Think pink

On By VievesVineIn Friends & Family, Sports Shorts1 Comment

After two years of tennis lessons, my daughter Jordan said, “Mom, I don’t want to play tennis.”

Those words sting the ears of any tennis-playing parent. But it was my sport, not hers. 

Jordan returned to tennis in 8th grade—her idea. She played on the varsity team through high school. Years later, I asked my daughter why she decided to play again.

“I loved the clothes—the tennis skirts and dresses. They were the coolest uniforms,” she said.

I rolled my eyes; I’m sure of it.

Over the past two months, I’ve worn tennis skirts and dresses to state competition in SC with three of my USTA teams. The first tournament took place on a rainy, dreary weekend on Hilton Head Island.

Ours was a good team, but we responded poorly to the weather-shortened, 8-game pro-set matches. 

The only bright spots on those gray days were vivid pink tennis towels stacked on the tournament desk—prizes for the winners of each division. Prizes my team didn’t win.

Bummer.

Back in 2023, when two of my teams won state championships, the towels were orange, my least favorite color. Of all the colors in the rainbow, who chooses orange for a trophy towel? 

After the wet and miserable Hilton Head debacle, I traveled with a different team to Aiken, SC. At the tennis center, a bit of dazzle caught my eye. 

And there they were, those bright pink towels. They winked at me from a folded stack on the tournament desk.

Blue skies smiled down on us that weekend, but again, the word “short” got in the way. Not shortened sets, but our team was shorthanded due to injury, travel, and illness. 

We won our final match, but envy sent me hurrying to my car. I couldn’t bear to watch the winning players wave their—instead of OUR—brilliant pink towels. 

By the time I headed to States in Florence, SC with my 40s Combo Team, I had erased those cool, fun pink towels from my mind—or so I thought. 

On day one, at Frances Marion University, we played with the fiery intensity of the sun above us. After seizing our first two matches, we were tied with Hilton Head (HH) for first place. 

Water coolers and bananas rested on the metal bleachers—not a pretty, pink towel anywhere in sight. Nor did the coveted towels find me on day two at Florence Tennis Center.

That morning, our team stood alone at the top after prevailing against HH on two of our three courts in highly contested matches.

Our reign was short-lived (“short,” again). 

That afternoon, following a “let’s finish-the-job” pep talk, we lost 2-1 to Columbia. My court suffered a crushing blow, losing 13-11 in a third-set tiebreak. 

If you don’t think I replayed that match in my head all night long, think again.

When we arrived at the courts the next morning, we were one of three teams that sat at 3-1. The final match was a must-win to claim the title.

I headed to the court with my partner, still berating myself for the loss the night before. 

I said to myself, “Self, look forward, not backward. Forward progress is progress.”

No one was happier than my partner (and maybe me) when my will to win finally kicked in.

We joined the team outside the deciding court and held onto our hearts as we watched our teammates claim a tight second set. They finished the breaker with a resounding overhead smash. 

As we gathered in a circle to celebrate, my eyes found the tournament desk. 

And there they were, the towels. Those vivid, dazzling, brilliant, bright, beautiful, cool, fun, pretty, pink towels.

“The pink towels belong to us!” I shouted as my teammates cheered.

Tennis is not about the clothes; it’s all about the towels.

The stuff that makes us whole

On By VievesVineIn Throwback1 Comment

(Throwback re-post by request)

Funny how just a smell, taste, sight, sound, or a place can land us in the middle of a memory.

The scent of homemade bread puts me back at the table in my grandmother’s kitchen. At the sight of a child clanging a triangle, I’m a second grader again in Miss Hatfield’s music class holding out my fist for her to rap my knuckles with a ruler—probably for talking.

Whenever I hear Three Dog Night belt, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog,” I’m back dancing with my friends on the hardwood floor of the school gymnasium. The smell of a fresh, plowed field sends me racing between rows of tall tobacco plants across the street from our house in Kentucky, the soft mud squishing beneath my bare feet.

But I’m carried back to two special moments every time I play the third hole on the golf course at the Bridgeport Country Club, and whenever I hear the 1960s hit “Moon River.”

The summer the doctors added the word “terminal” to his name, my father danced over the green on Number Three. It was one of those days the sun lures golfers away from their day jobs to play hooky on the long, lush fairways. Number Three is also a par three, and my drive that afternoon dropped in the sand trap just below the green. Social golfer that I am, I was thrilled to land a ball anywhere near the hole.

Dad chipped up onto the green and waited for me, his hand ready to pull the flag. I laughed when I saw him, hat askew, fingers tight around the pole. I grabbed my sand wedge and trudged over to the beach. I hoped to only whiff the shot once, but I made contact on my first try, hitting sand first, then the ball.

I climbed out of the trap as my ball hit the short grass with a soft thud. I stepped onto the green just in time to see it roll into the cup. Dad howled, kicked up his heels, and danced around the flag. Then he skipped over to me, looped his arm through mine, and swung me ‘round and ‘round across the green.

A few months later, I danced one final time with my dad. The last leaf sashayed to a ground gone cold. Women wrinkled their brows over their first ponderings of a fat turkey stuffed at both ends. Men pulled blaze orange off their cellar hooks and prepared their guns in time to inaugurate buck season. Children, eager eyes toward December, sharpened their pencils for letters to Santa.

Me? I was with my dad, just the two of us. We were taking a walk around the house when he looked up into my eyes and said, “You’re not supposed to be taller than me.”

It was true. Cancer had reduced his frame, once just shy of six feet, by pounding him into a 5’4” cell. But he smiled, slipped his right arm around my waist and clutched my shoulder for support with his left.

“Let’s dance,” he said.

Dad embraced me, pressed his cheek next to mine, and hummed the bars of Moon River. Our steps were small and cautious, but he did not let the disease that stole away his strength take the lead. My father held on to me, and I held on to the moment.

We live in the present, as we should, but our memories are gifts. They warm us, lift us, and instruct us. Memories are the insurance that keeps special moments and the people we hold dear alive within us. The past is filled with the stuff that makes us whole.

Travel tales

On By VievesVineIn Places, travel1 Comment

Gary and I strapped on life jackets for our Snake River raft ride in the Grand Tetons. Kal, our guide, directed four women who were traveling together to one side of the raft. 

An older gentleman and what looked to be his 50-ish year-old son plopped down on the opposite side, leaving no room for us to climb aboard. 

“Uhh,” said Kal, “could you please move across so this couple can get in?”

The men hesitated but complied.

Once seated, I looked over to the dad and said, “Hi, where are you from?”

Unsmiling, the man said, “I’m from California. He’s from Arizona. Please, don’t talk during the ride. I want to enjoy nature.”

Hmmm. 

We were embarking on a 3.5-hour tour along one of the most beautiful stretches in the United States with a guy who didn’t like people.

For me, the joys of traveling include the people I meet along the way. 

If Gary and I had not engaged in conversation with Alexander, our breakfast server at Ole Faithful Inn in Yellowstone, we would have been lost, literally.

According to the map, Biscuit Basin was the starting point for our hike to Mystic Falls, but Alexander said, “It’s still closed after the hydrothermal explosion last summer.”

He said, “It’s a prettier hike if you go this way,” and gave us directions.

We reciprocated with information about hiking in West Virginia and rafting on the Upper and Lower New River.   

“I’m going to make that trip,” said our breakfast server-turned trail guide.  

At the overlook for the Grand Prismatic hot spring, a young woman used an extendable phone tripod to take pics and snapped one for us as well. 

“She’s a keeper,” I told her boyfriend, “You need to stick with her.”

“Hopefully forever,” he said. 

I paid the favor forward at the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone by taking photos for others. A Chinese family did the same for us.  

We didn’t know it then, but that sealed our friendship. As Gary and I looped our way back up the trail from the Lower Falls, someone said, “Here…here. You sit here.”

From a bench in the corner of a switchback, the Chinese grandfather beckoned us, laughing, “Here…sit here. I am worried about you.”

We sat. 

His English was limited. Our Chinese? Nonexistent. But together we enjoyed the majesty all around us.

Over a fireside chat, a New Jersey couple enlightened us about Wisecars, a company that saved them half on their car rental. They also said, “Eat at the Snow Lodge. It keeps its chef and a full menu while other spots prepare for hibernation.”

A National Park Service employee said she and her husband left upstate New York five years ago to work and live in Yellowstone year-round. In winter, she snowmobiles 33 miles to work and 33 miles back and loves every minute of it. 

Then, we landed on a raft below the Grand Tetons with a grumpy old man. Embarrassed, his son offered to take photos of us whenever I attempted selfies. 

The river ebbed and flowed beneath the towering beauty of the Grand Tetons. The dad said not a word—not even to his son. Gary and I talked with the women on the other side of the boat.

From the raft’s middle, our guide pointed out two bald eagles and shared stories about the interesting wildlife he’s encountered. We asked Kal where he had grown up (Idaho) and if he stays in Wyoming in winter (he does). 

When we docked, Gary and I were the last to climb out. We thanked Kal for a lovely ride.

“Hey, I’m sorry for that awkward start,” he said. “Thanks so much for talking and asking questions. That’s what it’s all about. That guy should have booked a solitary ride.”

“No problem,” we said.

For us, the grumpy old man was just another travel tale.

Keyword: Artificial

On By VievesVineIn Uncategorized1 Comment

My laptop took its final bow. When I replaced it, an enthusiastic young clerk made sure everything I needed from the old model had transferred to the new one.

“Let me show you all of the new features and our latest technology,” he said.

“OK,” I said.

“Check this out,” he went on. “If you tap this button, AI will correct your spelling and grammar. It can also compose your sentences. If you want, you can let it write your emails for you….”

He was on a roll, but I politely interrupted his passionate tutorial. I couldn’t let him waste another breath.

“I appreciate you sharing this information, but before you go any further, I need to tell you something,” I said.

“Great. I’d love to hear it,” he said.

“I am a writer, and I will never, as in ever, ask AI to write anything for me. The second I switch it on, I turn off my voice,” I said.

The young man’s eyes grew wide, and his jaw went slack.

“You see,” I said, “not only writers, but everyone possesses a unique voice. If we allow AI to write for us, what a boring society we’ll become.”

I could have added “ordinary” and “fake” and “average” and “apathetic.”

AI is a polarizing subject. A great many have embraced it—too quickly, I think. Others fear it, for good reason. 

Adults, teenagers, and children engage in conversations with ChatGPT rather than talking with friends, family, coaches, and teachers. Television ads for the AI bot encourage individuals to look to it for advice on workouts, cooking, relationships—you name it. 

Kids turn to the chatbot for homework, and it becomes their trusted confidante.  Lawsuits have been filed by parents who lost their children. ChatGPT discouraged one young man from talking with his parents and offered to write a suicide note for him. 

Colleges and universities are struggling to find software programs that detect AI content in students’ work. So far, human judgment appears to be the most dependable tool.

I liken the insurgence of AI to the advent of calculators. Before calculators, students were required to show their work on math homework and exams—every single step.

When calculators became more available, school administrators banned them from the classroom. Teachers said students needed to exercise their minds, use what they learned, and work out math problems using their brains.

That the administrators and teachers were correct mattered not. 

By the mid-1970s, the calculator had weaseled its way through school doors. Next thing we knew, the boards of education supplied every math class with calculators for student use. 

I wonder how many people reading this can solve 7th-grade math problems in their heads or figure out restaurant tips without reaching for their phone’s calculator.

When you rest, you rust, both physically and mentally.

AI is a calculator for all subjects. When we turn to it, we’re choosing convenience over intellect. Use it enough, and our brainpower will fade; we’ll become AI-dependent.

AI was a hot topic during the recent United Nations (UN) General Assembly. Of AI, UN Secretary-General António Guterres said, “…innovation must serve humanity—not undermine it,” and “…autonomous systems must never decide who lives.”

Guterres and I agree.

One positive step would be to place the same limits on AI that we do for alcohol—kids should have no access to it until they turn 21. The wait will allow our young people to develop their own minds and hopefully the confidence to continue to rely on that brainpower. 

After hearing me out, the young man at the computer store was at a loss for words. I stood to leave, thanked him for his time, and said, “Don’t lose your voice.”

AI stands for Artificial Intelligence. Keyword: Artificial.

Mentioning Unmentionables

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Entertainment, Everyday Life, Friends & FamilyLeave a comment

(Below is a throwback worth reposting.)

I picked up my dry cleaning a week after I’d requested to have it ready.  For some reason, the clothes I leave at the cleaner’s disappear from my closet and my mind the minute I tell the clerk to “Have a good day.”

Thursday was a banner day.  Not only did I finally remember to stop by the dry cleaner’s, I also knew I had three items to retrieve.  But when I reached into the car to hang the clothes, I saw four hangers under the plastic.

Now, on a rare occasion I’ve arrived home from the cleaner’s with an item of clothing belonging to someone else.  So, I patted myself on the back and thought, “Ah ha, caught it this time–right in the parking lot.”  

I held up the bag.  The extra hanger was easy to spot because it didn’t appear to be sporting any clothing. Further inspection revealed a small, clear plastic bag looped through the wire neck. Folded neatly inside the bag was a pair of underwear–women’s underwear.  

My underwear.  

A yellow tag, safety pinned to the waistband, assured me that, “Yes, your underwear has been most sincerely and thoroughly dry cleaned.”

Mentally, I retraced my steps.  I’d thrown the clothes bound for the cleaners onto the bed, beside the things I’d just removed from the dryer.  When I scooped up the pile to head out the door, I must have grabbed more than I realized.  

I could have inadvertently picked up a t-shirt, a dishtowel or Gary’s boxer shorts.  But, no, I snatched up a pair of my—as the nurse at a Girl Scout camp in Bluefield called hers years ago—unmentionables.

I laughed.  I laughed out loud.  I laughed all the way home.

Then my mind went wandering.  I wondered what went through the clerk’s head as she separated my clothes?  Did she think to herself, “One shirt, two pairs of pants, and one pair of underwear,” as though she sees them everyday?  Or was it more like: “One shirt, two pairs of pants and…and…and—UNDERWEAR?”  

I could picture her holding them up, the smallest bit of waistband pinched between her finger and thumb.  Her glasses propped up by the tip of her nose, eyes squinting as if to say, “What’s this?”

Women’s lingerie comes in all styles, shapes and sizes.  So, the good news was this particular pair was of the everyday, boring variety. And, they were already clean.

I wondered:  Are there people who dry clean their underwear?  Maybe there are those who do.  I am not one of them.  Wait a minute.  I guess I am now one of them—just not on purpose.  

My washer’s delicate and hand wash cycles have done a fine job over the years.  I honestly don’t own anything in the category of underwear on which the tag reads, “Dry Clean Only.”

It occurred to me that clothes undergo a number of steps, and therefore pass through a number of hands during the mystical process of dry cleaning.  So, I looked up “How Dry Cleaning Works” on HowStuffWorks.com.  I love that site.  

Sure enough, up to seven people had the opportunity to take one look at my underwear, double check the name, and say, “McCutcheon.  Nutcase.”  My unmentionables were officially tagged, inspected (great), pretreated, dry-cleaned, pressed, folded, and packaged.  Someone actually steamed and pressed my underwear?   

Did the Underwear Bomber think to have his shorts cleaned and starched before he filled them with explosives?

As for my very special pair of dry cleaned underwear–I don’t know whether to wear them or frame them.  For now, they are in a drawer.  The yellow tag, secured in place by its safety pin, speaks to me on a daily basis.  It says, “You are human..you are human…..you are human….”

Coffee life

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I parked myself in the courtyard of a coffee shop in what could be any college town in any state. Before long, a wisp of cigarette smoke found me and chased me inside to a tall top with a window view.

Secondhand smoke doesn’t bother everyone, but it squeezes my lungs and makes my chest rattle. I am a fan of breathing, but not of hearing every breath I take.

Both inside and out, everyone around me relished a mug of caffeinated or decaffeinated coffee or cappuccino, I sipped on an iced hot chocolate—good stuff. David Bowie sang “Let’s Dance” in the background followed by Stevie Wonder’s “Isn’t She Lovely” and other classic tunes.

I had dropped in during primetime for the college crowd. I was one in a minority of customers over 40 surrounded by students and young professionals. I kept my sunglasses over my eyes in an attempt to pass for a young professional, but my shades reduced my laptop’s screen to blurred images.

Forced to choose between sitting around trying to look young or getting some work accomplished, I removed my sunglasses. The only time I’m good at sitting and doing nothing is when I am asleep.

The majority of patrons who sat indoors and out in the courtyard either stared into their cellular devices or, like me, typed on laptops. One girl had a genuine textbook open on the table before her.

For those who are unfamiliar, a textbook is a scholarly, standalone, manuscript. Between its front and back covers are pages of instructional information. Textbooks are (or were) used as aids for teaching and learning by teachers and students.

My guess is that the girl with the textbook is on a medical track of some sort. Her book’s pages were filled with illustrations of human bones. It is my husband’s kind of book, not mine.

Five guys sitting around a tall top behind me enjoyed a lively conversation. They actually made eye contact as they talked and laughed.

Dressed in jeans and tee-shirts, their cellphones must have been tucked away, forgotten in their pockets. Not one of the five wore earbuds. The sound of their banter—uninterrupted by technology—was refreshing.

Across from the fun guys, a bulletin board filled with posters touted upcoming events. Headlines made with creative fonts publicized plays, bands, and openings for haunted houses.

One poster advertised a self-defense course and another promoted an event called “Oktoberfest in Song.” Next to “Oktoberfest” was a poster to remind me—like I needed reminding—that I was the literal definition of “one of these people is not like the others.” In large pink letters, its headline read: “Project Condom: Where Fashion Meets Sexual Health.”

Not kidding. I only wish I possessed the creativity to make this stuff up.

A poster with a deep purple background stood out on the crowded bulletin board. A set of jagged, colorful piano keys cascaded down its vertical length and ended at the words, “Keepin’ Jazz Alive.” It was the kind of poster that one might frame and hang on a wall in an office, study, or bedroom.

The jazz poster, I decided, was my favorite for two reasons: 1) The design was both appealing and clever.  2) I had no trouble understanding what the event was all about.

The bulletin board, jam-packed with notices in all sizes, colors, and fonts, reflected the varied interests of all who frequent coffeehouses: couples, students, young professionals, professors, tourists, businessmen and women, and retirees. In between the commas are any groups I left out.

The coffee I don’t drink is not what attracts me to coffee shops. Coffeehouses are where I watch all kinds of people and how they do life.

Oh, to be a kid again

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday LifeLeave a comment

Kids strive for independence. If you ask me, that philosophy is turned around and upside down.

Think about it.

A baby cries, and every adult within hearing range rushes to the crib or bassinet or wherever the infant’s parking spot happens to be at that moment.

“What’s the matter, sweet baby?”

“Ahhh, what is it, little one?”

“Do you need your diaper changed?”

“Are you hungry?”

It doesn’t take long. Babies figure out they have everyone at their beck and call. Once they do, they “work the system”—their wishes become the adults’ commands.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children have personal full-time chefs. Not only do those chefs cook every meal, but they hand-deliver it to the table.

Oftentimes, the child doesn’t even have to pick up a fork. The chef will do that for him, wipe excess food away from the little one’s face, and clean up the kitchen afterward.

That same chef doubles as a chauffeur, which comes in handy when said child wants to veer from the routine and visit Chick-fil-A, Dairy Queen, or a pizza spot.  

Momma (or Poppa) chauffeur drives them everywhere—school, swim practice, football games, the movies, church youth group, the pool, birthday parties, the grandparents’ house, and more.

Momma and Poppa cover the gas and the car insurance. And Grandma’s house takes “beck and call” to a whole new level.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Adults run to wipe their noses at the hint of a sneeze. Children are held and cuddled and rocked at the whisper of a fever.

In truth, children are held and cuddled and rocked just because they are, well, children.

Adults buy all their clothes and wash them when required. Children don’t stress over what to wear; their adults choose their outfits for them.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Children get the coolest, fun-themed birthday parties thanks to the adults who plan and pay for the entire shebang.

Shebang. I have never, as in ever, typed that word, yet there it is—twice. I could have said “affair,” but shebang is much more fun.

But I digress….

Kids get imaginary friends, and everyone goes along with the idea. Well, not everyone.

When he was a toddler, my brother Gerald played with Davison Robbins day in and day out. We, his older siblings, came home from school each day and said, “Hey, what did you and Davison Robbins do today?” and “Did you and Davisson Robbins have fun today?”  

Our mother told us to stop “encouraging” the situation. We weren’t. Scout’s honor. We were jealous; we wanted a good pretend friend like Davison Robbins.

Kids have shoes that light up and can wear dress-up clothes and crowns anytime they desire. Their adults read to them, hear their prayers, and tuck them in.

Little ones have everyone coming and going at the snap of a finger when they make their first tactical error around two years of age.

That’s when the “do it myself” compulsion sneaks in and takes over. As soon as toddlers grasp the art of vocabulary, they repeat, “I can do it. I can do it” and “I want to do it myself. I want to do it myself.”

Big, as in HUGE, mistake.

Oh, for a good long while, the adults stand firm and insist on doing and helping and coddling. Eventually, though, the child wears them down. Eventually, the adult in charge sits back and says, “Ok. Sure. You do it.”

It starts with small tasks like putting on socks and shoes. Zipping. Buttoning.

Next thing you know, they’re wiping their own noses, driving their brothers and sisters to school, getting jobs, and buying their clothes. Next thing you know, the child who had the world at her feet is an adult.

Oh, to be a kid again.

Out of this world

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, PlacesLeave a comment

Maybe you’re an astronaut wannabe, someone whose dream has always been to fly into outer space. 

Maybe you want to do more than ride in a spaceship. You want to jog on the moon, Jupiter, Venus, or Mars.

But maybe, just maybe, time traveled faster than you ever dreamed, too fast to make those goals happen.

Don’t worry. You can go—when you’re dead.

But you need to make your “travel” plans sooner rather than later and have saved a whole lotta cash. 

Dead, you ask? 

Yes, dead, as in no longer walking, talking, and breathing here on Earth. Oh, and there is one additional stipulation: your remains must be cremated.

Then, and only then, can you—your ashes to be specific—fly into space. 

You can arrange to have your cremated remains launched into the cosmos—for a price. The cost ranges between $3500.00 and $13,000.00, depending on the type of service you choose for your final sendoff. 

Starting at the basement bargain price of $3500.00, you can find flights that allow your remains to experience zero gravity. They’re flown into space and then back to Earth. 

Or—for $5000—you could choose to have your remains orbit the Earth in a spacecraft.

On the downside, either of those choices leaves your breathing self an additional and difficult decision to make. What to do with the ashes after they return from such an amazing space odyssey?  What final resting place could top experiencing zero-gravity or orbiting the Earth?

If making difficult decisions is not your thing, up your budget to say $12,500.00 or $13,000.00. That kind of cash opens the door to a couple of otherworldly options.

  1. It will pay for the Moon to be the final resting place for your ashes.
  2. Or you can choose for your cremated remains to be sent on a permanent celestial voyage into deep space and the solar system.

There are really and truly companies that provide these kinds of journeys for cremated remains. Look them up.

If I were interested in this kind of star-studded send-off—I assure you I am not, but if I were—I would ask for proof before I swiped my card. 

“How will you verify my ashes have experienced zero-gravity, orbited the Earth, are on the moon, or are soaring around deep space?”

There’s no way they could prove any of the above to me. By the time the space death-odyssey company could provide evidence of my astronomic trip, I would be but a pile of ashes.  

I suppose the company would have to swear to my alive self that it would give my relatives airtight proof that my wishes were observed. On the other hand, if my loved ones didn’t pay for the service, I doubt they would care all that much.

We could ask Eugene Shoemaker if he thinks his ashes are really on the moon. But wait, we can’t. He’s dead. 

While people have had their ashes sent to the moon using private companies, Shoemaker was the first and only person to date to have his ashes purposefully buried on the moon. His cremated remains were launched into space in 1998 with NASA’s Lunar Prospector. 

Shoemaker was the founder of astrogeology. His cremated remains experienced the zenith of interstellar travel on the Mercedes-Benz of spaceships to honor his work on impact craters.

Good for him, but not for me. I’m not an astronaut wannabe. 

The closest my remains might get to space travel is if Gary has a portion of me launched in a firework. I like fireworks, but I’m not too sure I’d want to be a firework.

I’ll think I’ll keep my final wishes down to Earth. My soul won’t give a hoot about where my ashes wind up.

No pain, no gain

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday LifeLeave a comment

“No pain, no gain” is a familiar catchphrase. The words ring true for a variety of situations.

People who suffer injuries—burns, a broken arm, a ruptured Achilles tendon, and a strained hamstring—must work through the pain of physical therapy (PT) to heal. The pain of rehab intensifies for those dealing with spinal cord issues, amputations, and brain lesions. 

Two of my friends have undergone knee replacement surgery. One attacked the rehab like her life depended on it, and I believe her quality of life did depend on her “no pain, no gain” attitude. 

The other friend said the post-surgery exercises were painful. She scaled back on the PT workouts.

Guess which friend bounced back with better mobility than before? Which one continues to deal with knee issues?

Those are “master of the obvious” questions. No hints required.

Some give Jane Fonda credit for coining the “no pain, no gain” quote. 

In her early 1980s aerobic workout videos, Fonda used “no pain, no gain” and “feel the burn” to push her followers to keep going and finish strong.

Jane was correct. Sweat and pain are key to maintaining a fit body. Strenuous exercise is a good kind of pain that produces healthy results. 

Athletes endure the physical pain of competition to reach their goals. They train their minds away from the agony and focus on the rewards.

That’s how I approached childbirth, as the ultimate competition.

I said to myself, “Self, you are in labor, yes, but you are healthy, well, and strong.”  

I reminded myself that every pain carried me one step closer to the win. I fixed my attention on the prize I would hold in my arms.

It worked, for me at least.

 Still, “no pain, no gain” is not just a physical philosophy. 

Long before Jane Fonda, Benjamin Franklin said, “Industry need not wish, and he that lives upon hope will die fasting. There are no gains without pains.” 

In other words, “A star is not going to fall on your head and make you a star.” That’s what I told my children.

You may not believe the old “I walked 10 miles to school, uphill in snowstorms, at 6 AM every morning after feeding the chickens and milking the cows” story. But there is something to be said for fighting through adversity.

Students who want to make good grades must sacrifice play for study. They must be willing to struggle through difficult books and write papers on subjects that might not make sense to them at the time. 

During Gary’s journey to become a veterinarian, we discovered the true meaning of the word “essentials.”  He worked summers, I worked year-round, and we sold the non-essentials—class rings, wedding gown, etc.—to keep food in the fridge, gas in the car, and heat and air flowing in the house.  

What we gained in self-reliance was far greater than any pain we may have felt in parting with “stuff.”  Those lessons in prioritizing and solving problems came in handy when we started a family and opened a business. They continue to benefit us as we navigate our way through life.

Long before Jane Fonda and Benjamin Franklin, the Bible expressed “no pain, no gain” spiritual rewards throughout scripture.

James 1:2 says, “Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.”

2 Timothy 4:7 talks of fighting the good fight, finishing the race, and keeping the faith. 

Romans 8:18 says, “…the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us.”

Physical effort. Mental perseverance. Spiritual endurance. 

“No pain, no gain” is a colossal “catchphrase” that produces mighty results.

11:11

On By VievesVineIn Commentary, Everyday Life1 Comment

Consider 11:11 AM. Consider 11:11 PM. 

When I take a random glance at a clock, 11:11 is the time I see more than any other. Maybe, just maybe, 11:11 sticks easily in my head, making me believe my eyes land on it more.

I don’t think so. 

Why would 11:11 capture my attention any more than 3:33 or 2:22 or 5:55 or 10:10?

This 11:11 thing has gone on for years—and I do mean years. It’s happened so many times that, when I look at a clock or a watch and see 11:11, I look away, shake it off, and move on with my day or night—fast. 

If Gary is within earshot on those occasions, I say, “Make sure you check the time when I die. I bet I’ll take my last breath at 11:11.” 

He waves me away and laughs. He does that a lot.

If his eyes fell on 11:11 as often as my eyes do, he, too, might wonder if the number/time carries some kind of personal significance.

I recently checked the time as I readied for lunch date, and 11:11 tried stared me down.

I said to myself, “Self, I’ve got to get to the heart of this matter. What is the deal with 11:11?”

Most Americans recognize 11/11 (no AM or PM) as Armistice Day or Veterans Day or Remembrance Day.  At least I hope they do.

Friday, November 11, 1918, the armistice was signed that put an end to World War I. The cessation of combat took place the “eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month.”

Those are some pretty significant 11s if you ask me. Maybe I’m drawn to 11:11 to remind me to appreciate what took place all those years ago, but even I know that’s a stretch.

Those who don’t immediately tie 11/11 to Veterans Day may say, “Are you talking about 9/11?”

I am not. That’s a day we all want to, but should never, forget.

After years of being haunted by 11:11—the time, I typed the following question into the search bar of my web browser: “What is the significance of 11:11 AM and 11:11 PM?”

I expected a lesson on how to read a clock or instructions asking me to be more specific.

Instead, a wealth of too much information populated the page. The Farmer’s Almanac popped up and mentioned Veterans Day, but it went on to say the time 11:11 is believed to bring good luck.

The article said, “You have probably heard the famous saying, ‘Make a wish when the clock shows 11:11!’ To some, this means more than a fun statement.”

Good luck? Make a wish?

Had I ever heard “the famous saying,” I would have spent a lot less time cringing and trying to erase those numbers from my mind.  Good luck tied to 11:11 was a brand-new concept for me.

I went on to learn that numerologists think November 11 at 11:11 is the luckiest wish-granting day and time of the year. And 11:11 AM or PM on any given day is considered the strongest time to make a wish and set a world-changing goal. 

Additional web pages took the symbolism of 11:11 deeper, as in way deep. The “special” time, both AM and PM, is also seen as “a powerful symbol of synchronicity, awakening, and alignment with the universe.”

When we catch 11:11 on the clock, we’re supposed to be mindful of our thoughts and intentions. Some contend that my 11:11 sightings are positive messages from the universe.

Hmmm…I’m not so sure. 

As far as I can tell, I’ve been wasting wishes on first stars and birthday candles when I should have been wishing on clocks. 

Who knew?