Friday, August 16, 2013
Baseball Season circa 1958-1962
Within the boundaries of the fenced in yard of the neighbor boy and the ultra landscaped property of a Detroit retiree, Mr. Brooks, lay a vacant lot. It was mowed by "Brooksie," the name the girls called him with absolutely no affection . To Brooksie, the group of neighborhood boys and girls were an unruly hoard to be kept off his golf course lawn complete with sprinklers. The TA-TA-TA-pppppppppt sound plus the thrill of venturing into forbidden territory made for an irresistible game of cat and mouse on a hot summer day. The girls would make a mad dash toward the nearest sprinkler head, timing the entry into the refreshing rain drops just as they reached the edge of greenness marking the boundary of his acres of lawn. Eventually the shrieks of joy would alert him of the trespass and waving a fist and with a crotchety angry shout, "Get off my lawn," the game was over for the time being.
Now, some fifty years later, I realize Mr. Brooks gave the children of Clinton Avenue a gift, a vacant lot. The small plot, owner in absentia, grass clipped regularly, was vacant, a vacuum that sucked in the imaginations of a tribe of baby boomers. The girls and boys of Clinton Avenue gathered on neutral ground to form teams, line up wooden plank bases, make their own rules and PLAY BALL!
The boys and girls of Clinton Avenue would gather on this green expanse and choose teams. All would be chosen, even littlest sisters and brothers. One boy, so strong in his upper body that he could go to a handstand on a fence post, had weak and crippled legs. He walked slowly and running was impossible. Down on his hands and knees, he was swifter. Shorter bases were laid down just for him. With a powerful swing he frequently hit home runs.
The rules of the game were frequently up for debate. Who was the home team? One of the two captains tossed the the bat into the air, the other grabbed it somewhere along its length. Hand over hand, up the bat until the last eagle claw on the wooden knob at the end was clutched. This person decided whether they were at bat or in the field. Politely taking turns, teams were chosen. Not enough players? No problem, at bat team supply a catcher, perhaps a designated pitcher for both teams. It didn't matter. We did what ever it took to play ball.
All of the neighborhood kids gathered in this space, the younger siblings, boys, and girls, all preadolescent. In this space the children made memories of cooperation, following the rules, when to bend the rules in the interest of fairness and the friendship that bound it all together. Conflicts arose but were resolved knowing that the alternative would end the game. Each child got a turn at bat, "hey batter, batter....swing!" No umpire to call balls or strikes, each could wait for their sweet pitch. Smaller children were given 4 strikes and the really small got to swing until the ball was hit.
One boy from town who played little league would ride his bike out to play. Happy and goofy this boy fit in with the children and followed our "rules." On the Little League field his play was inconsistent, wildly varying from heroically spectacular to embarrassingly inept. The boys and girls of Clinton Ave. were always happy to see him. He basked in the idolization of the girls young brother. When he appeared to play, he was always chosen first and could hit the ball across Clinton Ave. However, on one memorable occasion he reenacted "Casey at the Bat." One of the girls pitched and when he whiffed the last pitch, the sisters all cheered and hugged. Our "professional" ball player displayed the grace and good humor we all admired and the game went on.
To this day, I do not remember the score of a single game. No parents or adults ever participated. What I do remember is a group of children just being kids learning about life through play. Now I know what a blessing that is. Belatedly, thank you to Mr. Brooks for mowing the grass.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Ariel
Ariel:
Your
charm so strongly works ‘em
That
if now you beheld them, your affections
Would
become tender.
Prospero:
Dost
thou think so, spirit?
Ariel:
Mine
would, were I human. From
the Tempest by William Shakespeare (always used pronoun, “he” is a spirit and depicted in drawings as
feminine)
Curtis,
Russell and Ellenora were trying to be patient while mom drove around doing
shopping. Little sister, Ellenora,
needed new shoes; Big, big brother, Curtis, a new bathing suit and big brother,
Russell, needed nothing at all. Mom
promised a stop at the park with the old train engine on the way home. Harmony and peace reigned in the back seat of
the old brown station wagon. The
children smiled and laughed as they talked about the train, and the swings and
slides.
One
more stop to get the tires rotated and then on to the park! The big brothers and little sister watched
through the glass as the workers used a loud air wrench to take bolts off of
each tire and then move them to a different spot on the car. Mom explained, “Putting the tires in different places on the
car makes them last longer.”
The
last bolt was tightened and the car taken off the lift. Everyone was scrambling back to the car when
Russell saw something small among the old tires sitting out side. Russell was the quietest of the children but
very observant. It hopped, made little
launches into the air and then plopped back.
It was a baby bird. It was
scared. It was frantic. The little baby
bird had lost its family and home and did not know how to fly yet.
Mom
took over and scooped up the little baby and held its warm body in the palm of
her hand. His little heart felt like a
vibration, it was beating so fast. Feeling
safe, the little bird relaxed as the children looked on with fascination.
The
mother and her three children all stood quietly gathered around the baby bird
wondering, “What shall we do now?” This
little baby cannot survive long by this busy highway. He could not get food for himself. If a cat came along, he could not fly
away. “Mom, we have to take care of this
baby bird until he can fly?
“I
know,” agreed Mom.
Curtis sat in the middle and gently
held the baby bird while mom drove straight home. None of the children minded at all when they
passed the park with the train. The
three barely looked up not wanting to take their eyes off of their new
charge. Each took a turn using their
pointer finger to pet the tiny bird’s head and down its back to it new tail
feathers. He did not try to fly away or
struggle, he just felt safe.
“What kind of bird is this baby, Mom?”
asked Curtis. Mom did not know the answer. She knew that babies do need to eat and be kept
warm and safe until able to care for themselves.
Ellenora
suggested, “Lets think of a name we can call him.” Is the baby bird a boy or
girl, everyone wondered out loud? Mom
explained that it is hard to tell a baby boy bird from a baby girl. When they are grown up, people can tell by
the feathers. Many boy birds have fancy
feathers because that is what the girl birds like. The girl birds need to hide while sitting on
their eggs in a nest, so they need camouflage colors that are brown and grey.
The brothers wanted a boy name and
little sister wanted a girl name. Mom
settled it by choosing the name, Ariel.
Mom explained that Ariel was a perfect
name. Ariel is a Spirit helper in a William
Shakespeare play called the Tempest.
Ariel was rescued from a tree and was bound to serve a man named
Prospero. In the story Ariel is neither
boy nor girl. Ariel often gives helpful
advice to Prospero. The children liked
it because they thought of another word that sounds the same, “aerial.” This
word means, existing high in the air.
Ariel
was now warm and safe, but what does he eat?
Some birds eat bugs; some eat seeds, some worms. There are thousands of possibilities.
“Birds eat breadcrumbs,” Russell
offered. He had noticed how Grandma threw the old bread
and burnt toast under the bird feeder and watched while the sparrows and wrens
swooped down to peck at it. Some times a
crow would carry away a whole slice!
Gathering around with tiny breadcrumbs in his outstretch palm, Ariel turned up his beak in a
“no, thank you” gesture. Although he must be famished, breadcrumbs, clearly
were not in his diet.
“If
only we knew what kind of bird Ariel is,” Mom complained. “We will try something else.” Many birds that eat worms and bugs, slugs and
such will eat hamburger. With great
anticipation, it was offered. Once again
the beak turned up. If Ariel could talk,
he would have said, “Yuk, no way!” He
couldn’t talk. He could not tell us what
to do but if Ariel didn’t get some food soon, well; nobody wanted to think
about that.
All
that day, Ariel took turns riding around on the pointer finger of each child. Mother was worried though. She got out books on birds and started to
look at pictures for a clue as to what kind of bird this could be? She looked carefully at the bird. What do you notice, she asked each
child. Curtis noticed the black mask
around Ariel’s eyes. Ellenora spotted the
yellow on its tail. Russell watched
carefully and spied some feathers that stuck up on the back of Ariel’s head.
The
children gathered around the kitchen table while Mom turned the pages of Bird
of Michigan Field Guide looking for an adult bird that had some of the features
of little Ariel. At last they turned a
page and Mom said, “Ah ha, I think our little friend is a Cedar Waxwing!
Cedar
Waxwing birds eat fruit. The children
had some grapes and they cut them in half and offered one. The little Waxwing chick started to peck enthusiastically
and voraciously at the grape. Arial was
sooo hungry that he ate and ate while the children and mom looked on with
relief. Ariel now had everything he
needed to survive until he was old enough to fly.
The
days past and the children came to love the bird they called Ariel. Ariel was a wild bird and each child knew
that the day would come when Ariel would fly away. Curtis liked to say, “Someday Ariel will be
aerial.” Curtis instructed his younger
brother and sister in the art of fledgling
flying lessons from the perch of his pointing finger. Ariel would make flapping motions with his
wings but still could not fly very far.
Ariel rode around on the children’s shoulders and rested in a laundry
basket. He loved to eat almost any kind
of fruit.
Mom
wanted Ariel to learn how to fly because soon the family would be going on a
camping vacation. As the time drew near,
mom had to decide what to do if Ariel was not aerial. At last, she found a wildlife rescue station
nearby and called on the telephone. She
told all about Ariel and asked if they would keep him until he could fly. Yes, was the reply.
The
children were sad when mom explained that Ariel could not come on vacation with
the family but together they would make sure the fledgling would be safe until full-grown
and take to the air in flight. Mom drove
the three plus Ariel to the Nature Center where a nice lady took over. “Have a good life little friend.” “Fly back and see us.” “Thank you for teaching us about birds.” “We love you Ariel.” With happy tears they left to get ready for
an exciting camping trip to Canada.
This
is a true story. It happened many years
ago when your moms and dads were my children:
Curtis is Justin, Russell is Ross and Ellenora is Lauren. Mom is your grandma. I wrote this story just for you, my dear
grandchildren. I was inspired because
Grandpa and Grandma planted two Serviceberry bushes and yesterday they filled
with flocks of Cedar Waxwing birds.
Grandma thought about Ariel and he is a wonderful spirit memory that forever connects us all.
These
are the birds that found my bush. I took
this picture as they gobbled the berries.
Some
Interesting Facts
about
Cedar Waxwings
1. The
name comes from the red waxy tips on the wings.
The tips get bigger as the bird gets older.
2. These
birds LOVE fruit and can survive on fruit alone for months.
3. Cedar
Waxwings flocks eat in shifts and are very polite unlike most birds that just
eat what they can.
4. These
birds don’t have a song, they make a buzzing sound.
5. A
group of Waxwings is called an “ear-full” or a “museum.” (that is just plain silly but true)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)