High Altitudes

From 11,000 feet in the atmosphere, Joe Robert has 1 bar available on his Droid. How do I know? He used it to wish me, from a Utah slope, an early Happy New Year while mentioning, “I am waiting for my kids to join me so we can snowboard down.” First of all, where the heck does the one bar come from? I’ll never know. Secondly, you will not hear those words expressed by me (the latter not the former). Ever.

Neither Danny nor I recollect the last time we teetered at 11,000 feet, because we passed-out there, or so we were informed. The malady is termed high altitude sickness, and the only cure, per Eric, is “to get lower, sooner than later”. I mention Eric because he left Howard Lane in Bellaire, going on 8 years ago, to reside in Evergreen, Colorado, near mile high city (5,280 feet in the air for those of us who cannot convert a simple mile to feet), and has duly adapted to the oxygen available, or not available, so to speak.

Shortage of oxygen; I prefer sea level, where the oxygen is plentiful. What do Houstonians exchange to live here versus Evergreen? Crisp, clean air for the water infused, dirty variety (and though not life threatening, but worth noting, great hair). My lungs have adapted to living zero feet above sea-level, though my hair and nose never will. I am allergic to everything.

This malady is termed “rhinitis” and the only cure is staying inside, or swallowing nightly the non-prescription pill – Zyrtec. At just over one dollar per dose, it is worth it. How much would I pay to breathe uninhibitedly? More than one dollar, less than…let us hope it never comes to that.

Challenge me, but I don’t think humans were meant to “go high”. Case in point: The frozen cadavers littering Mount Everest; Into Thin Air is a sobering read. You may ask, what about the Sherpa community? They are indigenous to the area, as are the Papua New Guinea dwellers. I will state the obvious that we Americans are not indigenous to either; we should rightly stay put.

Thank you, mom and dad, for choosing the Brazosport area on behalf of us, blessed are we. Here is to a happy, frizzy-haired, 2010!

tennis 101 - a well placed ball

Onomatopoeia: the word for a word that sounds like what it means. For example, swoosh. This is the sound of my tennis racket whipping through the air – making nocontact with an oncoming, swirling tennis ball. Swoosh. What is the word for the sound a tennis ball makes when it hits the sweet spot of my borrowed racquet? Ping? I am not sure; I’ll tell you when I hear it.

I could see on Dad’s face his reluctance to pop open a brand new can of bright yellow Dunlap 1 tennis balls. But he did, to hit the ball with me, because he is my dad. We haven’t played together in over twenty years, and he remembers that I was never that good even then. I approached the courts with a low expectation of my current playing ability. Over the course of an hour, I improved from horrible to bad. My goal is to move from bad to moderatly embarrassing.

Dad is 72 and playing tennis three times a week. He claims that the secret to staying competitive is perfecting the art of a well placed ball. It does not matter how hard your opponent can swing the racket if he can’t get to the ball in time. I am inspired to find Jack’s unused, pristine tennis racket and pound a backboard. I’ll never be a great player, but hearing “ping” instead of “swoosh”, well; it is gratification enough for me.

Hot Cereal

I can see my breath in the air, so yes, it is cold outside. Yes, the familiar red box sits in my pantry, ¾ full, likely called upon during last winter’s cold spell. If today were a school day in 1976, mom would be in the yellow linoleum-walled kitchen, not yet dressed for work as a Spanish teacher at Clute Intermediate School, solicitously peering into a pot boiling water, preparing to gradually add the ¾ cup of Cream of Wheat powder and whisk it in one consistent motion. The key to minimizing “lumps” is to stir it frequently while the cereal is simmering. Mom made perfect cereal 90 percent of the time, which did not bode well for me. I searched for the lumps – they dissolved into perfection in my mouth.

I discovered a few revelations about Cream of Wheat when I inspected the box this frigid morning. The figure, a black chef holding single-handedly a bowl of steaming cereal while smiling enthusiastically, has been the trademark since 1893 (you can find anything on the internet.) The box is indeed a cardboard box, just as it was 117 years ago when funds were so low that Tom Amidon had to “cut cartons by hand, label the packages himself, and crate them in wooden boxes made up from waste lumber.” The history of the cereal is worth a look at www.creamofwheat.com.

Cream of Wheat is good. It is a top-seller, despite its allegiance to a little-known grocery company – B&G Foods. I dare say eating Cream of Wheat cereal is part of our national heritage. It is time for me to enjoy a bowl, garnished with sugar and milk, and I hope a few lumps.