Some people collect Hummels. Others like stamps, or coins or those commemorative spoons from places they visit around the world. For me, it's college degrees. The next one will have to wait a few years, however, since I am fresh out of cash. Time to go earn some.
I'm happy to be home for now with my husband and dog and adorable kitties, and yet, more often than not, my head is elsewhere. To be specific, it's in Colorado, or Alaska. "There is no hope for the satisfied man." So states the motto of The Denver Post. If this applies to middle-aged women, too, then I am about as friggin' hopeful as you can get.
It was great to be back on the tennis court this week with my ball-whacking, Punatic homies.
"You weren't getting your degree in Alaska," said Kathy Hanson with a point and a wink. She's the instigator of our gang of four. Small and athletic, she's an especially smart player, formidable in many ways, with a wicked forehand down-the-line and great passion for winning. "You were at tennis camp." I did play well that day.
My good buddy Robert, who normally doesn't play on Wednesdays, made a special point to join us in honor of my return. He did so at great personal sacrifice -- riding the bus home afterward -- as his wife needed the car for errands. Robert has an infectious, boyish smile and looks much younger than his 49 years. Like Michael Jordan, he sticks his tongue out with concentration when he serves. Robert wears a UH Warriors visor over a black-on-white paisley bandana, and dark sunglasses. Long, cargo shorts hang to his knees. His look is nerdy, white-boy hip-hop, his shorts baggy since he's lost some weight. "I had to come see my girl," he grinned. Robert was nursing a sore ankle when I left for Alaska, but it's healed, and now he too is playing with greater confidence. His volleys were on fire that day.
"It feels like we're getting the band back together," I said to Barney after our match as we walked to our cars. Barney is Kathy's brother, an exceptional athlete and, at 58 years young, the best, most mobile player of us all. Our goal in playing against him is to hit the ball where he is not. Trouble is, he's everywhere. Barney plays rock-n-roll into the wee hours most weekends. He never trains. The first thing he does when we finish playing is grab a cigarette. Barney typically wears a headscarf to cover a bald spot on top, which, combined with a salty pony tail, makes him look especially cool. Between points, he practices a phantom base on his racket. His band is called Gin and Chronic.
"It is a beautiful thing," he agreed and smiled, fingers tickling the imaginary fretboard of his grip.
Today, I will talk with a woman I once worked with at the winery who may have an opportunity for me to sell locally made jams at the Hilo Farmers' Market two days a week. That could be fun. Who doesn't love jam? I've sent out half-a-dozen resumés and cover letters this week, too, the have-MFA, will-teach-for-beer-money kind.
Righ now, it's raining. Yesterday afternoon was delugenous. (That's a new word I just invented.) My neighbor and good friend Kathy McGonigle, our foremost local authority on rainfall amounts, said we got half an inch in an hour. The roar upon the roof was fierce. That sort of torrent is not uncommon here, but it is August and not the rainy season. So this was a little exciting. For my money, if it's going to rain every friggin' day, let it bloody rain. Hard. I want to see rain the likes of which would make Noah seem like an overreactive, whiney crybaby. Cats and dogs, lions and tigers and bears-- oh my! Rain like a vertical river. Bring-it-on!
A hui hou. Aloha!
Comments
I laughed at your reference to Fraggle Rock. Lordy, I cannot tell you how many episodes of that I watched with my children way back in the day. (Red was my favorite - such a wicked little thing she was.)
Keep us posted on the job hunt.
xo Anne of the Thousand Days and Nights