(Posted April 25, 2010)
Yesterday, Rene’ was set to have a wedding shower for our Goddaughter, Jenny Salveson. With fourteen estrogen charged (or depleted, depending upon age) women about to descend on my house, I made an executive decision. I decided to go bowling.
Getting my twenty-two year old up in time to clear out before the gaggle of girls arrived was a problem. So was picking up twelve-year-old Jack from a sleep-over birthday party and having him in any semblance of conscious awareness after staying up until 4:40 in the morning (about the time his older brother shuffled in the door and collapsed in his own bed the night before). But with those two boys and my oldest son Matt in tow (his wife, our daughter-in-law, drove down from Hibbing to help Rene’ with the rituals), we headed for town in my Pacifica. Second son Dylan met us at Skyline Lanes for the great showdown.
Let me just say this. All my sons inherited their mother’s double jointed wrists. Any time they try to throw a bowling ball down the alley, the results are as unpredictable as a Florida election recount. All afternoon, bowling balls careened into gutters, found an occasional strike, slid precariously along the edge of oblivion, dared to claim spares, and generally avoided hitting pins. I have no similar physical excuse for my poor showing. I can only plead ineptitude. If you took the three highest scores from 14 games of bowling thrown by the five of us, the highest three game pin count barely broke 400. Pretty dismal.
But there were a ton of laughs. Some good bonding. And we avoided being drawn into parlor games and gossip. What better way to spend a cold and drizzly Saturday afternoon?
Peace.
Mark
