So, where was I?

Oh, yeah! Boring you with the details—here goes: Friday, first night of soccer tournament. Jonathan played first, then Rebecca, and thankfully both were on the same field so we didn’t have to move. The fields were all soggy and slick and we weren’t on the regular field but over on the outfield of one of the baseball fields, which meant keeping Catherine out of the infield base track (a sea of sticky wet clay) was nearly impossible. Especially since the forty-eleven trips to the Porta-Lets required walking right past all that rich gooey gumbo.

And it was cold. Windy, cold, and no blankets or coffee or raging fires. And the kids lost both their games. Bah. Better luck tomorrow, when they will have had some rest and it will be warmer. Off for some late supper from Sonic, then to the house.

Got home, and was informed by Mrs. Oglesby that the kids had horse lessons on Saturday. “But,…what?” I said. “Remember? Amy’s mom? Told me that they had called her and the lessons were going to be rescheduled for 9 to 11 tomorrow, and that they can go and not miss their games?”

Well, quite frankly, my dear lady, I remember NO such thing and I dare you to come up with one single shred of evidence that you in fact EVER told me such a wild… “Tomorrow morning—9 to 11. Okay.” ::sigh:: I really have no recollection of anyone ever telling me, but why fight it? Got them to go wash the red mud off, then they were shoved into bed, while their seabags were repacked for the festivities of the morrow.

Woke up Saturday, showered, brushed my teeth, scrubbed all the little hairs off my face and got the kids up and into something horse-ish. Man, I really DID not want to go do this. Figured out the rendezvous time and place with Reba—she and Catherine would meet us at the soccer park with lunch at game time—and it was off to Camp Coleman. But only after having to pry Little Boy off of the TV. “Do we have to go [sniff-sniff, whine]?” Mom and I both—“YES! It’s paid for, and you’re going!” Great minds think alike. He shuffled on downstairs, “But I won’t know what happens to Yu-Gi-Oh!” “He goes on to a life of small bit parts in B-movies and winds up getting arrested for shoplifting—NOW COME ON!!” I did manage to check the news before we left and figured out that it was going to be warmer today.

Somebody was wrong. Again, cold, damp, drizzle, windy, muddy. What a crappy day to be outside for six hours. They got on their horses and went on a trail ride and I got back in the van and turned on the heater and read the copy of Military History I’ve been trying to read for two weeks now. Good article about a Ukrainian kulak conscripted into the Red Army and shipped to fight the Finns during the Winter War (suddenly, I didn’t feel quite so cold anymore), along with one about John Balliol.

They finally got back and then it was back to the park where they all changed clothes in the parking lot. (Well, more precisely, they were in the van behind tinted glass in the parking lot.) Got their junk and the lawn chairs and headed off to the field, which after a day and a half of play looked a lot like a feed lot. And it was slick. Lots of micaceous silty organic material—the grounds folks had straw down all around the perimeter of the fields (which are mostly good red Alabama clay) and were furiously sanding the muckiest parts inside the fields, but it was an ongoing and only partly successful battle. The kids thought it was fun, though.

I sat down and Rebecca and Jonathan went out and kicked the ball around a bit and Ashley sat in the other chair bitterly complaining under her breath about having to come to the stupid soccer park when she could be rassa-mumble—humph!grumble. I ignored her. Which was made much easier when someone came up whom I could make fun of. The other team was from Hoover, which is one of Birmingham’s wealthy southern suburbs, and one which is home to at least one guy who missed the plane to Hollywood several years ago. Gigantically muscled man, mid to late 40s comes walking across the field—tight black windsuit, hair slicked back, talking loudly into a cell phone held awkwardly to his ear in that weird muscle-bound sort of way—gets closer and I see that he not only has used the whole can of hair gel, but has the stylish, late-90s Steven Seagal short high ponytail back there, AND a lovely row of very masculine ear piercings. Wow. VERY 20th Century.

Trussville, meet Joey Buttafuoco. Joey, Trussville.

What made it funny to me was that I didn’t know they were from Hoover until later on in the game, when I tapped on his rock-hard bicep and asked “Hey, are y’all from Moody?” Moody is a small town east of us that’s mostly rural and DEFINITELY not Hoover. He was momentarily taken aback, as if he wasn’t quite able to process how I could make such a mistake, then grunted out “No, Hoover.” Thanks, chief.

Reba got there a bit before the game started and glanced over at our nice visitor and smirked and rolled her eyes. “Now, Reba, you be nice…” I said. She hid behind her hand and mouthed out, “Needs more grease.” I laughed quietly, mainly because I didn’t want to get the guy mad at ME—he had on his own little pair of soccer cleats and all I had on were some slick Rockport boat shoes. Even if he was too pumped up to move quickly, he would have had the traction advantage. (And the attitude advantage.) ((Of course, that tends to be negated by being surrounded by heavily armed rednecks. ))

Anyway, she had Catherine following along dressed completely in her uniform from the fall—bright yellow shirt and little tiny black shorts and black knee socks. “Catherine, why are you dressed like that?” Which I thought was a pretty good question, considering that it was cold and damp and windy and SHE WASN’T PLAYING today. “'Cause, Daddy, I wanted to wear it!” Oh. Well that explains it.

SO, we ate our lunch and then it was time for Jonathan’s game, which went ever so badly. Part of their problem is having next to no practice time, and it really showed. Jonathan got to play a tiny bit and ran in several different directions and I believe he even kicked the ball a couple of times. He had a great time, even if they did lose. As spectators, we had no fun at all—Catherine wiffled and plundered and chattered and wiggled and complained about being cold (imagine!) and went to the restroom constantly, which didn’t do much for being able to see the game.

Rebecca’s game was next, and although she did very well individually, the girls were much too passive—kick, watch it go to the other team, watch them run by and score. Not pretty.

Then, to home and it was time to wash all the muddy uniforms and the rest of the laundry and give the kids another sound scrubbing and get ready for church on Sunday. One bright spot was getting to fold clothes while watching To Kill a Mockingbird which I got on DVD a few weeks back.

What an incredible story, both written and on film. No matter how many times I read it or see it, it still has the same effect—beside the obvious melancholy, it also provokes a profound (but entirely friendly) envy of Miss Lee. I have received several compliments on my writing since starting this journal, and I am very grateful for having received them—but whatever cleverness comes out is simply from overhearing the conversation at the “big people’s” table at the family reunion. An excellent site devoted to Miss Lee can be found here; it includes a wealth of material, including a wonderful 1983 essay on Albert James Pickett, who wrote the first comprehensive history of Alabama back in 1851—

[…] Pickett's narrative of the sufferings, struggles, and massacres of the early colonists, the gradual opening of the region to commerce, the various wars and alliances of the three greedy powers--Britain, France, Spain--is one of fascinating detail. We follow the fortunes of the Sieur de Bienville, who must have been appointed governor of the French colony by mistake, because he was a decent, incorruptible and, on the whole, benevolent man. Along the way we meet the English General James Oglethorpe and his philanthropical experiment in Georgia, and incidentally get a glimpse of John and Charles Wesley. We meet schemers, rogues, and vagabonds; scores of minor characters come alive on the pages--one elegant lady on the razzle in the wilderness, claiming to be the Tsar of Russia's sister-in-law; the valiant Beaudrot, for whom many Southerners are named, but don't know exactly why; the Jewish trader Abram Mordecai, who spent fifty years in the wilderness and had his ear cut off for amorous dalliance with a married squaw. […]

Good stuff.

Onward, however, to the rest of my story—Sunday, get ‘em up, get ‘em dressed, get ‘em fed, get ‘em in the van, get ‘em there. Whew. Luckily, my 8th grade teacher showed up and so I got a reprieve, although my children did their best to embarrass their poor father after class.

As I mentioned Friday, it’s my month to do announcements, and before we start worship services, all the men who are leading prayers or songs or serving Communion gather in one of the classrooms to go over their tasks and talk football, while I desperately scribble down all the stuff written on bits and pieces of paper about who’s sick and which groups are meeting. During this time, we generally close the doors to cut down on distractions, but Jonathan was being pursued relentlessly by his little sister, who wanted to give him a kiss, which absolutely required him to come find ME. “Go on, son, I’ve got things to do.” “BUT SHE’S CHASING ME!!” “Go.” Five minutes later, they BOTH come back in and start doing laps around the table. “Where’s you mother, kids?” “She’s in her classroom getting’ stuff together.” “Why don’t you go find her?” “Because CATHERINE IS TRYING TO KISS ME!” “Go.” They went our and one of the older fellows said, “Kids are definitely for young people.” Amen, brother.

After church, it was back to the park for the final game. Jonathan missed his since it would have been started right about the time Catherine was trying to kiss him, but we were able to get there in time for Rebecca’s game (which was helped by her changing in the van as we drove to the park.)

We schlepped the lawn chairs back down to the field and found out that it was even colder than it had been Saturday with a chilly wet wind blowing about a hundred miles an hour [Cue: John Facenda intoning “the frozen tundra…”] (Of course, Lambeau Field sounds better than Trussville Soccer Park, but hey) and after about five minutes I told Reba to get herself and the other kids back in the van and wait it out or they would all be sick. Back up the hill with chairs and children, then I got a cup of coffee and went back down. At least this time I stood over on the player side, which had a screen of trees to act as a windbreak. And this time the girls played like they had back in the fall, with the added bonus of actually having some offense to match their defense, including one particular right midfielder, Number 17 Rebecca Oglesby, who just happened to be in the right place at the right time to shank a rebound into the goal! She was so very proud—she has come so close so many times, but that was her first goal in a game. She gave a little yip, and then was all back to business. They scored one more time in the second half, and the other team only got past midfield about three times.

Out to Big Dragon for a victory lunch, then home for a victory bath, then back up to the church building for some more meetings. After mine got finished I found the three older kids outside the door—“Where’s Mom and Catherine?” They just looked at me—“You mean, she wet her pants?” Nodding of heads. ::sigh:: I rounded them up and we went in and sat down in the auditorium and Mom and Princess Tinkle finally got there after the first prayer, and Catherine was a picture of a satisfied Wal-Mart customer. Reba wound up getting her a pair of jeans and a tee-shirt, since her dress was wet, and a pair of socks, since her panty hose were wet, and underwear since her underwear was wet, and a new pair of sneakers since all she had with her were patent leather Mary Janes and her other sneakers at home had been destroyed by constant playground abuse, and a new little zip up jacket since she would just not looked as cute without it. That was one expensive accident.

Finish and grabbed a bite to eat at Ruby Tuesday, which was very busy for some reason, and which caused us to not be able to have Jennifer the Perfect Waitress. BUT, it seemed not to matter to Cat, who proudly showed off her new ensemble to anyone who cared to look. “It has a girl and a kitty cat and I got it at Wal-Mart and I got some new light up shoes that light up when you run, see?, and the shirt Mama said I could wear again if I didn’t get nothing on it and….” On and on. She was wound tighter than a jack in the box. At some point in there, we got our food and I glanced over and she had sprawled herself at an uncomfortable angle across the bench—semi-sideways, head back, back arched, legs straight down, hands clutching table—she looked so ridiculous. “Catherine! What are you doing?” In tones of equal parts consternation and exasperation she loudly said, “I’m FARTING, Daddy!” Should have known better than ask. I’m just glad she waited till after church.

Supper and ritualized gas-passing complete, it was off to home then to bed, then to here.

So there you go.
posted by Terry at 2:31:00 PM