A drama

Youth sports...two words, lots of thoughts. I grew up playing sports. At 7 years old I joined a rec softball league. I walked to practice on my own. It was just across a large field behind my babysitters trailer. You could see the softball diamond from her bedroom window. I continued playing until I was 15 years old and many other sports were also added to my agenda. I have vague memories of most games but, fairly vividly I rememeber the "crazies". Those parents or fans that apparently have no idea that there are other people around and have abosolutely no blip on the radar reminding them that this is YOUTH SPORTS.

So now, I am a parent and my oberservations are filtered through adult eyes. I am still amazed. There has been much publicity surrounding crazed and delusional parents and rightly so. Tonight, I had the very distinct privilege of sitting next to the wildest woman on the planet. From the high pitched grate of her voice, to the constant gnawing of her fingernails and down to the absolute total disregard of the reputation of her own daughter, this woman killed it. At one point, I was convinced she needed a psychiatric assesment. I am feeling incredibly judgemental, and I know that is wrong. But, this woman takes the cake. She will not be a vague memory for me. She has earned a top spot in the the highlights of the depravity of parents and YOUTH SPORTS.

A knowing of where you came from

I am a transplanted Californian. Apparently that is the term used to identify us that were not born is this state. It seems like a negative term to me. When I think of a transplant, I usually equate it to the first organ not working well enough to sustain life, therefore, a substitute is needed. I guess, depending on the way you look at it, it could be a good thing and a bad thing all at the same time. A lot of pain and a lot of relief rolled all into one. Either way, I am a transplant. And, for that, I am truly grateful. Let me explain...

A week ago, I was rudely awakened at 4:00am by sirens and a megaphone. Apparently, the Santa Ana winds and their fury delivered wildfires throughout southern California and there was a fire in my neighborhood. Being the easily riled-up person I can be, I headed straight out the front door in boy shorts and a tank top, only to be met by a spotlight from a passing police cruiser. Over the next ten minutes, my husband and I ran laps through our 1585 square foot home, running smack into each other approximately 3 times. Assuming the fire was at our back door, I had to check every window multiple times as I ran through the house confused as to what to take. At some point, I remember, I have never been in a fire, and this could quite possibly be the worst thing ever.

Thankfully, after the long and short of it, we returned home and waited out the firestorm within our tightly sealed box. It was a forced recess, if you will. Unable to go anywhere and make any random trips to the store, you realize how many things we "fill" our time with. I was simultaneously annoyed and relieved to have an excuse to do nothing. Halfway through the week, I realized it was time to turn off the television and limit the scarring of my brain with dramatic images from the ragin fire.

As the fires began to subside, life tried to center back to naormal. School was scheduled to resume, gyms opened and the streets were filled with traffic once again. Next began the daunting task of cleaning up an ovewhelmingly filthy and incredibly large fireplace. My front, and back yard. So, as I swept large piles of soot and ash a couple of days ago I again realized, this was my first fire. I was not born here. I am from Nebraska. I am accustomed to tornado drills and warnings. None of which ever materialized anywhere near my home. So, as much as I love southern California, this is my transplanted home and at the next sign of fire... I am outta here.