Sharing the past can open us up to new experiences

My husband told me a story about how, as a boy, he had watched a newborn colt's first attempts to stand. "It was pathetic, but comical to watch," he said. The scene left a deep impression. "Wouldn't it be great if our girls could witness a miracle like that one day?" he said.

That day came sooner than we expected.

It was a Sunday, and we were taking a drive. We decided to drop in on friends who had a farm. Coincidentally, one of their horses had just foaled, and they invited us to see the newborn.

As we entered the barn, the colt was trying to stand. He started to get up, only to collapse over and over again. It looked as if his spindly legs were just not going to hold that body, but the colt kept trying. Suddenly he managed to stay up a little longer and then a little longer still. Gradually, miraculously almost, he was able to move around with more ease.

I glanced at my husband. He wasn't watching the colt so much as the faces of his little girls.

There is nothing like reliving some of your own experiences through the eyes of your children. Or as Yogi Berra would say, "It's deja vu all over again."

I remember when I first learned to ride a bicycle. After an unwieldly start, and with my father's help, I finally took off. I was weaving back and forth down the street. As I pedaled past our house, I proudly waved at my mom and brother, who were sitting on the front porch enjoying the breeze of an early summer evening. Then I circled the block and came by them again.

After passing the porch six times, I realized that I knew how to ride. What I didn't know was how to stop. I rode to the next block and came to a quick and involuntary halt. I hit a small pile of manure that had been dropped by a milk truck. I was a sight, sprawled out on that curb. I had a sore seat for weeks.

That scene came back to me when our first child asked her father to teach her to ride her two wheeler. I told my husband to be sure to teach her how to stop.

Not everything from our childhood can be re-experienced through our children. My husband was a star basketball player in high school, but when our four girls were growing up, girls were not encouraged to pursue sports. Instead, they turned to subjects that my husband and I happened to be interested in: forensics and theater.

My husband was on the debate team at Kenosha High School. He studied under the legendary forensics coach John Davies. So when daughter No. 3 won the state title in original oratory and was eligible to go to the nationals, my husband contacted his mentor and asked him to give our daughter lessons. The nationals were held in Akron, Ohio, and my husband and I decided to go with her. I think he was more excited than she was each time she advanced; he also felt her pain when she was eliminated.

In junior high school I loved the theater and was the lead in our class play. My leading man Harold "Dubie" Wells and I had been rehearsing our parts for weeks, except for the final scene when Dubie would give me a kiss. Each time we got to that part, the teacher would stop us, telling Dubie to wait and kiss me at the actual performance.

On the day of the play, I was thrilled everything was going smoothly, although I was a little nervous about the kiss. When the end came, Dubie kissed me. It landed square on my nose. He triumphantly turned toward the audience, looking straight at his best friend sitting in the front row, and said, "You owe me five bucks."

To my delight, my own daughters were not deterred by that funny turn of events. Daughter No. 4 became enamored of the theater, landing leading parts in two high school productions and even joining a summer theater group for a while. She studied music at Lawrence University and appeared in an opera. She is now a music teacher.

Living through our children (and grandchildren) can be a joy. It shouldn't prevent us, however, from continuing to have our own new experiences. There are still challenges for all of us: bikes to ride, theaters to join and miracles to witness. As the Nike commercial says, "Just Do It."

- LaVerne Hammond, who divides her time between Wisconsin and Florida, is an octogenarian at work on her memoirs. Write her in care of Seniority, St. Petersburg Times, P.O. Box 1121, St. Petersburg FL 33731.

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