Saturday, April 21, 2012
Vacant Lot Baseball
Vacant Lot Baseball
Today the brown eyed girl and I went to see John Patrick play baseball. J. P. is in the second grade, so this is still early in his baseball career and difficult to tell if he will make the big leagues or not. The little fellows were all dressed out in matching uniforms, with sporty equipment bags, special shoes, and batting helmets. Their names were printed on their backs and they looked like pros out there. Being as young as they are, the coach was doing the pitching and an umpire provided by the parks and recreation department, was ruling the roost. Looking around, there were nearly as many adult dads on the field as there were players and a few of them were doing that coach thing of pointing to their eyes with a couple of fingers and saying “on the ball.”
As we sat on the aluminum fold out bleachers and shivered against a late spring north wind that brought temperatures in the mid 50s and falling, I thought how different this is from baseball as I remember it in the 1950s.
The baseball field was the vacant lot that was nestled in a corner formed by the Borden’s Cheese Plant, and the Stock Sale Barn. (Which perhaps explains why it was vacant?) The first games I remember were played when I was too small to even be considered for playing but contented myself with shagging foul balls and crawling into the stock pens to get pop flies that went foul in a special sort of way. The players were most often the Upchurch boys, the big Upchurch boys, Ray and Bobby not Philip or Tommy as they were also too small, Tyrone Pointer, Edwin Pierce, Glen Pettross, and a host of others their age that constituted the “big boys” in our neighborhood.
The first job of course was to find someone who could actually produce a baseball and a bat to start the game. The criteria for entry was having your own glove and to get the game in motion is was necessary to find some old paint can lids or like suitable objects to serve as the bases.
No one had any thing that remotely looked like something a baseball player might wear unless he was going to visit his Aunt Maude on Labor Day. There were no tight stretchy pants, no special shoes, no jerseys with numbers and names, no hats that said much of anything but “Coop” or “Chevy” on the front and certainly no batting helmets. The very thought of wearing a helmet to face the opposing pitcher was beyond consideration. It just would not be done.
I think however the thing that was the most obvious in its absence was adult supervision. There were no adults around, and we liked it that way. There were no dads looking over our shoulders telling us to keep our eye on the ball and no coaches pitching for us. No umpires were present and every contested call was simply argued out until it became clear that the biggest boys were going to win the argument and everyone quite contesting just in time to save the integrity of their own nose. No mothers yelled from the bleachers, “That a way to go, Levi” or alternately, “Hunter, you have got to watch what you are doing.” It was simply a vacant lot ballgame not intended to build character, prepare us for a scholarship to MTSU, teach us the rules of fair play, ingrain teamwork within us, build our self esteem, or any of the things people talk about today. It was just a chance to have fun – that was the only aim.
The football field, now that was the backyards behind Kemper Hailey’s house and the biggest requirement was to be big, strong, and tough. No skill necessary. As for hockey, and soccer: we had never heard of them. Didn’t know what they were, didn’t want to know. Baseball we could see on the old black and white T.V. when the Yankees played the Dodgers in the World Series and Football we could witness every Friday night in the fall at the local high school. They were REAL sports.
Now, I’m not saying the way we did it was better, or that these organized sports leagues for children don’t accomplish some of their stated goals. But sometimes when I watch a little fellow wandering around in right field with his mind clearly somewhere but in that ballgame, or listen to the rhetoric from some of the parents, or watch some of the dads on the field, I wonder who this is really for. Is it really for Anders, or is it for Anders’ dad? Is it really as much fun when dad says, “Well, when we get home we are going to practice getting those ground balls until you will never miss another one”, as it was when Ray and Bobby and Tyrone just happened by the vacant lot to play a game of baseball with how ever many players were available, or as much fun as it was when we gathered in Kemper Hailey’s back yard and Walter Booker showed us how he could cross the goal line with six of us still hanging on to various parts of his body and bits of his clothing. Sometime, we may just put to much rigor into things that should be simple.
I wonder the same thing about worship sometimes when we find ourselves trying to choreograph every move of the “participants” rather than letting it be the simple kind of heartfelt expression of praise of our maker that Jesus involved himself in. I worry that in our minds we segregate the “participants” and the “audience” rather than recognizing that all of us are the participants and it is God that is the audience.
As you may have figured out by now, I am better at questions than answers. A great philosopher once opined that “sometimes the answers are simple but the questions are complicated.” No, it wasn’t Voltaire, it was Dr. Seuss, Sam I Am.
While you ponder these great questions, go watch your grandchildren play a sport, it will be good for them and great for you. bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
Wednesday, April 18, 2012
Sepia Toned Memories
Sepia Toned Memories
I suppose this has been an unusual spring, what with the warm weather and all, but it really did seem “old timey” to me. It got warm in March, the March winds blew right on schedule and the flowers appeared when they were supposed to – at least in my memory. We seem to have the capacity to make our early days near perfect, sepia toned, and endlessly pleasant and the ability to “soft pedal” the distasteful parts of those days.
The way I remember spring was that it began to warm up in February to the point where by the middle of the month, we took to the fields to disk in those corn stalks left from gathering time last fall. By the end of the month the buttercups that grew down the side of our house on Jefferson Avenue were blooming and the forsythia bushes that faced Dottie Grissom’s house were alive in their yellow and green dresses.
By March the old fashioned purple Iris were blooming along the gully that served as a gutter on Jefferson before the tar and chip road was replaced with asphalt and concrete gutters were poured. The phlox began to bloom along the edges of Mrs. Nollner’s yard on Main Street and the grass in our lawns began to show splotchy patches of green where real grass was growing. Most of our yards were weeds back then and it was good enough for us. What we had was just as good as what everyone else had so we were content, as mankind is inclined to measure contentment.
The goal was to have roses in full bloom by the first of May, not Knockout Roses, but real old fashioned roses of the climbing variety that sagged on our fences and climbed up trellises in our backyards. Why roses for the first of May? Why of course it was to be able to pin a white or red rose to your lapel for Mother’s Day. Red if you were lucky enough to have your mother still living, white if she had gone on to a better place.
It was warm barefoot weather and it was neither too hot nor too cold in the school room. The teachers would pull open the old metal frame windows that tilted into the school room and the sweet fragrance of fresh air would rush in crowding out the stale, heated, germ laden air of the long winter. It was a welcome relief since air too long occupied by fifth graders had a special smell that was unwelcome even to a farm kid not unused to unpleasant odors. Some mix between old sneakers and the boys locker at the gym.
I imagine they don’t do that today, rather they heat and air condition the room at a constant 74 degrees and keep the germs inside and the pollen outside, which necessitates taking Junior or Suzy to the allergist to get a shot of that selfsame pollen, at great financial cost, rather than getting it in the air we breathed for free. Oh well, one cannot fight progress.
The days would be pleasant, punctuated by Red Bud Winter or Dogwood Winter when one might have to drag out your winter coat for a day or two, and then back to short sleeves and no coat. Always of course, when school was done for the day, you were allowed to go barefoot, once Easter had passed.
Soon the best time of the spring would come – planting time. There would be corn to plant in the long rows stretching across the seemingly endless river bottom fields with the split wheels of the corn planter neatly pushing the earth together to cover the grains of seed corn that had been placed in the earth by the big round boxes on top of the old two row planter. Best of all was setting tobacco but only if the weather remained dry enough to use the big old tobacco setter with the 55 gallon drum of water weighting down the back. First the plants would be “drawn” from the plant bed that had lately had the canvas cover removed. Then the plants would be carried to the setter where two men would in turn place the plants into the ground with just the right rhythm to have the setter put a gush of water to their roots. Little boys could not do this job though, for one had to take great care to not catch a hand between the two heavy iron wheels that squeezed the ground together and “tamped” the soil around the newly set tobacco plant. It was like a carnival with two or three women drawing plants, one man driving the tractor pulling the setter, two men on the setter and one or two little boys, including yours truly, carrying wash tubs of plants to reload the plant boxes on the old converted horse drawn tobacco setter. Best of all – no school that day. I can still remember the warm loose soil on my bare feet which would turn cool if you wiggled your toes down several inches.
Rainy days were not so good though, for that meant going to the pegs and working along a grass string stretched from one end of the patch to the other while our backs ached and mud collected on our shoes until we could hardly pull our feet along.
Just like our memories selectively filter out the cold, rainy days, the ice storms, the sudden cold snaps, the late February snow storms, the tired achy bodies at the end of a long day in the tobacco patch, our minds also have the ability to look at our lives, putting the best possible “spin” on what we see and reason with ourselves that we are not too bad and that perhaps the Great Maker of the Universe is pretty lucky to have us as followers of him. After all, there are a lot of people worse than we are and we don’t really do any bad stuff. That was probably what Peter thought when he demanded to know why he couldn’t come with Jesus when Jesus had said, “Where I go, you cannot come.” “After all,” Peter must have reasoned, “I am a pretty handy fellow with a sword, and I would be willing to lay down my life for Jesus. Yes sir, he would be pretty lucky to have me along.”
Jesus quickly informed Peter that his own opinion of himself was highly inflated and that before the rooster crowed, Peter would deny Jesus three times. This must have been a crushing blow to Peter’s ego, but he manned up and when the moment came, he did in fact draw his sword and try to defend Jesus. But he found that it was easier to remain of good faith in the heat of battle than in the long night of despair.
It is pleasant to remember the good old days and few of us over 50 don’t like to engage in a little nostalgia, but we must remember to live in the present. And, like Peter, we need to remember that in spite of the narcissism with which we view of ourselves, it is we who are lucky, or rather blessed, to have Him, not the other way about. Enjoy your blessed day.
Bob Chaffin bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
I suppose this has been an unusual spring, what with the warm weather and all, but it really did seem “old timey” to me. It got warm in March, the March winds blew right on schedule and the flowers appeared when they were supposed to – at least in my memory. We seem to have the capacity to make our early days near perfect, sepia toned, and endlessly pleasant and the ability to “soft pedal” the distasteful parts of those days.
The way I remember spring was that it began to warm up in February to the point where by the middle of the month, we took to the fields to disk in those corn stalks left from gathering time last fall. By the end of the month the buttercups that grew down the side of our house on Jefferson Avenue were blooming and the forsythia bushes that faced Dottie Grissom’s house were alive in their yellow and green dresses.
By March the old fashioned purple Iris were blooming along the gully that served as a gutter on Jefferson before the tar and chip road was replaced with asphalt and concrete gutters were poured. The phlox began to bloom along the edges of Mrs. Nollner’s yard on Main Street and the grass in our lawns began to show splotchy patches of green where real grass was growing. Most of our yards were weeds back then and it was good enough for us. What we had was just as good as what everyone else had so we were content, as mankind is inclined to measure contentment.
The goal was to have roses in full bloom by the first of May, not Knockout Roses, but real old fashioned roses of the climbing variety that sagged on our fences and climbed up trellises in our backyards. Why roses for the first of May? Why of course it was to be able to pin a white or red rose to your lapel for Mother’s Day. Red if you were lucky enough to have your mother still living, white if she had gone on to a better place.
It was warm barefoot weather and it was neither too hot nor too cold in the school room. The teachers would pull open the old metal frame windows that tilted into the school room and the sweet fragrance of fresh air would rush in crowding out the stale, heated, germ laden air of the long winter. It was a welcome relief since air too long occupied by fifth graders had a special smell that was unwelcome even to a farm kid not unused to unpleasant odors. Some mix between old sneakers and the boys locker at the gym.
I imagine they don’t do that today, rather they heat and air condition the room at a constant 74 degrees and keep the germs inside and the pollen outside, which necessitates taking Junior or Suzy to the allergist to get a shot of that selfsame pollen, at great financial cost, rather than getting it in the air we breathed for free. Oh well, one cannot fight progress.
The days would be pleasant, punctuated by Red Bud Winter or Dogwood Winter when one might have to drag out your winter coat for a day or two, and then back to short sleeves and no coat. Always of course, when school was done for the day, you were allowed to go barefoot, once Easter had passed.
Soon the best time of the spring would come – planting time. There would be corn to plant in the long rows stretching across the seemingly endless river bottom fields with the split wheels of the corn planter neatly pushing the earth together to cover the grains of seed corn that had been placed in the earth by the big round boxes on top of the old two row planter. Best of all was setting tobacco but only if the weather remained dry enough to use the big old tobacco setter with the 55 gallon drum of water weighting down the back. First the plants would be “drawn” from the plant bed that had lately had the canvas cover removed. Then the plants would be carried to the setter where two men would in turn place the plants into the ground with just the right rhythm to have the setter put a gush of water to their roots. Little boys could not do this job though, for one had to take great care to not catch a hand between the two heavy iron wheels that squeezed the ground together and “tamped” the soil around the newly set tobacco plant. It was like a carnival with two or three women drawing plants, one man driving the tractor pulling the setter, two men on the setter and one or two little boys, including yours truly, carrying wash tubs of plants to reload the plant boxes on the old converted horse drawn tobacco setter. Best of all – no school that day. I can still remember the warm loose soil on my bare feet which would turn cool if you wiggled your toes down several inches.
Rainy days were not so good though, for that meant going to the pegs and working along a grass string stretched from one end of the patch to the other while our backs ached and mud collected on our shoes until we could hardly pull our feet along.
Just like our memories selectively filter out the cold, rainy days, the ice storms, the sudden cold snaps, the late February snow storms, the tired achy bodies at the end of a long day in the tobacco patch, our minds also have the ability to look at our lives, putting the best possible “spin” on what we see and reason with ourselves that we are not too bad and that perhaps the Great Maker of the Universe is pretty lucky to have us as followers of him. After all, there are a lot of people worse than we are and we don’t really do any bad stuff. That was probably what Peter thought when he demanded to know why he couldn’t come with Jesus when Jesus had said, “Where I go, you cannot come.” “After all,” Peter must have reasoned, “I am a pretty handy fellow with a sword, and I would be willing to lay down my life for Jesus. Yes sir, he would be pretty lucky to have me along.”
Jesus quickly informed Peter that his own opinion of himself was highly inflated and that before the rooster crowed, Peter would deny Jesus three times. This must have been a crushing blow to Peter’s ego, but he manned up and when the moment came, he did in fact draw his sword and try to defend Jesus. But he found that it was easier to remain of good faith in the heat of battle than in the long night of despair.
It is pleasant to remember the good old days and few of us over 50 don’t like to engage in a little nostalgia, but we must remember to live in the present. And, like Peter, we need to remember that in spite of the narcissism with which we view of ourselves, it is we who are lucky, or rather blessed, to have Him, not the other way about. Enjoy your blessed day.
Bob Chaffin bob.chaffin@maplehillchurch.org
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