Thankful for the small things

A lone pelican works our cove, swooping with his huge beak pointed downward, keen eyes following fingerlings below the surface of the water.

He spots a fat one and forming a dagger with his body, he plunges, then bobs to the surface, tilts his enormous beak upward and lets his holiday hors d’oeurvre slip down his throat.

Then, extending his neck, he spreads his wings wide, flaps once, twice, and rises again into the hazy sunshine.  Magnificent.  Serene.  Emblematic of the beauty of nature and the cycle of life.

Across the alley, my neighbor’s boys jump on their trampoline, rising above the fence line in counterpoint, their longish hair rising too, outward, and their arms for balance.  Their young voices call out into the crisp air. 

Leaves on the gingko tree in their yard fan out yellow now.  And behind it, what is that tree?  Scarlet!  Dazzling.

My cat hops onto my lap as I write, turns and curls into her coziest configuration, pushing her nose and lips against my hand as she goes.  Her predecessor lived to 21 years so I’m hoping she will accompany me into my old age.  We are of like minds, after all.

I hear our boomerang son in his room below me, cajoling his online international team members in World of Warcraft.  He’ll be with us another year or so as he reestablishes himself on solid ground this time.  He’s smart and strong and good.  Just like we hoped and planned for, if a little tardy.

Mr. Plath and I have been married almost 25 years now and we have that easy comfort of a pair of old shoes. 

2015, our Silver Anniversary year is shaping up to be a memorable one:  He’s retiring come February and already dancing the happy dance of a short-timer.  A party is definitely in the offing. 

We’re planning a nostalgic repeat of our honeymoon trip to Niagara Falls coupled this time with a visit to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.  While we’re in the neighborhood, we might head over to Fenway Park to see Pablo Sandoval play.

There’s even talk of a third pilgrimage to Alaska this year to catch some halibut for the freezer – you really only need one!  Maybe we’ll go to Kodiak Island this time.  See glaciers and bald eagles.  And a moose.  Or a grizzly.  Through the binoculars!

That book I vowed to complete in 2014 is close to its checkered flag.  One last push and I’ll move it to the next phase, still muddling along, learning as I go.

On Facebook, past students send out their Thanksgiving wishes.  Some are married with babies and toddlers and I feel like a virtual grand-mamma.  The least taxing role of all, but still heartwarming.  Maybe before too long the Boomerang Kid will produce some progeny and we will be real-time actual grandparents! 

Oklahoma friends and family send smiling pictures and “wish you were here!”  Out of focus or too far from the lens – it’s OK.  The message still hits the mark.

I have it easy for Thanksgiving dinner again this year.  The Plath family gathers in Sacramento.  Siblings, spouses and the next generation, and the next, arrive bearing side dishes.  Cheesy broccoli and rice casserole.  Candied yams.  My sister-in-law is the only person I’ve ever met who doesn’t want leftovers.  She always sends lots of turkey home with us.  Yum!

My beloved 94-year-old father-in-law will make the trek and hold court at the dinner table.  Seeing him gaze into the eyes of his great-granddaughter is mystical and life-affirming.

These next few weeks leading up to Christmas and the New Year are some of my favorites – joyful and sentimental.  I’ll decorate the house this weekend and have as many mini-parties as I can to share it and show it off and celebrate.

Oh!  A pair of swans glides across the cove now!  And Pachelbel on the radio!  My mother would love this!  She raised me on classical music and Audubon.  Thanks Mom. 

So there it is – my thanks-giving. 

I could go on, but you get the gist.  Life is so good.  Bittersweet and sweet.  Better than I ever imagined it could be.   


Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.

Everyone needs a walk-up song

My life would be better if I had a walk-up song – something to play me onstage for the start of the day.  An energizer.  That’s what I need. 

Baseball players have walk-up songs – music that’s played – eight bars anyway – as they make the trip from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box, weapon in hand.   

That’s what I’m talking about; I need a chorus when I crack my eyes open in the AM – a few “Hallelujahs!” to bring me up to task. 

Baseball players’ theme songs flood the airwaves, throbbing in the ears of the thousands who’ve come to witness the impending duel.  At the Plath household, it’s just me, Mr. Plath, the dog and the cats, but each day’s challenges can be daunting in a relative way. 

So we aren’t talking about ditties here.  We’re talking about anthems to inspire all kinds players, get us focused and put the fear of our mighty bats into the psyches of the opposing pitchers. 

That’s what I want – “Eye of the Tiger,” “Can’t Touch This,” or maybe that catchy C. Lo Green number where he speaks directly to his rival in love.  You know the one, bold, direct, unquotable in a family-oriented periodical. 

OK.  Nobody uses any of those tunes, but you get the idea.  It’s important to have a walk-up song for those crucial, stress-inducing moments when you’re supposed to hit a 94mph fast ball.  Or plan dinner. 

A walk-up song is a brand.  It carries a cache.  It identifies the player, regardless of the playing field, as a force with which to be reckoned.  (Note the no-nonsense grammar.) 

Once his walk-up song starts to play, a batter’s swagger kicks in.  It conveys to his teammates and the world: “No worries.  I’ve got this.” 

I could use a song like that. 

Because right now, I only get out of bed in the morning when the cats make me.   

Like baseball players – the cats have their routines.  They wake up hungry, knowing I control the rations; so they commence their demonstration of will.  And they’re good.  If these cats had a walk-up song, it would be Tom Petty’s “I Won’t Back Down.” 

I can hear it faintly in their kitty voices:  “You can stand me up at the gates of hell, but I won’t…!”  They always win.  I get up in the dark and feed them.   

Once a player is in the batter’s box, he has rituals, too.  He pats his bat; kisses the pine tar smeared thereon; taps home plate at the farthest point and the closest.  Some of them sigh, and stretch their backs, then dig their cleats into the trenches, stare at the pitcher and point the bat right at him!   

Pablo Sandoval, SF Giants’ Belushi-like third baseman, skips out toward the pitcher and kicks the bat twice in his direction.  He taps his helmet a couple of taps with the bat head, turns back to home plate and then uses the bat’s handle to trace the name of his daughter in the dirt before facing the pitcher.  Who’s in control now?!   

And the Panda wallops balls inside, outside, down and up. 

I’m not sure what Pablo’s walk-up song is …”Anything Goes”? 

The concept’s a good one.  We have our routine.  All that’s missing is the music. 

I need my own theme song as a coupe de gras. 

Let’s see…The President has the best walk-up song.  So that’s taken.
 

The theme from X-Files or Alfred Hitchcock would be fun, but what tone would it set for the day?  I cultivate quirky, but one of those two might propel me into, well, the Twilight Zone. 

When I was working in the public schools, I found myself humming the theme from Rawhide under my breath – “don’t try to understand ‘em; just rope and throw and brand ‘em…!”  But I don’t think that applies to my more gentile retired life.  Still, I’m not quite ready for whistling away my days with an AndyGriffith walk-up. 

I’m looking for a track suitable for a game changer.  I have big plans.  I’m making waves.   

Hmm…It needs to reflect my approach to life:  fun-loving and formidable.  Cagey, light on my feet.  I’m thinking motivator.  Confidence builder…Here it comes….I can hear it! 

Mission Impossible!   

Double entendre notwithstanding.