About a month ago, the Treasurer of the Fulford Bowls club passed on--a man named Brian who was 89 years old, had proposed twice but both times was returned a negative and never married, and whose gentle smile led to easy sharing, kind encouragement. Each Thursday evening, as I talked with Brian, it was easy to see a certain longing in him: a great love of children, yet never having his own; a great love of community, yet never creating one inside his home.
The Fulford Indoor Bowls Club, then, was his route to connection. He began the club in 1984, and had served as Treasurer ever since. When I first met Brian, his words, "Welcome, now your first two sessions are free, so make sure you don't pay" were indeed music to my ears. And over the past year and a half, as I've had the chance to get to know so many men and women of an older generation, something about Brian has always captivated me.
He didn't storm the beaches of Normandy like others in the Bowls crew.
He didn't almost lose a daughter at age two.
He didn't travel to five continents and possess stories galore to make those journeys reverberate as if they were still occurring today.
Instead, Brian's story was quiet, as was his voice and even his stroll. The subtext of his words spoke to me about a man who had tried hard in this life--sought love and ended up creating a community every way he knew how. Even though it wasn't his ideal, it worked, and it brought a lot of connection and joy to others as well.
As I now try to balance the books for the Bowls club--an English major and poetry-loving teacher--I find that the numbers don't always add up for me the way they did, I'm sure, for Brian. As I hold the ledger in my hands and read through his script, each number checked with tiny dash marks in pencil, I feel a certain quietness that saunters into the room and glances over the books with me.
For Brian, even though his highest hopes never materialized, life was still beautiful because the quality of his connections ensured it. The people he treated with dignity, the stories he listened to and shared, and the quiet manner of his willingness to put his hopes into any avenue for community that he could--these all speak to the way a river finds a course. Though it runs into rocks, though it may be blocked at many turns, if it keeps seeking, then somehow it finds a way to move forward and still bring water. Like life.
Showing posts with label Bowls. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bowls. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Early Doors
The night began with two of my "woods" going clear off the indoor lawn mat. Usually, at bowls, I can manage to get close enough to the jack--the tiny yellow ball we're all trying to sidle up next to--to make the game interesting. This particular night, though, I was all over the place, unable to find that groove and bowl with a sense of peace.
Tony, a man in his early seventies, comes beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders. He smiles big. We're on opposing teams tonight, though that doesn't stop him from sending a little encouragement my way.
"We have an old saying in South Yorkshire, Luke." He smiles even wider and squeezes my shoulders again.
"Yeah?" I ask, glad for anything to take my mind off my egregious bowling tonight.
"Early doors." Then Tony tilts his head back and laughs like those two words unlock some kind of deep secret of the universe. I laugh, too, even though he might as well have said pumpkin pie for all I can figure.
He notes the quizzical look on my face. Tony always wears a sweater with a collared shirt beneath. As do most of the guys who bowl. They wear ties, ironed and pleated khakis and shoes that shine like the moon on a night that is the purest black we know. I think momentarily of my grandfather, Harold Fenton, who spent his own life building houses all over Bloomfield, Connecticut. Worked from sun-up to sun-down and held a hammer as if it was a permanent appendage. Now, Grandpa wears a shirt and tie every day of his life.
"I never had to wear one in all my work, now it's nice to do so," Grandpa once told me.
And I look at Tony, wondering what he used his forty years of work to do--building, teaching, banking, doctoring, parenting? All the bowling men come dressed like it's a banquet; they bowl ready to meet the most important audience of their lives.
Tony's smile warms me. It welcomes me in like Grandpa's, like grace.
"Early doors simply means that it's only the beginning, Luke. It means, don't worry about it--the game is long. Things change." Tony winks at me, straightens his collar, and collects his next wood to roll it down the mat.
It stops leaning against the jack. He smiles wide.
With my next wood, I end up alongside him, a measure for who's closest to the jack. "There you go, kid," he tells me.
Another wink.
As we walk to the other end of the mat, I take stock of my own sweater and collared shirt beneath it. My own khakis. Granted, mine are un-ironed, and purchased from a charity shop for about four pounds in total. But these guys are rubbing off on me. It's a long cry from when I came to bowls dressed in my pajama pants, a T-shirt and hiking boots.
Something about them suggests that every moment is important--and why waste a single one not preparing for the banquet, not preparing for the finest introduction you might ever have?
Early doors.
And throughout the rest of the evening, each time a wood rolls away off the mat, it's all I can think. Early doors. And the truth is that it's all early doors. Even late in the game, there's still time. It's something a guy like Tony--in his seventies, knows.
It's something I imagine all these bowling guys know: that's it's never too late. Never too late to turn the game around with a wood that saunters up to the jack and hangs close. Never too late to become the kind of father you always wanted to be. Never too late to write the kind of book you always hoped you had inside of you. Never too late to start believing that the mistakes of our pasts don't need to be imbibed for the duration of our future.
Or, as George Eliot put it, more eloquently, "It's never too late to be what you might have been."
As I consider the wonder of whether a book I write will ever make it out into the big wide world, doing well enough to help support our family, or whether I'll learn to be the kind of father who discerns those two poles of love, grace and truth, with great clarity, or whether this journey we're on is more logic than craze, more faith than fear--as I consider all these possibilities, I know Tony's words are true. Early doors.
No matter how much time passes, the thing is to keep playing, to keep believing that this next time down the mat, you just might dance with the jack. And if not, there's always another bowl inside of you. Inside of me. No matter how many chances we've squandered before.
Each time down, hope beckons us to consider the possibility anew.
Tony, a man in his early seventies, comes beside me and puts his arm around my shoulders. He smiles big. We're on opposing teams tonight, though that doesn't stop him from sending a little encouragement my way.
"We have an old saying in South Yorkshire, Luke." He smiles even wider and squeezes my shoulders again.
"Yeah?" I ask, glad for anything to take my mind off my egregious bowling tonight.
"Early doors." Then Tony tilts his head back and laughs like those two words unlock some kind of deep secret of the universe. I laugh, too, even though he might as well have said pumpkin pie for all I can figure.
He notes the quizzical look on my face. Tony always wears a sweater with a collared shirt beneath. As do most of the guys who bowl. They wear ties, ironed and pleated khakis and shoes that shine like the moon on a night that is the purest black we know. I think momentarily of my grandfather, Harold Fenton, who spent his own life building houses all over Bloomfield, Connecticut. Worked from sun-up to sun-down and held a hammer as if it was a permanent appendage. Now, Grandpa wears a shirt and tie every day of his life.
"I never had to wear one in all my work, now it's nice to do so," Grandpa once told me.
And I look at Tony, wondering what he used his forty years of work to do--building, teaching, banking, doctoring, parenting? All the bowling men come dressed like it's a banquet; they bowl ready to meet the most important audience of their lives.
Tony's smile warms me. It welcomes me in like Grandpa's, like grace.
"Early doors simply means that it's only the beginning, Luke. It means, don't worry about it--the game is long. Things change." Tony winks at me, straightens his collar, and collects his next wood to roll it down the mat.
It stops leaning against the jack. He smiles wide.
With my next wood, I end up alongside him, a measure for who's closest to the jack. "There you go, kid," he tells me.
Another wink.
As we walk to the other end of the mat, I take stock of my own sweater and collared shirt beneath it. My own khakis. Granted, mine are un-ironed, and purchased from a charity shop for about four pounds in total. But these guys are rubbing off on me. It's a long cry from when I came to bowls dressed in my pajama pants, a T-shirt and hiking boots.
Something about them suggests that every moment is important--and why waste a single one not preparing for the banquet, not preparing for the finest introduction you might ever have?
Early doors.
And throughout the rest of the evening, each time a wood rolls away off the mat, it's all I can think. Early doors. And the truth is that it's all early doors. Even late in the game, there's still time. It's something a guy like Tony--in his seventies, knows.
It's something I imagine all these bowling guys know: that's it's never too late. Never too late to turn the game around with a wood that saunters up to the jack and hangs close. Never too late to become the kind of father you always wanted to be. Never too late to write the kind of book you always hoped you had inside of you. Never too late to start believing that the mistakes of our pasts don't need to be imbibed for the duration of our future.
Or, as George Eliot put it, more eloquently, "It's never too late to be what you might have been."
As I consider the wonder of whether a book I write will ever make it out into the big wide world, doing well enough to help support our family, or whether I'll learn to be the kind of father who discerns those two poles of love, grace and truth, with great clarity, or whether this journey we're on is more logic than craze, more faith than fear--as I consider all these possibilities, I know Tony's words are true. Early doors.
No matter how much time passes, the thing is to keep playing, to keep believing that this next time down the mat, you just might dance with the jack. And if not, there's always another bowl inside of you. Inside of me. No matter how many chances we've squandered before.
Each time down, hope beckons us to consider the possibility anew.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
A Safe Place
Tonight, during the tea break at Bowls, I sat next to a man named Trevor who is in the early stages of Alzheimer's. He smiles. he looks at me when I ask questions--watches my forehead, then my eyes. His face searches, and then he answers, sometimes with the same responses over and over.
Each time, I give him a thumbs up and smile wide. Trevor returns the thumbs up to me.
Around us, older men and women drink their tea, take small bites of their biscuits. The heating in the church hall is on. Strong. Tonight, we are forecasted a freeze.
In a few minutes, when we all rise from our chairs and play the second hour of Bowls, the subtle teasing begins. If I am playing well, it's "Let's buy the American a ticket back to his own country." If I am playing poorly, it's "Square woods tonight, oy ay?" And then a chuckle.
A chuckle that is safe.
Safe for a man like Trevor.
Safe for a man like me.
Safe for a whole army of the elderly who gather here each Thursday to send a ball down an indoor lawn mat, fully knowing that with each bowl, they affirm their belief in the power of life moving on. The power of themselves, to keep believing in the beauty even after knees are replaced, bones are mended, brains slowly fail.
They gather like a crowd around a fire on a cold night camping. They warm their hands on the hearth of camaraderie and fun. And I'm grateful to tag along, a few decades early, and be a part of their circle.
Each time, I give him a thumbs up and smile wide. Trevor returns the thumbs up to me.
Around us, older men and women drink their tea, take small bites of their biscuits. The heating in the church hall is on. Strong. Tonight, we are forecasted a freeze.
In a few minutes, when we all rise from our chairs and play the second hour of Bowls, the subtle teasing begins. If I am playing well, it's "Let's buy the American a ticket back to his own country." If I am playing poorly, it's "Square woods tonight, oy ay?" And then a chuckle.
A chuckle that is safe.
Safe for a man like Trevor.
Safe for a man like me.
Safe for a whole army of the elderly who gather here each Thursday to send a ball down an indoor lawn mat, fully knowing that with each bowl, they affirm their belief in the power of life moving on. The power of themselves, to keep believing in the beauty even after knees are replaced, bones are mended, brains slowly fail.
They gather like a crowd around a fire on a cold night camping. They warm their hands on the hearth of camaraderie and fun. And I'm grateful to tag along, a few decades early, and be a part of their circle.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Long View
It had been over a month since I'd been to the Fulford Bowls Club--a collection of men over 65 who play indoor lawn bowling. (And one 30-year old American.) Life has been pretty hectic lately, with Tyler fighting cold after cold, sleeping through the night a thing of legend and lore, and allergy attacks gathering around me like I'm a never-ending supply of sticky notes for a highly organized person.
So attending the Thursday night bowling just didn't make the list of Must Do in Order to Survive.
But this past Thursday, I attended again.
Ten years ago, I ran the London Marathon with my oldest brother, Christopher. By mile 20, the two of us were Jell-O men, stumbling forward under the weight of gravity and lunacy, in equal parts. Walking into Bowls last Thursday, my legs felt similarly. I wanted to keel over a few times--or at least just bowl from a chair.
But as I looked around, I felt heartened. So many older men welcomed me back. Told me they missed me. We shook hands. Talked about the weather. Talked about the wars they had fought in fifty, sixty years ago. Talked about bowls.
Always about bowls.
Ah, good wood there, mate!
Just ease up to the Jack. Bring it straight round there.
Oh, ay! That's a Yorkshireman's delight right there.
Every time down the green fake-lawn mat, these older men smiled with joy at the smallest attempt, the closest call, the possible point.
The thrill. Even of indoor lawn bowling.
And I was struck by something my soul was in desperate need of: the long view.
I talked with Ken, one of the men who landed on the beaches at Normandy when he was only 18 years old as a conscript of the British Army. He was paid twelve pence a day. By contrast, American soldiers during World War II were paid the equivalent of four pounds a week. Ken was making 84 pence a week. And he served at the invasion, then for two years in Palestine during terrible battles there. In both places, he was wounded.
Now, Ken smiles with ease. He jokes. He laughs.
Ken has survived. He has taken the long view of life, realizing that we pass through immeasurable difficulty and confusion and fear and sometimes horror, but somehow, we survive. And when we do, we keep on walking the path that falls before our feet.
I talked with Tony, who described how his four-year old daughter (now 39) would wake up screaming night after night after night. For six months. He and his wife had just had another baby, and between the four-year old screaming, the newborn with terrible colic, Tony and his wife had zero sleep. Literally. I watched Tony's face as he recalled the time.
"How did you make it through?" I ask, wanting to glean some kind of wisdom for our own sleep trouble with Tyler of late.
Tony shook his head, looked at me, and smiled. "The thing is, our daughters are beautiful human beings. You just have to love them through the hard stages and remember that you might always know what the hard stages are about, but they pass." Then, Tony smiled and patted me on the back.
The long view.
During the eight o' clock tea break, I talked with Henry, who lives and breathes bowls now, as a seventy-year old man. His face rose and fell like an ocean of glee as he described the five Bowling Clubs of which he is a part. The different match-ups, the visiting teams, what bowls means to him and how it gives him a place to belong.
And I couldn't help but think, here's a seventy-year old man, and he has passion and joy. He looks forward to waking up each day, playing bowls almost every night. He;s not mourning his past, regretting the past 69 years. He's living his 70th.
The long view.
Walking back from St. Oswald's Church Hall at nine o' clock with the wind whipping cold across my ears, hands, all I could think, over and over, was the long view.
I am often so accustomed to contemplating the short view. What is happening now? What if this or that circumstance doesn't work out? What if this hard stage lasts forever?
Such are questions that the vocabulary of the Long View doesn't know or acknowledge.
In bowls, you might have an incredible turn: your ball might land square next to the Jack, lean against it like there's nothing in the world that will take that point away from you. But then another player gets up and knocks your ball completely off the mat. Your point is gone. Lost.
Alternately, you may bowl a ball that is as far away from the Jack as ice from fire. But then another player takes a turn and inadvertently slices your ball, knocks it square next to the Jack. One point.
You never know. The game changes moment by moment. Like life. And you can't play by giving so much power to each turn that you lose the thread of the game.
You can't live by lending so much significance to every circumstance that you lose the narrative of your own arc.
It's what the men at Bowls are teaching me. It's what I am slowly learning to do--slowly learning how to see. The Long View doesn't throw away the moments, nor does it anxiously plan and prepare for the future. Instead, it simply approaches the present with open hands, receives it, but does not allow any present moment to crush or signify the worth of existence. The worth of a life is much more valuable than any one thing, much more authentic than any sound bit, no matter how treacherous or beautiful.
Because what is most miraculous about our lives of it all is this: the story. It's not the sentence that decides our fate, nor the chapter. These are but a part of the narrative. The story as a whole is what matters. The mistakes I have made before, the patterns of fear I may have allowed to beat in unison with my heart--these do not signify the substance of the novel of my life. Nor yours.
The Long View tells us to wait and see. Keep living. Keep going. Keep bowling. The next time down the lawn mat, we may just end up with an incredible bowl, one that we would have missed had we been caught lamenting our last turn.
So attending the Thursday night bowling just didn't make the list of Must Do in Order to Survive.
But this past Thursday, I attended again.
Ten years ago, I ran the London Marathon with my oldest brother, Christopher. By mile 20, the two of us were Jell-O men, stumbling forward under the weight of gravity and lunacy, in equal parts. Walking into Bowls last Thursday, my legs felt similarly. I wanted to keel over a few times--or at least just bowl from a chair.
But as I looked around, I felt heartened. So many older men welcomed me back. Told me they missed me. We shook hands. Talked about the weather. Talked about the wars they had fought in fifty, sixty years ago. Talked about bowls.
Always about bowls.
Ah, good wood there, mate!
Just ease up to the Jack. Bring it straight round there.
Oh, ay! That's a Yorkshireman's delight right there.
Every time down the green fake-lawn mat, these older men smiled with joy at the smallest attempt, the closest call, the possible point.
The thrill. Even of indoor lawn bowling.
And I was struck by something my soul was in desperate need of: the long view.
I talked with Ken, one of the men who landed on the beaches at Normandy when he was only 18 years old as a conscript of the British Army. He was paid twelve pence a day. By contrast, American soldiers during World War II were paid the equivalent of four pounds a week. Ken was making 84 pence a week. And he served at the invasion, then for two years in Palestine during terrible battles there. In both places, he was wounded.
Now, Ken smiles with ease. He jokes. He laughs.
Ken has survived. He has taken the long view of life, realizing that we pass through immeasurable difficulty and confusion and fear and sometimes horror, but somehow, we survive. And when we do, we keep on walking the path that falls before our feet.
I talked with Tony, who described how his four-year old daughter (now 39) would wake up screaming night after night after night. For six months. He and his wife had just had another baby, and between the four-year old screaming, the newborn with terrible colic, Tony and his wife had zero sleep. Literally. I watched Tony's face as he recalled the time.
"How did you make it through?" I ask, wanting to glean some kind of wisdom for our own sleep trouble with Tyler of late.
Tony shook his head, looked at me, and smiled. "The thing is, our daughters are beautiful human beings. You just have to love them through the hard stages and remember that you might always know what the hard stages are about, but they pass." Then, Tony smiled and patted me on the back.
The long view.
During the eight o' clock tea break, I talked with Henry, who lives and breathes bowls now, as a seventy-year old man. His face rose and fell like an ocean of glee as he described the five Bowling Clubs of which he is a part. The different match-ups, the visiting teams, what bowls means to him and how it gives him a place to belong.
And I couldn't help but think, here's a seventy-year old man, and he has passion and joy. He looks forward to waking up each day, playing bowls almost every night. He;s not mourning his past, regretting the past 69 years. He's living his 70th.
The long view.
Walking back from St. Oswald's Church Hall at nine o' clock with the wind whipping cold across my ears, hands, all I could think, over and over, was the long view.
I am often so accustomed to contemplating the short view. What is happening now? What if this or that circumstance doesn't work out? What if this hard stage lasts forever?
Such are questions that the vocabulary of the Long View doesn't know or acknowledge.
In bowls, you might have an incredible turn: your ball might land square next to the Jack, lean against it like there's nothing in the world that will take that point away from you. But then another player gets up and knocks your ball completely off the mat. Your point is gone. Lost.
Alternately, you may bowl a ball that is as far away from the Jack as ice from fire. But then another player takes a turn and inadvertently slices your ball, knocks it square next to the Jack. One point.
You never know. The game changes moment by moment. Like life. And you can't play by giving so much power to each turn that you lose the thread of the game.
You can't live by lending so much significance to every circumstance that you lose the narrative of your own arc.
It's what the men at Bowls are teaching me. It's what I am slowly learning to do--slowly learning how to see. The Long View doesn't throw away the moments, nor does it anxiously plan and prepare for the future. Instead, it simply approaches the present with open hands, receives it, but does not allow any present moment to crush or signify the worth of existence. The worth of a life is much more valuable than any one thing, much more authentic than any sound bit, no matter how treacherous or beautiful.
Because what is most miraculous about our lives of it all is this: the story. It's not the sentence that decides our fate, nor the chapter. These are but a part of the narrative. The story as a whole is what matters. The mistakes I have made before, the patterns of fear I may have allowed to beat in unison with my heart--these do not signify the substance of the novel of my life. Nor yours.
The Long View tells us to wait and see. Keep living. Keep going. Keep bowling. The next time down the lawn mat, we may just end up with an incredible bowl, one that we would have missed had we been caught lamenting our last turn.
Friday, October 29, 2010
This Ancient Game of Bowls
Yesterday evening, after Jen and I had given Tyler and five diggers a bath, I left our home on 1 Lesley Avenue to walk to the old church hall at St. Oswald's with a neighbour of ours named David.
A bit younger than my own grandfather, David is a kind man who walks with a cane, hefts a big smile everywhere he goes, and says that his main rule for living is the Golden One: You see, Luke, I treat everyone the way I'd right liked to be treated, mate. That's all it is.
And in David's life—along with his wife, Jill, and their daughter Gemma, who live two doors down—the Golden rule is indeed alive and well. Already, they've taken delight in Tyler, bringing him toys, inviting him over to feed their bunnies, and dropping off other odds and ends (including a delicious teddy-bear shaped cake for Tyler's birthday last weekend).
A lot of guys in my age group go out drinking at the pubs. But somehow, getting a tall pint (or two, or three) just never really feels like my cup of tea, so to speak. The loud noise, the effects on the wallet (thinking constantly, is this really a good use of money?), and the general sense that time might be better spent is usually triggered.
So it was that when David invited me to join the Fulford Bowls Club, I jumped at the prospect.
The church hall at St. Oswald's is much like many church halls in America, I suspect: decor from the 1970's, a bit of a musty smell, and its walls seem to wear the memories of a thousand different games and activities played by people of a hundred different ages.
Last night, after our ten minute walk to the hall from our homes, David and I walked in to find four men and four women already intent on their game of the bowls. I immediately noticed that "crown of wisdom" each soul there wore. Their white hair seemed more a promise of good stories and lives well lived than a disappointment. I felt, immediately, a sense that this would be a great Thursday night activity.
For two pounds, we bowled for two hours. Halfway through, we stop for tea and biscuits (I ate two of each)—and stories. I spoke with Ken, once a British soldier who was at Normandy and met many of the 101st Airborn from America.
I met Henry, whose wife passed on 12 years prior, but whose smile remained.
I met Arthur, a man of few words who—one could easily tell—was the Keeper of the Bowl, so to speak. His was the duty to setup, ensure accuracy, and lend advice to the American newcomer to their game.
The object of Bowls is to get three of your large balls (each containing a bias, or heavy weight on one side) as close to a small ball (the jack) as possible. The jack is on one end of the long green mat, and you and the others gentlemen stand on another end and pitch balls and remark over one another's technique.
And I loved it.
I love it.
Walking home with David, I asked how long he had been coming to bowl at the church hall. "Oh, about 15 years, I'd say." Then, he looked at me out of the corner of his eye. "You like it, then, ey?"
"I love it," I replied.
"He smiled his massive smile and said, "You took to it like a duck to water."
And it was everything in me to not say, "The bowling was a hoot, but you and the others were what really made the night—your stories, your wisdom."
Even though we only lived two doors down, like a kind grandfather does, he watched and waited while I got inside our little home, excited to have found a new social group to hang with every Thursday night—even if they are twice (or three times) my age.
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