Sometimes we reflect on our youth in ways that aren't entirely accurate reflections of the truth. These distortions may not be the result of fading and fallible memories. They may be more due to the fact that we never really understood the truth to begin with. Why? It was our parents. They never told us the complete story of anything. It was not to their benefit. They wanted an edge.
This would be a scandalous accusation if it could not be proven. But alas, I can. In more than a few instances.
It began for me with a simple admonition from my parents. From as early as I can remember, I was told, "Be careful what you do, because we WILL find out!". At first, I considered this an idle threat...a rule that could not possibly be enforced. How naive I was! Then I slowly realized that living in a small town where everyone knew everyone, the length of time it took for word to get back to parents was only a millisecond longer than the time it took the viewer to get to a telephone.
I was seven years old and riding my bicycle home about a half hour before dark. I carelessly veered too far toward the other lane without looking. A car with a driver who, thankfully, was looking, saw me just in time and had to brake hard enough for anyone close by to hear the screech of his tires. I was glad no one was around. He chided me, as all grownups would do to children in that time, to be more careful. I told him I would and began the last quarter mile home, being thankful that my father would not be there in case there was a phone call. He was teaching night school to veterans returning home after the war.
After putting up the bike I entered the door to the sound of the telephone ringing. A blessing was about to be had. I would be the one to answer the phone if it was someone ratting me out. And no one would know.
Hello?
Bad news! The caller was my father. Seems the driver was one of his students and before I could ride the bicycle for less than five minutes, he had parked at the school, found my father, related my transgression, my father had left the class, found a telephone, and had a verbal instruction waiting for me. That ended riding the bicycle for a while.
And that's the way life went. Nothing was private. There were no secrets. There was just this giant conspiracy that pitted a world of adults against me. Terrible odds! And it never got better.
Even when I was a senior in college living in a dormitory 250 miles away, I wasn't safe. It had become a curse! I was helpless. The best example of this inequity was the time when I had been to Columbus on a weekend night on a blind date. This is an important nuance. I went to go out with a girl I had never met. No big deal. Introductions. Movie. Returned my date to her dorm. Back to Starkville at midnight and into bed.
At that time there were no phones in every room. Only a single pay phone in the middle of each floor to be shared by more than 100 students. Seven-thirty in the morning comes with a knock on my door. I have a call. Stumbling down the hallway, I reach the booth and answer. It's my mother who not only knew that I had been to Columbus, she knew who I had been out with by name and knew where she was from. Did you have a good time? That's not why she called. She just wanted me to know that she was still connected. That she knew. And she always would. For the next twenty five years of her life, she never told me how she found out. It would not have been to her benefit!
So what did I learn? I learned that this is a ploy with potential. Imagine the personal satisfaction of hearing your daughter return from her first year at college and harping that life isn't fair. She can't go anywhere without being asked if she is Richard's daughter, or if she is related to Lenore. She even was assigned the daughter of one of her uncle's college football teammates as a roommate as a freshman. "Daddy. I can't go anywhere without this happening. It even happened on my trip to Washington, D. C. in the Senate chambers!". You have to love it!
What did I tell her? Why, it's the curse of the Shields'. And now there is an entire generation out there in Jackson, and Pascagoula, and Washington, and San Antonio,and Starkville. Looking over their shoulder and knowing that they are never safe from being accountable for their actions and their lives. They will be found out.
Life is good! And that's the way I'm going to remember it.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Friday, July 27, 2007
The Swimming Pool
Today is a tough day to be outside in Moss Point, Mississippi. It’s past four o’clock in the afternoon and the temperature is still ninety degrees and the humidity is high. What should I expect? It’s still July!
But how were these unbearable conditions dealt with before the days of air conditioning?
Generally, life went on without any recognition of the weather’s severity for the very good reason that we had no alternatives. But in the years immediately following World War II, a group of citizens got together and found a way to finance construction of a city owned swimming pool.
Big deal! Hundreds, maybe thousands of cities and towns have done that. But Moss Point had two things that, over time, set their swimming pool apart from the others.
The first was the water. There were actually two pools; the big pool and the wading pool for non-swimmers that quickly became known as the ‘baby’ pool. But while these two pools were separated by only a few feet of concrete, the water was as different as night and day. The big pool was fed by a deep well that not only produced a strain of naturally blue salt water, but salt water that had a temperature that must have been in the fifty degree range. There was no problem asking swimmers to shower before entering the pool because if you didn’t get a cold shower and went directly from ambient summer temperature to swimming in the pool, the shock to your body was traumatic! You searched for warmth. Fast. And where was the closest source of heat? The baby pool. For some reason, it was fed by a well that produced water (with a discomforting brown tint) that must have be about eighty-five degrees. It was great! It warmed and relaxed you and got the blood flowing again that only moments before had become frozen. Except that all those kids that had proven they could swim were disqualified from entering the baby pool. The lifeguards led a difficult life enforcing that rule.
And the other thing that set Moss Point’s pool apart from any other was the head lifeguard, ticket taker, swimming instructor, stunt diver, swim suit model, and all-around ham; my brother Jimmy.
Jimmy was always the best athlete in the family, but where he excelled was in the water. In it, on top of it, under it…..made no difference. He loved the water and the water reciprocated. His idea of enforcing discipline was to challenge anyone who wanted to break the rules of the pool to come into the water and discuss it. The offender quickly concluded that it was better to give a little and follow the rules than to become a victim of what a coroner would call an accidental drowning. Accidental. Right!
I still periodically run into people about my age that grew up spending their summers at the pool. And invariably, the subject comes to Jimmy. Particularly if the person doing the remembering is a girl, because the lifeguard she remembered had the ideal body for swimming. Tall and lean, big shoulders and thighs, bronzed from being outside and hair streaked blond by the sun or orange by improper use of peroxide.
And he knew it! And loved it. His favorite trick was to slowly climb the high diving board and then walk even slower to the end and look down into the water. He made sure that he had properly inhaled to make his chest appear even bigger and his waist smaller. Cars would stop and watch. Literally! Really! Then he would take a couple of test bounces off the end of the board without jumping out into the pool just to show how high he would be when he actually took flight. He had set the audience up right where he wanted them.
Now it was time. He would retreat to the anchored end of the board, take the customary three-step approach and explode off the end of the board into the sky. One bounce. Two bounces. And on the third bounce a miracle would happen. When his feet hit the board, the jump would terminate. And the inflated chest would drop a full foot into Jimmy’s secret talent…the ability to inflate his stomach into something that looked like he had inhaled a whole watermelon. He would look down at the bulging stomach with a puzzled look as if he had no idea what had happened and then, using his index finger, he would press in on the inflated area and simultaneously spew out water from his mouth that he had been holding the entire time of the performance.
To conclude the con job, he would make one of the most UN-graceful dives imaginable into the water, knowing full well that no one that had not seen the act before could have imagined how it would end. And those who knew would never tell. It was always fun to see.
And that’s the way I remember it.
But how were these unbearable conditions dealt with before the days of air conditioning?
Generally, life went on without any recognition of the weather’s severity for the very good reason that we had no alternatives. But in the years immediately following World War II, a group of citizens got together and found a way to finance construction of a city owned swimming pool.
Big deal! Hundreds, maybe thousands of cities and towns have done that. But Moss Point had two things that, over time, set their swimming pool apart from the others.
The first was the water. There were actually two pools; the big pool and the wading pool for non-swimmers that quickly became known as the ‘baby’ pool. But while these two pools were separated by only a few feet of concrete, the water was as different as night and day. The big pool was fed by a deep well that not only produced a strain of naturally blue salt water, but salt water that had a temperature that must have been in the fifty degree range. There was no problem asking swimmers to shower before entering the pool because if you didn’t get a cold shower and went directly from ambient summer temperature to swimming in the pool, the shock to your body was traumatic! You searched for warmth. Fast. And where was the closest source of heat? The baby pool. For some reason, it was fed by a well that produced water (with a discomforting brown tint) that must have be about eighty-five degrees. It was great! It warmed and relaxed you and got the blood flowing again that only moments before had become frozen. Except that all those kids that had proven they could swim were disqualified from entering the baby pool. The lifeguards led a difficult life enforcing that rule.
And the other thing that set Moss Point’s pool apart from any other was the head lifeguard, ticket taker, swimming instructor, stunt diver, swim suit model, and all-around ham; my brother Jimmy.
Jimmy was always the best athlete in the family, but where he excelled was in the water. In it, on top of it, under it…..made no difference. He loved the water and the water reciprocated. His idea of enforcing discipline was to challenge anyone who wanted to break the rules of the pool to come into the water and discuss it. The offender quickly concluded that it was better to give a little and follow the rules than to become a victim of what a coroner would call an accidental drowning. Accidental. Right!
I still periodically run into people about my age that grew up spending their summers at the pool. And invariably, the subject comes to Jimmy. Particularly if the person doing the remembering is a girl, because the lifeguard she remembered had the ideal body for swimming. Tall and lean, big shoulders and thighs, bronzed from being outside and hair streaked blond by the sun or orange by improper use of peroxide.
And he knew it! And loved it. His favorite trick was to slowly climb the high diving board and then walk even slower to the end and look down into the water. He made sure that he had properly inhaled to make his chest appear even bigger and his waist smaller. Cars would stop and watch. Literally! Really! Then he would take a couple of test bounces off the end of the board without jumping out into the pool just to show how high he would be when he actually took flight. He had set the audience up right where he wanted them.
Now it was time. He would retreat to the anchored end of the board, take the customary three-step approach and explode off the end of the board into the sky. One bounce. Two bounces. And on the third bounce a miracle would happen. When his feet hit the board, the jump would terminate. And the inflated chest would drop a full foot into Jimmy’s secret talent…the ability to inflate his stomach into something that looked like he had inhaled a whole watermelon. He would look down at the bulging stomach with a puzzled look as if he had no idea what had happened and then, using his index finger, he would press in on the inflated area and simultaneously spew out water from his mouth that he had been holding the entire time of the performance.
To conclude the con job, he would make one of the most UN-graceful dives imaginable into the water, knowing full well that no one that had not seen the act before could have imagined how it would end. And those who knew would never tell. It was always fun to see.
And that’s the way I remember it.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Beardslee Lake and Memories
The weeds along the dirt path led from our house North through the field that was later to become the high school football stadium. It skirted a line of pine and live oak trees and fell slightly downhill to the landing where my father always kept a fishing skiff. I always looked with a bit of fear and apprehension each time I placed my foot along the path with the expectation of seeing a water moccasin lying in wait. I knew it had happened before. I'd heard many times the story of Peg Leg Joe, an old black man who lived behind the house of Mr. Walter Barber in a small building along the lane. Joe had once killed a moccasin as big thick as a large man's arm and I was certain it could happen again.
The giant live oaks were also our place to set homemade traps for flying squirrels. The next morning would always start early with a mad dash to inspect the traps before going to school. The traps were usually tripped by some of the more numerous gray squirrels which, because of their larger size, often knocked the traps from the trees or chewed their way out of them before I could get there. Either way; empty traps...no squirrels.
My most vivid, and often told memory of the Lake was going with the boy from the house behind mine to find an alligator alleged to have been shot and sunk in a place known precisely by my neighbor. This knowledge was attributed to the fact that the shooter was his uncle with a reputation for defending himself from alligators in the event they even looked like they were even interested in him. I suspect he judged them all to be interested.
At any rate, the boy had come to my house late in the afternoon and had to successfully convince my father that we two boys would be perfectly safe in retreiving this completely docile (most dead alligators are) creature who would be returned to his uncle who would skin and sell the hide. The money, though some would have thought it to be ill-gotten since killing alligators was illegal, would be divided three ways with the two of us boys each getting some fantastic sum. Possibly as much as $7 to $15 dollars each.
My father was a conservative, careful, and thoughtful man and, likely, the most honest man that ever lived. He was certainly the most honest that I ever knew. The idea of taking foolish chances on the water combined with the upfront admission that this adventure would involve the illegal act of selling an alligator would never pass muster with him! My friend had no chance. So, of course, my Dad let us go! I never figured out what happened.
We boys, actually small children with a combined body weight that scarcely exceeded 100 pounds, paddled North across Beardslee Lake in boat we referred to as a 'double ender'. More people today familiar with the boats made famous in South Louisiana would call it a pirogue. It was no more than 10 long and had less than six inches of free board (the distance from the water to the top of the boat's sides). We paddled around the point on which the Cunningham house stood and entered the smaller part of the lake with the sun setting at our backs. As our course changed from North to East, we noticed the lights of parked cars along the causeway from Moss Point to Escatawpa that gave evidence of some major event. And since the alligator was not far away from the cars and very little out of our way, we decided to investigate the lights before claiming our prize. Dead alligators would wait.
We will always owe a debt to Harold Rabby. It seems that Harold, a full-fledged adult with a son almost my age, had heard of the alligator's untimely demise and its location. and recognizing the value of the hide, had decided to raise it from its watery grave, skin it, sell the pelt, and share the money with no one. Except after gaffing and securing the gator to his boat that was infinitely more substantial than ours, it seems that a miracle occurred! The alligator was not dead. In fact , it remained lively enough to tow Harold more than two miles before tiring enough to be subdued, brought to land at the causeway, and inspected by the occupants of at least twelve or fifteen cars. At this time in Moss Point, Mississippi, this would classify as a world class traffic jam. In spite of our ages, it didn't take either of us boys too long to imagine our fate had the alligator (that was a full ten...or twelve...or twenty feet long) come back to life with us rather than Harold on the other end of the rope.
I remember the small islands that separated the lake from the river and spending nights camping out with friends. Our only worry was whether or not the fishing boats returning from the Gulf of Mexico to the menhaden plants would cause such a wake that the water would roll over our camp. It never did, of course, but since the highest part of the island was probably no more than four feet higher than the river's high tide mark, we probably had some right to be concerned.
I remember fishing the lake with my father and catching my first fish on a fly rod. And on another day, I remember my Dad catching a large bass on the South end of the lake by casting over a log, hooking the fish and having to work the fish over the log without losing him. And for some reason that I don't understand, I remember going with him on a bright Saturday morning in the Spring and catching a fine number of bream beside a uniquely shaped cypress tree. For years, I have often drifted past that same spot and have never seen the water more than a foot deep. While I don't believe that we possibly could have caught our fish in such shallow water, neither do I believe for a second that I remember the wrong tree.
Because that's definitely the way I remember it.
The giant live oaks were also our place to set homemade traps for flying squirrels. The next morning would always start early with a mad dash to inspect the traps before going to school. The traps were usually tripped by some of the more numerous gray squirrels which, because of their larger size, often knocked the traps from the trees or chewed their way out of them before I could get there. Either way; empty traps...no squirrels.
My most vivid, and often told memory of the Lake was going with the boy from the house behind mine to find an alligator alleged to have been shot and sunk in a place known precisely by my neighbor. This knowledge was attributed to the fact that the shooter was his uncle with a reputation for defending himself from alligators in the event they even looked like they were even interested in him. I suspect he judged them all to be interested.
At any rate, the boy had come to my house late in the afternoon and had to successfully convince my father that we two boys would be perfectly safe in retreiving this completely docile (most dead alligators are) creature who would be returned to his uncle who would skin and sell the hide. The money, though some would have thought it to be ill-gotten since killing alligators was illegal, would be divided three ways with the two of us boys each getting some fantastic sum. Possibly as much as $7 to $15 dollars each.
My father was a conservative, careful, and thoughtful man and, likely, the most honest man that ever lived. He was certainly the most honest that I ever knew. The idea of taking foolish chances on the water combined with the upfront admission that this adventure would involve the illegal act of selling an alligator would never pass muster with him! My friend had no chance. So, of course, my Dad let us go! I never figured out what happened.
We boys, actually small children with a combined body weight that scarcely exceeded 100 pounds, paddled North across Beardslee Lake in boat we referred to as a 'double ender'. More people today familiar with the boats made famous in South Louisiana would call it a pirogue. It was no more than 10 long and had less than six inches of free board (the distance from the water to the top of the boat's sides). We paddled around the point on which the Cunningham house stood and entered the smaller part of the lake with the sun setting at our backs. As our course changed from North to East, we noticed the lights of parked cars along the causeway from Moss Point to Escatawpa that gave evidence of some major event. And since the alligator was not far away from the cars and very little out of our way, we decided to investigate the lights before claiming our prize. Dead alligators would wait.
We will always owe a debt to Harold Rabby. It seems that Harold, a full-fledged adult with a son almost my age, had heard of the alligator's untimely demise and its location. and recognizing the value of the hide, had decided to raise it from its watery grave, skin it, sell the pelt, and share the money with no one. Except after gaffing and securing the gator to his boat that was infinitely more substantial than ours, it seems that a miracle occurred! The alligator was not dead. In fact , it remained lively enough to tow Harold more than two miles before tiring enough to be subdued, brought to land at the causeway, and inspected by the occupants of at least twelve or fifteen cars. At this time in Moss Point, Mississippi, this would classify as a world class traffic jam. In spite of our ages, it didn't take either of us boys too long to imagine our fate had the alligator (that was a full ten...or twelve...or twenty feet long) come back to life with us rather than Harold on the other end of the rope.
I remember the small islands that separated the lake from the river and spending nights camping out with friends. Our only worry was whether or not the fishing boats returning from the Gulf of Mexico to the menhaden plants would cause such a wake that the water would roll over our camp. It never did, of course, but since the highest part of the island was probably no more than four feet higher than the river's high tide mark, we probably had some right to be concerned.
I remember fishing the lake with my father and catching my first fish on a fly rod. And on another day, I remember my Dad catching a large bass on the South end of the lake by casting over a log, hooking the fish and having to work the fish over the log without losing him. And for some reason that I don't understand, I remember going with him on a bright Saturday morning in the Spring and catching a fine number of bream beside a uniquely shaped cypress tree. For years, I have often drifted past that same spot and have never seen the water more than a foot deep. While I don't believe that we possibly could have caught our fish in such shallow water, neither do I believe for a second that I remember the wrong tree.
Because that's definitely the way I remember it.
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Original Boys of Summer - Before Steroids
In 1987, Roger Kahn wrote a novel entitled The Boys of Summer. Kahn's was a baseball book centered on the Brooklyn Dodgers and their exploits of the early 1950's.
My memories of the boys of summer that I grew up with in the late 40's and early 50's featured a different cast of characters, different environments, and most assuredly different rules.
Kahn's characters were professional athletes. Robinson, Snider, Campanella, Lockman, Reese, Furillo, Preacher Roe, and others. Their playing ground was Ebbetts Field. All of the Dodgers were heroes to many and hated rivals to others. They set standards for performance that were admired by most and achieved by few.
But my boys......
Summer mornings began with heavy dew and muggy heat. But by eight o’clock every boy for a half mile in every direction congregated on the vacant space next to the high school football field. Fortunately, it was across the street from my house. No grown-ups present…they all had things to do. They had their kid’s word for where they would be. And that was good enough.
Paper bags served as bases and were located as close to the dimensions of a baseball field as possible. Three boys would bring the best baseballs they owned (all of them are old and ragged) and two or three wooden bats would appear. Most were discards from the high school team. The bats had a common trait. They’d all been broken, pinned together by small wire nails, and then taped with friction tape to reinforce the repair work. The idea of having a new bat was ludicrous. The ones we had worked fine. Most of the kids had some sort of baseball gloves. Often, the better players were the ones that didn’t.
The two kids that were considered by the majority to be the best players were named captains/coach/manager. Often, one of them would claim that they really weren’t one of the two best. The motivation here was neither modesty nor honesty. It’s an attempt to end up on the team with the other best player. It never worked. They chose their teammates by alternately calling out the names from all of those attending. Everyone was chosen. If there was an odd number, it really didn’t matter. Having the weakest player as an extra was never considered to be an advantage. In fact, when he had to bat it became a disadvantage. And being recognized as the weakest player was not an intended insult. No matter where they were picked, the kids knew who was the best and who was the weakest player. It was just a recognized fact that we all knew would end with another year’s growth and experience.
The captains would then assign positions. This wasn’t very tough because before too much time had passed, the fastest kids had become considered by everyone to be outfielders, the slower ones first basemen, those that threw the best were named pitchers and shortstops, and finally, if there was one willing to do it, the catcher position was filled. The catcher also served as the umpire calling balls and strikes. If you were willing to catch, you always got chosen before that last name was called. I played catcher.
Semi-regular rules of baseball were used with a few exceptions; no nine-inning rule and the number of players was determined by how many showed up. The game continued until mothers began calling their sons home for lunch. That usually took about an hour and a half. There was the process of cleaning up, doing a few small chores that had been discovered during the time the morning game was played, eating, and following that sage advice that every Southern mother fervently believed in, “You can’t go and get hot until your lunch settles”.
And as soon as all of the mothers were satisfied that we wouldn’t get heat stroke or worse, the game resumed. All games were ended by darkness or rain. Every day. Six days a week.
Things began to change in 1952. Little League baseball was introduced to Moss Point. With uniforms and regulation fields and new bats and balls. And real umpires and scorekeepers. And, worst of all, parents. Not all parents. Just some. Helping.
There is a tragedy here for those of us who know the difference. There are no longer vacant lots or fields that kids can safely play on unsupervised. They can’t ride their bicycles a half mile through traffic going 60 miles per hour so that they can meet. And there are no longer parents that truly believe that their children are capable of organizing and conducting and even teaching games without adult help. And we worry that if my child is chosen last he will be damaged psychologically and scarred for life instead of realizing that next year he will be a year older and will likely be the choosing captain as a rite of passage into the second or third grade. Or he may find out that he doesn't like baseball. And that's not all bad.
While many thought that The Boys of Summer was the best baseball book ever written, one reviewer said that it really was not even a book about baseball. He said it was a book about courage, love, hate, determination, gratitude, loss, rebirth, frustration, jubilation, acceptance, and family. At its core, he said, it's a book about life.
And if he had added responsibility, teamwork, sharing, leadership, maturation, and an unbelievable amount of good fortune, he could have been talking about my Boys of Summer as well.
At least that's the way I remember it.....
My memories of the boys of summer that I grew up with in the late 40's and early 50's featured a different cast of characters, different environments, and most assuredly different rules.
Kahn's characters were professional athletes. Robinson, Snider, Campanella, Lockman, Reese, Furillo, Preacher Roe, and others. Their playing ground was Ebbetts Field. All of the Dodgers were heroes to many and hated rivals to others. They set standards for performance that were admired by most and achieved by few.
But my boys......
Summer mornings began with heavy dew and muggy heat. But by eight o’clock every boy for a half mile in every direction congregated on the vacant space next to the high school football field. Fortunately, it was across the street from my house. No grown-ups present…they all had things to do. They had their kid’s word for where they would be. And that was good enough.
Paper bags served as bases and were located as close to the dimensions of a baseball field as possible. Three boys would bring the best baseballs they owned (all of them are old and ragged) and two or three wooden bats would appear. Most were discards from the high school team. The bats had a common trait. They’d all been broken, pinned together by small wire nails, and then taped with friction tape to reinforce the repair work. The idea of having a new bat was ludicrous. The ones we had worked fine. Most of the kids had some sort of baseball gloves. Often, the better players were the ones that didn’t.
The two kids that were considered by the majority to be the best players were named captains/coach/manager. Often, one of them would claim that they really weren’t one of the two best. The motivation here was neither modesty nor honesty. It’s an attempt to end up on the team with the other best player. It never worked. They chose their teammates by alternately calling out the names from all of those attending. Everyone was chosen. If there was an odd number, it really didn’t matter. Having the weakest player as an extra was never considered to be an advantage. In fact, when he had to bat it became a disadvantage. And being recognized as the weakest player was not an intended insult. No matter where they were picked, the kids knew who was the best and who was the weakest player. It was just a recognized fact that we all knew would end with another year’s growth and experience.
The captains would then assign positions. This wasn’t very tough because before too much time had passed, the fastest kids had become considered by everyone to be outfielders, the slower ones first basemen, those that threw the best were named pitchers and shortstops, and finally, if there was one willing to do it, the catcher position was filled. The catcher also served as the umpire calling balls and strikes. If you were willing to catch, you always got chosen before that last name was called. I played catcher.
Semi-regular rules of baseball were used with a few exceptions; no nine-inning rule and the number of players was determined by how many showed up. The game continued until mothers began calling their sons home for lunch. That usually took about an hour and a half. There was the process of cleaning up, doing a few small chores that had been discovered during the time the morning game was played, eating, and following that sage advice that every Southern mother fervently believed in, “You can’t go and get hot until your lunch settles”.
And as soon as all of the mothers were satisfied that we wouldn’t get heat stroke or worse, the game resumed. All games were ended by darkness or rain. Every day. Six days a week.
Things began to change in 1952. Little League baseball was introduced to Moss Point. With uniforms and regulation fields and new bats and balls. And real umpires and scorekeepers. And, worst of all, parents. Not all parents. Just some. Helping.
There is a tragedy here for those of us who know the difference. There are no longer vacant lots or fields that kids can safely play on unsupervised. They can’t ride their bicycles a half mile through traffic going 60 miles per hour so that they can meet. And there are no longer parents that truly believe that their children are capable of organizing and conducting and even teaching games without adult help. And we worry that if my child is chosen last he will be damaged psychologically and scarred for life instead of realizing that next year he will be a year older and will likely be the choosing captain as a rite of passage into the second or third grade. Or he may find out that he doesn't like baseball. And that's not all bad.
While many thought that The Boys of Summer was the best baseball book ever written, one reviewer said that it really was not even a book about baseball. He said it was a book about courage, love, hate, determination, gratitude, loss, rebirth, frustration, jubilation, acceptance, and family. At its core, he said, it's a book about life.
And if he had added responsibility, teamwork, sharing, leadership, maturation, and an unbelievable amount of good fortune, he could have been talking about my Boys of Summer as well.
At least that's the way I remember it.....
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
For Sale - Self Pity
There was a temptation to write this piece first. I was also tempted to save it for much later. I was NEVER tempted not to write it; only concerned that I would not do it justice. I truly consider this one of the defining moments of my life. I hope I treat it as such.
I doubt there are many days in our lives when we don't have the opportunity to learn important lessons. I was always fascinated that in spite of working for the same company for nearly 40 years, I not only found something new on a regular basis...I learned something basic. How can you do related things for that long and still not grasp the fundamentals? I guess it's because there is so much to learn about anything. And especially about life and how to live it.
One of the psychological games that was played in the workplace during my working years was attempting to corner the market on sympathy. There was a big market for sympathy but it was a hard sell.
In passing a co-worker in the hallway, the usual greeting was, "How's it going?" It wasn't really a greeting. It was a way to begin a competition. And the two competitors, previously referred to as co-workers, would launch into the exchange of vivid stories about how badly their day was going, who was ruining it, what the pains being experienced were, and how it was totally impossible that anyone could be having a day that even approached the agony they were unjustly experiencing. Without fear of boasting, let me be very clear. I was GOOD at it. I could bring tears to your eyes even when your plan was to have no sympathy for anyone other than yourself. And the scary part was that, for the most part, I believed it.
That was twenty-three years ago.
My daily practice at that time was to pass by my Mother's house on the drive home from work. She lived only three blocks from me and was living alone since the death of my father about a year earlier. At my insistence, she usually kept the front door locked because her mobility kept her from rapidly answering visitor knocks and I didn't want people to have the option of just letting themselves in and surprising her.
It had been a tough day. One of the toughest I could remember. My mind kept racing as I drove about the events of the day and how difficult it had been. I reached my mother's door and let myself in with my key. She was standing across the room.
She trembled a little as she stood there using a wheelchair as a walker. What little hair she had after all of the chemotheraphy treatments from her two bouts with lymphomia were covered by a babushka. Her complexion was more golden than pink because of jaundicing. Her plastic cosmetic braces on both of her lower legs were visible and made walking, while difficult, possible despite her bouts with a form of muscular dystrophy called Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease. And this was the way she led everyday. Confined inside a small house with movement between rooms constituting a major project. Constantly having to deal with the effect of medications. And still missing her husband and my father.
I looked and her and asked, "How are you today?", and she returned the look with a smile.
"Very well, thank you".
What a jerk! Here I was with a life filled with blessings and recognizing none of them. And here she was with more challenges in her day than I had experienced in my life (added together) and being defeated by NONE OF THEM! A man standing six feet six inches never felt so small.
I never competed in that hallway game again. Instead, when posed with the "How's it going?" question, I would respond, "Very well, thank you" or "Darn near perfect". Thanks, Mom. You got it right again!
And that's how I'll always remember it.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Respecting One's Elders Did Have A Few Exceptions
One thing that seems to have endured more in the South than in other parts of the country is how many adults doggedly cling to the requirement for developing youth to properly address their elders in a respectful manner. As a rule, this meant using names like Mr. Smith, Mrs. Jones, or Miss Lee (assuming she was over 18 years of age). And when asked a question, the reply was not yes or no (yeah or naw would result in a death sentence for the offender), it was Yes, Sir or No, Ma'am. These rules were generally firm, fixed, and inflexible. But there were exceptions.
There were probably more exceptions than quickly come to mind, but the one that I always think of is Miss Bessie. I was probably in my teens before I really knew that her full name was Bessie Cowan, but it certainly didn't matter. Everyone in town, regardless of their age, knew her as Miss Bessie. No one would have recognized the name Miss Cowan.
Miss Bessie likely holds a special place in the hearts of lots of kids that grew up in Moss Point's Presbyterian Church. She does in mine. My memories of her picture a very small woman with snow white hair that was always done in tight curls. Although Southerners sometimes take liberties and apply the title "Miss" to women who are or have been married, marriage was never a part of Miss Bessie's life. Maybe that's why she loved every child in the church as she did; we were her kids. She taught every beginners class (which began when you entered the first grade) for years and was absolutely tireless in preparing and participating in Vacation Bible School (VBS) each summer.
My memories of Miss Bessie include three small events. Small, that is, if you look at them in terms of their time and effort. But each of them had a profound impact on my life.
The first was during a VBS session when she challenged each of us to actively ask our friends to come the next day. "Don't ask just one, ask them all". And I asked a few. And a couple came. Miss Bessie would smile and ask if those were the only friends I had. So I asked more. And so did others. And by the end of the week, we had, by far, the largest group ever assembled for a VBS. And on the last day, Miss Bessie told us about being 'Fishers of Men'. She even passed out fishing lures to the boys. We didn't know what words like witnessing or evangelizing meant. But Miss Bessie sure did.
Miss Bessie was the person who taught us the Ten Commandments. We each were assigned one and not only learned it but stood before an audience and told them what it meant. I was given 'Honor thy Father and Mother....". And I did.
And there is no way to tell how many children received their first Bible from Miss Bessie. I seem to remember that a small white New Testament was given to every Sunday School student who had perfect attendance for a year. But somehow, I suspect that Miss Bessie made sure that every child got one regardless of whether or not they met the attendance standard.
I don't think that anyone can put a value on being mentored by people like Miss Bessie Cowan. There was a popular book that came out a few years ago entitled, "Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten". Miss Bessie beat that author by fifty years in Sunday School.
There were probably more exceptions than quickly come to mind, but the one that I always think of is Miss Bessie. I was probably in my teens before I really knew that her full name was Bessie Cowan, but it certainly didn't matter. Everyone in town, regardless of their age, knew her as Miss Bessie. No one would have recognized the name Miss Cowan.
Miss Bessie likely holds a special place in the hearts of lots of kids that grew up in Moss Point's Presbyterian Church. She does in mine. My memories of her picture a very small woman with snow white hair that was always done in tight curls. Although Southerners sometimes take liberties and apply the title "Miss" to women who are or have been married, marriage was never a part of Miss Bessie's life. Maybe that's why she loved every child in the church as she did; we were her kids. She taught every beginners class (which began when you entered the first grade) for years and was absolutely tireless in preparing and participating in Vacation Bible School (VBS) each summer.
My memories of Miss Bessie include three small events. Small, that is, if you look at them in terms of their time and effort. But each of them had a profound impact on my life.
The first was during a VBS session when she challenged each of us to actively ask our friends to come the next day. "Don't ask just one, ask them all". And I asked a few. And a couple came. Miss Bessie would smile and ask if those were the only friends I had. So I asked more. And so did others. And by the end of the week, we had, by far, the largest group ever assembled for a VBS. And on the last day, Miss Bessie told us about being 'Fishers of Men'. She even passed out fishing lures to the boys. We didn't know what words like witnessing or evangelizing meant. But Miss Bessie sure did.
Miss Bessie was the person who taught us the Ten Commandments. We each were assigned one and not only learned it but stood before an audience and told them what it meant. I was given 'Honor thy Father and Mother....". And I did.
And there is no way to tell how many children received their first Bible from Miss Bessie. I seem to remember that a small white New Testament was given to every Sunday School student who had perfect attendance for a year. But somehow, I suspect that Miss Bessie made sure that every child got one regardless of whether or not they met the attendance standard.
I don't think that anyone can put a value on being mentored by people like Miss Bessie Cowan. There was a popular book that came out a few years ago entitled, "Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten". Miss Bessie beat that author by fifty years in Sunday School.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Piano Lessons - Cruel and Unusual Punishment?
There is a constitutional ban on cruel and unusual punishment. It's been on the books for years. But for some unexplained reason, only the courts consider the issue of whether or not punishment is unconstitutional, and that means it is not usually applied to young people of elementary school age when they believe they have been wronged. Good thing, too! Otherwise, our court system would have broken down years ago under the weight of kids dragging well- meaning, but basically clueless, parents before hizzoner and suing.
Judge: "Well, Richard, what have they done this time"?
Richard: "This one takes the cake, your Honor Lordship, Sir". They've enrolled me in Mrs. Brock's piano lessons during the period following the fifth grade lunch time".
Judge: "Is that bad"?
Richard: "Your Kingship, my father is the high school football coach. I'm the fifth grade quarterback. I deserve respect. I require respect. And I'm the only boy taking piano lessons".
Judge: "FIENDS"!
Obviously, this conversation did not take place. But if fifth graders could have filed suits, I would have! Democracy was not in place when the decision was made that I would learn to play the piano. There was no vote. No discussion. No chance to express opposition. Things were a bit different in those days. "Because I said so" was all the reason necessary to finalize any parental action. It was a done deal. I WOULD take piano lessons.
In those days, piano lessons were part of the school curriculum. On Thursdays, immediately following lunch, a sweet young lady name Anise Brock would come to the door of Mrs. Hassell's fifth grade classroom, tap lightly, and announce that it was time for Richard to come to his piano lesson. I can still hear the snickering! Boys and girls, but mainly boys, in that somewhat melodic sing-song lilt that every grade-schooler knows how to do instinctively, 'Richard. It time for your pee-ann-oh lesson'. And I would have to stand, exit the room before all of the gleefully staring eyes and follow Mrs. Brock to the piano room. And hour later, I would have to return and face the most forgetful people on earth. They must have been because each of them would ask where I had been.
As the only male member of this group of tortured children, I was sure that my life was over. It could not possibly get worse. But it did.
I found out that at the completion of the year, there would be a recital. Mandatory. Non-elective. You had to wear a tie and not only did I not own one, I had never even put one on. Begging to quit did no good. My father was not big on quitting anything you started. The best deal I could make was that if I didn't want to continue after the year was over, I could become a sixth grade piano dropout.
I couldn't wait!
The first twenty minutes of each lesson was spent in instruction learning notes, new scales, and exercises. The last forty minutes was spent practicing those exercises. I rarely used this time as it was intended. Instead, I was determined that if I had to play in the recital, I would NOT embarrass myself any more than my involuntary presence would shame me. So, after careful research and selection, Mrs. Brock and I agreed on a wonderfully complex (sarcasm intended) piece of music for first year students and I learned to play "The Campbells Are Coming" as competently as Van Cliburn could have played it. Unfortunately, I learned to play NOTHING else. But I can play that piece this very day.
The recital was anticlimactic. No one cared. No friends came...thankfully. I raced through 'the Campbells' at a speed far faster than the composer ever imagined possible. And at the end of the year, it was over.
There is no way to estimate how many times through the years that I've spoken of these experiences and had friends tell me how they regret dropping out of music lessons and asking if I don't have the same regret. I always give the honest answer. Not for a single minute! Would I like some musical training? Yes. Would I enjoy playing some instrument? Certainly. But not at the same time as being a fifth grade quarterback!
Sinatra sang, ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few”. And so do I. And one of my biggest ones was that neither of my younger brothers had to endure the same cruel and unusual experience. Sooner or later, we learn that life isn’t fair!
At least, that's the way I remember it.
Judge: "Well, Richard, what have they done this time"?
Richard: "This one takes the cake, your Honor Lordship, Sir". They've enrolled me in Mrs. Brock's piano lessons during the period following the fifth grade lunch time".
Judge: "Is that bad"?
Richard: "Your Kingship, my father is the high school football coach. I'm the fifth grade quarterback. I deserve respect. I require respect. And I'm the only boy taking piano lessons".
Judge: "FIENDS"!
Obviously, this conversation did not take place. But if fifth graders could have filed suits, I would have! Democracy was not in place when the decision was made that I would learn to play the piano. There was no vote. No discussion. No chance to express opposition. Things were a bit different in those days. "Because I said so" was all the reason necessary to finalize any parental action. It was a done deal. I WOULD take piano lessons.
In those days, piano lessons were part of the school curriculum. On Thursdays, immediately following lunch, a sweet young lady name Anise Brock would come to the door of Mrs. Hassell's fifth grade classroom, tap lightly, and announce that it was time for Richard to come to his piano lesson. I can still hear the snickering! Boys and girls, but mainly boys, in that somewhat melodic sing-song lilt that every grade-schooler knows how to do instinctively, 'Richard. It time for your pee-ann-oh lesson'. And I would have to stand, exit the room before all of the gleefully staring eyes and follow Mrs. Brock to the piano room. And hour later, I would have to return and face the most forgetful people on earth. They must have been because each of them would ask where I had been.
As the only male member of this group of tortured children, I was sure that my life was over. It could not possibly get worse. But it did.
I found out that at the completion of the year, there would be a recital. Mandatory. Non-elective. You had to wear a tie and not only did I not own one, I had never even put one on. Begging to quit did no good. My father was not big on quitting anything you started. The best deal I could make was that if I didn't want to continue after the year was over, I could become a sixth grade piano dropout.
I couldn't wait!
The first twenty minutes of each lesson was spent in instruction learning notes, new scales, and exercises. The last forty minutes was spent practicing those exercises. I rarely used this time as it was intended. Instead, I was determined that if I had to play in the recital, I would NOT embarrass myself any more than my involuntary presence would shame me. So, after careful research and selection, Mrs. Brock and I agreed on a wonderfully complex (sarcasm intended) piece of music for first year students and I learned to play "The Campbells Are Coming" as competently as Van Cliburn could have played it. Unfortunately, I learned to play NOTHING else. But I can play that piece this very day.
The recital was anticlimactic. No one cared. No friends came...thankfully. I raced through 'the Campbells' at a speed far faster than the composer ever imagined possible. And at the end of the year, it was over.
There is no way to estimate how many times through the years that I've spoken of these experiences and had friends tell me how they regret dropping out of music lessons and asking if I don't have the same regret. I always give the honest answer. Not for a single minute! Would I like some musical training? Yes. Would I enjoy playing some instrument? Certainly. But not at the same time as being a fifth grade quarterback!
Sinatra sang, ‘Regrets, I’ve had a few”. And so do I. And one of my biggest ones was that neither of my younger brothers had to endure the same cruel and unusual experience. Sooner or later, we learn that life isn’t fair!
At least, that's the way I remember it.
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Theory on the Downfall of Neighborhoods....
Today it is hard to find a person that knows everyone that lives within a tenth of a mile in all directions. In cities, this would mean with a city block. But I grew up in a time when we knew EVERYBODY. We knew what they did for a living, where they went to church, who had visited them within the last month, and what the names of their pets were. We knew what clubs they belonged to and their children's grades in school. We knew everything we needed to know and most of the things we probably shouldn't have known.
What happened? A friend of mine in California told me while I was visiting him that he had yet to meet one of his next door neighbors but he had been busy and he had only lived in his current residence for about two years. After I stopped laughing at the idea of not even knowing who was around him, I began thinking if I was any better. Did I know my neighbors? And, if not, why?
And after diligent research and investigation I was able to develop the infallible (but not widely accepted) theory for the downfall of neighborhoods and social interaction within communities. The fault should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Air Conditioning.
I must begin by pleading guilty to hypocrisy in that I'm as addicted to being cool and comfortable as anyone. But I clearly remember walking a bit over a mile to the small business district of my hometown as a child no more than six or seven years old ALONE - without a worry on either my part or the part of my parents. Any parent allowing a child to do this today would be arrested for neglect and rightfully so. But why did it work then? Every house had a porch in front that faced the street. The swings that hung from chains and the rocking chairs were there to provide comfort, but even if the family was not on the porch the windows were wide open and everything happening outside could be seen or heard. I was looked over by the occupants of every house I passed. A couple of phone calls to friends would either result in, "he passed by here five minutes ago" or "I haven't seen him yet, wait, here he comes now".
And then came A/C.
Doors were shut. Windows were closed.
Families retreated behind blinds that minimized the amount of sunlight that penetrated into the cooled spaces. Noises were shut out. From the standpoint of neighbors, we may as well have moved into a steel cocoon.
Within a very few years, we went from knowing everything to knowing NOTHING! Not even their names. And with this change came another. Door locks! Children today cannot imagine leaving their house without locking everything up tight. I can truthfully say that most of the years when I was growing up, we didn't even know where the key to the door was! I clearly recall leaving for several days and returning home to find a note on the table in the kitchen expressing regret that visitors had missed finding us at home.
They had helped themselves to a pot of coffee, cleaned up after themselves, and even put away the only luxury I ever remember my mother having...her silverware. No thought was ever given to the fact that they had entered the house unescorted...or that they had used and consumed coffee and whatever was available in the refrigerator...or that they had even used the "good silver". My parents only regretted that they had missed seeing their friends.
As I flew home from my visit to California, I vowed to do something about my own shortcoming in the neighbor department. After discussing it with wife Martha, we decided we would host a 'block party' sort of gathering and invite as many neighbors as we could adequately handle logistically. Obviously, many of them would not or could not come, but we would give a chance for others to meet and greet. The number invited turned out to be 56. We set up tables on the front lawn in October and asked each guest family to bring a dish if they chose, but to come under any circumstance. We furnished the fried fish and the drinks. And of the 56, 53 came. So we waited for a couple of years and did it again, this time inviting almost 120 people. More than 100 came. And we had great times! I suppose neighbors still want to be neighborly.
Wouldn't it be great if I could say that this changed things and everyone became close friends that met and shared and greeted and visited just as we did during my childhood? It would be. But it didn't happen. Damn Air Conditioning!
At least that's the way I remember it.
What happened? A friend of mine in California told me while I was visiting him that he had yet to meet one of his next door neighbors but he had been busy and he had only lived in his current residence for about two years. After I stopped laughing at the idea of not even knowing who was around him, I began thinking if I was any better. Did I know my neighbors? And, if not, why?
And after diligent research and investigation I was able to develop the infallible (but not widely accepted) theory for the downfall of neighborhoods and social interaction within communities. The fault should be placed squarely on the shoulders of Air Conditioning.
I must begin by pleading guilty to hypocrisy in that I'm as addicted to being cool and comfortable as anyone. But I clearly remember walking a bit over a mile to the small business district of my hometown as a child no more than six or seven years old ALONE - without a worry on either my part or the part of my parents. Any parent allowing a child to do this today would be arrested for neglect and rightfully so. But why did it work then? Every house had a porch in front that faced the street. The swings that hung from chains and the rocking chairs were there to provide comfort, but even if the family was not on the porch the windows were wide open and everything happening outside could be seen or heard. I was looked over by the occupants of every house I passed. A couple of phone calls to friends would either result in, "he passed by here five minutes ago" or "I haven't seen him yet, wait, here he comes now".
And then came A/C.
Doors were shut. Windows were closed.
Families retreated behind blinds that minimized the amount of sunlight that penetrated into the cooled spaces. Noises were shut out. From the standpoint of neighbors, we may as well have moved into a steel cocoon.
Within a very few years, we went from knowing everything to knowing NOTHING! Not even their names. And with this change came another. Door locks! Children today cannot imagine leaving their house without locking everything up tight. I can truthfully say that most of the years when I was growing up, we didn't even know where the key to the door was! I clearly recall leaving for several days and returning home to find a note on the table in the kitchen expressing regret that visitors had missed finding us at home.
They had helped themselves to a pot of coffee, cleaned up after themselves, and even put away the only luxury I ever remember my mother having...her silverware. No thought was ever given to the fact that they had entered the house unescorted...or that they had used and consumed coffee and whatever was available in the refrigerator...or that they had even used the "good silver". My parents only regretted that they had missed seeing their friends.
As I flew home from my visit to California, I vowed to do something about my own shortcoming in the neighbor department. After discussing it with wife Martha, we decided we would host a 'block party' sort of gathering and invite as many neighbors as we could adequately handle logistically. Obviously, many of them would not or could not come, but we would give a chance for others to meet and greet. The number invited turned out to be 56. We set up tables on the front lawn in October and asked each guest family to bring a dish if they chose, but to come under any circumstance. We furnished the fried fish and the drinks. And of the 56, 53 came. So we waited for a couple of years and did it again, this time inviting almost 120 people. More than 100 came. And we had great times! I suppose neighbors still want to be neighborly.
Wouldn't it be great if I could say that this changed things and everyone became close friends that met and shared and greeted and visited just as we did during my childhood? It would be. But it didn't happen. Damn Air Conditioning!
At least that's the way I remember it.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
The way I remember it.....
My mother's Aunt Rosa was a woman of letters and opinions. She loved Blue Mountain College and Baptists and avidly supported both. She had high standards for life and high expectations...both for herself and any other member of her family. She loved most of the rituals of life with the favorites being the beginnings and endings of adulthood. Her son, Price, made it a point to personally visit each person at the cemetery when his mother was buried and invite them to his house for coffee and cake. Price said that was the way she would have wanted it because, "there was nothing that Mother loved more than a good wedding or a good funeral".
But the tenet that Aunt Rosa held that always stayed with me was that "everyone, at some point in their life, should write a book". I found that amazing! I still do! How could she possibly believe that? After all, as far as I knew Aunt Rosa herself had not written a book. Little did I know.
It turned out that despite advancing years, she completed a book of the Paschal family history. Essentially a geneology, no one was particularly eager to publish her book. Did I mention that Aunt Rosa had high standards and expectations? Well, she also had a few dollars. And not easily dissuaded, she paid for the publishing and gave the books as presents to family and friends. I truly regret that I've never been able to have one of these proofs of her talent and determination.
And what's the point of this story? Life has changed from the times that my mother's aunt took up writing. The tools of creation and publication now include the computer and the internet. No longer do we require a publisher to be able to share written anecdotes with others. So as I find myself also classified as a member of advancing age, I'm going to periodically take up a challenge from current friends and relatives and from a long departed great aunt and try to document short memories before they become shorter.
All will have elements of facts and truth to the best of my ability. At least I'll be able to end them all with..."that's the way I remember it".
But the tenet that Aunt Rosa held that always stayed with me was that "everyone, at some point in their life, should write a book". I found that amazing! I still do! How could she possibly believe that? After all, as far as I knew Aunt Rosa herself had not written a book. Little did I know.
It turned out that despite advancing years, she completed a book of the Paschal family history. Essentially a geneology, no one was particularly eager to publish her book. Did I mention that Aunt Rosa had high standards and expectations? Well, she also had a few dollars. And not easily dissuaded, she paid for the publishing and gave the books as presents to family and friends. I truly regret that I've never been able to have one of these proofs of her talent and determination.
And what's the point of this story? Life has changed from the times that my mother's aunt took up writing. The tools of creation and publication now include the computer and the internet. No longer do we require a publisher to be able to share written anecdotes with others. So as I find myself also classified as a member of advancing age, I'm going to periodically take up a challenge from current friends and relatives and from a long departed great aunt and try to document short memories before they become shorter.
All will have elements of facts and truth to the best of my ability. At least I'll be able to end them all with..."that's the way I remember it".
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