There were “grab bags” at the counter of the antique store yesterday. Of course Grandma Elsie would have bought one. Or perhaps she had them placed there from heaven, simply to answer my question, “I wonder if Grandma had ever been here?”
I don’t know where she got it from. I never knew her parents. But she had it as long as I knew her, this feeling of possibility. She was, as she often said, “so close to winning!” No mail-in sweepstake went unanswered. No “Crazy Days” was ever missed. Ben Franklin and Woolworth’s always had the grab-bags. She bought one for herself, and one for me, even when I said, “Oh, you don’t have to, Grandma,” (just as I did, when she offered to make me a root-beer float) — but either way, before I knew it, there was a paper sack of dime store leftovers in my hand and a root-beer float melting on the kitchen table.
I suppose that’s where I get it from — this believing that my next painting will be the best. Hoping my next story will be a grab bag of words that no one can put down. And why, when traveling through the smallest town in Arizona, stopping only for a bathroom break, I am lured to a counter in an antique store lined with grab bags and I believe it is a sign from my Grandma Elsie. Even in this place, so far from anywhere, I am so close to winning!
We started off quite similar — Dominique and I comparing grandmothers. Chubby and welcoming. Sure. Always cooking. Yes. A picture of Jesus hanging in the bedroom. Of course. Chinchillas in the basement? What? This is where we began to differ.
She always had a line on something, my Grandma Elsie. Some may have called it a scheme, but I think it was more of a dream. She loved the idea of winning. Whether it was with the Publisher’s Clearing House Sweepstakes, or the swamp land in Florida, the coupon on the back of the toasted marshmallow’s package, or raising Chinchillas in the basement. Even in her final letter to her children and grandchildren, she apologized for not making the big score that she so wanted to give them.
She was wrong. Not for trying, no. I think it was fun for her, so why not. But I’m not sure she saw the value in what she gave to us daily. This is how we won. With an aproned hug. A lick of the spoon in the batter. Lemonade on the stickiest of summer days. A Lazy Susan filled with candy. A door never locked. A heart always open.
We won with every visit. We never took naps, but instead ate our lunch in front of the tv watching Days of Our Lives. We played cards and dice – games in which she beat us desperately, but it was the time spent together that felt like winning. Most of her sentences began with “Don’t tell grandpa…” — secrets that felt like wrapped and bowed presents.
She was the last person I remember picking me up, when I was too old and too heavy, my legs dangled in the air. This is the lottery that I win every day.
The games we play may be different now. Trying to win “likes” and “followers.” And I am just as guilty as the next person, thinking, “If I only had this…” But in the quiet moments of the morning. With only the sound of my fingers typing the memory, I feel my heart fill, my legs dangle, and I know, all sweepstakes have been won.
I suppose some of the gifts should have been a surprise, but they never were. We grew up with them, these strange and fantastic presents from Grandma Elsie. She was certain that she would be the next Publisher’s Clearing House Winner. Certain enough to clear a path at the front door for an oversized check. But not quite certain enough to stop ordering from the catalog. She imagined with each purchase she got a little bit closer to winning. And she needed gifts after all, what with 27 grand children. So she ordered. I’d like to think it was all random. It’s hard for me to imagine that she saw the red knee length laced panties (bloomers), and thought immediately of me. But that’s what I received for my Christmas present when I was 8 years old.
I had no sinister thoughts at the time. No thoughts of “saloon girls,” or worse… No, I thought they were shorts. Fancy shorts. I kept them folded neatly in my summer drawer.
I was still at my softball game when my mother got home from work. Now, as luck would have it, (so I thought) our town colors were red and black, based on our Cardinal mascot. It was on this very day that I decided to wear my fancy Christmas shorts with my Cardinal t-shirt. The man-made fibers rubbed against my chubby thighs, and caught on the wooden bench of the dugout. I imagine I left a trail of red lace as I rode my bike home from the Dairy Queen field. My disappointment was met with horror on my mother’s face as I dropped my bike in the driveway. I started to cry pink tears. “No,no, no…” she tried to assure me. “It’s fine. You’re beautiful,” she said. I caught my breath, hiccup by hiccup. “Grandma doesn’t know anything about softball,” I said. “No, she doesn’t,” my mother smiled. “How was your game? Did you win?” “No,” I said, but I think we’re getting closer.” I was indeed my grandma’s girl.
I could tell you I did. There are no records to prove it. No one kept the stats. And to be honest, there was never a wall that the ball had to clear. We didn’t have stadiums. We had parks. And if you hit the ball beyond the outfielders, you had a pretty good chance of a home run. And if the infielders would happen to overthrow, underthrow, or just completely miss from base to base, which happened often, and you kept running, and they kept throwing, you could often round the bags without being tagged. A home run. Now in the major leagues they would never score it as that. Maybe a single with three errors. But this was summer softball. A league of our own. And if you scored with one swing of the bat, that my friend, was a home run. And when my mom got home from work, she stopped everything. Even if there were groceries to be put away. And I’m sure her feet hurt from heeled shoes. Legs to be freed from pantyhose. But no, before she did anything, she stopped and asked about my day. My game. As if it were the only thing in the world. She didn’t care about softball. She didn’t ask if we won or lost. She cared about me. I listed off the victories – “a homerun, a single and a double.” (When I think about it, I rarely got a triple. Once you got to third base, you just kept going, no matter what.) I could have told her anything, I suppose, but when I was finished, she raised her hands and cheered! Fists nearly to the ceiling, my heart not far behind.
I haven’t missed a day of writing these posts, these blogs, in 727 days. Again, no one other than me is keeping the stats. Some days I will get 30 likes. Some days 100. I started writing them mostly to get the two handed cheer from my mom. Nothing will ever compare to this. I can still feel it, with each word I type. Each letter is a foot on a sanded field. Each sentence a run toward the base. A paragraph to first. To second. A story each day, just trying to race home. Race home to the one who will lift you. Love you — hands raised in the air kind of love! No matter the score.
The sun is coming up, my heart is not far behind. I’m ready to play. I will spread my wings and call this home.
Rhonda Steen was the best pitcher in the Alexandria Girls’ Elementary School Summer league when I was in third, fourth and fifth grade. I can’t tell you the name of her team because we didn’t have uniforms, and in fact, each year we randomly chose new teams. We didn’t keep stats, so I have no actual proof that she was the best, I just remember that I could hit a home run off of almost every other pitcher but her. She brought something new to the game. It was slow pitch, so this was all technique. Every other pitcher up until then threw the ball gently toward home plate, almost as if they wanted you to hit it. Rhonda threw each pitch with the most aggressive arc we had ever seen. The ball seemed to sky into the blue, hover a bit over the batter (as they tried to swat it like a fly above their heads), and then drop directly behind them, magically in the strike zone. Most of us, with no sun glasses, no hats, certainly no tar beneath the eyes, lost every ball in the summer sun and just waited to see what the teenage umpire called… inevitably it was a strike.
We didn’t receive ribbons or trophies. Except for the year that my team lost every game, I don’t remember the wins or losses. I don’t remember that is was important. I remember riding my bike to the games. I remember the fields, the dirt, the girls. We were friends in the heat of summer, not tied together by uniforms or sponsors, but by friendship. We just played. We didn’t know it then, but I suppose Rhonda’s expert pitching was a sign that we would eventually separate, follow different paths…keep track of the scores, the wins, start worrying about whether or not this life was actually a success.
I still have my baseball glove. It was a hand-me-down from my brother, who’s name eventually wore off and I permanently inked my own. I introduced my husband’s grandchildren to the game. I pitch to them a tennis ball and if they hit it, they race each other around the trees until they fall over. It is pure and it is beautiful. And we all win.
I don’t think Rhonda made a career of her special skill, certainly I did not. But wait, maybe I did. I guess my job is to bring you the pure love of these and other stories, through pictures and words. And I hope I can do that. I hope you can feel that. When you reply “oh, that was my mother,” or “that was my neighborhood,” it connects us all. When we get down to the pureness of it all, in the disinfected light of a summer day, we truly are all connected. Sure, we can see we have different skills, different goals, different teams… but under that one sun’s warmth, wearing the same dust on our knees, we are one, we are more than winning, we are truly living.
