In a Pickle

On Sunday, Mr. B. and I played pickleball for the first time. For those of you who don't know, in a nutshell pickleball is played on a badminton-sized court, often sharing space with either a basketball court in a gym, or a tennis court outside. It can be played by 2-4 people, with 1-2 people per side.

Every Sunday afternoon, the Sanibel Rec Center has pick-up pickleball. Mr. B. and I have wanted to try playing for a while, but were intimidated by our lack of experience. We'd get down to the Rec Center, walk into the gym, and see all these players whacking and volleying the ball, and everyone seemed to know what they were doing. We felt out of place and couldn't work up the courage to throw our hat into the ring, so to speak. Until this Sunday, that is, when we finally managed to be brave enough to step out onto the court. The pick-up games start at 1:00, so we waited until 2:00 to get there, figuring most people would be tired out by then, and maybe we'd be able to get a court to ourselves. We wanted a chance to get to practice playing before inflicting our newness on anyone else. Our plan seemed to be a good one. We walked in, and the middle court was free. So we were heading that way when we were stopped by a woman with short gray hair, a paddle in her hand, and a wild look in her eye. "Are you here to play?" she asked? Well... that should have been obvious, given the rackets in our hands. Anyway, I guess it was a fair question, since we probably looked pretty hesitant.

"Yessss...," I said, "But we've never played before."
"That's no problem. We just need to get another player," she said. She looked around the gym, trying to catch someone's eye to get another player to join us. Her search went on for a few minutes, and I was really hoping she'd fail, and Mr. B. and I would get to use the empty court to play by ourselves. No such luck. One of the other games wrapped up, and an older gentleman walked over to the woman and said he'd play. So, we all walked over to the empty court, and made our introductions. The gray-haired woman was Pat, the older gentleman was Van. Pat and Mr. B. took their places on one side, and Van and I went to the other side. Van explained the basics of the game to me, while Pat filled Mr. B. in on the rules over on their side. It's a pretty simple game, kind of a mix between tennis, badminton, and ping pong. Before long, we were immersed in hitting the ball back and forth, practicing volleying before launching into the game.

"Keep your eye on the ball," Van kept reminding me every time I swung and missed. "Just repeat that to yourself." Okay, okay, I thought. I can do that.

After a few minutes of attempted volleying, Pat and Van were chomping at the bit to get started playing, and so we began. They let me serve first, and Van instructed me on the fine art of announcing the score. "You say Zero Zero One," he said. I repeated that, calling it out loudly so Pat and Mr. B. could hear me on their side of the court. And then I served the ball. It took me a couple of tries, but I got the hang of it pretty quickly, and we were off and running... for about two volleys, and then I missed the ball. "Keep your eye on the ball," Van reminded me. "Keep telling yourself that." Yeah, yeah. I know. It's just easier said than done, I thought. I nodded and apologized for missing. Van waved off my apology and smiled. "You're doing fine," he said. "Just keep your eye on the ball."

Van served next. "Zero Zero Two," he said, and sent the ball over the net. Pat smacked it back after letting it bounce, and Van hit it back to her after letting it bounce, and we managed to volley maybe two times before I missed the ball again. "I've got to keep my eye on the ball," I said, shaking my head in dismay, before Van could give me that advice again. It's not that I'm a slow learner, it's just that I get caught up in running to get the ball, and forget to keep my eyes on it.

We sent the ball over to Mr. B. and Pat for them to serve. Pat started. "Zero Zero One," she said, and sent it over to me. I got to it and kept my eyes on that ball and connected. Boy did that feel good. "No good," said Pat and Van at the same time. "You forgot to let it bounce." Sigh. Okay, another to thing to keep in mind -- let the ball bounce when it's first served over, before you hit it back. Pat served again, and this time I let it bounce before connecting with it, and she missed my return. So the serve went to Mr. B. Pat instructed him on the proper calling out of the score before serving. "Say One Zero Two," she said. So he announced the score and served, and Van returned the serve, and after a couple of volleys, Mr. B. missed the ball and it was back on our side to serve.

Just as we were about to serve, someone came up to Van and told him his wife wasn't feeling well, so he had to leave. Luckily, Richard, the guy delivering the news, agreed to take Van's place. Picture Ernest Borgnine in a knee brace. Richard proceeded to coach me on the fine art of where to stand while he served, and where to stand when the other team was serving. It took me quite a while, but I finally figured out the right to place to be. He wasn't quite as patient a teacher as Van, and I was kind of intimidated by him. I could sense his dismay every time I missed the ball and we lost the serve. I think he tired of hearing me say "I'm sorry." I know I got tired of saying it. I needed Van back to remind me to "keep my eye on the ball" so I wouldn't have to say "I'm sorry" so much.

It also took me quite a while to get the hang of announcing the score. Van had told me to say "Zero Zero One," when I was starting to serve, so I figured I was server #1, since the score was 0-0. So I was confused when Richard served and announced himself as server #1. I didn't want to correct him, so I started referring to myself as server #2 every time it was my turn to serve. We played three games with Richard before his knee gave out (at least that's what he claimed -- I think he was tired of hearing me apologize for missing the ball so much). Pat was ready to go hit the ball against the wall and offered to leave the court for Mr. B. and me to play a game of singles. We were about to take her up on that offer when another player walked onto the court, and Pat asked him if he wanted to play. Yep, he sure did. So a very tired Mr. B. and I played another three games with Pat and Ted, the new guy on the scene. Ted was about 20 years younger than Richard, and he and I made a good team against Pat and Mr. B. By then I had gotten the hang of keeping my eye on the ball and managed to volley quite a few times before missing. During the course of playing with Ted, I learned my final bit of important information about pickleball -- I found out I was not always server #1. The use of #1 or #2 refers to whether you are the first person serving or the second when it's our turn to serve. So I guess everyone was sparing me the embarrassment of correcting me when I referred to myself as server #1, even though I was the second server sometimes. It's surprising that Van didn't correct me -- he had no problem reminding me to "keep my eye on the ball."

We look forward to playing again this Saturday, and I guarantee I will remember to "keep my eye on the ball," and pay attention to whether I'm server #1 or #2.

An Unwelcome Visitor in Chez Seamore

So, last night as I was drifting off to sleep, I felt something gently tickling my face. I ignored it, thinking it was a stray thread from my blanket or pillow. Ten seconds later, I felt it again. This time I sat up and turned on the light, adrenaline starting to pump through me as I scoured the sheet and floor for the source of the tickling. I couldn't see anything, but knew I hadn't imagined it, so broadened my search. Still in bed, I lifted my pillow and saw something that looked a lot like the fake ones that my sisters took such delight in tucking into our luggage our last trip to Siesta Key. It looked like this.

This guy was the real deal, though, not a fake rubber one, and he moved with the speed of light. I don't know if roaches have ears, but if they do, this one was probably deafened by my scream. He scurried as soon as I lifted the pillow, and ran along the floor underneath our bed, near the head of it. He was big enough that even Mr. B., who is pretty much legally blind without his contacts, could see it. I scrambled off the bed and headed down the hallway to grab the can of insect spray the previous owners kindly left behind for us (it's hornet spray, but I figured it would work on roaches, too). In the meantime, the roach completely vanished. We couldn't see him anywhere. Five minutes passed, my heart beating so loudly that I was afraid the neighbors might wonder if we were hammering something or beating on drums. Mr. B. suggested throwing in the towel and going back to bed. AS IF. "No effing way!" I said, looking wildly around the room for Mr. Roach. 

Finally, I screwed up my courage, turned on the flashlight, crouched down and shined it under the bed. And there he was, resting quietly, contemplating his next move. I sprayed that hornet spray at it like a fireman spraying water on a 10 alarm fire. He scrambled to get out of the line of spray and ran right into Mr. B.'s waiting Kleenex, where he was squashed like, well, like a bug. Mr. B. is my hero. 

About an hour later the adrenaline finally stopped coursing through my veins and my heartbeat returned to its normal rhythm. I finally fell asleep, and though I didn't dream about the bug, I thought about it every time I woke up. And every time I felt even the slightest itch on my head or face, I jerked. Today we gave the trailer and our bedding a thorough cleaning (it's a trailer when a cockroach wanders in; it will take a while for me to think of it as a cottage again). I didn't see any signs of any other cockroaches, and that was the first one we've seen here. The neighbors behind us are having some construction work done that involved digging up their lawn, which is right next to our fence, and Mr. B.'s theory is that the digging unearthed the cockroach, who might have landed on the clothes I had hanging on the line yesterday. He thinks maybe it hitchhiked on the clothes when I brought them in. Since I was the one who folded them, the thought of a cockroach scrambling through my clothes is enough to give me the willies, never mind the memory of it crawling on my face last night.  I wonder how long it will take me to fall asleep tonight, AFTER I check under the bed and under my pillow, and throw back the covers to make sure nothing is lurking in the bed. I know the memory of that cockroach crawling on my face will be with me forever. 

Anyone want to come for a visit? :D

So Many Changes In So Many Years

You know, I had actually all but forgotten I had created this Blog. Nearly 10 years have gone by since I last posted an entry, and so much has happened in that time. The short version of those events is that over the course of the last 8 years, Mr. B. and I have moved into the Manor, rented out our house to a young couple with two children, and divide our time between the Manor and Chezmus (Chez for short) Seamore, our cottage (aka a trailer) in the Periwinkle Park RV campground on Sanibel Island.

Mommy Dearest is still alive and well, as are nearly all the major players in my life. Mr. B's father passed away unexpectedly this past November, and his mother is still alive, though not very well, living out her days in an assisted living facility in Ohio. She suffers from Alzheimer's, and even on her good days she has no idea who she is or where she is, recognizes no one, and lives in a world where a play doll is a real baby to be cooed over and caressed.

Oh, and I've been retired (well, semi-retired) for nearly a year now. I still take on projects now and then to help pay the bills, but for the most part I'm enjoying a whole new way of life that involves a lot more bike riding than instructional design.

So, since I have a lot more time on my hands, I've decided to start "blogging" again. Why not?

Stay tuned for more news from Periwinkle Park and Chez Seamore.