Bowling Alley Blues

There’s a small bowling alley in our town. Twelve lanes. Smoking still allowed. Furnishings from that great decade of design, the seventies. Formica with built in stainless steel cup holders and ashtrays. Molded plastic seats. But my kids wanted to go and on Fridays from 6-10 PM you can bowl two games, get a hot dog and a “pop” and shoes for $5. Now that’s a deal I can afford.

My kids then proceeded to kick my butt in bowling. I haven’t bowled since junior high so I scored in the um, 60s. My son’s unusual method of taking the ball in both hands, heaving it down the lane like a shot put, and then walking away still scored him in the 80s and a strike. My daughter won with a score of 113 and three strikes. Oh, and did I mention we were playing with those bumpers they put up so you don’t get gutter balls? Um, yeah. Obviously bowling is not my sport.

However, I rallied in the second game when I switched to bowling left handed. Never got any strikes but I managed a few spares and scored 110. My son lost interest during the second game and wandered around checking out the video games and pinball (yes, pinball) machines. So Sissy and I took turns playing his frames.

Two hours later we walked out reeking of cigarette smoke, not quite filled by our hot dogs and "pop," but still pretty happy. We’ll do it again, so anyone have any bowling tips for me?

Life in a Small Town

It’s been interesting moving to a small Midwest town. Here’s a couple of examples. A week or so ago we drove almost an hour to the nearest Krispy Kreme. Lest you think that’s quite a trip for donuts, the nearest chain grocery store is 35 minutes away, WalMart 30 minutes, so really we’re used to driving to get places. Except the library. It’s only a mile away.

So we’re driving to Krispy Kreme after church on Sunday, and I noticed something I hadn’t seen anywhere else I’d lived. Graveyards everywhere. I must have passed a dozen in that hour drive. Just plopped along the side of the road. Now I happen to like graveyards and one of these days want to go exploring and find out who those people are that are buried there. But it’s such a different thing from the large, gated cemeteries in the West, set on the outskirts of town.

Being a writer, I of course pay more attention to language than most people. Some of the differences I expected, like calling soda “pop.” It’s even printed on the grocery store aisles that way.

The other is more unexpected. I’ve had a few people say I wasn’t from around here because of my accent. Um, what accent? I’m from California. We don’t have accents. It’s the rest of y’all that do.

One Sunday at church I told Michelle I’d go get the kids and meet her back in the foyer. A lady turned to me and said, “You’re not from around here, are you?”

I said no, why? She told me it was because I said ‘foy-yay’ not ‘foy-yer’ and she has a friend from California that says it that way too. Obviously, her friend from California says it right.

I think I need to go take some pics in the graveyard. I’m sure my kids and the locals will think I’m nuts.