed are not rewards denied).  My players learned early on that their coach frowned upon the classless celebrations that are so much a part of the game now - the touchdown dances, the posing, the self-aggrandizement that so many athletes engage in to taunt and further humiliate their opponents.

In the first game of every year one new kid would score a touchdown, or block a punt or make a tackle and leap up, do some dance inspired by his heroes (!) on TV.  And his teammates who had played for me in years past would shake their heads and calm him down and know that when he got back to the bench (often a bit surprised to be pulled out of the game when he had done something so utterly magnificent), he would  be beckoned over and told "We don't do that.  When you get into the endzone, you make it look like you've been there before and fully expect to be back.  Be cool."

Be cool.

Sometimes it's not easy to remember to be cool. 

One time I was pitching in a slow-pitch softball game against a rival radio station.  Some friends had come to watch the game, and had arrived just in time to see the other team's most imposing batter step into the box.  (It occurs to me that I am drawing a lot of this from my experiences in sports.  Odd.  I'm not an exceptionally gifted athlete, nor a particularly sporty guy.  But we find inspiration where it presents itself, I suppose.  At any rate ...)

This guy was huge.  6'5", maybe 250.  He was the guy on every team who causes your outfielders to slump resignedly back to the fence in preparation for climbing it to fetch the inevitable home run.

I released the ball, he swung, and it came back to me at a speed I can only estimate at 6000 MPH.  A laser, directly at me.  Well, to be more accurate, directly at my glove, which had, in my natural pitching motion, dropped to my hip.

CRACKTHWAP.  That's as close as I can approximate the sound as the bat hit the ball and the ball hit my glove square in the palm.  One sound.  In fact, so fast was this ball coming back at me that it's quite possible the THWAP part of the sound came first.

I did not so much catch the ball as look down, astonished to realize it was imbedded in my palm.  There was no twitch of reflexes.  It appeared, in the palm of my glove, with no independent action required from me. 

And note, I said "in the palm of my glove".  Not "in the pocket".

The palm of a baseball glove, especially one as old and well-worn as mine, is nothing more than a thin layer of supple leather, offering approximately the same cushioning effect as, say, silk.  When a softball travelling fast enough to penetrate an armoured personnel carrier meets this thin layer of leather, the kinetic energy is transferred directly into the hand underneath.

My hand.

This kinetic energy is transformed into neurological impulses, which send subtle messages to your brain that "Oh, my dear GOD, something terrible has happened!  Arooogah, arooooogah, commence the humiliatingly dorky maneuver where you let the glove fall off your hand and leap up and down, shaking the hand to prove to yourself it still exists, and screaming "JESUSFUCKDAMNSHITOWCHRISTGODDAMNITSHIT!"

Which, you know, I did.

The batter was nice about it.  "Sorry," he said, as if that made it all better.  He hadn't meant to hurt me, but as he trotted back to his dugout, you could tell he was more than a little self-satisfied.  Which stung all the more.

After a while, the third baseman, a nice guy named Steve, walked over to the mound.  He put his hand on my shoulder and said "You OK?"

"Yeah.  Shit.  Ow.  Yeah, I'm OK, just give me a second."

"Sure, sure," he said.  Then added.  "You know what would have been really cool?"

"What's that."

"Nothing, I guess.  But maybe if you'd just thrown the ball over to first and picked off the runner, and nailed the double play, it might have been a bit cooler than what you did."

"Yeah, OK.  I'll keep that in mind for next time."

So, next time that happens, I'll be cool.

We pretend that being cool doesn't matter to us.  Life isn't a show for the rest of the world.  Who cares what people think?  Screw 'em, right?

But in fact, being cool - or acting cool - is important to all of us.  It helps us feel more together, more with it, more prepared for life's curve balls (or line drives).

I act cool when I'm really not.  When something is happening in my life that is important to me, when I don't want to open myself to looking pathetic or desperate or needy or scared ... I do what I can to act cool.  I try not to do the happy dance after victories (too much) and try not to look fazed when things don't go my way.

People I know, people I respect, people I love don't need another opportunity to see me at my worst.  They see enough of that from me anyway.  If I act cool, then somehow I figure if things don't go my way I'll be able to BE cool about it.

It's a thin veneer.  Like the leather on the palm of a baseball glove.  Line drives still hurt like hell.

But at the very least, if I act cool, I'll be the only one who knows how much it stings.