Sunday column: Red dirt and pop flies

Although it's nearly a week late, this column may be well worth the wait when paired with these photos:

1992 Baton Rouge team, the "Lions" (I'm standing second from left). Apparently, we got trophies! Probably just for participating ... I was never on a team that consistently won games, much less trophies.

While I remember nothing about the "Lions," the "Wreckers" I remember well. There I am again, standing second from the left. And let's not even talk about the white biking shorts trimmed in lace that I'm wearing. Ouch. Miss Tootie (yep, that was her name) was the coach who pelted us with pop flies during practice. She's standing on the right. I played with this team for a couple of years; this picture was taken in 1993.

And now for the column ...

There’s just something about the red dirt of a softball field.
I’ve always had a strange feeling of love for that dirt, and I can only figure it stems from years spent having fun on the field.
I was never a softball superstar — I’ll be the first to admit that. But, I was a decent outfielder, and I always enjoyed playing.
Softball was a way of life for me during the spring and summer all the way through high school. I played on the city league and later for the high school team, and it was something that gave me a sense of pride and belonging.
The sport had a way of unifying the cliques that invariably form beginning in oh, probably second grade. Even though I was a “nerd,” I played softball, so I had something in common with girls in other groups, like the “athletes” and the “popular” crowd.
Let’s be honest, that’s really something when you’re a teenager.
Most importantly, I always had fun playing softball. I was fortunate to have coaches whose main motivation was teaching the sport and making sure the team was having fun. There were no cut-throat coaches spewing threats or irrational parents screaming from the bleachers in my softball experience, thank goodness.
For us, it was all about developing skills, playing smart and catching fly balls. That was the key — catching those pop flies. And boy did we practice that. Even though it’s been about 10 years since I played in a softball game, I feel sure that if a pop fly was headed my way, I could catch it without flinching.
I know there are a lot of girls out there who are much more serious softball players than I ever was, and good for them. I could never be bothered with all the technical aspects of specific types of bats and cleats. I just liked to get out there and play. That’s probably why my career wasn’t terribly long-lived.
That’s OK, though, because softball for me was exactly what I needed it to be. It was a physical outlet, a change of environment and a good opportunity for exercise.
I got back out in that red dirt recently to play a little ball, and by the time I walked off the field I was on a softball high. The years I played on softball teams built up positive associations with the sport and all its trappings that have been lying dormant for some time.
Maybe I’ll give in, break out the old glove and rediscover the game this fall. If I do, I’ll tell you one thing for sure — hit a pop fly in my direction and you’ll be out.

Look! Nick played ball, too: seven years of Dixie Youth.

Our neighbors are animal haters.

She can name that bug!

Now here's a girl who knows her bugs, and isn't afraid to touch them!
http://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2008/08/080807-insectarium-video-ap.html
Anne is now officially my go-to girl when I have insect questions.
She rocks! I need to get myself down to New Orleans to check out the Insectarium.

Sunday column: Here come the butterflies

I started second grade at STM with no front teeth!

In eighth grade, I started school without glasses for the first time since second grade.

Nick had a back-to-school experience in January 2007 for the first time in about 10 years. He's my hero!

Back-to-school time evokes one especially strong memory for me: Butterflies in the stomach.
Every year I was in school — including all four years of college — the butterflies would visit in the week leading up to that first day.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved school. I just always was hit by those first-day jitters.
When I say I loved school, I mean I absolutely adored it. I was never one of those kids who cooked up excuses to stay home or who cried as Mom dropped me off. Nope, that was my brother. He was the one who stayed home with a “stomachache” and who I had to drag into the kindergarten classroom — literally — as he cried and screamed so loudly his face turned bright red.
Admittedly, he’s come a long way since then. But, the memories of his attitude toward back-to-school will live on. Unfortunately.
Unlike him, I looked forward to everything about school: The desks, the fresh notebooks and pencils, the books we would read, the list could go on and on.
In my effort to ward off the butterflies, on the night before school started I would always try to get everything prepared for the next day. I’d hang my clean uniform on my bedroom door, I’d line up my shoes and socks and pack all those supplies in my bookbag. Then, I’d get into bed and try so hard to sleep, but year after year I never could. My mind would race with questions about my new teacher and classmates, the new material we would cover, the dreaded P.E. class and memories from the previous year.
After getting about two hours of sleep, it would be time to get up and get ready to go — sending the butterflies into double-time.
While my day-before preparations changed as I progressed through school, the general feeling of anxiety mixed with anticipation was as constant as the tardy bell.
When you’re feeling nervous about going back to school, or really starting anything new in life, it’s good to have some tools on hand to help you get through that first day.
For example, when going on a first date I would always have an “out,” just in case things didn’t go well. I’d create some excuse before the big night that I could use to bail myself out if the need arose.
Way back on my first-ever day of school, my mom gave me a tool that has served me ever since. It was the first day of kindergarten, and I was scared about starting a new school where I didn’t know anyone. In her infinite wisdom, Mom gave me some advice about how to make friends.
“Just walk up to them and say, ‘Hi, my name is Emily. What’s your name?’ ” Mom told me.
That sounded simple enough. So, I tried it. And it worked.
It is a phrase that sounds friendly and is easy to remember. It got me through that first day of kindergarten and has served me in all kinds of situations since then.
It’s an approach that can work for children and adults, and I’m so thankful to Mom for giving me that advice.
Finding yourself in an unfamiliar situation with a group of unfamiliar faces can be nerve-wracking no matter how outgoing you are. And if you’re even the least bit shy, it can be downright painful.
So, here’s to the first day of school and getting it over with. Days two, three and four are always progressively easier.
Lincoln Parish students eased into the 2008-09 school year with a half-day on Friday. Monday brings the first full school day and probably a couple fewer butterflies. Eventually, after a week or so, they’ll fly off back into hibernation, until it’s time for school to start next year.

Featured artist

While I've been working day-to-day all summer, the more artistic members of my family have been, like, creating cool stuff! Carolyn sent me these previews of her paintings (complete with commentary!) and I had to share. My favorite is the ones with the dark blues. Looks like she's had a much more productive summer than I have. Good for her! Enjoy!

For Mama

Enjoy!

Sunday column: When did dorm life get luxurious?

Here I am circa 2000 in my Pearce dorm room with my first roommate (courtesy of Tech's sophisticated potluck system), Diane. She lasted two whole quarters at Tech!

On-campus life has come a long way since my days as a Louisiana Tech student.
I recently helped a family member move into a University Park apartment, and I was struck by the quality of the new housing facilities. For a moment I wondered what campus I was on.
It’s been about a decade since I loaded down my Honda Prelude with dorm room essentials and headed west on Interstate 20, destination: Tech. Student housing here in Ruston has advanced by leaps and bounds since then.
As a high school student, I got a preview of dorm life the summer between my junior and senior years when I enrolled in a class at Tech. For three weeks, my best friend and I traded our real life as Monroe teenagers for the freedom that comes with being college students. We moved into Kidd (remember good old Kidd? It’s now a parking lot) and stocked up on junk food, wielding our Tech Express cards and trying desperately to look like we belonged on a college campus.
Back then, dorm rooms didn’t have Internet connections. Heck, they didn’t even have thermostats. Every year that I lived on campus, my roommates and I would suffocate in the winter and freeze in the summer because the temperature of the entire dorm was managed by one master switch located somewhere across campus. I don’t know if there was ever a time when that particular arrangement made sense, even back in the ’60s, when many of the buildings were built.
I lived in the dorm for three of my four years at Tech. In my senior year, when I finally moved off-campus, I asked myself why in the world I’d waited so long. Now, though, for students lucky enough to live in University Park, there’s no real difference between living in university housing and living off-campus.
During those three years of dorm life, I had three different roommates and lived in three different dorms: Pearce, Kidd and Aswell. Each one had its own set of amenities and inconveniences.
There was one problem that plagued me from dorm to dorm through the years: ants. Even during my three-week stint as a faux college student I battled the dorm ants. They were back when I returned as a full-fledged freshman and were the reason I lobbied the housing office to get a dorm re-assignment (finding ants making trails through your underwear drawer would send you over the edge, too).
But alas, there they were again at the new dorm, and no amount of complaint calls from either myself or my parents seemed to get the problem solved. Eventually, I just made a habit of buying a can of bug spray every time I went to Wal-Mart (which was frequently back then, i.e. every other night). By the time I finally moved off campus, I was a pretty good shot. This skill also came in handy during The Great Cricket Invasion of 1999. I remember walking across a cricket-laden Centennial Plaza one day that year, relishing each step as I crunched crickets beneath my feet.
On-campus pests aside, life in the dorm wasn’t all bad. I met some interesting people and learned how to adapt — a skill, like accuracy in bug-killing, that will serve me for life.
It makes me wonder, though, about the new crop of college students who are living an entirely different Tech experience. Rather than playing racquetball at the Intramural Center and going bowling at the Bulldog Kennel, will they instead be holed up in the swanky UP apartments updating their Facebook profiles?
With individual bedrooms (what a concept) and kitchens, will students participate in the rousing conversations that would erupt from time to time in the Student Center or outside at the red tables? There’s a chance they could really be missing out.
University administrators have recognized — and rightly so — the need to upgrade facilities for the next generation of college students who have extremely high expectations. There’s no doubt that the new housing and recreation options Tech is working on will serve to raise the university’s profile and attractiveness to students and their parents, as well as faculty and staff members.
I just can’t help but indulge in a little nostalgia for the way things used to be, not that long ago. Back then, students walked to on-campus computer labs, because we didn’t all have iMacs. People passing by on campus would say hello to each other and stop and chat, because we weren’t all plugged into iPods or cell phones. And the dorm life — well, it built character, because it wasn’t nicer than our parents’ houses, which we’d just moved out of.
I bet the residents of University Park would say I’m just jealous — and they would be right.

Name that bug

Nick says it's a grasshopper, but it's like no grasshopper I've ever seen (then again, I'm not quite sure if I've ever been up close and personal with a real live grasshopper). Anyway, it sure was cozy on my sunflower leaf this evening.

Pet peeve

Why, oh why don't people return phone calls?
Or e-mails?
I'm not talking about just regular people — those unreturned phone calls and/or e-mails I can live with (or without, for that matter). It's the people who have important information that affects people's lives who don't return phone calls and/or e-mails that really send my blood pressure through the roof.
What gives?

One year later

The happy couple, one year later.

The secret to defrosting wedding cake: Move it from freezer to fridge the day before.

We had a great anniversary, complete with Johnny's pizza (closest thing to B.J.'s, which we ate in the hotel on our wedding night), an exchange of mushy cards, a viewing of the wedding video (thanks Uncle Rod!) and of course — wedding cake! It held up in the freezer surprisingly well and tasted great (Nick had his doubts, but managed to polish off a few pieces). Here's to us!

Oh happy day

Here's what we were doing one year ago today. Wow! So much has happened since then, and we've got so much to look forward to.

Sunday column: Saints training camp

We got this close to Jeremy Shockey (still cute even with short hair)! But, it wasn't close enough.

QB Drew Brees was great about giving as many autographs as he could. We got his twice!

Nick: Tenacious autograph-seeker

Bill and Hollie, thanks for coming with!

My husband and I are in the same boat as many of you this summer: We can't afford to go on a vacation, no matter how badly I ache for the sun and sand of Florida.
But, never to be discouraged, we decided we still deserved a mini-vacation, as long as it was fairly cheap and didn't involve more than a tank of gas. Somehow, we came to the conclusion that a weekend trip to Saints Training Camp in Jackson, Miss., would satisfy our vacation cravings.
Nick is a huge Saints fan, and I was so desperate to get out of town that I wasn't going to be picky, despite my lack of football savvy. We recruited two of our good friends — also fellow Saints fans — and headed east last weekend.
Here are the perks of going to Saints football camp: It's free! Although you pay $5 for parking and fork out a small fortune for bottled water and Saints brand souvenirs, admission to the practice is free. You also have the opportunity to get up close and personal with the players, if they decide to hang around after practice and sign autographs. We were banking that they would.
Lucky for us, we timed our trip perfectly with the Saints' recent acquisition of one of Nick's favorite players — tight end Jeremy Shockey. He was on a mission to get Shockey's autograph.
Before we could get into the autograph frenzy, though, we had to wait through three hours of football practice. If you've ever sat on aluminum bleachers in the 100-degree heat for a few hours, then you've got a pretty good idea of what it was like.
The redeeming factor was the company we were in. I was shocked by the number of fans who showed up.
And the variety! It was a people-watcher's dream. Saints fans of all shapes, sizes, ages, backgrounds and levels of intensity flocked to Jackson last weekend to get a glimpse of the team so many love to hate. And I'd bet there's just as colorful of a crowd there this weekend.
While my husband and friends were studying the plays and passes happening on the practice field, I was taking in the crowd.
By far the most entertaining fan was sitting one person down from me. She caught my eye because she had two notebooks in her lap and a stack of papers she kept riffling through. Then I noticed she was taking copious notes about every move the Saints players and coaches were making.
Now, we reporters can usually sniff out our own, and she didn't strike me as a reporter. Plus, I was pretty sure the media had their own area and wouldn't be lumped in with the regular fans at Training Camp.
Upon closer inspection, I noticed this woman, who was probably in her 40s and definitely spent a little too much time in the tanning bed, was wearing a Saints cap filled with autographs. She was sitting next to a man with a digital camera fancier than the one we use here at the Daily Leader, and she appeared to be on a first-name basis with all of the players (at least, in her own mind).
I was mystified.
Who was this woman and what the heck was she doing? In-between scribbling notes, she participated in rousing conversations with the fans sitting around her about important issues such as separation and player statistics.
Then it hit me: She must be a blogger. My suspicions were confirmed when I heard her mention something she'd posted that morning. Unfortunately, I didn't get the Web site for her blog. But even without seeing it myself, I feel sure it is a very thorough, frequently updated fan blog that would make the Saints proud.
Crazy Blogger Woman wasn't the only interesting character I saw in Jackson. There was her sidekick with the camera, who was rocking some pretty awesome Saints socks. There was a trio of men who I could tell were from New Orleans (they had the "yat"). One of them was wearing a camo shirt with a straw hat and some fabulous sunglasses straight out of Elton John's wardrobe. Another had on a Saints helmet (remember, it was 100 degrees) that had "Go Time!" written on the front in black marker. Finally, I kept seeing a group of women in matching gold tops and black shorts who had the same hair style (a French braid) and matching Saints tattoos.
Clearly, these people are bigger fans than I.
When it was time for the autograph crush, it was every fan for himself. I thought I was making progress burrowing up to the front when I noticed a man on crutches using a crutch to lift a jersey over our heads and into the hands of his favorite player (Reggie Bush). Although it made me mad at the time, looking back I have to give him credit for creativity.
At the end of the weekend, we walked away with a couple of autographs and lots of pictures. Although Shockey evaded us this time, Nick has vowed that we'll be back next year. And the year after that, and the year after that.

For more information about Saints Training Camp, click here.