teaching an old dog young tricks.

My boss is a bankruptcy lawyer.  His son, also his partner, refers to his father in a business-like manner calling him "Wen" rather than dad.  It is strange.  I was hired at the firm as a receptionist for the morning hours.  It is a quiet job, answering phones, making copies, smiling at our clients who, I am certain, roll their eyes inwardly when I say, "Have a great day!"  I'm bankrupt, lady. 

The unconventional portion of this job is that I have become the boss's personal typist.  He is from the old school, for lack of a more perfectly suited term, and he prefers to write things out shorthand on a legal pad.  This is ridiculous considering the changing times... also considering that he is writing a novel which will, eventually, have to be entirely typed.  He, however, chooses to remain the same and reject modern commonalities such as voicemail, Microsoft Word and spell checker.  

In my initial interview I felt somewhat sheepish and young and got the distinct feeling of being looked down upon.  However, once my boss realized what a wealth of technological, vocabulary and internet intelligence I was (really not that much, but much more than he), he began to treat me with greater interest.  I was a daily champion at work, a great tutor in modern writing tools.

Kyle, my seventeen-year-old brother, called me from Florida this evening as I was eating dinner.  He was trying to unlock something on the computer which I, once a resident of our household, had set up with a password that he didn't know.  After I told him the key he, in a moment of sheer other-mindedness, asked me how I was doing--a big thing from the subdued child who despises talking on the phone.  And I, on a whim of really wanting to chat with him, took the bait and told him.  

"I am studying for the GRE."

"The what?" he said.

"The GRE.  It's a test to get into graduate school.  I have it on Thursday.  It's kind of like a vamped up SAT.  But there is math, which I am terrible at, so I'm pretty much SOL."

"Maybe I could help you," he said, laughing because of the reference to an expletive as well as the fact that his realm of mathematical knowledge exceeded mine when he was fourteen.  

"Do you have time?" I said, chuckling sheepishly.

"Yeah, I do."  I heard him smile.

We spent the following thirty minutes on the phone.  I'd tell him the practice problem and he'd write it down.  He walked me through the steps of solving for y, and told me the formulas for finding the volume and surface area of a cylinder.  He reminded me that you can't have a negative exponent and that the easy formulas for triangle solving only work for the right triangles which, for my information, have one ninety-degree angle.

I chewed on the end of my pen, scribbling notes down on the yellow legal pad, asking all kinds of questions and, more than once, "Wait, say that again.  I don't understand."  Then he'd go back and try to explain it all over again.

Kyle was totally patient, an excellent and well versed teacher.  At the end as I scanned my notes to make sure I'd asked him all of my questions I heard him snicker on the other end of the phone a thousand miles away.

"You know," he said, "I charge ten bucks an hour for tutoring."

Laughing, I said, "You can collect from mom and dad.  Tell them it's part of my continuing education."

Maybe, in continuing education, instructors come from behind, like cars coming up to pass in your blind spot, and surprise you with insight you never could've learned from an elder.

Thanks, Kyle :)  

flag football.

The guys were all sitting on the wood beam at the edge of the parking lot facing the field when we pulled up.  I got out of the car in jeans and flip flops and grabbed a brown fleece zip-up out of the back seat.  

Drew stood up.  "I can't believe y'all come out here to these games," he said, shoving his sandals into a bag. 

I smiled. "Of course we come to these games.  This is the only football I really care about!"  

He shook his head and laughed.  "Y'all are some kinda fans, that's for sure."

Tuesday is the new Monday... in Winston-Salem, anyway.  Flag football; it is admittedly a little uncouth and refs are clearly not overly concerned with accuracy, and the city could really afford to spring for some new light bulbs for past-sunset games, but it is simple and organic and, in my opinion, the best kind of football there is.

The games last an hour.  They start sometime between 6:30 and 8:30 depending on your slot.  Fall comes a little later in North Carolina, but by now it gets pretty chilly when the sun goes down and it feels right to watch a game with hands in pockets of jackets and jeans.  

Some of the teams take it pretty seriously.  They've got jerseys and plenty of subs.  I think they practice.  Last years' champs hit the field looking like the Kansas Jayhawks.  My cynical side wants to make fun of the uniforms, but they are are good at football so I hold my tongue. 

Freakway, the team to which I claim allegiance, has jerseys too.  Matt, a bartender at Firebirds restaurant, made them one Sunday afternoon.  White Hanes brand t-shirts printed on with Sharpie with the team name on the front.  The store didn't have enough adult sizes when he bought them so a few of the guys wear a child large.  Kyle's hit at midriff the first week.  They've since remedied the situation... it was ugly.  

They all get there fifteen minutes before the game and line up by the field, swapping Birkenstocks for football cleats, stretching and warming up.  They throw around a couple of old footballs and swear off the stupid mistakes of previous games.  Brad blows off pre-game steam and Kyle ties up his renegade hair with an elastic

 head band.  

When the referee puts his hand up, Mark and the opposing captain meet in the middle of the field.  They shake hands to begin and then, as if the engine was suddenly started, they get serious and play football.

Kyle rushes through the line to sack the quarterback who's hopping back and forth looking for a wingman, dodging under and around the linemen.  Josh and some of the others chase down the receivers, trailing flags and flying for the interception.  Somehow Blake usually appears out of nowhere to snag a flag off the shorts of the guy who has caught the ball not three seconds beforehand.  Brad, who played football in college, drives into every play with such ferocity I think he might actually break his neck when he hits the ground and it never ceases to amaze me when he stands up again.  Mark is the quarterback.  He's got a rocket arm and he dodges defensive linemen like a mig.  Blake once said, "Mark runs as fast backwards as he does forward!"  I think he's right.  And when Mark launches the football it spirals down the field and connects perfectly to Josh's hands, or Kyle's, as if they have an invisible avenue between them.  And this is not to mention the way that somehow Seth seems to find a way up into the middle of opposition passes and snatch the ball from out of the air between them or the way that Justin comes up from underneath to catch passes that appeared to be going nowhere.  

For the first time I actually love football.  And it's not the sport.  Football has never really captivated me.  But it's the way that this game on Tuesday nights affords the guys such a good old time. It feels like for an hour once a week they can all forget about their jobs and quit worrying about the economy.  They can leave futures and girlfriends and wives and kids and just play.  They are fifteen again and the only thing that matters is the end zone.

southbound sunday afternoon.

 On the western side along the highway in the mountains of Virginia the trees are a symphony of orange and pomegranate.  They are booming, deafening even, and the harmony hazes my eyes and my arm hair stands on end.  Inside the car, I press power on the dash to turn off the radio.  It's quiet except for the engine and the reverberating harmonies of the autumn mountainscape. The sun keeps dumping its heated rays in through my window.  My shoulders are warm but my unclad toes are translucent with cold.  It is fall, the season of prime age.

While I drive, you pull the lever on the right side of the seat and push your seat back to a slight recline.  You cover your eyes with your baseball cap, the one that is shredded because you wore it so many years in a row; it turned from navy to gray before I even met you.  Your slightly tan arms are crossed and, though you don't make a sound, I know you are sleeping because you are mostly still.  When you twitch it makes me laugh.  

In time I forget that you are a passenger and send up open-eyed prayers on your behalf as if you were somewhere else, far away from me.  I hum instrumental songs and turn my cell phone to silent to guiltlessly escape in the mountains.  

middle school and san francisco.

"Did you know that the New York City water system thing is like two hundred years old?" Tess asked me.  

"No way," I said. 

"Yeah, and nobody has even seen it or touched it since it was first built."

I laughed, "I doubt that's true."

"Well," she said, recovering, "well they have never stopped the water, I mean.  I was watching the History channel and they were saying that they're afraid that if they stop it to check it, they won't be able to start it again.  And all of the water for the entire city is in this old water system underground."

I believed her.  She was totally enamored by this water system.  In fact, she even seemed afraid for the good of New Yorkers, that this decrepit rusted water system would give way and leave everyone thirsty and desperate for a shower.  I wasn't as interested in the potential water cessation as I was in her genuine interest in the problem.  When I said then that I thought it'd be fun to live in the Big Apple for a few years, she was adamantly opposed because of the possibility that I'd run out of water.  This seemed to me like such a far-off adult problem, yet eleven year old Tess was confounded.

We drove along the parkway for a few minutes listening to her choice radio station, which is typical.  She tends to scan the radio and sing along, generally content in casual conversation and singing along.  After a while she looked at me and, with the resolute chin dig, said, "If I was going to live in a city, it would have to be San Francisco.  I mean, not forever, but for some time."  She had been thinking about this.  "Some people don't like how it's foggy.  But you know it's just cause it's by the Bay.  I think it's elegant."  

I nodded, watching the road, electing to wait and listen rather than chime in.

"I love the cable cars," she bounced up from the seat and stuck her hands underneath of her to land, an effort to somehow harness a bit of her fizzing excitement.  She spoke emphatically, but it wasn't enough.  She wanted me to understand the regal eminence of San Francisco.  "That is definitely my favorite part--the cable cars.  But make sure, when you go, to pack warm stuff because it's cold there.  I mean, we were there in the middle of August and it was so cold."  She paused and looked out the window.  "But it doesn't matter that it's cold.  San Francisco is the best place on earth.

"You can just go and eat chinese whenever you want right in Chinatown.  And there is this Mediterranean place... oh my gosh it is so good."  She emphasized the words with her inflection and her sprawled fingers.  

"There is a Mediterranean place in Chinatown?" I asked, smiling a little bit.

"No!" she exclaimed, appalled by my ignorance and distressed for me to understand.  Looking out the window seemed to bring her back to earth a bit and she said softly, "it would be perfect to be an artist in San Francisco."  She looked at me with crystal eyes and said, in complete sincerity, "Have you ever heard the song, I Left My Heart in San Francisco?"

I nodded.

"That song explains it perfectly."  

"Tess," I laughed, "I have never seen you so passionate about anything."

She didn't say anything and I knew she was dreaming of her city esteemed.  We turned onto the street where I would drop her off at girl scouts.  When we got to the front of the church she opened the door and said, with stoic conviction, "Go to San Francisco.  Do it."  Then she got out of the car and ran inside.