Home again. Normalcy returns to our lives. Maureen's off at the squad board meeting. I've umpired (what may be the last game for several weeks). Our long weekend with extended family at Shelter Island, N.Y., is now a pleasant memory.
We've come home with fantasies, however, of how our lives could be better. A home on the island, which we'd also use as a business for us both. A B&B perhaps, with a coffee house nearby or even attached. Music and readings. Assorted ways of making us unique on the island as far as B&Bs go. The dream of making the place available for certain weeks for family, free of charge of course. Worrying about little details like how our cat Riley would fare on the long ride out; half a dose of Dramamine for our little boy.
Yet, I must call them fantasies right now because we don't have the financial capacity to achieve these goals, and likely will not soon. A journalism job is not lucrative. Only my book ideas appear to have the ability to turn lead into gold -- and even they may fall like lead.
As usual, it all comes down to putting in the time and having a goal to achieve. Laziness comes too easily to me.
This afternoon, when we got home, I mowed the lawn. Then I went and umpired my game (another blowout). After the game, with Maureen at her meeting, I decided to jog. That makes three consecutive days -- the first time I've done that in years.
My goal is to join my brother Bob in a marathon later this year. It will require the same type of dedication I must put to my novel; I believe they can complement each other. After dinner, I will reopen the novel. I might only write a few words, but this will be a new beginning.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Thursday, June 03, 2004
Chapter 6.2: The Ring of Power
Last night's Little League game almost fried my already frazzled psyche. After umpiring through a blowout (I stopped noting the score after it hit 20-3, but there was more -- so much more), I unstrapped the tools of ignorance from my legs and shoved the equipment into the back of the egg-mobile (my little white 1992 Honda CX). At some point my Claddagh ring must have fallen to the ground. I didn't hear it and didn't notice it missing until I was almost home.
Usually I take my wedding ring and Claddagh off before leaving the car when I arrive at the field. I don't want them damaged by a random foul ball off my knuckles, no matter how unlikely that is to happen. But last night I wasn't sure the game would even be played, considering the amount of rain that had fallen over the previous 48 hours. Just before the game began I remembered the rings and tucked them in my pocket.
I was driving home when I thought of my rings and pulled over to rummage through the pocket. I was pleased to find my wedding ring, but the Claddagh was gone. It was a gift from Maureen and almost as much a symbol of our marriage as the One True Ring on my left hand. I'd misplaced my rings before, taking them off to play softball. I've placed them in my sneakers and discovered them with my toes. I've tied them to my sneaker strings and heard them jingle onto bleachers when the knot came undone. I've had a couple too many beers after games and forgotten where I'd hid them. This night, again, I was just a dope.
Having dug through the egg's seats without finding the ring, Maureen and I returned to the field, armed with a flashlight. I parked about 15 feet behind where I'd been before and shined the light along the curbside, feeling hopeless. The name of St. Anthony crossed my mind; I think he's the one to pray to for lost things. And I considered my guardian angel as well.
Then the light hit it. Resting on its heart, the ring lay on the ground unharmed. How easily it could have been crushed by tires. One of the players could have picked it up like Bilbo Baggins and gone unwittingly on his way. So simply I could have just missed it in my search. Yet, I'd found it, my precious. I raised my arm up in triumph, picked the ring up and placed it back on my finger, the heart pointing back to my heart. I smiled at my wife.
"It always comes back," she said.
My mind is still frazzled. I feel behind on my work, my freelance articles, my book. I feel poor. I feel unsatisfied that I'm doing what I should be doing. But if nothing else, I have a wonderful wife to whom I feel completely attached. Things could be much worse.
Usually I take my wedding ring and Claddagh off before leaving the car when I arrive at the field. I don't want them damaged by a random foul ball off my knuckles, no matter how unlikely that is to happen. But last night I wasn't sure the game would even be played, considering the amount of rain that had fallen over the previous 48 hours. Just before the game began I remembered the rings and tucked them in my pocket.
I was driving home when I thought of my rings and pulled over to rummage through the pocket. I was pleased to find my wedding ring, but the Claddagh was gone. It was a gift from Maureen and almost as much a symbol of our marriage as the One True Ring on my left hand. I'd misplaced my rings before, taking them off to play softball. I've placed them in my sneakers and discovered them with my toes. I've tied them to my sneaker strings and heard them jingle onto bleachers when the knot came undone. I've had a couple too many beers after games and forgotten where I'd hid them. This night, again, I was just a dope.
Having dug through the egg's seats without finding the ring, Maureen and I returned to the field, armed with a flashlight. I parked about 15 feet behind where I'd been before and shined the light along the curbside, feeling hopeless. The name of St. Anthony crossed my mind; I think he's the one to pray to for lost things. And I considered my guardian angel as well.
Then the light hit it. Resting on its heart, the ring lay on the ground unharmed. How easily it could have been crushed by tires. One of the players could have picked it up like Bilbo Baggins and gone unwittingly on his way. So simply I could have just missed it in my search. Yet, I'd found it, my precious. I raised my arm up in triumph, picked the ring up and placed it back on my finger, the heart pointing back to my heart. I smiled at my wife.
"It always comes back," she said.
My mind is still frazzled. I feel behind on my work, my freelance articles, my book. I feel poor. I feel unsatisfied that I'm doing what I should be doing. But if nothing else, I have a wonderful wife to whom I feel completely attached. Things could be much worse.
Wednesday, June 02, 2004
Later to link
I've still got to put time in and learn how to create links for this blog, but here's one to my AOL homepage, where a previously published piece of fiction now appears.
http://hometown.aol.com/mattsinc/myhomepage/writing.html
http://hometown.aol.com/mattsinc/myhomepage/writing.html
Tuesday, June 01, 2004
Chapter 6: never ending story
I have no humor when unfocused. The new month is full already, a mouth to feed. Today I research and interview and write, as I did before, now and at the hour of our insanity. I expect change. What was it Gandhi said "Be the change you seek"? Sure, sounds simple. What do you do when those 15 minutes are past, however? As my boss has been known to say, "Just write the fucking story!"
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