Some guys do not remember birthdays well.

I admit it.

I am one.

So, when the guests arrived, I was surprised. To my wife, they had brought the first budding roses of spring. How nice, I thought. Then, they said the words of revelation: “Happy Birthday. We know it’s a few days off, but these roses just said you. Happy Birthday.” Hugs and kisses were exchanged between them, while me, behind, I wiped the sweat from my brow: Whew, I had the time! My life would not end for having forgotten my wife’s birthday.

By buds, I was delivered, and by roses was I saved.

For that, I cared well for them in their vase. When the first bud bloomed, I smiled with remembered relief. I called that bright blossom: “Rose on First” — the Birthday Rose that got me to base and saved my life — at least for another year.

At the ballpark, my friend and I watched the home team sag in the heat. They were a new team of young players with few returning stars. It would be a long season, but it was a spring day on the bleachers in the warmth of a bright and shiny star. Everyone was cheered, if cheers to the field were few to find. There was time to sit and smile and talk.

“What do you do?” The young couple next to my friend asked.

“Did. I delivered babies.”

“You’re kidding. What hospital?”

My baseball buddy named the place.

“I was born there. Wait a second.” The young man dialed his cell phone. “I’m calling my Mom.” My buddy smiled. “Mom, who was the doctor who delivered me on my birthday?”

As we waited, I wondered if you could be delivered on a day other than your birthday. It was a curious phrasing, I thought, that this young husband had used with his mom. I know of a baby lion who was once delivered to another field. That was a mis-directed delivery, but when the stork dropped the package and it opened before the mother sheep, that was “the” delivery date. There was no other day. From that day, Lambert the Lion grew to be a fine sheep with a mighty roar and a kindly disposition. I guess the delivery day is the “birthday.” Yes, it dawned on me, and that is what and why we remember and celebrate on our birthdays. Delivery day is opening day, the first day, the first pitch, the start of the game and the beginning of the season of our lives. Let the fun begin! That’s what birthdays are all about. I like that. I can remember that. This is a good day.

“You delivered my sister!” The young man cheered ecstatically and offered to buy my friend a soda and a hot dog and peanuts and popcorn and, well, anything else you can buy to eat or drink at the game. “You delivered my sister!” he shouted. It was a good day at the ballpark.

That Doc is not as young as he once was and he doesn’t move as fast as he once did. When he did, he loved to garden and he loved irises. When I saw this one, I snapped a shot and called it “Baby Doc on Second.”

Memories are little things. They hide and wait to be found. A little like babies and deliveries and birthdays. Shy, a bit furtive, but wanting to be found. I smiled and called this one “Shy Lion Finds Third” in honor of that kindly gentleman and all his deliveries.

To return to roses, there is an old-fashioned rose out back. It is a temperamental type, waiting to be sure that the cold is past to take that first step and show its color. Somehow, that rose seems to know to be in bloom for my wife’s birthday. She smiled and rushed to tell me when she found the first full bud back there. With baseball, roses and irises, there is hope for the season. I call that first bud’s bloom, “Grandma Rose Runs For Home.”

There, we have it: a reprieve, a respite and a reflection. As I thought and watched, the last of the birthday buds on the table bloomed to life. It was a good delivery. For that, I have no name, only a grateful and thankful sigh.

Third rose to the end

Turn left, round

Home plate

& Cheer!

Grandpa Jim

Down the lane and around the corner, we spotted the orange glow of our first Indian Paint Brush of the 2015 Ennis Bluebonnet Trails Festival.

Stopping the car, we stood and slowly turned. There they were!!!!! The Bluebonnets of Texas. Our first sighting of the bonneted prairie blues. Oh, joy!! They had returned, and we had spotted them. Our cell phones clicked away in a picture-taking frenzy. Following cars screeched and skidded to pull over and off the narrow road. Smiling occupants frantically alighted to turn, twist and flop before the vernal hues and verdant backgrounds in a wild worship of petalled selfies. Oh, joys!!!!!!!!! The pastoral traffic jam of floral spring had returned.

Yonder, a farmer’s open gate beckoned for a hillside climb. We carefully stepped, placing each foot where others had stepped before, not daring to bruise the blush of spring.

Even the grass was excited to watch the rush of blues to the encircling greens.

Bees eyed our passage.

Tiny whites hid and blinked at our passing.

Until, on return to the farmer’s gate, a lone blue-white star bid us adieu.

We boarded to drive and down the road, only to skid again to stop. What a parting shot! Beyond the wired fence, a field of wild orange poppies.

Blinking, the double brights blinded our awe-struck sight.

It was a good parting, in the fading lime of Purkinje’s light.

We drove on to the fond Texas establishment that can only be found beyond the big city limits. DQ. Dairy Queen. There are none of those within tens of miles of our city home. Only out here. Among the prairies and hills. And, the flowers. It was a fitting end. The waitress turned the cup upside down to show the frozen blizzard inside of cream and candy would not drop or disappoint. And, it did not. It was a filling end to a fine fun day.

Good sights and tastes yours, to find the drive, and leave the city behind.

Don’t be shy. It is a friendly place to find. Out there. Beyond the sign.

Grandpa Jim

Spring has begun.

From the overnight thunderstorms, Live Oak tree wigglies wash down the driveway in staggered waves of brownish flotsam and clinging coats of pollen.

Up, up and beyond into the clearing sky, the pecan branches stretch and reach with green leafed tips of newish growth. It is the official saying in this region of Texas: “When the pecan trees bud with new leaves, the last frost of winter has passed and spring has officially arrived.” With the early rains, this change has made its official debut.

Along the lines of old tree roots, mushroom families sense the difference and lift their fringed heads through the morning mists.

New light and warmth rush to melt back the delicate feathered blooms of night.

Pots watch and accept the change as they wait patiently for their turn.

Nearby, grandma rose buds bulge to life with a buzzing bee.

Hawthorns hasten.

Houses harken.

Crepes cluster.

And, from their new beds, the first tomatoes blink small yellow blooms of future fruit.

Yes, spring is in the air and before our eyes.

Dirt between the fingers and on the feet.

Now, the new year may truly begin.

Spring has sprung and is here.

With cheer and fine form.

We bid warm Hello.

And Welcome.

Welcome.

Home.

Grandpa Jim

CONVERSATE:

“What do you think about all this fracking?”

“Yes, I do like the sound of the ducks on the pond. All that quacking.”

“Not ‘quacking.’ ‘Fracking.’”

“Oh, that. A real problem. I read about it all the time in the papers. It’s all over the news. Nothing’s sacred anymore. Thieves can hack into anything.”

“Not ‘hacking.’ See my lips. ‘Fracking.’”

“I can see the breeze. Yes, it is a very good day for sailing. The marina’s not far. Tacking into the wind, with the wind in our hair. There’s nothing quite like it. You have a good idea.”

“You need a audiologist.”

“What did you say?”

“Oh, brother.”

“Quite right. That’s what I tell my wife all the time. ‘Don’t bother.’ My hearing’s just fine.”

“Oh, brother.”

“We agree. This has been a good conversation.”

POSTSHAKE:

You can’t see an earthquake, but you can feel its effects.

In Oklahoma, before 2008, on average, there were fewer than five (5) recorded earthquakes above magnitude 3.0 per year. That’s it . . . per year . . . 5 . . . about that . . . no more. In 2008, there were only two (2). Last year, 2014, there were 584 earth shakes measuring at least 3.0. That is a big crash-bang-jump in frequency and feelocity.

To re-quake, in the twelve months of 2014, folks in Oklahoma felt the earth move under their feet almost three hundred times more than in 2008. That is not exactly what Carole King was thinking and singing in 1971 with her mainstream hit, but perhaps some parallels can be drawn. Carole’s lyrics jump and pop with her longing remembering of feeling “the earth – move – under my feet” and “my heart start to trem-b-ling.” As yet, in Oklahoma there is not Carole’s other line: “the sky tum-b-ling down – tum-b-ling down.” There, at least, is a certain comfort. Still, there is the feeling of the earth moving more, and more hearts are trembling. The shakes do seem to be growing in frequency and intensity. Perhaps it is time to look up and ask the question: What is this all about?

Quacks? They are in the air and on the pond, but seldom found underground. I think this is an effect we can duck.

Hacks? I suppose this could be. They do find their way into everything, and they are very disruptive, but they usually loot hard data not unlock hard rock.

Tacks? Even in permeable rock with the Beach Boys on deck, it would be hard to navigate the Sloop John B through the subsurface. If there is a slosh down there, it is not one to float a boat.

One of our list does remain.

To frack or not to frack is a long debate.

Fracking introduces fluids under pressure into the subsurface to crack the rock formation, which opens the way in one direction for otherwise unrecoverable oil and gas molecules to flow out and up to reach the surface and be utilized in our cars, homes and businesses; and fracking can also provide the openings in the reverse direction for the used fluids to be introduced back into the subsurface and managed out of sight and harm to the surface environment.

Fracking is an innovative, original, dynamic, cost effective, job producing and energy enhancing technology.

And, it raises questions.

What are its effects and where?

And, on balance do the benefits outweigh the costs?

To frack or not to frack is the question.

And, questions are always good.

It’s those pesky answers.

They’re difficult.

Quack? Hack? Tack? Frack?

That is the question.

What is your

Answer?

Grandpa Jim

Of the 68, four remain. Of my 31, two remain.

The NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament advances to Round #6, the Final Four.

Four teams remain standing of the starting sixty-eight: Michigan State, Duke, Kentucky and Wisconsin. Among them, there are two of my chosen thirty-one: Michigan State and Wisconsin.

On Saturday evening, April 4, 2015, in Indianapolis, Indiana, the Michigan State University Spartans from East Lansing, Michigan (“Green and White. . . . Fight! Fight! Rah! Team, Fight! Victory for MSU!”) will take the court against the Duke University Blue Devils from Durham, North Carolina (“Fight! Blue Devils, Fight! Blue and White”). Later that night, the University of Kentucky Wildcats from Lexington, Kentucky (“On, On, Blue and White, Kentucky Fight”) will face the University of Wisconsin Badgers from Madison, Wisconsin (“On, Wisconsin! Red and White. Fight! Fellows! – fight, fight, fight!”).

These are all good teams from great schools with winning programs in sports and academics and equally vigorous fight songs.

Prognostications are difficult but observations are available.

Two of the surviving four hale from my alma mater’s conference: Michigan State and Wisconsin are from the Big Ten. This is the third straight year that one conference has placed two teams in the Final Four (Kentucky and Florida from the Southeastern Conference in 2014 and Louisville and Syracuse from the Big East in 2013), but I am not aware that any conference has ever had two of its teams advance to play each other in the final National Championship game. For this reason, I read the nets to indicate that both Big Ten teams may not advance.

Two of the surviving teams have the same school colors: Blue and White adorn Kentucky from the Southeastern Conference and Duke from the Atlantic Coast Conference. For similarly garbed squads to race in streaks across the floor would wreck havoc to those watching, announcing and applauding WHO?? For this reason, the baskets tilt to indicate both teams of the blue and white may not align each against the other for the Tournament Finish.

So, if both Michigan State and Wisconsin do not advance and both Kentucky and Duke do not advance, who do advance? And if they both each don’t do that, who does advance? That is exactly the question and precisely why it is called March Madness.

You know, I think every round is better than the one before.

And each game is better than the last.

How can that be?

Must be

March

Madness

And the Big Dance!

Grandpa Jim

Oh, the horror of the devastation.

In a single day, yes, a single day, all five Texas teams fell.

Amid the flashing lights and clamoring reporters, the conquerors of the courts leaped in jubilation and marshaled their forces to advance and play again.

There is no need to name those who have fallen. We know them well. They are our schools.

There is no need to name those who have advanced. We know them well. They are our schools.

Seven of my thirty-one survived the first three rounds and now march forth under the banner of the “Sweet Sixteen” to do further battle.

We salute their advance and wait to take our seats again in dread and hopeful anticipation.

In this small time between, let us take a moment to reflect on the nature of time and the manner of memory.

Reflection of “Still Alice”: In the academic setting of this recent movie, we run, walk, stumble and numbly watch with Professor Alice, played by Julianne Moore. Julianne received the Oscar for Best Actress for her portrayal of Alice’s struggle with Alzheimer’s disease. Her memory fails and is lost. Yet, she is still Alice who knows who she is and what she was in the shell of her remaining self. The lesson we learn from Alice, through the tears of our frustration with her failing mind, is that each life, despite its brevity, is a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time we have to hold and share it.

Reflection of “The Theory of Everything”: In the academic setting of this recent movie, we run, walk, stumble and fall smiling with Professor Stephen Hawking, played by Eddie Redmayne. Eddie received the Oscar for Best Actor for his portrayal of Stephen’s struggle with Lou Gehrig’s disease. His body fails and is lost. Yet, he is still Professor Stephen Hawking who can see the heart of the universe as his twisted body breaks the hearts of those around him. The lesson we learn from Stephen, through the tears of our frustration with his failing body, is that each life, despite its brevity, is a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time we have to hold and share it.

A Best Actress lost her mind. A Best Actor lost his body. In showing us those losses, they showed us that the persons they portrayed did not loose either.

Despite their adversities, they both, in their own time and in their own manner, prevailed and won.

It is in how we handle loss that we truly win.

Twenty-four of my teams have already lost and boarded their buses for home. Yes, it is only a sport and a game, but in its way, it is life. Only one team will win the tournament. Even if it is one of mine, thirty will have not. In all, sixty-seven teams will have lost.

That is life.

Despite the losses, I suspect every one of the players on every one of the teams, including those of the final winner, will remember the tournament as a unique experience to be treasured in the manner and time they have to hold and share it.

In that, I think Professors Alice and Stephen would be quite proud of them.

In my way, I know that I am of each of them.

That is life.

 
Grandpa Jim

Iditarod – run – ran – run!!!

In the cold dark morning of March 18, 2015, the lone musher “Hike’d” his team up the last white hill, into the waking town, between the waiting police escort running beside him with their flashlights, over the snow-packed streets, past the gathering cheering crowds, and under the finish arch of the 2015 Iditarod.

Exhausted, Dallas Seavey knelt, hugged his dogs and posed for pictures with Reef and Hero, his two lead dogs. Ten dogs had started the run from Safety to Nome to bring them home. One dog, too worn to pull, had been lifted to ride the last miles in the sled. The rest pulled and Dallas mushed. They were a team. They ran together. They won together.

By Iditarod standards, Dallas is young. He is only 27, but he is a local, state, national and world wrestling champion, he was the youngest person to have run the Iditarod, this is his tenth race, and now he and his team have run to that far distant place for their third Iditarod championship.

It runs in the family.

Dallas’ grandfather ran the first Iditarod in 1973. With this year’s race, Dallas’ father, Mitch, has run 23 Iditarods, and Mitch Seavey has two Iditarod championship trophies of his own. For the 2015 race, Dad Mitch and his team crossed under the arch in Nome second behind his son.

It runs in the family.

For the reporters, Dallas had these words: “It takes a whole team to get any of us here. . . . As long as you take care of the dog team, make good decisions, good things will happen. Wins are a result of doing what we love.”

Good advice from a young champion who loves what he does so well.

Congratulations, Dallas, and now get some well earned rest.

Your Dad will be along soon and then, you know.

You can start the planning for next year.

Run – Ran – Run!!!

Iditarod!

Grandpa Jim

The Dance and Madness have begun!!!

Yesterday, on Selection Sunday, March 15, 2015, the 68 teams of the NCAA Men’s Basketball Tournament were identified by name. That’s right — by name. For their followers, and they are many, these are exciting times in the land of hoops, dribbles and baskets.

This morning, my hopes were up. I grabbed the paper, turned to the Sports section, and began to trace a finger down the page.

My immediate concern was how many of “my” teams actually made the cut. Each year, some very good teams are snubbed and not selected to participate. It must be said that the process of selection is long, complicated and difficult. So, despite the time, effort and good will of the selectors, the outcome is never perfect — especially for those non-selectees with very good won-loss records. Last year, my hometown Dallas SMU Mustangs did not receive an invitation to the “Big Dance”. At that time, there was much sadness on the streets of Big D.

Like all good fans, I have to have “my” teams. And, for the Big Dance, I must define “my” broadly to capture as many teams as possible. Only by being generous in my loyalty and affections, can I increase the odds that some of “my” teams will remain through the seven rounds of play and possibly make the National Championship game on April 6, the Monday after Easter Sunday.

To paraphrase Ned Ryerson from the movie “Groundhog Day”, that first week is a doozy. Between the opening bell to start the first game of the First Round on Tuesday, March 17, St. Patrick’s Day, to the final buzzer of the game to mark the end of the Third Round on the following Sunday, March 21 (a span of a scant six days), the starting field of 68 teams will be pared to 16 remaining squads. This means that only 23% of the original selected teams will win their way to the Sweet Sixteen. That first week could be called “The Loud Lament.” The sadly departing are many, and the happily remaining are few. Truly, the frantic pace of those first six days merit the term “March Madness.”

So, I asked frantically, are “my” teams there?

Relief attended my dashing digit.

Yes, my original home state is well represented: Iowa (my alma mater), Iowa State (my brothers’ alma mater), and Northern Iowa (the old State Teachers College from our childhood hometown). That’s 3.

But, I must have more.

My adopted state of Texas is there also: Baylor (my wife’s alma mater – good move, selection committee), Texas Southern (from the town I lived in for thirty years), Steven F. Austin (in the Piney Woods), Texas (a niece went there and Pecan Street is there), and SMU (the Mustangs made it – the streets of Dallas are alive with the sound of cheers). That’s 3 plus 5 more, for 8.

I still need more of mine to make the run.

Wait, Iowa is in the Big Ten, and I am a Big Ten fan, and the Big Ten has six more teams in the race: Indiana, Maryland, Michigan State, Ohio State, Purdue and Wisconsin. That’s 6 to add to 8. I’m up to 14 teams.

Not enough. More are needed.

Wait again, Iowa State, Baylor and Texas are in the Big 12, and I’m a Big 12 fan, and the Big 12 has four more teams in the Big Dance: Kansas, Oklahoma, Oklahoma State and West Virginia. That’s 4 more to add to 14. I have 18 teams, a good start.

But, even more are needed.

Let me think. Yes, I have good reasons to clap and holler for others of those selected: Cincinnati (another niece lives there and her son plays basketball), Buffalo (a pretty place I visited in the summer), Butler (an exciting team we watched over pizza), Notre Dame (I have many friends who believe in leprechauns – especially this week), Wichita State (I’ve driven by the city many times), New Mexico St. (I love New Mexico), Arkansas (our little flower girl lives in Little Rock with her mother who is yet another niece), Lafayette (I like Cajun food), LSU (I’ve traveled often to the Red Stick, Baton Rouge), Louisville (I remember an exciting run for the finish), Boise State and North Florida (who doesn’t like an underdog – may be a few more in this category as the games progress), and Georgetown (they accepted me once, a long time ago, but I never forgot). There, you see, I have many good reasons to include at least 13 more schools. That’s 13 plus 18.

I’m up to 31 teams on “my” roster of schools to watch and wait and hope to see on April 6^th.

You know, I’m sure there are more.

This is going to be fun.

Let’s see now.

Who else?

Grandpa Jim

Aliy is taking a break.

Aliy Zirkle was the second sled into Galena, behind 4-time Iditarod winner Jeff King. Galena is an old mining town on the Yukon River. At that point in race and time, Jeff was technically in first place and Aliy in second in “The Last Great Race” across Alaska.

Galena, population 527, is the 5^th of 16 checkpoints before the final run from Safety to Nome. Galena is 396 miles along the trail, with 583 miles yet to sled past the checkered flag and home.

At each stop, or checkpoint, the musher has the option to rest or continue on. Aaron Burmeister did the latter. At Galena, Aaron checked in, dropped the pen, stretched his legs, jumped back aboard, yelled, “Hike!” (another term for Mush! or Let’s go!) and off he and his dogs went flying into the bitter cold. It was -17F (-27C) outside. That was a brief 19-minute breather, and it put Mr. Burmeister, for a time, at the top of the pile ahead of Jeff and Aliy, but Aaron has yet to take one of his mandatory “layovers”.

Enroute, each driver must take an 8-hour and a 24-hour layover before qualifying to cross the line in the snow on the coast near the Bering Sea.

I think Aliy is taking her first “official” nap in Galena.

There is strategy at work here: when to stop and when to mush on. It can make a difference, and this makes the early statistics difficult to interpret. A musher could be in the lead one minute, and the next minute, that racer could be asleep with other sleds passing in dreams over their head to take the lead. Only after the leaders have all checked their sleeping bags and are all on the trail to the finish, will we be able squint and see who really has that top sled.

Speaking of squinting, my favorite word picture from the trailing reporters was this one made over the night: “Jeff King is on the move, followed by Aliy Zirkle. . . . We caught up with him on the river not too far out of town and his team was moving extremely well. 10 plus miles before hour. No wind to speak of and Northern lights dancing above. That run does not get much better than that.”

I begin to see why someone would run a piece of wood and leather for almost a thousand miles over snow and ice behind a team of leaping, panting, barking dogs.

I begin to, and then I realize there are some things you can watch and follow, but never completely understand.

Some things are better that way.

Time to take a break and dream of Nome and home.

And wake, get back on, yell “Hike”, and fly away into the snowy night.

Grandpa Jim

The Iditarod has started!!!!

The Iditarod Annual Dog Sled Race Across Alaska, “IADSRAA” – to coin a new name, has begun. Iditarod, as it has been locally known for the 43 years since its beginning, is the dog sled race across the snow in the cold from Willow, near Anchorage, to Nome, Alaska. Only, this year, there wasn’t much snow, it wasn’t very cold (by Alaskan standards), and the start of the race was moved to Fairbanks, Alaska — for, hopefully, more snow and cold. Though conditions may have changed, it is still the race to reach the “far distant place”, the “Iditarod”, and Nome by the Bering Sea.

Monday morning, May 9, 2015, at 10:00 AM, local time, the first musher, a rookie to this race, 48-year old Rob Cooke, originally from Worcester, England, (Yes, the home of the original Worcestershire sauce), who now resides in Whitehorse, Yukon Territories, Canada, mushed his team of huskies across the start line and on toward Nome!!!! That was exciting just to say. I can’t imagine what it was like to be there.

Every two (2) minutes after Rob, another sled, musher and dog launched into the cold for the run to the coast and Nome.

Mitch Seavey, 55, whose dad ran the first Iditarod in 1973, was lucky #17 out of the start gate. You may recall that Mitch won two years ago in 2013 in an exciting finish, for a 1,000 mile dog sled race, just minutes ahead of Aliy Zirkle, who I was cheering on to the finish. Go Aliy! Aliy has finished second the last three years. Last year in 2014, she was 2 minutes and 22 seconds behind the winner, Dallas Seavey, who is Mitch’s son and who finished with the fastest Iditarod time ever at 8 days, 13 hours, 4 minutes and 19 seconds. Now, that’s a race. Go Dallas! By the way, dad Mitch was third behind Aliy last year. Go Mitch!

Aliy and her dogs were #31 out of the chute at 11:00 AM local time, followed 28 minutes later by Dallas Seavey in the #45 slot. If Aliy wins, she won’t be the first woman to win the Iditarod. Susan Butcher claimed Iditarod victories in 1986, 1987, 1988 and 1990 before retiring to raise a family. Go Susan!

To review: On March 9, 2015, 78 sled dog teams started the long and grueling mush to the Bering Sea and the Joe Redington, Sr. Trophy to be awarded the 2015 Iditarod winner.

Next Wednesday, on St. Patrick’s Day, March 17, 2015, 68 basketball teams will start the long March maddening pace of the big dance to the 2015 NCAA Men’s Basketball Championship and the Wooden Trophy awarded the prevailing squad whose members earn the right to cut down the nets at the end of play.

If Dallas Seavey’s speed last year is an indicator, the last musher to reach Nome will claim the Red Lantern awarded to the last sled to reach that far distant place about the time the surviving Sweet Sixteen basketball teams complete the first weekend of hoops play and board their planes for the next round of games.

This means the tired mushers of the Iditarod can rest and recuperate with their feet propped up, before their televisions sets, and enjoy two full weekends of championship basketball — maybe more, if they hurry.

Now, there’s a reason to mush even faster to Nome.

Go mushers! Sled, glide and slide.

Go teams! Dribble, run, leap and shoot.

Rain, snow or shine, these are exciting times.

Grandpa Jim