Seven months ago I started my life in Spain. In those seven months I feel that I have made big strides in my quest to continue growing mentally, emotionally and physically. For as much as I think that I have grown in the past seven months, life continues to take me by surprise, revealing all of its unknowns and difficulties that each of us will proceed to embrace whether we are ready to do so or not. I have learned that life has a plan all of its own and some bridges will forever be difficult to cross. It is hard for me to believe that I am in the process of writing another e-mail that parallels the theme of a previous e-mail that I sent out in November. Virgil Hein was 84 years old. He was a child brought up in a German speaking household. He was a child who was given more than enough responsibilities at a very young age. He was a phenomenal first baseman. He was a farmer, through and through. He was a son, husband, father, my grandfather and a great grandfather. He was a lot of things to a lot of different people, but to me he was my biggest fan.
Many of Ester and Virgil’s trips from Washington State to Minnesota were made during the cold winter months, not because they were chomping at the bit to sit in cold cars but because he had developed an addiction to watching his granddaughter run up and down a wooden court. When he was not able to watch me in person he turned to his dvd player. My grandma tells me that he would sit in his favorite chair in the living room and watch my games, over and over again. He knew the games so well that he would comment on each move I made before I made it, “she misses this one, but she makes the next two.”
My grandfather, “Grandpa Farmer,” was not a man interested in traveling, but he did get to see the world through my words. Thanks to Skype I was able to see him and talk with him in the past month before he took a turn for the worst, passing away on Good Friday. His funeral is today and not too many minutes have gone by where I do not find myself with tears in my eyes. Something that does give me comfort, though, is knowing that he now is able to see where I live and that he is also able to watch me play once again.
He was a man who believed in God, strong morals and hard work. On the outside he may have appeared a bit stern or harsh, but on the inside he was as soft and sweet as the apricots he grew in his back yard. I vividly remember bouncing up and down on his lap as he sang to me in German and squealing in delight as he tickled me to the point of exhaustion. We used to laugh so hard together we would have tears streaming down our cheeks. As a little girl and as a young adult he used to hold my hands in his big ones and with the compassion of an adoring grandfather stroke the backs of my knuckles. Without saying a word I always knew how much he cared about me.
For as much as he disliked spending money on new technology he constantly peppered my grandma with questions and suggestions throughout the day, “you should go down and check the e-mail to see if any of the kids have written today,” “have you printed off those pictures that Leslie sent?” He never once opened the e-mails himself but I know that he cherished the printed pages that my grandma would bring up from the basement. So, this e-mail goes out to you, Grandpa. I love you.
Many of Ester and Virgil’s trips from Washington State to Minnesota were made during the cold winter months, not because they were chomping at the bit to sit in cold cars but because he had developed an addiction to watching his granddaughter run up and down a wooden court. When he was not able to watch me in person he turned to his dvd player. My grandma tells me that he would sit in his favorite chair in the living room and watch my games, over and over again. He knew the games so well that he would comment on each move I made before I made it, “she misses this one, but she makes the next two.”
My grandfather, “Grandpa Farmer,” was not a man interested in traveling, but he did get to see the world through my words. Thanks to Skype I was able to see him and talk with him in the past month before he took a turn for the worst, passing away on Good Friday. His funeral is today and not too many minutes have gone by where I do not find myself with tears in my eyes. Something that does give me comfort, though, is knowing that he now is able to see where I live and that he is also able to watch me play once again.
He was a man who believed in God, strong morals and hard work. On the outside he may have appeared a bit stern or harsh, but on the inside he was as soft and sweet as the apricots he grew in his back yard. I vividly remember bouncing up and down on his lap as he sang to me in German and squealing in delight as he tickled me to the point of exhaustion. We used to laugh so hard together we would have tears streaming down our cheeks. As a little girl and as a young adult he used to hold my hands in his big ones and with the compassion of an adoring grandfather stroke the backs of my knuckles. Without saying a word I always knew how much he cared about me.
For as much as he disliked spending money on new technology he constantly peppered my grandma with questions and suggestions throughout the day, “you should go down and check the e-mail to see if any of the kids have written today,” “have you printed off those pictures that Leslie sent?” He never once opened the e-mails himself but I know that he cherished the printed pages that my grandma would bring up from the basement. So, this e-mail goes out to you, Grandpa. I love you.
Finding a good transition from the previous paragraphs to the ones that follow calls for a bit more thought than what I am willing to put in right now. So, I am just going to try and jump right in.
I can hardly believe that we are already in our first week of April. I have approximately twenty more days of my season and then year number two of living and playing abroad will be a piece of the past, madre mia. Warm sunshine and cool breezes arrived in Madrid on the tails of March, allowing my friends and I to enjoy a nice slice of the outdoors this past week.
On Wednesday we finally got the chance to do something that I had been waiting to experience since week one of living in Madrid; riding the Teleferico (cable car)! Four years ago in, Merida Venezuela, I had the pleasure of riding the world’s longest Teleferico ride. This ride covered 12.5 km (7.8 miles) of mountainous terrain, finished at an altitude of 15,633 feet, and accounting for train changes took close to an hour to reach the top. The teleferico ride in Madrid was not nearly as intense as the ride in Merida, taking only 11 minutes from one side to the other and covering just 2,457 meters (1.5 miles), but enjoyable nonetheless.
Thursday morning was proving to be pretty normal until 11:30am when Charly called. He said that he was on his way to come pick Sarah and I up to go shoot and was wondering if we would be interested in having lunch with him afterwards in a nearby town called, San Lorenzo de El Escorial. Just 28 miles northwest of Madrid, it almost took us longer to find a parking spot than it did to arrive. The drive was refreshing as we left the sirens, honking horns and numerous apartment buildings behind us and entered into a world of tranquil green fields, golden hued cows and earthy landscapes.
The town itself is famous for, El Escorial, which used to be a residence for the King but now serves as a monastery, royal palace, museum and school. Lunch was quite enjoyable as we dined on grilled vegetables, tortilla, snails (I cannot believe I ate snails), paella, and morcilla. Spending time with Charly outside of basketball is always nice because it gives us the opportunity to learn more about him and see him as Carlos Hidalgo, not just, Coach.
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| El Escorial |
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| El Escorial |
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| Eating lunch with Charly. |
Easter Sunday was a glorious day in Madrid. The temperature stayed at a constant 70 degrees and the Madrilenos took advantage of every terrace and square inch of grass in the city. I spent the day in the company of friends and counted my blessings more than once.
Leslie’s Loose Ends:
Friday afternoon Cobian, Crooks, Angie (another teammate) and myself cooked up some food and headed to a nearby park to have a picnic. As we were walking around the park Cobi yelled out, “ardilla!” and whipped out her camera. Angie promptly responded with, “no, es un gato (no, it’s a cat).” As we got closer, it was in-fact an ardilla as Cobi had said. Upon hearing how excited Cobi was when she called out ardilla, I was under the impression that we were about to see some rare species of animal, however, it was just a squirrel. I told Cobi that she could come to MN and watch all the squirrels her little heart desired from the comforts of my backyard and she just stared at me in disbelief. I never knew that the little animal was so uncommon in Spain.
In Spain you cannot order your own specialized license plate. All of their plates have numbers on them, no words, nicknames or funny phrases.
“APRIL FOOLS!” Just like Day Light Savings and Father’s Day, April Fools’ day is also celebrated on a different day here in, Spain. The day that Spaniards recognize as the day to play jokes on friends is the 28th of December and it is called, el Dia de los Santos Inocentes or the Day of innocent Saints. Regardless of the difference in days, I do not get the impression that this day holds much clout for Madrilenos.
“It’s a play on words.” I cannot tell you how many times I have heard this response. Spaniards have more rhymes than Mother Goose. For example, pim pam poom bocadillo de atun. Bocadillo de atun means, tuna sandwich. People occasionally use this phrase but not for any particular reason, it just sounds funny.
Thank you for reading. I know that many of you did not know my grandfather, but it felt good to write about him. I hope you all had wonderful Easters and that your weeks are off to great starts.
love,
Leslie
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