Image of a yellow pickleball 

Pickleball anyone?

    Nearly 5 million people play pickleball. It's a mashup of a game: badminton, ping-pong, and 
tennis. Players use a small paddle and a hard
plastic wiffle-like plastic ball.

    This popular game with the weird name was invented in 1965, according to my research.
Where'd the name come from? Take your pick of two stories. Pickleball, which combined several sports, was akin to the pickle boat in crew where the oarsmen were picked from extra crew members from other boats. Or, the quirky name came from the inventor's family dog Pickles. 

    Recently, I met an avid tennis and pickleball player. (I’m not sure if it’s as rare as having seen a red-footed dodo bird, but pretty close.) I also play both racquet sports, and our fast-paced conversation was like ping-pong but nobody was keeping score.  

    In high school, I played on the girls’ junior varsity team. In fact, I didn’t really want to advance to varsity level because that’s when everything became more cutthroat. Friends are friends on and off the competitive court in my book.

    That said, I’m not a tennis purist whose afraid pickleball might ruin my serve. So, when several friends raved about this racquet sport, I wanted to learn how to play.  I was also fortunate to find  friends willing to teach me to play. (Thank you Kay!) Unlike tennis, it's been easier to find someone to play a pick-up pickleball game. 

    My top reasons to try pickleball.

·             It’s accessible. Pickleball is cheap compared to other games like golf. All one needs is a racquet, decent court shoes, and balls. The plastic balls (one design for indoor, the other for outdoor play) can take a beating longer than tennis balls, which lose their bounce after a couple hours of court time.

·             It’s social. One can opt to play singles or doubles. Despite the shorter court, doubles is doable. Personally, I like to team up with another player. And the chances of getting hurt by your partner’s fast serve is slim. Tennis balls sting, trust me. Pickleballs, not so much.

·             Age doesn’t matter. Young or old, all age can play.

·S    Serving is simple, and there are two acceptable ways to serve. Drop the ball and plunk it over the net, or toss the ball in the air and hit it, like tennis.  

·         One can play year around on indoor or outdoor courts.

·         It’s fun to shout, “Get out of the kitchen,” at your partner. Don’t be discouraged by the quirky nicknames. Just embrace it. Yes, there are rules, lots of rules. I downloaded 80 pages. But the best way to learn is to get out at play!

·         Finally, it’s fun! 

Featuring: Tales from the trail 

Sparkle on a fence. 

What will I discover on my walk? 

    Every day, the trail holds many surprises and here I tell the tale of innocent smiling Sparkle whom I met on the trail. The ending is for you to imagine.    

    LOST: Queen’s unicorn, last seen prancing atop a rainbow. Answers to Sparkle. Adores carrots or marshmallows. Reward offered if returned unharmed.   

    Magical unicorn looking for a loving home. Must love purple, pink, and  sparkles. Children who give big hugs and read fun stories every night will
be eligible to adopt. 

    WANTED: Two human fugitives (an adult and child) escaping from kingdom on bikes. Child had purple backpack with Sparkle held captive. Do not attempt to engage with these humans. Summon the Kingdom's Guards.  

    Mythical kind creature seeking immediate medical treatment. Sewing experience required.

    HOMELESS: Will grant wishes for stable home life and steady employment. All subjects whose wealth comes from wisdom rather than riches will receive top consideration.     

    Ms. Purple Prancy desires delightful company. Knows how to frolic in fields. Only discrete adults considered.

     

 

   

 

  

 My First Stamp Album 

 In today’s era of e-mail, why do I care about postage stamps?

    I still relish receiving real mail with decorative stamps. Yet, I see far too many forever flag stamps (always in style) proudly waving and promptly ignored by the recipient because it’s a bill or junk mail. Surprise me and send me envelopes carrying miniature pieces of art, picturesque waterfalls, and     portraits of real-life heroes like the notorious RBG.

    Stamps reflect what we as Americans value—our heroes, artists, writers, athletics, and landscapes. Our history. Our integrity. Our innovation.

    In fact, the USPS stamp program suggests stamp subjects should “celebrate the American experience” but only positive experiences, please.

 People of all backgrounds and professions make ideal stamp subjects such as Willa Cather, Louisa May Alcott, John Muir, Langston Hughes, Sally Ride, and Harry S. Truman (I’m a writer and poet from the Show Me State.) Candidates for stamps are eligible three years after their death. On the upside, the person lives forever once they are on a stamp.  

    I am curious about who decides what goes on our stamps. According to the USPS, there is a stamp selection committee that votes on the subjects submitted. How tough is the competition? (The Post Office issues around 35 stamps each year.) What would those committee member debates sound like?

   "We must focus on threatened species this year.”

    “Gray fox?”

     “Humboldt penguin?”

    “What about the manatees?”  

    Well, I’ll let you imagine the topics and the time.

    The average person will never know because the committee meetings are secret. Guidelines and goals are in place to serve the public and the collector.    

    Which brings me to why I started thinking about stamps. I found my stamp collection books.  The earliest one features my 10-year-old handwriting on faded construction paper with red, white, and blue sparkly star stickers. Open it up to find white-lined notepaper pages displaying cancelled stamps from around the world: Ghana, Malaysia, Peru, Indonesia, Italy, and the Netherlands. All these stamps were so exotic.     

    Beside the books, I pick up a stack of thin, lightweight air-mail envelopes with German stamps. These are my cousin’s letters during her career as a musician playing French horn in a German orchestra.  

    So many stamps with stories. I am grateful my family supported my passion and obsession for stamps.  

    I was a nerdy kid who loved saving stamps and using a magnifying glass. Collecting stamps is a wholesome hobby judging by the cover of “My First Stamp Album” featuring a boy scout carrying a flag, a girl scout cadet, and a dog. I can also vouch that this activity is safer than roller skating, bike riding, or playing soft ball.  

    "Through stamps you can visit the courts of kings and queens, take a safari through the jungles of Africa, ..." claims the book. 

    My interest in stamps collecting is thanks to a family friend who worked for the post office – Mr. Oliver. He was an avid outdoorsman, a gardener, beekeeper, and Christmas tree farmer. (I still picture him tilling the garden with my father.)

    But Mr. Oliver’s influence is evident because I have three books full of stamps. Although I treasure them, they hold little value to a philatelist. According to my internet search, the pristine album is worth about $11. Real life isn’t like the movies.   

    One of my favorite movies is “Charade” with Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant. Why? Spoiler alert: Stamps have a surprisingly worthy role in this 1963 mystery.   

    As for the role of stamps in my life, it’s no mystery. I’ll keep using the latest stamps with the hope that the recipient receives my decorated letter and smiles.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you like books with ambiguous endings?

    My response: It depends.

    For thrillers, I want an experience—akin to a fast ride on a rollercoaster where I hold on tight for every twisty turn. My heart races and my mind tries to calm me down. Yep, I ask for a scary ride but then want it to end. Let my breathing return to normal. Close the book, pick up another one.

    In a traditional mystery, I expect justice, resolution, and a clear ending. Oh, and I want real clues along the way. Dear Author: Play fair and give me clues and pieces of your well-crafted puzzle. Whatever mystery sub-genre (cozy, procedural) dangle the red herrings and let me decipher and deduce. Even when I’m wrong, I am having fun leaning into the intrigue.

    My guess is I consume 75 percent novels to 25 percent nonfiction each year. For nonfiction, my shelves are mainly memoirs with an element of outdoor adventure. I’ll follow any author scaling up Mt. Everest, camping in the Antarctic waiting for penguins to hatch, or mapping the plants along the Grand Canyon. Put me on the tennis courts with Agassi, or backstage, looking at BillyJoel’s life.  

     My favorite books don’t always have a tidy, neat conclusion. Julian Barnes’ “Sense of an Ending,” and Ian McEwan’s “Atonement” are those kinds of reads, among others. 

    But I’m fine with ambiguity in my reading life.  

    The best endings invite me to imagine what I’d do as the character, or as the writer. Mystery writers are keen on conducting book autopsies. It’s too easy to invent the happily ever-after ending. Yet, I struggle to suggest alternative endings that send characters to an awful place, albeit it prison, space, or back home. 

    I prefer hard realistic reads (fiction) that let me prove I’m tough enough to reach my conclusion. But when drafting a short story, my characters are rewarded with a happy ending. These characters deserve it after a rugged character arc where they fall down, get up, and go on. New mindset. Shifted motivations. But they continue their journey.  

    Every day, we make decisions without all the information. Anywhere we go we face choices, much like a stoplight at the intersection. The stoplight warns us to stop, slow down, go. The ambiguity lies in the middle with a flashing yellow light signal. Some of us speed up and others slow down and stop.

    Usually, I drive slower when the caution light flashes.  

    During the first week of my last dream job, I return to the role’s description, which reads: “Must have the ability to deal with ambiguity.”

    Doubts crowd out self-confidence, who was my best friend the week before.

    Certainly, being adept at ambiguity is a useful skill, and that’s why this organization lists it as a requirement for every employee’s job, not just mine. Navigating murky, vague, and changing conditions is always part of the job. My title, role, or department isn’t relevant. I rely on experience. 

    Each new career chapter will have conflict, tension, and unforgettable characters. That’s work. But it’s also life. And I’m willing to work hard to earn an ending I can be proud of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image of book cover "A Wrinkle in Time." 

Magic in the Bookstore 

“Do you have a children’s section?” the mother asked, as her lookalike daughter stood beside her fidgeting. I supposed the quiet and curious girl was 10 years old.

    We showed the new customers the way.

    We breezed through the front room filled with fiction; passed by cookbooks, gardening, art, biography, and local history; and veered right at mysteries. The children’s section awaited. A small owl lamp gave off a soft white glow. The cloth bean bag and toddler-size chairs were empty that day. Young customers made themselves at home, which meant picture books scattered everywhere and misshelved books. Chapter stories, graphic style novels and comics, and young adult all lived together.

    Board books for toddlers took over the knee-high shelves. Puzzles of 500, 1,000, and 5,000 pieces rested on the highest shelves. Our wooden rack displayed popular series like Harry Potter and Percy Jackson and the Olympians.

    Our pair that day were searching for a specific book: “A Wrinkle in Time.” At the heart of this science fiction story is Meg, a young girl who learned to believe in herself. I re-read Madeleine L’Engle’s book as an adult, and it holds up. It’s recommendable not only to middle-grade readers but also to middle-aged readers. All ages might enjoy this classic. 

    Like magic, a gently used paperback edition of L’Engle’s book had arrived earlier that day among the many donations. My co-worker had not yet shelved the copy, still in her hand. She gave it to the young girl whose smile was “thank you” enough. I knew they’d be back.

    Donation day was busy because residents brought boxes and bags of books for donation. Residents carrying book laden tote bags in each hand tottered like a child on a seesaw. Often, people stopped by the store with donations instead of the large stone house across the street, which serves as our collection center.  

    In the past, I worked the three-hour shift unloading carloads of donations. It’s chilly work—inside and outside—the old cold stone house. But don’t imagine the frozen house in Dr. Zhivago. Our house smells old—a stale scent of hundreds of dusty, musty books. 

    We take tombs of all genres and ages. Yesterday, the inventory included a book published in 1921 that had an inscription dated 1954. But that’s not the oldest book we’ve received. We don’t sell rare, valuable collector’s items in the store. They are handled separately, but the sale proceeds benefit the community library. 

    Some people looked sad when they handed over their donations–I realized they were likely grieving for the loved ones who once owned these books. Books like memories were well cared for and revered.  

  I hoped the people I met were comforted because their books were headed to new homes. Other donors were downsizing or moving. Donors have made hard decisions about what books to give away. Some donors rush away, others linger, pausing to thank us.

    Many promised to return soon with more books.  

    I wish everyone could share the joy after a reader reunited with a favorite book. Or experience the excitement of having met a new author. Or run their fingers across the glossy pages of a vintage cookbook. Or witness the delight on a young girl’s face when she finds the book she sought.

***       

Footnote: The indie used bookstore is a nonprofit entity whose proceeds benefit the local library. 

Next up: I'm returning to that memorable Girl Scout hike because I found a clue leading me to historic trails and mythical creatures.