Tag: memories

Dive

I feel all the power and grace my non-athletic body will ever manage. I know I am a better swimmer than my peers and that is a great comfort.

The sun bakes the brown skin on my back. I peer through a knot hole at the water below. The warmth feels good but I’m not here for the sun. I’m here for the water.

I place my palms down on the gnarled wooden surface of the dock and hoist myself to my feet. I quickly look around to assess the situation: Who can I impress? Who should I avoid? Who might I frighten with a sneak attack?

I face the shore and stand on the edge of the dock plank, balancing on the balls of my feet. Hands at my sides I take a deep breath and fling myself into the space beyond the dock.

The water is barely six feet deep so the dive must be shallow. Shallow dives don’t allow for much finesse but as I jump, I sweep my arms outward until they meet above my head just before I hit the water. I feel graceful and superheroic never considering that I may look less so.

The water is cool and murky green. My older siblings won’t swim here and some friends level charges of “runoff” and “swimmer’s ear” but I never believe them. This is my habitat.

With eyes wide open I immediately glide to the sandy bottom. I take massive strokes with my arms, inverting the motion I used in the air moments before. My hands pass in front of my face each time I reposition my arms for a new stroke. I feel all the power and grace my non-athletic body will ever manage. I know I am a better swimmer than my peers and that is a great comfort.

I swim silently, slightly above the sand, with no other thoughts in my head but suppressing my desire for air. Eventually that desire will overpower me but I know I’m one step ahead of my future self. When at last I can take no more, I will begin the ascent to the surface, forced to continue swimming by virtue of my position at the bottom. This, I know, will give me an advantage in future underwater swimming contests, should they ever arise.

But none of that is necessary for this dive because the shore arrives before my air supply dwindles. I take one final stroke and glide into the shallow water where it is no longer possible to hide my awkward body from the world. When I can go no further, I raise my head above the surface, taking care not to stir the water unnecessarily or to make any gasping noises with my first breath.

I linger briefly in the shallow water, feeling my body float effortlessly while my belly rubs slightly against the sand. I revel in the moment. I know I belong here. I long for the rest of my life to be this effortless.

Dedicated to Mary Lou, 2016.08.21

Letter to my Uncle Lorell who is dying

As I sit here with all these thoughts and memories swirling through my head, I’m desperately trying to figure out how to end this note to you in a meaningful way.

September 3, 2011

 

Dear Lorell,

When I was a kid there were few things I liked more than going to my uncles’ farms. Being a “city slicker” (as my classmates often called me), the farm was a completely different world to me. When I visited my Uncle Merlin’s farm it was mostly about hanging out with my cousins who were close in age to me, but when I visited your farm, it was always about you and I spending time together. That is a gift that I will always treasure.

One time when I was there “helping” you, we tried to take a dent out of the local rat population. I’ll never forget when you lifted up a piece of plywood (or maybe it was corrugated tin) that was laying behind the big machine shed. The plywood was laying on a small pile of corn and when you lifted it, it revealed several rat “tunnels” and the rats inside them. I was surprised but you were not because you had a gun and started shooting the rats as they scurried away. Guns, rats, tunnels – everything about being on the farm was so cool.

You’ve always been there. You were at Grandma Christensen’s for all those Christmases with the toys in the bedrooms and the money in the envelopes. And you were at Grandma Ring’s for the oyster stew. I remember sitting in that little living room watching Vitas Gerulaitis play tennis and you laughing when I joked that his name sounded like a disease. Harold was there. And my dad. And Gene.

So many memories I have of you and so little time to tell you about them. You kept your golf cart in Grandma Ring’s garage. You drove that giant green Cadillac. You visited me at my first house in Portland. Remember? You got lost and I told you “find the first bridge you see and cross it.” I was so sad to spend what I thought would be our last birthday together three years ago but now I’m so glad that you have had three more years in this world. I’ve never had a birthday where I didn’t think of you. And I never will.

As I sit here with all these thoughts and memories swirling through my head, I’m desperately trying to figure out how to end this note to you in a meaningful way. I suppose that life mostly doesn’t come to an end in a dramatic or meaningful way so perhaps I should just end this by saying that I thank you for your many kindnesses towards me over the last (almost) 45 years and that I think you’ve been a good uncle and a fine man. I also thank you for my double cousins without whom my life would be lesser. I hope that you reach the end of your days peacefully and without regret. And I love you.

Mick

Future programmers of America


Future programmers of America
Originally uploaded by rynosoft

This is a picture of my second grade class that appeared in our hometown newspaper, the Riceville Recorder. There were many more of us but I suppose they couldn’t all be in the picture with the newfangled computer they had us using. It was actually a teletype terminal that connected to a “mainframe” computer at Luther College in Decorah, IA (via an acoustic modem hookup). The terminal was kind of mounted on a dolly that let the teachers wheel it all around the school. We played Oregon Trail and a MasterMind knockoff called Bagels.

Bicentennial Money

In 1976, I was in third grade when America celebrated her bicentennial. One aspect of that celebration was the minting of special bicentennial coins.



Bicentennial Money
Originally uploaded by rynosoft

In 1976, I was in third grade when America celebrated her bicentennial. One aspect of that celebration was the minting of special bicentennial coins. Anticipating that such coins would eventually be collectable and worth more than face value, I gave some of each denomination to my mother about 5000 dollar yahoo borrowing and asker her to place them in our safety deposit box at the First National Bank in Riceville. When I was back in Riceville in September, my mother handed me this envelope on which she had inscribed my name 30 years ago and said, “These are yours.” While it was cool to be reminded of something I had completely forgotten about, I was disappointed to find that they are not worth much more than face value.

In defense of our cats

A loyal reader recently wrote:


Your blog said: Sunday night we got one by the cat food

You mean your cats can’t catch these mice??? Do they try?

Yes, it’s true – our cats have been completely ineffective in keeping our house pest free. However, it’s not really their fault. Ming, who is 14 years old, is blind in one eye and nearly deaf. Nietzsche is 15 years old and has arthritis. They are essentially just grumpy, old cats at this point in their lives and definitely no longer mouser material.

When Tina and I got married in New Mexico, Nietzsche was not yet a year old but proved to be an excellent mouser. He caught at least two in the short time that we stayed at Jan and Tom’s house and even left one on our pillow for us one night! Those days are long gone now, but they both enjoyed when I let them check out our most recently trapped mouse this morning. More on that later.