Bowl

I took the kids bowling with the Stella Maris youth group to Sister Bay Lanes. I was there for the children, enjoying every minute of watching and minding them. I think it was my dad who got me off my feet -- the memory of my dad the bowler. He was 6 feet 6 inches with his own bowling ball. The last time I looked, his bowling shoes had been in the bag with the ball for so long that the shoes had shaped themselves to the ball and were curved wafers size 15+. So, I get up out of my seat for the memory of my dad, pick a pair of size 10 off the rack for me and ask Kayla if she would mind if I take her turn in the game. "Sure mom," she says and scoots out of the way. I pick up a heavy weight and lift it to my chin, take a few steps forward on my neuropothied feet and let go the ball to the gutter. I start crying because I can't do it. I'm off balance, the ball is too heavy, I can't run yet. But the tears don't stop me. I try it again and again and again until I'm dancing on the woodwork after bowling a strike and all the kids in the bowling alley are applauding. I take off my wool knit hat to show the fuzz and bow. Big grin shared with the crowd.