The Games

Recently, an acquaintance of mine asked me, "So, did you participate in Super Bowl parties when you were growing up?" I was charmed by the question due to the fact that I am almost a decade older than the Super Bowl phenomenon. My reply was perhaps more than she bargained for, as is the case with most of my responses. I explained that I grew up with little or no television interaction. Sports and parties were words rarely used in my household. Our physical exercise fell under the heading of work and Sunday was a day of rest and church. No parties in sight. As time marched on, however, the Super Bowl world did enter my life. After I got married, my husband and I gathered with friends for the big event. I spent my time by the crockpots filled with smoked wienies and my husband enjoyed his time by the television watching the game with the guys (with a plate full of smoked wienies). I can honestly say I did not watch one second of any of the games due to my low sports IQ.

The exception to my no sports rule is the Olympics. The modern Olympic games are actually older than I am by more than a century so the history is rich. I never tire of the parade of nations entering the Olympic stadium for the opening ceremonies. The flag bearer for each country proudly leads his or her country's delegation of one athlete to dozens of athletes. This year's television coverage included a little map with each country's location highlighted as they were featured in the procession. Bonus for me because I can never remember where Eritrea is located. Participants from warm climate countries often inspire back stories during winter Olympics. Case in point, this year there is a women's bobsled team from Jamaica. They are on a quest to pay homage to their Cool Runnings roots. Make Sanka proud, ladies.

There is a spirit about the Olympic games that is contagious. Rather than looking for ways to criticize and besmirch one's country, participants and fans rally around their athletes and homeland. Tears of joy are often seen streaming down faces when a country's national anthem is played during the awarding of medals. Most athletes know better than to "take a knee" or derail an acceptance moment with a verbal anti-patriotism rant. Most athletes also realize they are participating not only for their own personal achievement, but as a tribute to the country they are representing. There is a selflessness that is mirrored in that kind of loyalty. Celebrating what is right about a country feels better than looking for everything that is wrong.

It is foolish to believe that countries do not have problems and, certainly, people have the right to speak out. But, please, oh please, take a clue from the world of kindergartners. Find a way to play nice in the sandbox. Share your baggie of teddy grahams with a new friend. Accept your blue ribbon without telling others how you thought you were mistreated by Ms. Preschool Teacher. Don't steal your desk as a kindergarten souvenir. Get back up if you fall down. Learn something new. And wear your school colors with pride.

Go, Team USA!

Timothy Tick-Tock

The power of a good book is timeless. Whether it is a book recently enjoyed or a book from our childhood, emotions are stirred in with the words on the pages and we are left with fond memories. I was blessed to grow up in a home of books. We didn't have a lot of money to buy books but we sought out local resources. When a little country school down the road from us was closing (Rhoda Township #3, to be precise), my parents procured a large cabinet of books. The treasure trove was set up in our attic. I loved to take the creaky stairs to the top floor of our old farmhouse, breathe in the dusty smell of stored antique items and make my way to the library collection. Sometimes, I took the book back down the stairs to my bedroom on the second floor. Other times, I sprawled out on the ugly old pseudo-couch in the attic, hoping my mother wouldn't find me and assign another chore or two before I finished the book.

The poem titled, The Moo Cow Moo, gave me assurance that I wasn't the only farm girl who was afraid of cows. The classic poem, Oh Captain, My Captain, never failed to capture my attention with its beautiful turn of words. The Flicka, Ricka, Dicka book series shared the tales of three little Swedish triplet girls. Growing up with four sisters, I could relate to their adventures. The book entitled, Walter the Lazy Mouse, fueled my guilt vortex with reminders that lazy children always face dire consequences.

One book stood out, however, for its longevity in our family. The book was not flashy by an means. It had a burnt orange cover with an odd little stick figure on the front. The head of the figure was in the shape of a russet potato and the character's hands looked like little mittens. The illustrations in the book were done in black, white and the same burnt orange as the cover.

The main character's name is Billy and he is grumpy about always being told it is time for something. Time to go to school, time to go to bed, time to take a bath. He is sure his clock, named Timothy, is the reason for his distress so he hides the clock. As expected, his life becomes chaotic and he finally begs Timothy to teach him how to tell time. And, therein, lies the power of the nondescript little book. The book finishes with several pages of teaching the reader how to tell time. Minnie-The-Minute-Hand is long and goes fast like a rabbit. Howy-The-Hour-Hand is short and goes slowly like a turtle with short legs. The final page of the book shows Billy being tucked into bed after his Daddy reads him a story. "And Billy dreamed a happy dream about his new friend Timothy-Tick-Tock, who had a time for everything." The End.

One by one, my siblings and I used this book to help us tell time in the days of analog clocks. I still have the original book and am unable to part with it. Last week, I brought the book to my mother so we could share a memory together. Despite her dementia, she immediately recognized the book and exclaimed with sheer joy, "Timothy Tick-Tock!" My niece was visiting at the time and she asked Grandma to read the book while we sipped our tea. My mother took the book in her wrinkled hands and read each page with all the love, animation and expression of her youth. She beamed with accomplishment as she gently closed the book after the final page.

Further investigation revealed that most of my siblings made their mark on the book, literally. My oldest brother attempted to write his name in cursive inside the front cover. One of my younger sisters added our last name to my brother's name, also practicing her cursive. Clock pictures in the book had clock hands added to them and the back cover had my youngest sister's name written in it, practicing early manuscript (particularly amusing to my niece as it was her mother's handwriting.)

Timothy Tick-Tock once again reminded me that a good book is more than just words on a page. Time spent reading is time well spent.