Oh great, it is that time of year again. Spring! Uh oh, spring cleaning. Since winter dragged on, I procrastinated a few extra weeks, but now the sun shining throughout my humble abode highlights my shortcomings. I may have been a couch potato all winter, but my oh my, the other creatures in the household have been busy.Spiders spun webs from each corner, fingerprints divided and multiplied on every glass surface, dust bunnies reproduced like mad under the bed, and books proliferated in quadruple stacks on the shelves.
Oh woe is me. Where to begin? Spring cleaning is an insurmountable task for someone born without the clean gene. I would prefer things orderly, but my brain is so scrambled, picking up never comes naturally. I jump from one activity to the next and never finish any task for I am easily sidetracked. Books remain open half-finished by my bedside, fragments of articles cover my computer desktop, and shoes lay where they left my feet.
Last fall, when I found out that we had to start paying for garbage in Switzerland in 2013, I had the best intentions and looked at my old list of tidying up tips. Good intentions gone awry. Six months later, I stare at the mess and think where to begin?
My kids have grown and flown, yet their bedrooms remained untouched like shrines to the past. Every time I launch Operation Toss Out, I am immobilized by memories. I plan a Clean Sweep and open a closet ready to chuck games, toys, and dolls, but the sight of Beanie Babies, Little Ponies and Little Woodsies, leaves me immobilized lost in a reverie.
Instead, I open a box of books: I’ll Love You Forever, The Velveteen Rabbit, The Bunnies Get Well Soup spill out. Before you know it, I am in a rocking chair, reading Good Night Moon to my daughter’s Cabbage Patch doll perched on my knee. I drag junk out of the closets to discard and instead end up driving my son’s matchbox cars ‘round and round on a braided rug and snapping pieces together of his old Play Mobile cowboy fort.
The world is divided into pitchers and savers. Pitchers relentlessly toss items knowing that if it hasn’t been used for a year, it is no longer needed. I obey the law of inertia.
Apparently, the predisposition for this disorder is genetic. My daughter blames me for what she calls her apartment’s permanent state of entropy, “matter when left to its own devices will descend into chaos.” I am quoting a doctor here.
You would think I love living in disarray. Yet I prefer being at my sister’s house where everything is in order. You can open the frig without launching an attack of mystery meat morphed into extraterrestrials. You know precisely which drawer to open to find an envelope, a pen, and a notebook. Living in my house is like forever being on a scavenger hunt without a team to help hunt down the clues.
Realistically, our home is too big for the two of us. Downsize! But how? I am a sentimental old sod, clinging to memories of the past without a single organizing cell in my soul. If only we lived on the other side of the Big Pond, spring cleaning would be a breeze. I could own a five-car garage with one spot for my vehicle and four other places to park my treasures.
Participants in the 2010 Boston Marathon in Wellesley, just after the halfway mark (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
As a five-year-old, I ran my first race at my family’s boys’ summer camp on a winding dirt road lined by a quiet green forest. My heart pounded in my temples, dust clogged my throat, and I inhaled the sweet aroma of swamp water as my skinny legs floated toward the finish line. At the recognition banquet, Grandma handed me a pink ribbon with OUTSTANDING typed in capital letters. I pressed it to my heart. I ran many more races, winning other ribbons, but the thrill of that first race never left me.
As a child, I outran the neighbor boys in kick the can, capture the flag, and tackle the man with the ball. In adolescence, I ran through the emotional upheaval of hormonal rages, unrequited loves and shattered friendships. In college, I raced through setbacks, devastating losses and future uncertainties. After graduation, I jogged down the wide boulevards of Washington DC, the cobblestone streets of Paris, and the winding alleyways of Marburg lined with half-gabled houses dating from the 15th century.
Running represented freedom. Like many other athletes worldwide, I dreamed of one day running in the Boston Marathon.
This year’s Boston Marathon, synonymous with the spirit of the American people, was held on Patriots Day at the historical city that represents the democratic values we hold so dear. When I first saw bombs explode on TV, I gasped for air as if my lung had been punctured. Immediately, I wondered, where’s Tina; my best friend – a runner- repatriated back to Boston. Twelve years earlier, we squeezed hands for support in Switzerland as we watched the Twin Towers disintegrate on September 11, 2001 setting the stage for a new era of terrorism.
Like everyone else, as the newsreel in Boston unfolded, I thought first of my friend, and her family. Even after I found out that she was all right, the anxiety didn’t subside. Instead it rippled out in waves, while I went through the motions of my day teaching multi-cultured, multi-colored students in Switzerland’s tranquil countryside. I kept replaying the scenes of pandemonium, knowing that today someone’s life was shattered. Forever. Someone lost a leg. Someone lost a life partner. Someone lost an eight-year-old son.
Running is the great equalizer: anyone at any age can run anywhere. Out the door. Into the street. Across the fields. Over the hills. Through the woods. You don’t need to rent a court, pay club fees, own special gear or earn a specific income.
Air is free. Breath. Oxygen in, carbon dioxide out. Runner’s high. The benefits are immediate… until a bomb strikes the Boston Marathon on an American holiday reminding us that our streets, and fields, and hills, and woods are not safe.
Robert Cheruiyot in 2006 Boston Marathon as he passes through Wellesley Square. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Over the week, as the news unfolded of the manhunt for the perpetrators, I watched in horror a city under siege in lock-down. Until the capture of the second brother, soldiers patrolled sleepy suburban streets; snipers perched on the rooftops and armed tanks rolled through the trendy neighborhoods of Watertown and Cambridge.
Though my running days are long gone, as I walked to my international school where I encounter a hundred different nationalities on a daily basis, I wondered what has gone wrong? Why can’t we get along?
Running, freedom, bombs, all blur into a nightmare of disbelief, replaced by uncertainty, anxiety, fear.
My Frenchman and I stand at the Geneva airport, gazing through the glass windows at the crowd milling around the luggage carousel. Our daughter, towering above the Europeans, slings a duffel over her shoulder and strides through customs with a tired grin, dropping her bag to hug her dad.
Baby Nat with grandparents
How many miles must one travel to connect generations between separate continents? Nearly three decades ago, I cradled my Franco-American newborn in my arms during a 4,000 mile journey, 500 mph, 30,000 feet over the Atlantic. What was I thinking? My anxiety melted the moment I stepped through customs at O’Hare airport and witnessed her grandparents’ joy. For the next 5 summers until cousins were born the McKinzie’s first grandchild was spoiled like an only child by her aunts and uncle.
happy little girl on the beach
How many road trips were made to Trouville in a pilgrimage to
Trouville in the spring
Normandy and the other side of her heritage? In the thousand year old village on the English Channel, time stood still, frozen in the spindly, brick, 5-story fisherman flats lining the cobblestone quays. Here, Mamie and Papie raised their first grandchild on fish and fresh crème, the finest offering of France’s dairyland where sea and soil marinate to perfection.
Years after our first trans-Atlantic flight, my daughter landed back in Europe. Sunshine blinked through clouds in Switzerland for the first time in weeks, as old man winter finally lifted his heavy, gray veil. As we walked and talked, my footsteps felt lighter, as we wined and dined, the strawberries tasted sweeter, hinting at spring.
In a reversal of roles, now my daughter tucks me in at night. Sprawled under my duvet, we reminisce about her childhood where we weathered the storms of relocations and separations as we traveled to distance lands in our imagination on a 4-poster bed in make-believe. Today, we discussed books and babies (she is a pediatrician) and child development and teaching, language acquisition and writing.
Then in a blink we are back at the Geneva airport waving goodbye choking back tears, our hearts heavy. Our daughter flies home to her children’s hospitals in the Twin Cities, where she answers her pager at all hours. She cares for infants, speaking French to West African immigrants and conducts wellness visits for Spanish families. She reassures frightened foreigners, breaks down medical jargon into layman’s terms and magically calms fussy toddlers.
“She is so far away! Don’t you miss her?” my friends here ask. Others wonder, “How could you let her go?”
Ah, but just as my mom taught me, I know that “a child is a gift on loan from God.” Our daughter belongs to the world. She is where she is supposed to be, doing what she was destined to do.
We are together,
My child and I,
Mother and child, yes,
But sisters really
Against whatever denies
Us all that we are. Alice Walker
Over the years, watching her grow strong, we invested thousands of dollars in education and traveled hundreds of thousands of miles, thousands of meters above sea level from Switzerland to Minnesota. The precocious little girl who grew up loving water settled in the Land of 10,000 Lakes where the trees grow tall and the skies are blue.
I published a book and exposed my soul. Today, I stand on your steps, with a dimpled grin, vulnerable like a kid selling chocolate door-to-door for summer camp, soliciting your sponsorship of a dream.
Tall, smart, athletic -three strikes against me, I grew up being teased, but never bullied because, heck, I fought back. But I also wondered what was wrong with me for being so darn feisty, so damn driven. My story is the tale of a generation of girls who grew up feeling left out, girls who fought for the right to participate, girls who paved the way for the Lisa Leslies, Brittany Griners, Elena Delle Donnes of the 21st century.
More than just a basketball book, it reflects the bonds between parent /child, teammates/friends, coaches/athletes and about the compromises we make for love, family and career. It is about a crazy kid’s dream, filled with detours that carried a small town Midwestern girl from the cornfields of Illinois to the City of Lights, challenging stereotypes about gender, race, and nationality every step of the way.
Coach Hutchison, Coach Egner & Nat
It is tribute to Jill Hutchison, my Illinois State University college coach, who fought behind the scenes to help elevate women’s college sport to the levels we enjoy today. And to my former teammates like Cyndi Slayton, Vonnie Tomich, Beth Landis and the late Charlotte Lewis (1976 Olympian.) It salutes my old college rivals, Northwestern’s, Mary Murphy, a Big Ten announcer, and La Crosse’s, Shirley Egner. The University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, two time DIII NCAA championship coach, also led my daughter’s team to a Final Four. It hints at the story of those who followed my path at ISU, Cathy Boswell (1984 Olympic Gold Medalist,) Vicki Vaughan, Pam Tanner, Kirsti Cirone, Jamie Russell and all the others.
Why now? Time is running out as the once invincible, Pat Summittt, the most revered coach in women’s basketball, fights her greatest battle against early onset Alzheimer. Home Sweet Hardwood acknowledges unsung heroes, women, who fought for change. And men who supported them like Jim McKinzie, who co-coached my younger sister’s Sterling Golden Girls Team to the first-ever Illinois State Championship in 1977 at a time when most fathers did not want their daughters getting dirty and playing ball.
So many stories were never recorded. Stories no one heard. Stories lost with each passing generation.
Four thousand miles away, I sit in Switzerland and wonder who will read my book? I need your help. Get the word out. Pass the link, not only to my generation, but also to the next one. Home Sweet Hardwood makes an ideal graduation gift for the college bound, a wonderful homage to parents for Mother’s or Father’s Day, a great read for your local book club.
It’s entertaining, uplifting, fulfilling like a delicious chocolate bunny without the calories.
I never made a living writing news articles; today I blog for free. I pen my words in a cyberspace vacuum in hopes that, somehow, my ramblings will strike a chord and capture your heart. I write to inspire courage, break barriers, make connections. That’s my brand.
This is my story. Please pay it forward. Now I will get off your front porch and shut up. Thanks for keeping a little girl’s dream alive, for passing the torch, for giving a voice to the Title IX pioneers.
As part of the GenFab launch today, celebrating midlife writers, I am blogging about the beauty of growing older. I love the French expression, “bien dans sa peau,” which means be happy in your skin. That is what aging gracefully means to me.
Maybe it is easier for me because I never relied on my looks; however, I did take great pride in my athleticism, which faded due to aging, accidents, and illness. Nevertheless I am still an athlete. My joints no longer withstand the wear and tear of running laps, shooting hoops or playing tennis, but I still walk to school, ride a stationary bike and swim every day in summer -rain or shine- in my beloved lake.
Okay, so my belly bulges, my triceps look like bat wings, my ankles buckle, knees creak, back aches. But, hey, I am not complaining cause I am still upright and mobile. When a car accident ended my professional athletic career at age 25, I could have been confined to a wheelchair or laid out in a box five-feet under, instead I globe trot with the teams I coach and shuttle between continents visiting friends from around the globe. I curse the mind boggling electronics in the digital age. Yet since I can never be in two places simultaneously like I would like, I sure appreciate the instant connection via facebook, Skype, and email.
Due to a mystery illness that behaves so strangely it sounds like science fiction, I have avoided sunlight for the past five years. I hide blemishes behind big, black glasses that make me feel like a movie star without all the paparazzi.
Pat and her beloved shades
Early on I learned to embrace my faults when I faced my immortality. It also helps that I circulate in the shadows, keeping the lights on low. You don’t like how you look in a mirror? Seems like a no brainer. Simple solution. Don’t. Look. In. A. Mirror. Ever. I never do. Works wonders.
Seize the day. Enjoy a glass of wine, a piece of chocolate, a late night out, because well, tomorrow you might just not be here.
Aging gracefully means being myself, trying new things, traveling distant horizons, letting go of anger and forgiving others, because what the heck, we all say and do stupid things sometimes. Rage zaps too much energy.
Aging graciously means having the wisdom to know that life does not last forever. Every morning, we have a choice – we can give up or go on. Sags, bags, wrinkles be damned! I choose to embrace each day grateful for another 24 hours to learn from others, to inspire courage, break barriers, and create connections.
In a college coaching career spanning seven decades, my grandfather shaped the lives of many men, including President Ronald Reagan. When I started coaching I had no such aspiration. Yet, who can say? I never dreamed I would teach sons and daughters of diplomats, ambassadors, and world leaders. The right word, at the right time, can shape an athlete. Teams force the individuals to check egos at the door. Teams demand commitment. Teams give players the courage to go on when they feel like giving up.
flying to the International Schools Sport Tournament (ISST)
For most of us it is hard to remember when women’s sports wasn’t a given. But girls were not allowed on America’s playing field until after Title IX passed in 1972. Along with my book launch, commemorating the impact of Title IX, I asked former athletes from my Dream Teams in Switzerland where they are now and how team sport helped shape them.
Yemuri – Regional Portfolio Officer, Save the Children (UK)
Nutrition, health, education for children in Niger, Mali & Burkina Faso
Social Work –University of Leeds, Masters, Human Rights University College London Basketball was my sanctuary, my release, my discipline, my drive, and my second family. I learned responsibility, team play and how to give more than you first think you can.
Emily – Seismic Delivery Team at the BP North Sea Headquarters, Aberdeen, Scotland.
Geology/Marine Biology University of Aberdeen. Basketball helped me get a job. At the time I was unemployed, and my teammates took my resume to work, and the rest is BP history. Basketball kept me alive as a teenager. When I came out of the hospital, there was a tournament, and I had to play. Basketball made me determined to make my life better and beat depression. It worked. Basketball is part of my DNA. I do not know where I would be without basketball. My coach during high school is like a mother to me – always has been. I still wish I could go back to playing with my high school teammates, as they were my family.
playing in the Swiss championship
Anja – Melbourne, Australia Law degree University of Warwick (UK)
Masters Public International Law Leiden University (Netherlands) One of the things I valued most was the team spirit. Being in a team is not just about the game, but also the bonds, which form between the players and their coach. Pat used to inspire us before playing a game, during training and even off the court. If something seemed difficult or if we doubted our capabilities, she made us understand that it was OK to have doubts, but that we should not let them overcome us. Rather, we should bond together as a team and play as best we could. Whatever the outcome, it was how we played that was important. That stuck with me and guided me throughout all aspects of my life to date: acknowledging my worries and doubts, but not letting them dictate my choices.
Katrina – medical student at the American University of the Caribbean. Basketball is a team sport that has taught me about commitment, communication and faith; you have to be committed to practicing and learning from your mistakes if you hope to succeed; you need to communicate well with others to make the plays happen; and you need to have faith that your teammates are going to be where you need them. These same skills are what get me through medical school everyday; the only difference is that my teammates are my professors and peers and the plays are my clinical knowledge.
Janneke – Winona, Minnesota, Director of Live Well Winona Growing up abroad is hard when you don’t speak the language. But basketball gave me a common ground anywhere I went. The game gave me friends; the sport gave me life skills- communication and self-discipline. You have to know where your teammates are on the court and how everyone works together. Training for a sport translates to training for life. When I’m in shape physically, mentally and emotionally I can handle a lot more.
riding the rails to another tournament
Melissa – Nairobi, Kenya, management consulting Kimetrica
War Studies University of London, Masters Human Rights London School of Economics. I’m a 5’4″ white girl with a petite frame more built for prancing to classical music than playing a sport where the aim is to jump higher, be bigger, power through and shoot over. I ended up in the hospital countless times and sustained every injury from the regular sprains to more serious concussions. I was strongly advised to stop. Yet I played. I loved it. Still love it. Now, the world can try, indeed has tried, to tell me in all areas of life that I can’t or shouldn’t do something. But it just makes me want to try harder and be better.
Claire – Nyon, Switzerland, Sports Management degree, Endicott College, Boston One more round of free-throws… the discipline required to improve my free-throws is what has helped me with making the right choices and being patient for the desired results. It helped me to pass my university accounting class, run my first marathon and create my own “concept brand” with my business partner Urban Accents (website/blog launch April 2013).
Sophie – York, England. Human Biology, Loughborough University, Civil Engineering degree University of the West of England. Playing basketball has helped me to never give up, no matter what life throws at me. It taught me to respect people for who they are and pushed me to be a better player/person. It gave memories that I have taken with me wherever I go and that never seem to cease to put a smile on my face.
Kendall – Sydney, Australia, editorial assistant for messenger COLLECTIVE, global entrepreneurial magazine. Bachelors of Arts in Law and Anthropology at The London School of Economics,Masters of Law at The University of Sydney. Playing basketball has taught me to never take anything too seriously. While I was always competitive I learnt not to take losses personally, to move on and enjoy life.
Katie – Sydney University of Toronto, University of Sydney Basketball has played a big role in me deciding my career as a teacher mainly from the people I met and seeing what a big impact that coaches can have on someone.
To Tara, Nat, Raisa, Nicky, Laura, Maria, Kayleigh, Cindi, Jennifer and all my other players spread across Africa, Asia, Australia, America and Europe, I hope that you are still knocking down jumpers, running the floor and taking the charge in the real game!
To all coaches around the globe who invest in kids, never under estimate the value of your work, teaching lay ups lasts a lifetime!
Oh great, it is that time of year again. Spring! Uh oh, spring cleaning. Since winter dragged on, I procrastinated a few extra weeks, but now the sun shining throughout my humble abode highlights my shortcomings. I may have been a couch potato all winter, but my oh my, the other creatures in the household have been busy. Spiders spun webs from each corner, fingerprints divided and multiplied on every glass surface, dust bunnies reproduced like mad under the bed, and books proliferated in quadruple stacks on the shelves.
