Pickling Along

Today was a red letter day in the annals of pickle ball. Today my wife, my very own wife who despises exercise, actually met me at the courts and played the game of the hour.

To my surprise she played well, using a strong backhand, a stroke she doubtlessly developed during the years of whacking her two bull-headed sons upside their respective heads. Unfortunately, the game requires accuracy in placing the ball where the opponent ain't and for that the backhand is not the best stroke. But she learned and gave me two good games; one went to ten—ten.

But I warned her she wasn't allowed to beat the wizard, especially when he has his magic gloves on. She laughed at that one she did. Good sense of humor. She has spunk, too, for when I asked her did she want me to give her the games she declined. She wants no mercy because, she says, she wants to improve her game. To me this means she believes there are pickles in her future.

All of this is wondrous and a triumph of sorts but the greater, most wondrous triumph was all the while we we playing she was passing a stone and was wracked with intense pain. How is that for a woman! And it so happened that when we were done the stone had passed and her pain was gone.

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