From the American Cancer Society: In recent years, (breast cancer) incidence rates have increased by 0.5% per year.
My youngest granddaughter spent some time with me recently while her mother ran errands. After completing some kindergarten homework — did kindergartners have homework in the 1950s? — Myah demanded that we play outside. We promptly retired to the lawn, where we improvised a game of soccer, played “freeze tag,” and generally gamboled on the grass. Well, Myah gamboled: I ambled. Myah’s mother often leaves her with the warning, “Don’t break my Dad!” My arthritic knees get a good workout while playing “tag” and soccer.
Myah likes to play outside, and the house I rent has a big front lawn. She requests that I open a playlist that I created for her on iTunes and takes my Bluetooth speaker onto the front porch. She chooses a song from “Myah’s Jams” and goes onto the lawn, demonstrating 5-year-old energy as she bounds across the grass to the sound of Rihanna’s song, “Dancing In The Dark.” On this recent day, we had progressed from “freeze tag” through soccer and were trying to execute cartwheels. Myah’s efforts, not mine. As we tried to execute the tumbling maneuver, I noticed a pickup truck slowing to a stop in the street; a woman smiled at us from the driver’s seat. The truck stopped at the corner, then pulled onto the gravel on the south side of my house. The driver called out to us and then, climbed from the truck and approached us.
When Myah is at my house, the time that we spend outside is often filled with her joyful greetings to passersby: “Hiiii!” When there are dogs leading the walkers, she asks, “Can I pet your doggie?” Her request is rarely denied, and when it is, I help her to understand why. But when we are dancing on the lawn, I wonder what people think of the old man with the little girl, dancing, running, and rolling on the grass.
The driver of the truck came toward us, and I told Myah to introduce herself, which she did; the woman gave her name as Kim and helped me teach Myah the proper way to do a cartwheel. I held Myah’s waist as Kim held her legs. After a few turns, Kim gave Myah instructions on forward rolls, with the addition of crossed legs as an aide to a continuous motion. Watching Myah roll on the grass, Kim turned to me and asked if I remembered her. I admitted that I did not, and she told me that we had met at someone’s house. (I still don’t remember her.) But she quietly and gently helped Myah with her gymnastics as I watched. Then she said goodbye to us, went back to her truck, and drove away. Myah and I were still on the green when her mother drove up. Myah leapt into Lauren’s arms and promptly told her of all the shenanigans she and Clop (me) had been up to. When she told her that a lady named Kim had been helping her learn to cartwheel, a spectacular thing happened: Lauren instantly snapped off a perfect cartwheel, sticking the landing as if she were Simone Biles.
After seeing my youngest daughter execute that cartwheel, I was tempted to try to duplicate her feat. I gave it serious consideration for approximately 19 seconds, but my muscles and bones voted against it, with the muscles lodging the loudest, screaming objections to the idea. My moderate exercise routine does not prepare my body for those exertions. But it does not harm my body to sit and muse on the beauty and joy of children doing cartwheels on my lawn.
cjon3acd@att.net