About My Very Own Face

When I was 13 and feeling pretty good about myself, Bob Carroll, who was also 13, "liked" me. You know.

We went a few places together, or he would latch on to me at a school dance, or he would walk me home from school and just stay a while. You know.

He didn't know that while I would always be polite and friendly to him, he had no chance with me. You know?

One afternoon, as we sat on my porch swing, he began to declare his feelings for me, as only a 13-year-old can do, I suppose. And I suppose you know.

He said, and I quote, "You're not the best looking girl I've ever known, but there is something about you . . . " and, frankly, I don't remember anything else he said.

The first part--and I'm quite sure he meant my face--was no doubt true, but he did not need to say it. Think about it. Did he need to say it?

I will not here go into the impact of such a thing on a girl. But probably you can figure it out.

The second part is also no doubt true, and I guess it was a compliment. I tried to see it that way.

Difficult, though, coming after the first part as it did.

Antidisestablishmentarianism

Czechoslovakia. The first long word I learned to spell. I had to learn it because Lance said something like, "I bet you can't spell _________." And there it was. He was right. I couldn't spell it.

But here's the thing. All I had to do was ask him to spell it again, and I had it. This was in first grade, when Lance was in love with me. His father owned the five and ten-cent store down in Ocean Park on Main Street. I'd been inside it once or twice, but don't think I ever bought anything, likely never had quite enough money. One day Lance brought me a box of Crayola crayons from his dad's store--this was after the spelling incident.

The last time I saw Lance--50-year high school reunion--he said, again, that he was still in love with me. I might have believed it in first grade if he'd had enough nerve to tell me then. I think the crayons were supposed to say it for him. But now? Of course not. Now it's just a nice thing to say.

Back to Czechoslovakia. Probably I went home and said to my brother Sterling--four years older and my favorite person in the world--"Can you spell _________?" I don't know what he said, but I spelled it for him. And I believe it was then that he came right back with something like, "Big deal. Can you spell antidisestablishmentarianism? It's the longest word in the dictionary." (No, the longest word is not smiles, with its mile between each s.)

Wow. I think it knocked my socks off. Of course I couldn't spell it. Was it really a word? I asked Sterling to spell it again more slowly, which he may or may not have done. I decided to look it up.

We had a huge, fat dictionary. Webster's. It was used often in our home, sometimes for looking up words, more often as a booster seat on a dining room chair so you could reach the table. I was once that small.

Sure enough, antidisestablishmentarianism was in there. I learned it, of course. Didn't take long, but as soon as I showed Sterling I could spell his big word, he began adding endings, like istic and istical. I never found those, not even in the huge Webster's, but they certainly weren't hard to spell.

I think Brimleys are competitive.

Who knew in those mid-1940s that the day would come when it didn't matter if you could spell Czechoslovakia, and who knew that there would be a kind of connection between my two big words? Wow again. Czechoslovakia eventually became disestablished. Those Czechs and Slovaks split up. It was an artificial political joining in the first place.

Obviously a person who could spell Czechoslovakia would have no trouble spelling The Czech Republic. I wonder how the Slovaks feel about The Czech Republic getting to keep Prague as its Capital city. But no matter, because now we get to the purpose of this randomish post.

My son Paul's Ultimate Frisbee team went to Prague for the World Tournament of that sport, a sport not known to many people but one I have watched and can bear witness of that it is real and that those who play it are in earnest and sort of give their lives and their bodies during a game and which sport is known and important enough somewhere to have a World Tournament in Prague, The Czech Republic.

Two games a day all week. Single elimination, I'm guessing. Plenty of sight-seeing forays in between, I'll bet, and wouldn't I love to go to that very old city. Oh yes.

Anyways . . . as Paul might say, drawing it out to make you think about it, I'll get to the point, and I think I have to put this in all caps.

THEY WON.

Paul's team won. They won the world. They are the Ultimate Frisbee Champions of the World. Do you get that? I certainly hope so.