Mudville

Tonight was our last baseball game of the season. We sat on the hill in the shade at Roosevelt Middle School and watched our boys play their last two games of the season. Whew. That's about enough sitting in lawnchairs for this daddy. I like watching the kids but less and less enjoy watching the parents.

And anyway my contact lenses were drying out and my eyes felt sandpapered. It's all about me and my eyes.

I picked up my glasses two weeks ago, on a Thursday morning, and they broke in two at the nose-piece. I took them in to the Eye Center and they couldn't fix my old Ralph Lauren frames (I know you knew I was a fashion plate), of course. We looked at some other drill in frames and I picked out a color. The woman ordered a couple other frames just in case. . . .

She said it'd be a week. This is a week of wearing contact lenses 14 to 16 hours each day. This is using eye drops to make it through and slamming contact lenses into puffy eyes in the morning. I asked if she couldn't expedite things. I should have used a smaller word.

After a week there was a voicemail on my cell phone. "We have your three frames in and they ALL fit your lenses, so just come in and pick out which one you want and we'll send them to the lab." My already watery eyes were freshened by real tears.

I called and explained that I had already indicated my choice and that we shouldn't be having this conversation. I explained that I had indicated the silvery sort of frames. He said that would work and I could get them Monday. Now a week is seven days. Now we were talking eleven days. That's almost a flipping fortnight. I also complained about my eyes.

On Monday I called and the nice man explained that the frames would be in from Iowa City about 3:30 p.m. This is about the time my client comes on Mondays. She and I both called and cancelled each other. Her eyes were fine. I told her about mine.

At 4 p.m., the Eye Center had not called. I called them and the receptionist was very pleased to discover that my glasses were in from Iowa City. I wept tears of joy. I drove slowly, due to impaired vision, to the Eye Center. I told them about my eyes.

Because it's all about me, and them.

Polar bear sneezing

The height of action photography: catching a polar bear in mid-sneeze. If you look closely you can see polar snot.

Big Wooden Radio has been playing lately, the last few weeks have been what my whole summer used to be like: music on town squares on weekend nights, long drives home late at night. I find I still really enjoy the playing, but not so much the other stuff - waiting around, driving home, missing out on family things. Tomorrow night we are on the Pedestrian Mall in Iowa City, which is always an experience requiring a good deal of concentration. We are playing well, and getting along well. That's nothing to sneeze at.

Oh, and today I could put a title on my post. Go figure.

Why can't I put a title on this?

My current curse in life is that I can't get this program to let me put a title on these posts anymore. I have no idea what I did. It was probably an involuntary muscle spasm.

My friend Jay Hathway and I believed strongly in the redeeming power of the involuntary muscle spasm. It explained a lot about the choices we made. We used to slap each other and say "Involuntary muscle spasm!" This explained much of adolescence.

I can grow plants. That's part of what makes me a "homey guy." "Bring me home to Mom, baby. I'm homey!" About 18 months ago, I bought an orchid at Target. It was in the Orchid Department, with a bunch of othe orchids. It looked a lot like this:

This is a Paphilopedilum sukhakulii. It looked really scary and I was drawn to it. In Target, for God's sake!

Picture it on a metal shelf, between the baskets and the silk flowers. This one is reputedly in the wild, but the one I bought was definitely in suburbia.

After 14 months, I got the Paphilopedilum to flower again. My family now believes I can grow orchids. This is a challenging prospect, but also very interesting. My mother-in-law, Donna, boght me the Phalaenopsis (Moth Orchid) for my birthday. That'd be the one at the top of this post.

I turned 49 Saturday, doing a sound check on the second flat-bed trailer stage in two nights of entertainment. It was some hot asphalt, but things cooled down and folks danced and did a conga line, at DB's suggestion. I have noticed that Fairfield crowds tend to be rather open to suggestion. One guy who appeared to be on the last stages of an ecstasy trip (and not one which included any recent hygiene) yelled "Group HUG!!!" really loud and raised his arms. The dancing Fairfieldians parted like the waters before Moses. Apparently the power of suggestion has its limits.

Independence day

We lived in a "shotgun" house in a neighborhood with tall elm trees and many old people. It was Summer, 1967. I can almost smell my dad's aftershave looking at this picture. Something was pretty funny. I can't remember what it was.

There was trouble ahead and trouble behind. This was a good day. I can feel that.

It's the Fourth of July. I really hate firecrackers and only tolerate sparklers. Every party has to have one, eh? I like fireworks displays, but I don't like crowds and traffic and waiting. I will instruct myself not to bitch.

I'd like to have a good day today. Maybe we'll take a picture of it. My son or daughter may find it, on some disc (the modern equivalent of a cardboard box) some day.

I hope they remember that we were in a good mood. I hope they smile. I don't care how I'm remembered by "history" but I hope, in their scramble to launch and get away and start their lives, my kids look back fondly and remember something like a normal summer day, a good laugh about who knows what.

And I'd like it if they clean their rooms.

Left Field

I'm a klutz.

Imagine my surprise when our son turned out to be athletically competent. Robyn and I looked at each other and shrugged.

Walker wanted to play competetive basketball, and he was a pretty good guard at the time, but it seemed like the only way to get on a team was to have me start one and be the coach.

I'm a klutz. Assistant coaching, perhaps. No team starting.

One day Walker came home with a try-out flyer for a team called the Swisher Swat. He went and had so much fun he went back and tried out again. The Swisher field is at the end of a city park, wrapped in corn. They did drills and learned skills. Walker was hooked. He didn't join the Swat, but was invited to play with a unit called the Prairie Baseball Club.

Walker didn't know much about baseball when he started. He worked hard to learn the minute stuff that you have to know when you play ball. There's the play where you're on 2nd and the center fielder sneaks up and tags when you lead off and you're picked off! There are a hundred things to look for, to remember.

Walker is hitting really well these days. His muscles remember routine plays. He's turned into a good, hustling outfielder with aspirations of second basemanship. He plays well with others.

Cool July summer evenings, sitting in lawn chairs, holding popsicles and ice cream bars, we stand at home with bats poised, looking dangerously intent, each of us.

We stand in left field imagining what we will do when the ball comes.

It always comes. Think about what you're going to do.

Ohio

This stretch of river is on the Ohio, about 35 miles north of where it meets the Mississippi at Cairo. The Rose Hotel was built in 1812 to house miners and river boatmen and others traveling along the river bottom. It sits on a bluff overlooking the river, with this summer-house on the edge of the bluff. There used to be a red flashing light just to the right of the summer house, put there for navigational purposes.

When I wrote the song "Ohio," it was this stretch of the river I was thinking of. The hotel is five doors down the river from the cabin my grandfather built, on part of this same bluff. He intended it for a getaway spot, but as he descended into paranoia, it seemed like the last safe place to him. He built platforms on the bluff to sleep on so that he could not be gassed by those who persecuted him.

When we visited last, my children, my mother and I, the weather had turned cool. This was rare for July, which hits Southern Illinois hot and humid. The river had been absorbing sunlight for two months and was warm as bathwater. I woke early and there was mist rising everywhere. I took about 200 pictures. This one was almost an afterthought.

There are places for each of us that contain symmetry, magic and peace. When I was a boy, I went a spot under some overhanging trees, by the less magestic Arkansas, where I found some quiet from time to time. The Arkansas, pronounced in Wichita with the emphasis on the second syllable, was shallow and sandy bottomed.

When we returned to this stretch of the Ohio in Southern Illinois, I was amazed at how at home we felt. Our best time was spend sitting on the second floor porch of the hotel watching the water.

The second night we stayed, Mom went to bed early, exhausted. The kids and I lay on the grass, on the hotel lawn, and watched falling stars. My father's footprints were all over that bluff and along the river bottom, now mostly consumed by the big river bend.

My mother sometimes asks "Will we ever go back there?" I don't know.

Quality control

One never knows when to press the "save" button. I need spell check to follow me around. I'm supposed to be writing bills.


I used to be much more uptight about money. I worried and ranted and raved and got the damned things written ON TIME. Now I worry a good deal less, but am not so good at meeting their deadlines. Anxiety promotes organization. Lack of anxiety promotes poor spelling on blogs, more hammock time, late payment fees.


The police were called to Walker's baseball game. Two coaches were thrown out for complaining about bad officiating. The second coach bumped the official. The opposing team called the police. In the end, Walker's team won, the coach apologized, everyone went home, and the CRPD Canine Patrol did not have to unleash it's dog.

Walker had two hits and scored twice. This is cool because until recently he has been snake-bit at bat.


Unfortunately this game will not be remembered for my son breaking out of his slump. The official clearly was inept. He was young and lacked confidence and appeared to be unclear about the rules. This game is about boys, though. It was disapointing to be associated with such mid-life drama.
I'm still celebrating stationary objects with my camera. It makes it easier, while I'm trying to learn what all the buttons do.

I'm going to try to get through the day without getting into an argument, getting the cops called, or making a late payment.