"Let, First Service or Do Over!"If Wimbledon is about the whiteness of my lines {floor cleaning exercises}...

I love the Craze of Tennis in New York! I love the culture that has become the US Open over the years. What used to be the elitist closed culture of Forest Hills developed into the winsome inclusiveness of the Flushing Meadow. We, elitists didn't like it at first, that is for sure. How can these "uncultured athletes" ever become civilized Tennis players? Will they ever learn to shut up and watch the game? Now that I am so far away from the New York rabble rousing life, I see why that had to be the evolution of the sport. In America it is everyone's game. We are always leveling the playing field for inclusiveness, in New York.

While it certainly is anyone's game, when we go out onto the court, it is only the best man that will come home with the trophy and in New York that includes a concentration that will allow for the participation of the crowd in the match. Shut up, already! the New York mantra but too much quiet means that someone is not keeping the customer happy. So my kitchen floor is clean from enjoying the New York tennis culture that are my roots and I am learning lessons about what America is contributing to my favorite sport. Everyone plays. The players are showing out and we are all in there with and for them. It is the dance and mystery of the bumblebee whose wings look too small to allow him to fly. Everybody brings a little bit to the hive and when we leave the match everybody's fed with a little honey and no one knows where it came from. We really "should be dancing!"

At Tennis camp, as a child, I said I cannot do it- Serving into the sun is impossible!

I was so frustrated and Brother was so patient with me. He came from his usual "perch", (Running drills and such)and came to my side of the net to instruct me and give a personal demonstration of how to serve at 1 o'clock. I was shivering at such personal attention to me in my frustration. Brother was usually untouched by the "feelings of our feminine frustrations". He actually came to the service line and showed me how to do it. I will make him proud, I determined, because of this personal care that he showed to me. This morning I remember how many aces I hit because of the care of this man who showed me the correct toss. I am spastic throwing, as a rule. The toss was the worst part of my game. When the sun was at twelve oclock, I would just want to quit the game rather than try to serve on the sunglared side of the court. "Brother" made this, no longer a frustration. The sun is at twelve oclock serve at 1 oclock- he meant toss the ball a little lower than the sunglare and hit the sun, or perceive that you are hitting the sun. Blinding, at first, it is a lesson in dealing with perceived obstacles. I remember this, because I have children reared in the full sunglare of the presence of God in the home and this can be just as frustrating as serving on the sunny side of the court. Their father is such a wholesome individual and they are always judging this side and that side. I cannot get them to think outside of themselves. I take the ball from "Brother" I serve at 1 oclock and sometimes this gets their attention that they cannot be the end all and be all of the matter. Only God is God. Look at it from someone else's perspective is the lesson. For me it is try to climb over the obstacles and try to serve into the sun, as frustrating as this may be.

I Love being 50

If I have the memory to recall, it seems that 50 is about the replays of the point. It is as though the great umpire calls a let and in your mind the points get replayed, only this time you have only your mind to play it. I would have run to the net and I would have hit a super topspin cross-court backhand, instead of that stupid drop shot. I see myself, as clear as day running to the net and being able to get under that ball and executing the shot perfectly. Then, I wake up. It is an argument and a 20 something year old has just hit me a dropshot that only a cross court backhand would be appropriate. I wouldn't hit her in the teeth. Insolence? No, just the age. You were that age before. What did Ruth say? "Youth is waisted on the young!" Are we in a match? Is the ball in play? Is there a match to win? Are we on holiday? Anyway, my bones hurt, as though I had a drill of lob backhands and loads and loads of overhands that I had hit, but I didn't. Just the pain in the neck from the children that God has blessed me with. I love that they bring me to the net. It delights my soul to put the ball away and not to knock the living daylights out of them. Some points they may win, but tennis {bless that game}gives me a certain perspective about the ball in play, with them. I tell them, You do not want to be on the other side of the net from me. You don't want me to put the ball away on you. That is surely what I always taught them when I took them out on the court. There is nothing more delicious to a tennis player, than a well placed lob to put away. It is instinct. I wanted them to see the natural way that I will put it away. You are my child and if you don't duck you could lose something. I want you to see that part of me. Don't give me that lob. I will put it away. They seemed to understand. Yet, and still they come home late and give me some stupid discussion about this and that. Elyse knows to duck. She sticks her head in the sand while the discussion takes place and Emily, {bless her heart} continues the rally without her partner. She hit a lob to mommy and she will get her head handed to her, if she doesn't duck. Yep. Well, thank goodness I was nearly asleep. My bones feel the pain of the match, this morning and there was no real match, just my imagination of points that I would have played. Grandpa's blessed "Hustle" yelling in my ear. Get to the ball, Jayne. There he is, in the building above me, yelling "Hustle!" Will I?

...Miles to go before I sleep.