By Sara Aeikens, Creative Connections

The last time I threw a bowling ball down a gutter occurred 45 years ago in my college physical education class in Minot, N.D. I pulled an A- for perfect attendance and breaking a 100 score on a regular basis. This may be an illusion, but I am certain I carried a positive attitude about bowling.

Last fall my image of my relationship with bowling changed. A neighbor invited my husband and me for a free Holiday Lanes bowling afternoon. We found ourselves in a league, due mainly to my husband&8217;s skills. On that first trip to the lanes, all those old bowling memories popped forth, like sweaty leather smells of the multi-colored shoes, clattering pin sounds, over-heavy balls and shiny all-in-a-row alleys.

I bowled 69 for my first score and my three game averages turned in at 89. My gutter attraction after the first game euphoria wore off, increased significantly.

I reluctantly tagged along and finally committed myself to an every other Monday afternoon.

The staff pinned me down to play on the Malfunctions team. Three men team members made it their task to teach me and cheer me up. I listened, obeyed and got worse. I soon began to desperately search for a light ball, to no avail. Ecstatic, when I located the kid&8217;s rack, I discovered I couldn&8217;t get my skinny fingers in the holes.

A bowler named Doran noticed me wandering from rack to rack. I told him I was adding extra time to my weight-lifting class, while waiting to bowl. He told me to stay put and he went to his locker. He returned with a sleek marbled eleven-pound ball. I decided after hefting it numerous times, the ball must be close to ideal for me.

As I rubbed it to convince myself this was a legit offer from an almost stranger, I felt the etching above the drilled holes.

Carved in elegant curves across this lightweight gem appeared one word that looked like Elly.

Give me her story, I insisted of Doran. He shared how his 102 year-old friend Eleanor, who lived at Good Samaritan Care Center, had started bowling when she was over 90 years old. I thanked him profusely, took the precious story of how she excelled in bowling, along with the gift of the ball and returned to my Malfunction team with an inspired attitude.

The next game I bowled three strikes in a row for a revered &8220;turkey,&8221; but was disappointed it happened during practice, so I didn&8217;t get as many

&8220;turkey&8221; hugs after my feat with Elly&8217;s magic ball. After that amazing round I gained a few more spares and strikes. Then scores started downwards, but I had more fun.

I kept thinking about Elly and how I wanted to visit her, but didn&8217;t take time. It was a month before I made a trip. I joked to a bowler that I had a sense of urgency because I wanted to get there while she was alive. By the time I arrived, lugging the ball along so Elly could connect with something she recognized, I had forgotten her last name. A nurse figured out my ball&8217;s password by combining age, hobby and name.

When she took me to Elly&8217;s room, she looked so fragile in bed, that I hesitated to awaken her.

The nurses knew better. They gently helped her sit up, placed her glasses on her nose and gave introductions. She perked up and we conversed about common interests, her family and mutual friends, and her recent 102 birthday celebration. I then placed her ball on the bedside and took her hand to trace her name, while she reminisced about her bowling days. I chose not to elaborate on my ebbing scores, but she liked hearing about her ball being used. I shared how gifted I felt for the privilege of practicing to improve my bowling skills with her lighter ball.

Several days later I visited a friend in Owatonna who introduced me to her family members from a southeastern state who were going to Albert Lea for their mother&8217;s funeral. Even with the same last name, no light bulb lit in my brain.

First thing home, I read the Tribune obituary of Eleanor Wolfe, whom one son mentioned was an avid bowler. I called the son and shared the amazing coincidence. I met the family at the funeral with a copy of Elly&8217;s bowling ball story and the son showed me her bowling shirt he decided to display after I&8217;d read him the story. I looked at the shirt&8217;s stitching and read Ellie.

The engraver had spelled &8220;Ellie&8221; wrong on her ball.

Elly or Ellie, thanks for going with me to each bowling game and for a story that lives on as an encouragement to expand friendships, as well as our skills, such as in bowling.

Albert Lea resident Sara Aeikens writes occasionally for the Albert Lea Tribune.