Ping Pong

Once my sisters were gone, my father and I would, sometimes, after dinner, work on his schemes for picking horses (I would read him the pertinent information from past performances while he filled in his charts) or play Tip It or ping pong. We'd play in the basement. After a number of games we'd head back up to the living room to watch tv. I've always felt lucky to have had these times with him

I'd also play ping pong with the neighbors, guys, one my age and one a year older. We played a lot. Like our chess or card playing, we'd play all afternoon. A summer's day, the  basement (at either house) was a good place to be. They also had a pool table where I'd work at honing my skills in bank shots. 

They were good at ping pong; I was too. I remember it being fairly even games, although they did have more strength and power behind their hits. I learned, when those hits were coming, to put my paddle in its best spot for a rebound. Believe it or not, that worked as much as it didn't. Oh, I didn't win as much as they did, but they were competitive games.

At school I could play with some of the best. It was one of the only units where gym classes could be mixed more than not - not like today where all are (so jealous). Ping pong and badminton, I guess, were considered nonthreatening enough sports that girl, me especially could put myself against the guys and stay in the game. Of course, the bigger the guys, the tougher it got but I liked the competition. I might not have won, but I was a decent opponent.

Who knew that all those days of playing ping pong would/could spot me a leg up in aging? At least, that's what I read yesterday in the personal history writing I read in my morning New Yorker time. Sure, it was only one person's opinion with no science behind it, but I'll go with it, and I'll go with the incredible writing the quote was in. The article, remembrances of the author's life, one of a number he has written for New Yorker, was a treat. To write like this man! Wouldn't I wish.

Yesterday, and probably every time I read his work, I wish I hadn't. The novels Anne of Green Gables and To Kill a Mockingbird, to name a couple, and yesterday's article are so good, that to read them is to know I can never read them again for the first time, and that's sad. 

I despair not, though. Looking for how old John McPhee is (95), I was directed to his work in the magazine. Bookmarked, I have a list of writings I have read since starting the magazine in 2016 but also ones from before that I've never read. My days of firsts are still ahead of me!

Remembrances Revisited