Bowling: Mr. 300 Steven Kueny - This One Is For You

This will be my last bowling blog unless I roll a 300 or a 700 series (neither of which I have ever done!), as I know most of you are bored to tears with bowling.

But, I have to give credit where credit is due.  Remember the 72 year old man I wrote about last week with the 238 average.  Well, I was wrong.  He actually had a 735 series for a 245 average!  Wow.

Today, we bowled next to him...

He opened with a 248.

He followed it with a 279.  One of the fellow geezers was whispering under their breath that they hoped he rolled a 300, as he had been stuck on 99 300's for some time, and he thought it would be neat to see his 100th 300 game.  Can you imagine?  99 300 games.  Amazing.

He finished with a mortal 193, for an average this week of 240.  2 weeks, average 242.5 (rounded up to 243).  Yeah, this guy knows how to roll . . .

~

So, how did I do in week 2 after a 34 year hiatus?  Well, my highlight was one game with 7 strikes in a row, a 3 game series of 561 (avg. of 187) which raised my 2 week season average to a respectable 175.  I'm happy.  180 is still my goal, but it's fun, and I'm having something to do on Thursday afternoons other than work!

I've heard all about muscle memory, and it still works.  Hit the right arrow mark, and most of the time a strike will happen.

It's those dastardly splits that have always eaten my lunch if you come in a little high, and they did again today . . .

Bowling Nostalgia

I grew up bowling.  Literally, as far as my memory goes, I remember either being with my Dad bowling at Phillips or Red Apple, or a tourney in KC, Wichita, Springfield, etc., or bowling in one of a variety of leagues myself.  I remember bowling as a teen, working the Phillips 66 tournaments as an official 'scorekeeper', a lost art now replaced by computer scoring.  I remember earning trophies and patches out the wazoo; plus having all of the accoutrement's required for the sport, which included various balls for the lane conditions, gloves, shoes, chalk, etc.  I loved it.

In July of '77 I got married to Pam.  Not long thereafter she became pregnant with Jackie.  We joined a fall bowling league, and our team name was "The French Connection" because the other couple we bowled with also had a French name.  Pam was miserable bowling, not that she was bad; just that the waddle to the foul line as a 7,8,9 month preggo was quite uncomfortable, and not enjoyable.  Jackie was birthed in April of '79, and our season ended a few weeks after that.  So did my bowling 'career'.

I was decent, carrying an average in the 190's for most of my older bowling life (please remember, I was only 22 in '79, so I'd not yet had a very long life), never did have a 200 season average, and never did have a 300 game, but somewhere in the 190's is not a bad game.  My Dad though was always very good, carrying right at a 200 average for most of his bowling life.

Then, something happened.  After Jackie was born, I pretty much walked away from bowling.  I had grown tired of the smoke and beer smells, mainly the smoke.  Over the last 34 years, I know it is not a stretch to say that I probably have not bowled 12 games total, maybe not 9 or 10 games; it could easily be in the single digits.

Until yesterday.

As part of my take back my life campaign, I joined a Super Seniors league in Broken Arrow bowling on Thursday afternoons.  Don't laugh just yet.  Bowling Seniors start at 50, and while I am still a spry 55; the average age was definitely around 70.  The place was full, with 18 teams of Seniors bowling in this league.  There are so many Seniors in south BA that they had to have two leagues.  The other senior league is on Tuesday afternoons, and it too has 18 teams.

I knew I was destined to walk into the land of 'denim on denim', but to my amazement, there was not a single bowler yesterday dressed in that garb.  Not one.  Still surprising.

So, how did I do on my first day back after a 34 year hiatus?  Well, I did 'okay'.  I did not embarrass myself.  I had an average score of 165.  Well below what I used to bowl.  I had secretly hoped to have an average of at least 125, so I was pleased with the average of 165.  Not being too boastful, but I think I can make it to 180 by the end of this 3 month season.  Yesterday was the first time I had used the ball in this picture, and I need to get used to it.  See, this ball is my Dad's ball.  By today's ball standards, it is a relic.  An antique.  It does nothing fancy.  But, it's still got plenty of strikes left in it, and if I can make it to a 180 average with a 45 year old ball, after a 34 year layoff, then I'll be happy.

My 165 average was the best on my team, and on the team we played; but I really never thought that an average like that would be considered at such a high level of play.  5 lanes down from me was a 72 year old man, who 'rolled in' with 4 bowling balls.  He started each game with 5 strikes in a row, had a high score of 269, and rolled a 713 series for a 238 average.  He bowls in 5 leagues a week.  One of the geezers I was bowling next to said that this man usually shoots about 210 in most leagues. 

72 years old, with a 210 average, and today with a 238 average.  Wow, now that is impressive.

My Dad just retired from bowling, and he gave me his ball.  He said it was hurting too much to bowl, so he walked away from a game that he'd enjoyed for 75 years. 

I had the ball re-drilled last week to fit my hand, and decided out of nostalgia to continue the family tradition.  Week one in the books.  Thanks Dad. 

 

Welcome Home Joe!

I cry.

Real men love Jesus, their wives, their parents, their children, their family, and they cry.  I must be a real man.  I am crying now.  Big deal.  I'm still so happy that it's hard to contain my emotions.

I am not ashamed to cry; and although I don't do it very often, when it happens, it is hard to stop.  Yesterday was one such example of happy tears, and they were flowing freely.

I was deeply saddened and cried in private when my baby girl wept on my shoulders during Joe's departure 231 days ago.  It was the same kind of sadness and weeping that I experienced after the OKC bombing when I felt the explosion in my body from a safe distance of 8 miles away.  The same kind of sadness after 9/11, the same kind of sadness with the deaths of Grandpa, Papaw, and Nanny.

Yesterday was happy tears though.  It was all I could do to hold it together in the lobby standing with the 100's of other family members.  And then when we saw these men walking down the hall, the claps and cheers started; and that's when I lost it. 

Relief.  It was finally over.  Joe was home.  Alive.  With all of his body parts intact.  I truly hope, with every fiber of my being, that this is the last time he will have been deployed.

I am proud of Joe, proud that he is willing to serve our country, and proud that he is my son in law, and loves my daughter, and loves my two grand-daughters.  But, I still want him home.  For good.

I love you Joe.  Welcome home. 

- Dad

Emma Jo

This is my precious little Spaz.  I love how grown up she is starting to look.  She turns 5 next month, and told me today that when she turns 8 that she won't have to use a car seat.  I love looking at her hands and fingers.  Those are my Dad's, so really it is 4th generation fingers.  My Dad, then me, and then my other daughter Jackie got them, and now Emma Jo does too.

I had the pleasure of entertaining her this morning as part of my 'take back my life' campaign.  I've not had a life for 2 months now, which is why I only posted one blog in March, one in April, and this is my first one in May.

For the past 2 months, my life has been consumed with work.  Period.  Not much time for me, or my wife, my family, friends; just work for 6, 6.5, or 7 days a week, week after week, month after month.  A very good week is 55 hours squeezed into 5.5 days.  Bad weeks are those that hit triple digits.

It's spring, and spring means giving up your life with our line of hardscaping work.  Kind of like a CPA gives up his life every Jan.1st to April 15th during their peak tax filing season.

So, my 'take back my life' campaign began in earnest 3 weeks ago with a commitment to take off Thursday afternoons; and I have.

Today though, not a Thursday, but a Friday, I picked up my little gurl and headed for the hills (as in Stone Wood Hills), as she had Target in her sights.  She loves Target, and we spent well over an hour there.  Her haul filled the U-Haul trailer at the loading dock that we had delivered for the occasion.

The only thing left to fit in my truck was a princess swimsuit, a princess puzzle, a princess pencil, and sandals for a princess since she couldn't find one with an actual princess emblem on them...

Lunch was at Panda, where she inhaled Orange Chicken, and wanted to sit by me, where she snuggled up next to me to stay warrmee, and it also made it closer for her to hug and kiss me; which melted my heart about 1/2 way through the lunch.  Oh, that's so sweet Emma, I should have brought in a 2nd U-Haul just for you. 

Her Daddy gets home in the morning from being deployed in Berzerkistan for the last 9 months, and Emma is so exited, she told me about it 3 times today.  She was headed for a pedicure with flags on her toes when I took her back home.

I love you Emma Jo; see you in the morning at the airport.  I too am quite excited to see your Dad.

- Pappy

  

The Boys

Today's blog is brought to you by the letter B.  B, as in:

Boys.
Bangs.
Bullets.
Boogers.
Bugs.
Bigfoot.
Butts.
Boobs.
Bambi.
Balls.
Backyard baseball.

And later, other B's will be tried in their lives (though Romeo already is hip to the first one).
Babes.
Beer.
Brats.
Bikini's.

Sunday afternoon, we had our going away dinner for Kasey, my niece; whom has decided to start her life over in the sunny side of Tucson.  She will be missed by all of us; most notably though by our boys.  I love you Kasey, and wish you the best!

That afternoon, during a 1.5 to 2 hour stint while playing backyard baseball with the boys; I had one of the best memories added to my life, realizing that this time could not be replaced, and while the boys will have forgotten about it by now, I will remember it for years.

Ava was my assistant for shagging errant balls, she took her hacks at the plate, but hated taking every swing (making it abundantly clear how much she hated baseball), as all of the other females in my family do too.  She was my trooper, with a constant gorgeous smile on her face, and those incredible curly locks constantly getting blown in the wind ~ I forgot to get her pic, but that image is locked in my brain.

Spaz got in a little separate one on one Pappy time swinging for the fences with her t-ball stand with whiffle balls and bat, but mainly she was AWOL ~ (we still don't know where she disappears to for her private time, as she did not want any part of boy-time).  She'd hit one, then run to 3rd, run back to home, run to right field, run to 1st, it was quite the sight, and she could have cared less; we were just enjoying each other.

So anyway, during the games, and while picking at their plates of food; it really is amazing to listen to what little boys talk about if you just listen.  I guess it's not too different from what big boys talk about, but wow, it is world's different than from what little girls talk about....

Let's see:

J-rod (the hunter) wants to bang and bag Bambi for the back-strap meat.  Plus, he loves to dig deep for the crunchy boogers, not the wet ones, just the crunchy ones.

Romeo (the Casanova) wants a different kind of Bambi, probably for a whole 'nother reason.  How is it possible that a 3 year old can already be so infatuated with butts and boobs?, but I'm telling you, his penchant for babes, butts, and boobs is baffling.  Oh how I hope he is not the star of Magic Mike 5.

Jack-Jack loves to sing "I'm 'da man" while swinging his boy unit during the outdoor peeing contests, and he seems to always be looking at bugs, or picking up bugs.  He might even be sampling how they taste; but I did not observe that...

And then there is WP.  Sweet, precious, tender, mother of mercy WP.  One of God's most perfect little boy creations.  Never gets in trouble, always obedient, and what's this that I think I just hear from his mouth; "I like girls in bikini's, they are pretty like my momma."  Of course, to WP, there is only one woman in the world, and that is his momma.  I sure hope she is not Momma Bigfoot though, as J-rod will be out to bang and bag Momma Bigfoot one day too.

Boys.  Gotta love 'em.  One day they will grow up, and I'm sure the old saying will ring true with each of them "the only thing different with men and boys is the price of their toys."

I love my boys.  I love my girls too; isn't it amazing though how 180 degrees different boys are from girls?  Having helped raise 2 perfect daughters; I didn't really see the difference first hand until these 4 Neanderthal beasts of the Apocalypse came into being. 

I love God's sense of humor.  He painted us all different colors.  He screwed with some of our hair, and caused others of us to not have hair.  He gave us all different tongues to speak, and tastes to prefer.  He made some of us stark raving mad liberal lunatics, and He made others of us God & Country gun lovers; so much so that we 'eats' bullets for breakfast.

And that's it for the letter B . . . .

  

O'Mike

Oh my Owen, the stories that will be told about you will be legendary...

Last Friday, I had the good fortune (meant completely seriously) to pick up #6 of 6 (whom will soon reach a *height of 6' 6", so his birth order is apropos), and take him to Bass Pro for a few hours of fun.  His older brother WP was quite sick, and I was just trying to be the good Pappy, and help out however possible.

*In case you don't know Owen, he is very tall.  At age 3, he was taller than 50% of the 5 year old's.  At age 3 7/12th's, he towers over kids his age.  He is constantly being asked how old he is, and for quite some time, he answered 5, and the asking person just kind of shrugged, a yeah, that's about right, never once questioning his answer.  But, Owen, ever on the look out for a bribe, made a deal several months ago with his Mom that if he could be 5, he would agree to potty train in one day.  She made the deal, and he stuck to his end of the deal too; potty trained in one day, and then proceeding to tell everyone that he was 5.  Yep, true story.

Not too many minutes had elapsed when o'Mike blurted out "Hey Pappy, you want to hear my arm pit fart?"  Well, caught completely off guard (though why should I have been?), this little (ha) guy proceeded to unzip and demonstrate his adroit skills of arm-pit-farting.  So, who taught my little (ha) cave man how to perform this skill?  My mind was quickly drawn to Steven, his Neanderthal father.

Yes, my Owen, my o'man, my o'Mike (I love that nick-name, though I am truly the only one in the family that uses it).  Most folks call him Owen Michael Kueny!!!, just to make sure that he knows all the parts of his name.  Surely it is not because he just about filleted the trout that just swam by... (man he was close to landing that 2 lb.'er, with his bare hands!) Or is it because they don't think that a simple Owen will garner his attention?

Anyway, I ramble, and digress.  Owen the arm-pit farter.  I'm so proud he has that talent.  Truly, he will go far in life with that skill.  It ranks right up there with peeing naked in the back yard (oh I love it when he does that), and I also love how he demonstrates 'poopy-head'.  Wow. 

Thank you Steven, (aka 'The Lost Bigfoot'), though we'll not start any part of the conversation about BigFoot with him ~ unless you want to see him flip out his autographed copy of the only picture known to exist in the entire world...

 

 

You can't really tell so much in this picture because my camera phone is good, but not great; but every time I see this boy, he's got new cuts/bruises, which I'm sure as he gets older will turn to casts and stitches.  This boy is rough.  He loves to rumble and tumble.  He loves to do things that gentler boys don't.  This pic shows some of his markings, but mainly I snapped the photo because he looked so cute in my cowboy hat.

 

Prior to hair, the head was obviously shaped like mine, crowns, dents, horns, etc.  That's not as noticeable now as it was then, but the heavy eye lids are still there, and when he smiles he looks like a mini-me clone of his Daddy 'the missing link' Kueny.

 

If you've been in the same church for very long, you realize after several years that you've heard the same stories and illustrations from your pastor many times over.  Well, parts of my blogs are like that, and I can't help myself but to bring up the DNA story again.  O'Mike has 25% of my DNA, but I sure have a hard time figuring out where 1/4th of his physical and mental parts are that share my DNA.  Head and eye lids; check.  Calves; check.  Shoulders; check.  Posture; earlier yes, but not sure now.  Legs; probably, but not completely sure.  Laugh; absolutely.  Diaphragm; without question.  Boldness; check.  Olive skin; probably.  Appetite; most likely. 

 

That's a pretty short list; as our other physical and mental differences are a plenty.  

 

 



 

Oh my little Romeo, my Casanova.  This boy is going to be a player.  Look out ladies, "Magic Mike" is in the house.

 

For as long as I can remember, Owen has gravitated toward the ladies, but he has discriminate taste, he only gravitates towards the prettiest ones.  That is a serious, absolute, 100% fact, and I chronicled his history with Haley at Bass Pro last December.

 

Well, big R or big C, take your pick; he allowed several little girls to pass by with nary a glance; but he struck gold with Brittni.  Yep, we found out she was 7, and she was cute, super cute (she had to have gotten her cuteness DNA from Momma, because it sure wasn't Daddy ~ just sayin'). 

 

Brittni was more than twice his age..., and completely enthralled at his tales of yore (soon to be lore).  She would have eaten out of his hand, had he had something to eat.  For the better part of 20 minutes, he and Brittni were fast friends.  She did some talking, but mostly she was the one doing the listening, and following, and clinging.  O'Mike had her in a trance; I missed the part where he did the Vulcan mind-meld, but as enamored as Brittni was, he had to have done it.  I snapped the pic after o'Mike had told her to go sit down, and she obeyed! 

 

Owen was telling her all about the fish, their feeding habits, the water temp, why salmon swim upstream, the trout that he almost caught by hand, which fish were going to be on the menu that night at Uncle Bucks, etc.  And, he was in the process of talking her into getting suited up with some snorkeling gear and go swim with him and the fishes.  Wow, this boy can talk!

 

 

 

So, 10-15 minutes have passed, and Brittni has left.  But wait, what's this?  Yep, that's right, it's our Casanova moving in for his 2nd act of the day.  But this time, he was going after jailbait.  She was 2.  According to her Dad (hot Mom's must not come to Bass Pro), his daughter had just turned 2.  I do not remember her name, but ask Romeo, he probably will.  Horrible focus on this pic, but when I was analyzing it, it looked to me like a 5 year old was moving in on a 2 year old, and 'jailbait' came quickly to mind.

 

Anyway, jailbait is way more than a full head shorter than o'Mike, but when their eyes lock, she melts.  Seriously, how does a 2 year old melt?  I didn't think it possible.  But remember, (disclaimer; I've told this story before), I was VERY slow in the ladies game.  I didn't even look sideways to notice a girl until I was 16, and even then, it was strained for me to do so! 

 

Yes, I was blessed and fortunate to have married the most beautiful girl in the entire high school, and this July will mark 36 years :-), but I'm telling you, I was slow.  When it happened though, it was fast.  Age 16, I saw a girl.  Age 19, I was married after dating my beauty Queen on/off for 2 of the 3 years in between. 

 

 

 

O'Mike and Jailbait, take 2.  This little girl had an infectious smile and big brown eyes as big as Ava.

 

 



 

 

Magic Mike getting ready for his audition.  Yep, he's 3.  Good gosh, look at the size of those feet on that 3 year old!  This picture is courtesy of Jackie, as Owen was about to show Momma his latest series of scratches; though Mom did not know that Owen had stripped in order to accomplish this.

 

O'Mike, o my.  Reminds me of my little brother Ken who used to run up and down the streets of our neighborhood when he was 3; completely naked.

 

Yep, I was so proud of Ken too.  I remember running into the house as fast as possible so that no one could see me.  Mom would ask "Mike, why are you in the house?, and I would answer 'because Ken is outside running up and down the street naked."

 

It was a different world then..., or is it?

 

 

 

  

Snow: Another Perspective

A picturesque scene of grande sized flakes floating to their destinations while I look out from my garage porch this morning. 

Pretty? Yes, I guess.  Needed moisture? Absolutely.  Good for business?  Hardly.

Snow is the bane ('source of harm' for those of you that don't play WWF) of our business.  It is hard enough to work outside in cold conditions; snow makes it impossible.

As long as I can remember, I have never liked snow, and I never miss it.  Maybe it is because of 12' drifts against my door while living in a mobile home in Dodge City 30 years ago.  Maybe it is because of not having gas or electricity in the same mobile home because of snow.  Maybe it is because of relentless freaks buying up every carton of eggs, milk, cheese, and 50 lb. sacks of beans whenever the forecast calls for snow.  Or maybe it is because it gets so dirty when it melts. 

Rain is easier to deal with as rain outs are common, especially in spring.  But snow? No, until today, we had dodged the snow bullet this year, and I was counting down the days to spring at being only 8 days away on March 1st; thinking we might escape it.  But nope, it got us.

Snow is a double whammy.  We don't work while it is snowing.  We don't work while we wait for it to melt.  We don't work while we wait for it to dry.  A good rain might delay our work for up to a week.  A good snow will delay us 2x to 3x that long.

So, going to have plenty of time in the office ~ not that that is a bad thing; as there is plenty to do and get caught up on.

Hey, what's that?  Do I see ELO's 'Mr. Blue Sky', yes, I do!  Hallelujah, bring on the sun!