The puffy clouds seemed an oxymoron for such a manly man to be gone today. Kramer, was my racquet. Kramer worked and did the job. It was a magic racquet! I don't know if it was the weight distribution of the racquet or the grip, but it won many matches for me. We had wierd cast off racquets from Gramps and other people. I had my Chris Evert, warped and old and wood and my Jack Kramer, not quite as warped as my Chrissy. As though he had touched each one with his own hand. They were more like a Jai Alai game, but the spin was exquisite. The tightness of the strings, most perfect and the topspin allowed from the sweetspot was superb. I can still feel the bounce in my elbow when the ball is going to hit the line. That is it. You can feel it in your elbow or in your shoulder. It was as though Jack was touching you on the shoulder or the elbow when the dropshot was placed, just out of reach of your opponent. Bobby Riggs was the dropshot. Jack Kramer was the putaway. He is gone, but his strokes will linger, as long as we teach them to our children. His racquet didn’t last, {I don't know who designs these new racquets} but the sense of the ball going in, from that racquet, given to me by my Grandpa, will remain forever in my bones!
Ginger and Snap gave us beautiful tiny pears in their first year and my rose bush has found it's terrestrial home.
The bush is nearly a tree this summer and must be pruned in autumn, if I will keep it in that spot. It shades and hides my front porch and gives me a happy feeling in my heart, when the butterflies greet us upon our return from wherever we go.