~ Loping ~

I haven’t been able to post much lately.   I’ve been too busy trying to keep up with Varmint, Critter, and My Captain.  This isn’t easy to do when you have one working leg, and one uncooperative leg.  I don’t walk; I lope.

I’ve been attending championship softball matches, fifth grade activity days, graduation and birthday party preparations.  And I’ve had both hands in each and every one of those activities.  This is normal for me:  I’m usually a ‘mover and a shaker’.  It’s just taking me longer because right now I’m a ‘mover and a loper’.

It’s funny to watch me as I’m trying to hurry these days, because I closely resemble the Hunchback of Notre dame.

Because of the limp.

Not the hump.

In case you were confused.

Last night was our End-Of-Season Softball bonfire potluck.  (It came after not one, but TWO full softball games, which started promptly at 9am and ended at 3pm. We were WHUPPED by the time the bonfire started!)  We had all kinds of yummy deliciousness at this party, from fantastic Deviled Eggs, to barbecued Meatballs, Tomato/Mozzarella salad and Hot Dogs.  And S’mores, of course.

The adults relaxed around the bonfire in the darkening twilight, while the team and their siblings ran around the yard, playing everything from Red Rover to Man Hunt.  They chased Fireflies.  They had a hoola-hoop competition.  They played kickball.  They jumped around on the trampoline.

At one point, our hostess – a true southern belle, transplanted from North Carolina – threw an old, retired wicker chair on the fire.  The reactions were as followed:

My Captain’s Father, Jay:  “I’m moving my chair back!”

Muddy: “Whoa! It’s too early in the party to start throwing furniture in the fire!”

All of the kids: “WOW!  Look at that!!  It’s making the leaves on the Cherry Tree curl!”

My Captain:  Smirked, chuckled, and rolled his eyes.

Me: “Time to get out the marshmallows!”

The crickets were chirping.  The stars were twinkling.  Kids were laughing. It was a warm night, but every now and again a sweet early summer breeze would hit our cheeks.   All was right with the world.

My Captain and I were beat.  He had to get up this morning at 5:00 to go to work, so we stood up to take leave, but several of the kids cried out, “Tell us a ghost story before you leave, Coach Cookie!”

(I should explain that I got the name Coach Cookie this softball season because I brought cookies to games and practices.  I’m afraid I have singlehandedly contributed to the future renal failure of several Tweenie-boppers)

So I began weaving a tale about an old man, three red-eyed dogs, a curse, some mauled horses, and the boulders adjacent to the bonfire area.  It was good.  It was really good.

How do I know this?

Because as we were walking up the hill (or, in my case, Loping up the hill) Varmint asked, “Was that story true, Mom?”

I replied, “Only the scary parts, honey.”

Hey, if you don’t want to be scared, don’t ask for the ghost story.

This was the kind of night that all of those kids (and some of the parents) will be able to look back on and feel warm and fuzzy about.  This is the kind of childhood memory we WANT our kids to have plenty of.  These are the times to be grateful for.

And I am.