I’m a classic pre-liver. Whenever something big is coming, I take it for a test drive before it actually arrives. I do the hills, the sharp turns, the narrow parking spaces that appear to be too skinny for a fit. Just me and the “big deal.” A time or two or twenty, we hit the road to go for a spin so she won’t feel so foreign in real time.

Before my freshman year of high school, I wrote on a small piece of notebook paper, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3. Get a full ride.” Then I ripped it from its spiral wiring and taped it--curly edges and all-- to the inside back of my royal blue locker. Those were what I wanted more than anything. So every day during my freshman year when I would go to my locker to gather my books and supplies for first hour, I’d read, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3.Get a Full Ride.” When the bell rang at the close of class, I’d return to my cubby and read, “1. Go to State. 2. Be an All-Stater. 3. Get a Full Ride.” Six times a day for the 181 days of our school year, my eyes told my brain and my body what to do.

The 6’3” center on my college basketball team drove a lovingly-used black Volkswagen Beetle. Watching her unfurl from its tight confines was entertaining, but it paled in comparison to the ride. Most of our teammates and I had cars in varying size, form and functionality, but hers was the one we took when we were more about the going than the place we had to go. The Bug was perfect for short jaunts from the gym to the dorm when the undeterred north wind was howling and we, soaked with sweat, needed to get from point A to point B (preferably without catching pneumonia). It was our vehicle of choice for a 7-Eleven Slurpee or a stack of pancakes at IHOP. It was always what we took when we had nowhere to be but felt the urge to go. As the point guard --aka, the only one who could fit-- my spot was in the backseat behind the driver, knees tucked under chin.

Austyn sat up in the bed organizing her lovies who were joining us for the night. Turtle-Turtle, Rocky Bear, Dumbo, Puff Puff, and her newest acquisitions from an extended family exchange--Katty and Dog -- were neatly lined up on and around the pillows that formed a retaining wall on the far side of the bed. “You hafta be good,” she whispered to them. “Santa is seeing who’s nice and naughty and he’s coming in his sleighhhhhhh!” The last word taking off like a team of reindeer from the roof, its one syllable stretched to capacity inside a whisper-shriek. I was laying with my back to her, feigning sleep while cataloguing every single word as the Times Square Ticker in my head ran around and around exclaiming, “It doesn’t get better than this.”

I’m not sure what it is about conclusions that makes us want to rank and file, but at the ends of things we tend to do it. Voraciously. Religiously. Exhaustively (as in comprehensively and also “making one tired.”) “Best of” lists seem to be our way of organizing our druthers and sharing them with others who we assume (you know what that word means) might care.

My daughter has long been the best gift giver I know. Sometimes her presents are practical—like the Smeg toaster that I didn’t know I needed but can’t imagine being without. Or the towel I wrap my hair up in after a shower. Or the amazing vacuum cleaner that sucks up debris from every type of flooring in our home. Some of her gifts are creations—painted canvas signs or photographs or albums painstakingly organized to tell a story she knows I’d like to be able to get to and hold in my hands. But everything she gives—pragmatic or sentimental-- is wrapped in insightful paper that’s stuck together with “I get you” tape. Her presents say, “You are loved” and, “You are celebrated”, certainly. But mostly they say to those of us lucky enough to receive them, “You are known”. And that might be the greatest gift of all.

People thought the song was about the Vietnam War.

“I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?

I wanna know, have you ever seen the rain?“

The ominous lyrics penned by John Fogerty fit the mood of the country in 1970 as the controversial overseas conflict waged on. Even sunny days were plagued metaphorically by rain. But people were wrong about the song. The Creedence Clearwater Revival hit didn’t have anything to do with the war. Instead, the doomy tune told the story of a conflict happening much closer to home. The band who finally had it all together was coming apart at the seams.

He couldn’t slow his horses. No matter how many plays he yelled out, or substitutions he made, or time-outs he called. His team started the game like pent-up thoroughbreds released through an open gate. He could not grab ahold of the reins. Their thirst was admirable. Fervor usually is. But that doesn’t mean it’s not sometimes in the way. In their haste, his players cut prematurely, they left early when using screens, they dribbled into traffic that hadn’t cleared yet and shot as if the ball were a hot potato they had to get out of their hands. On the wings of grand intentions, they made a mess of things.

My inbox bulged with unsolicited videos of players desperately seeking a college basketball scholarship. Most of the reels were professionally produced complete with a soundtrack, statistical overlays, and technological enhancements that made the productions feel more like mini movies than athletic proofs of concept. Sometimes a deft steal would be staccato repeated for effect, or a passer would be encircled on the screen to draw attention to the needle she was about to thread with the ball. Or a Houdini dribble move would be replayed in slow motion to show how the dribbler intentionally tied up the defender’s feet. But the highlight of the highlight reel was the ball going through the hoop.

Warning: these might get lodged in your head…

1. I am stuck (…on band-aid and band-aid’s stuck on me) –Band Aids

Stuck is a place we find ourselves a lot this time of year. Stuck in airports, stuck in traffic… stuck in time, stuck in patterns of behavior. We get stuck on sides and stuck in ruts, and regardless of how mightily we flail, sometimes we just can’t seem to get our bearings. It’s like being caught up in quicksand. You won’t drown, but the more you wiggle to try to get out, the worse the “stuckness” gets. Sometimes being still is the only way to make it through.

Something weird happens to time in November. (In addition to that daylight savings thing that was once super helpful to farmers back in the day but doesn’t much make sense anymore.) Time starts to race like a horse. The ramp-up begins in mid-October, then by the time Halloween arrives, it is sliding downhill like a snowball headed for you know where. Days disappear faster than the candy we just passed out to Trick-or-Treaters. Ghosts and goblins bleed into turkeys that bleed into Santa Claus and suddenly the shiny ball of hope is dropping as we toast to sweeter tomorrows while ringing in the New Year.

With about ten minutes to go in the third quarter of the Thunder/ Pelicans game, Jalen Williams drove the left lane line, picked up his dribble due to traffic, and found three Pelican defenders staring at the ball. A prescient Josh Giddy ran a back cut from the corner which J-dub instinctively rewarded with an old-school bounce pass that Giddy kissed off the glass for two. And I immediately thought of Robert Montgomery Knight.

The New York Times generates a word game called “Connections” that can be accessed daily on a smart phone. Its one-dose-a-day design provides an opportunity for regular brain stimulation while discouraging screen addiction. You sign in, play the game-- and win or lose, you’re done. It’s a delightful morsel for word nerds (like me). It lures you in but doesn’t take you hostage for the day. Like that tiny piece of chocolate swanky hotels leave on the pillow at turn-down service, it’s a little “somethin’ somethin’” that just keeps you coming back for more. 

Oklahoma and Iowa hung on to the bitter end.

These two middle-America states were among the first in the country to offer girls the opportunity to play basketball and two of the last to allow us to run up and down the floor. If you were a girl growing up amid the corn or the wheat prior to the early ‘90s, “girls’ basketball” was a different game than the one that’s now breaking attendance records everywhere we look. Girls were allowed to play but expected to stop on a dime at the line that cuts the court in half. Apparently, our guts would explode if we ran to the end line and back.

My dad once ran for school board in the small rural town where I grew up. There was some fuss about our superintendent-- best I remember-- though specific fuss about what I’m no longer sure. (If indeed I ever was.) I just remember people being wound up. Almost everyone in the 14 square miles of our oilfield community had pledged allegiance to an opinion and thus had chosen a side. Our tiny town was as fractured as an oil and gas pay zone after the drilling is done.

He came out of nowhere, this long, lanky kid with unkempt curls held back by a thin, elastic band like soccer players wear. “How can I help?” he asked, as my lostness must have been plastered like a billboard on my face.

“Panko breadcrumbs,” I said leaving a verbal ellipsis on the end.

“Aisle four,” he immediately responded while pointing, “about halfway down on your left.”

Go write. And please don’t try to get it right. Just write. Because trying to do it the way you think it’s supposed to be done just gets in the way.

The daily practice of writing is a foundational habit loads of successful people share. Daily writing grounds busy minds. It serves as a conveyor belt for sorting thoughts and feelings. It leads people out of corners they have backed or worked their way into by revealing doors and windows they weren’t aware were there. And yet just as many folks who do write don’t because they think they don’t know how.

I covet the certainty of young eyes that see so clearly before the world gets in the way. Austyn, my granddaughter, is almost two-and-a-half, and mostly she’s pretty clear about what she wants. But what she always knows for sure is what she doesn’t.

“All things in moderation,” Benjamin Franklin said. And Aristotle before him. And Jesus through the apostle Paul, way before either of them. “Let moderation be known.”

Plants need water, but too much causes fungus. And root rot. An overzealous gardener can drown a hardy hydrangea into the ground. Fire contained within a cauldron of rocks keeps us warm and emits a smell that chandlers scramble to duplicate and sell in stores. But fire, if uncontrolled, devastates and destroys, leaving behind the stubborn stench of all it has consumed. Too much ice cream will make your stomach hurt. Too much sun will harm your skin. Too much exercise will break down your body. Too much sleep can cause fatigue.

In the fall of 2009, our basketball team kicked-off the season by competing in a pre-season tournament in the Virgin Islands. We were on the heels of our program’s second Final Four appearance, but we had just graduated our leading scorer and rebounder, along with her twin sister who was a major contributor, and a walk-on turned captain who had become our glue. The world was watching with a side-eye to see how we would fare.