Play Ball, T-Ball That Is

Play Ball, T-Ball, That Is!

Well, I never thought I would do it. I mean, go to a little league ball game.

To be honest, I always disliked the competitiveness parents forced on their youngster as a means to relive their own youth, to accomplish what they had never achieved.

And don’t tell me I’m wrong about that. Too many parents go nuts at these games, abusing not only the kids, the other parents, the umpires, but the very concept of the activity itself, the ball game, which is supposed to be fun.

Fun! That means kids enjoy it. To heck with the parents and family. Let them keep their mouths shut unless it is to cheer on the little ones. After all, that’s what all of this is supposedly about. Let the kids have fun and learn more about the game.

Our daughters were very active in extra-curricular school programs. To my relief, they never expressed interest in community programs like little league or whatever was available back in the eighties. I would have let them participate probably even though I abhorred the behavior of many parents whose youngsters participated.

Now, my feelings haven’t changed. I still believe these games are for the kids and not the mother who is a repressed cheerleader or the dad who is a frustrated quarterback.

The reason behind all this is the fact my five-year-old grandson, Keegan, started
playing T-Ball.

Don’t ask me to explain the game, because I can’t. It isn’t a game as much as it is an activity to accustom the little gals and guys to a more structured game. And believe me, with five and six-year-olds, it turns out to be more of an activity than a structured game.

Keegan, who has a remarkable attention span of ten seconds, plays for the Astros, a team that practices at Ridgewood Elementary on Merriman Street in Port Neches.

I can’t help admiring the coaches who patiently work with the kids who remind me of a flock of chickens after a single, frantic grasshopper.

Those guys have to have eyes not only the back of their heads, but above each temple and in the forehead.

A couple weeks back, the Astros played their first game. I say a game, but not really a game. Each team of twelve players batted around three times.

The score? Hey, take a guess. Forty-eight, forty-seven; thirty-two, thirty-two. The score wasn’t important. The kids had fun, and they learned a little about the game.
They learned you don’t run to third base when you hit the ball; you run to first.

They learned that a bouncing ball isn’t anywhere as easy to catch as it looks. And they learned you can’t be standing around shooting the breeze with a buddy and still snag a fly ball.

What I like about it is the batters get three balls. If they miss all three, the T-Ball is set up, and they hit it. Everyone gets to hit the ball and run—hopefully to first base, not second or third like one little squirt who cut across the infield from first to third and then home.

I couldn’t help noticing one of their favorite experiences in the game was sliding into a base. They slid even if the ball was still in center field. Some of their efforts were thwarted however when their shoes caught on the base, flipping the little fellows head over heels.

But they all came up laughing and holding up theirs hands signaling they were number one.

Keegan? Well, he did okay. He stopped the ball in the outfield once when it hit him and bounced off. A small guy, he runs hard, but his little legs don't cover a whole lot of ground very fast. His first two hits, he was thrown out at first, but his last time, he made it.

And to our delight and cheers, he, along with the other little ones raced around the bases. When he crossed home plate, he held up his hand, extending his first and last finger and laughing, “LSU”.

The crowd roared.

That’s how it should be.











rconwell@gt.rr.com
www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

rooster for thanksgiving

One Tough Turkey

If I’ve learned anything in this life of mine, it is that holidays are made happy and joyous because of family, not golden brown turkeys or a carload of presents. To be honest, I can’t remember the meals or the gifts, but I have a vivid recollection of the family gathered round, sitting on every available chair, armrest, stool, all balancing plates of fired chicken on their laps with glasses of tea or buttermilk sitting on the floor beside them while they laughed and joked about old memories.

When I was a kid. We never had turkey. Once, though, we had rooster out at my grandparents’ farm. Yep, that’s right, a big old white leghorn rooster that was meaner than sin.

Descended from hardy pioneers, Mama Holley never discarded anything. She always found a use for it, and that’s where the rooster came in.

The year after the war, we arrived at Mama and Papa’s a couple days early. My cousin Ed and his folks lived on the farm. Ed could do everything about the farm better than me, milk cows, gather eggs, feed stock. But the one skill of his I most envied was his deadly accuracy with the slingshot, you know, that Y shaped weapon that has gotten more than one mischievous boy in a heap of trouble.

Ed could knock birds out of a tree. I usually missed the tree. He could pop a cotton ball from the branch. I couldn’t hit the cotton field itself.
The only time I hit something was when I was aiming at something else.

One holiday we went hunting with our slingshots. To my chagrin, Ed got a barn pigeon. I missed the barn—from inside. Now they had an old rooster that was cock-eyed, but he was Papa’s prize rooster. Several times, the rooster charged us, but Ed always stopped him with a rock at the rooster’s feet.

Next morning, after Ed left for the last day of school before Thanksgiving, I set out to sharpen my slingshot skills.

By now, the whole clan had gathered from five hundred miles around, around thirty or so. I had some other cousins there, but they were several years older, so I was all by myself. But that was okay. I had some practicing to get in.

Keeping my eyes peeled for the old cock-eyed rooster, I spent the morning stalking pigeons and sparrows. Once, I sent some tail feathers flying, but that was it. I did send a few cows and hogs scrambling, and soon I was able to hit a tin can two or three out of ten shots. Never saw the rooster.

Then, on the way to the house for dinner, that sucker jumped me, flailing his wings and flashing those spurs of his. I whipped off a shot at his feet, and hit that cockeyed bird in the head.

He did half-a-dozen somersaults, staggered around like some of my uncles after too much celebrating, bounced off the ground more times than I could count and finally flopped down into a ditch by the end of a culvert.

I looked around in horror. No one had seen me. My heart pounding, I jammed a couple tumbleweeds over the still twitching rooster, then hightailed it back to the barn where I remained the rest of the day, waiting for my reckoning. Just about the time I began to relax, Mama Holley suddenly appeared in the barn door, the rooster in her hand.

Grabbing me my the ear, she led me into the house where, with the admonition that was my meal the next day, she ducked the rooster in scalding water, then into the sink and put me to plucking.

The whole family teased me, warning me about how tough that old rooster would be after Mama baked it.

Well, our family was so large, we ate buffet style. You can imagine my surprise when next day, instead of the baked rooster, Mama set a large bowl next to the platter of fried chicken. In the bowl reposed the old rooster, cut up and stewed until the meat fell off the bones.

Heaped over a bed of mashed potatoes, that was one tasty rooster, as roosters go. In fact, the stew disappeared faster than the chicken.

After dinner, Papa took me aside and told me I had to buy him another rooster. Since I had no money, we struck a bargain. I could clean out the stalls in the barn.

I wanted to argue, but one look at my Dad, and I agreed.

That was sixty-three years ago. I can still smell those stalls as if it were yesterday.






rconwell@gt.rr.comwww.kentconwell.blogspot.com

take a grandson fishing

Add a Day to Your Life-Take a Grandchild Fishing

We’ve all heard it said that God never counts a day of fishing against your life span. Who knows, maybe He’ll even toss in an extra day if you take a grandchild fishing. And maybe even a third day if the child manages to snag a fish on that first trip.

That’s what happened to Gayle and me when a couple Saturdays back, we went fishing for the first time in a few years.

We’ve had our boats, and always got a kick out of fishing the river and lake. Once, years back, we had a deep V in which we went offshore—offshore to me being no more than a couple miles from the beach.

Once we had a twenty-one foot pontoon boat, and believe me, cumbersome as they are, they are ideal fishing platforms. We sold our last boat, a jon boat, a couple years back. It had been setting up for the past ten.

Now, we bank fish at Sabine Lake, and usually we do okay. More than anything, it’s a chance to relax, soak up some sun and breathe in the fresh, clean air off the water.

A month or so back, the older grandson, Keegan, who is almost five, mentioned something about fishing. At that age, their little I-want-this and I-want-that minds jump from one interest to the other faster than a cricket dodging a hungry chicken.

I just figured he’d let it drop, but he didn’t.

One day he popped in and informed me he had found the ideal fishing pole at Target.

Again, I just figured he’d let it drop, but, guess what? He didn’t.

Without warning, all the planets fell into line, Mars was larger than it would be for the next trillion years, and the day arrive when we kept him because both his Mom and Dad were working. Fate couldn’t have dealt out a better hand to the little guy, so, we decided, why not?

That morning, we found him a small Zebco rod and reel, a Lightning McQueen outfit. Back at the house, I pulled out our tackle boxes, brushed ten years of dust and debris off them; dusted, then washed and oiled the fishing rods and reels; finally managed to find a couple that worked well.

I’m not even going to go into the problems we faced getting licenses on a Saturday. But we got them.

We decided to go to Sabine Lake. We could have fished down at Port Neches Park, but the little guy would have had to wear a lifejacket, and the ninety-degree plus sun was too hot.

We fished the south revetment with all the rocks where I quickly discovered ten years had handily curtailed my balance as I tried to bounce from one rock to another. While I was bouncing, Gayle was catching fish. Finally we gave up and headed down to the causeway.

The beach was sandy, the water shallow, and believe it or not, the fish were biting, more or less.

Keegan quickly shed his shirt while I threw out his bait and handed him his rod.
In the meantime, Gayle caught another fish.

And then Keegan had a strike, and his line drew tight and the tip of his rod bent down.

Oh, was he excited, yelling for his ‘MeeMee’ to come help.

He did the most of it, and hauled in a fat little redfish about fifteen inches long. After we took a few pictures, we turned the fish back, explaining to the little guy we had to obey the law.

We were out two, maybe three hours, and all three of us were ready to come home and hop in the swimming pool.

Maybe next time, he’ll catch one that Gayle can fry up for him.

I know one thing, from the look on his face and the way he laughed, he’s got the making of a lifelong fisherman.

The other grandson is Mikey. He isn’t quite three. Another couple years, and we’ll have a team of fishermen around here.

Do you think God might toss in a fourth extra day for another grandson?

Oh, well, even if He doesn’t, it’s worth it.

Dilemma of Bare Toes

The Dilemma of Bare Toes

I’m sitting here now looking at a sixty-seven year-old portrait of Dad, Mom, my brother, Sam, and me that was made in Shamrock, Texas only a hour or so before Dad left to go overseas in World War II. The year was 1943.

In the portrait, Dad wore his Navy blues, his three stripes showing proudly on his sleeve. Mom, wearing a black coat with a white blouse, sat next to him, and I stood next to her. Dad held Sam, who was about one at the time. With the exception of Sam, we all wore sailor hats.

For the next two years, like hundreds of thousands of families with no husbands or fathers, we went about the job in our small town of keeping the country running until the men came home.

Those years when I was seven through twelve stand out as the carefree days of summer should, idyllic and filled with adventure.

Our spring and autumns were a mixture of chores and school. The summers brought more chores, but also allowed us the freedom to roam the small town.

With the ending of school came the annual shedding of footwear and a summer of unrequited freedom. Of course, we suffered stubbed toes and bloody cuts until our bare feet had toughened to the hardpan roads and simmering hot asphalt streets.

Who can forget the agony of stepping in a glob of hot tar and bouncing around on one foot while trying to scrape it off the other?

There were numerous advantages to going barefoot. First, no shoes or socks. Hop up and out bed, into your pants and shirt, gobble breakfast, and head out for another day of play.

It’s hard to forget the delicious feel of running your toes through cool sand or grass. The only feeling better was sitting in the shade of a giant cottonwood dangling your sizzling feet in the icy water of a bubbling creek.

And among us boys, it was a given fact you could run almost as fast as Superman in your bare feet. Bare feet gave better purchase when balancing on a log over a creek.

Of course there were disadvantages.

Tree roots, rocks, and any other a number of unmovable objects played havoc with our bare toes. As soon as the skin healed back over the bloody toe, you’d invariably smash it again.

While the picture show would let you in barefoot Saturday afternoon, you had to wear shoes at night. Another disadvantage was riding bicycles, for back then the pedals came apart at the slightest bump, and instead of a flat pedal to propel yourself, you were forced to clamp your arch around a six-inch long cylinder.
And you never got used to that.

Another disadvantage were the grass burrs and goatheads. Grass burrs have heads with hundreds of tiny stickers, which, while they will stick, are fairly soft. Goatheads are about the size of a pea with one point projecting from each side-and that point won’t break. Our summer toughened feet could handle grass burrs without too much pain, but goatheads were the dickens itself to a boy’s foot.

Back then, you just couldn’t avoid grass burrs and goatheads. They were everywhere. When we came to a patch we had to cross we’d screw up our courage and on the count of three, take off. Once running, you didn’t dare stop. I don’t know why, but racing across a patch, we picked up only a few stickers, nowhere near as many as if we tried picking our way across step-by-step.

When we went out to milk the cows or slop the hogs, we always slipped into rubber boots. Not even our leathery feet could tolerate what the cow lots had to offer.

Yeah, looking at this old color picture in the original plastic Deco Art frame, brings back wonderful memories.

I just hope my children can look back over sixty-odd years of their life with their own wonderful memories.

www.kentconwell.blogspot.com

family memories

Summer on the Farm-Now Only a Poignant Memory

Back when I was just a kid without much common sense and even fewer neurons whizzing through my brain, I always looked forward to spending time at my maternal grandparents’ farm out by Lubbock, Texas on that vast expanse of geography my uncles called the ‘Great Plains’. That was just another name for the Staked Plains or the Llano Estacado.


The plains were called Staked Plains, so the story goes because they were flat and treeless—treeless and flat. Either way you said it, there was nothing growing on that vast expanse of Texas to point a hapless explorer back to the spot from which he had departed earlier that morning.

But there were those inventive yahoos who had an ‘eureka’ moment and drove stakes in the hard ground, i.e., Staked Plains, as a means to assist their return to their ‘however so humble’ abode that night.

It’s an eerie feeling, whether it be land or water; to quickly scan the empty vastness surrounding you and see nothing except your canteen and your pony (boat), neither I’m sorry to say, would offer much of a starting point for your trek back to your camp.

Now, I lived in Wheeler, some 250 miles from my grandparents; my older cousin, Dooley, 17, and his older brothers lived in Amarillo, a hundred miles closer to our grandparents. That branch of the family being right on the way, we always stopped in Amarillo and some of the family accompanied us on to the plains.

Dooley was five or six years older than me or Ed; consequently, as cousins do, he always picked on us. If you had older cousins, farm cousins, you know what I mean. They could be merciless in their taunting, but this time, Ed and I had already plotted our revenge before he could act. Heh, heh, heh.

Outside of the corrals and pigpens was a large water tank, fed by a windmill. Giant cottonwoods surrounded the tank, and naturally, like all boys, we’d strung up ropes in the limbs so we could play Tarzan.

Trust me, this plot had been thought out over a few month’a time, so we had a pretty god idea how it was going down.

The rope was about three-quarters of an inch thick, and we’d cut a little over half-way through it about a foot from the end, then used black electrical tape to wrap it. When Dooley sneered at us for holding above the tape, we said it was because we didn’t want our hands to slip. Heh, heh, heh. The dumb nut.

Now, it was a heap of fun to swing way out, then skim back in barely missing the water, but that’s not how Ed and I did it. Grabbing above the tape, we could only swing out a few feet, then tribble back in.

Dooley would yell at us. “Dummies! Now watch this. This is how you chickens ought to do it,” and then he’d grab the very bottom of the rope and go whizzing out over the tank, almost parallel to the water. He sneered at us.

He called us chicken-livered, and a lot of worse names. We just grinned at each other, hoping he’d hurry up and take the fall.

He’d make all kinds of fun at us

And then it happened.

Boy, that would sure have been a picture. He seemed to freeze in mid-air, his eyes bulging, his mouth gaping, and the scream stuck on his lips.
By the time he hit the water, we’d hit the hardpan road for our neighbor’s a quarter mile away.

If you know anything about cow tanks, you know just how that fine, dark black mud can penetrate everything, stain everything, and stink up
everything.

Naturally, he caught us and worked us over; perversely we even enjoyed it, even the cow patties in the middle of the back, and other such touches of rural revenge.

We all headed back home the next day, but not before Ed and I started planning our revenge on Dooley, and the day that we would start gathering eggs. Heh, heh, heh.

That was in the early fifties; Dooley enlisted in the US Army and was sent to Korea a few months later just after he turned eighteen. He went out on patrol and never returned. He is listed as MIA.I still get teary-eyed thinking about Dooley.

I feel sorry for those guys who never had a cousin like him. He was mean to us, but we loved the heck out of that guy.

A Mudhole for Christmas

I hope everyone had as nice and heartwarming Christmas as we did. I didn’t get the sports car I ordered; Gayle didn’t get her diamond broach (I convinced that it tumbled off Santa’s sleigh somewhere over Norway); no one in the family won the lottery; but we were blessed with family and health, two blessings I thank the Lord for every day.

There’s nothing more important than family.

Unfortunately, nowadays, it is impossible for all families to enjoy the day together extended as they are.

But, we always remember those not with us and think fondly of them when we’re apart.
Like I said, ours was pretty much normal, but it was festive.

Christmas Eve, Eve, we gathered at my daughter’s for a cheese and wine celebration and exchanging of gifts. My daughter married into a fine family that is a pleasure to be with. My next daughter’s family is just as wonderful to be around. My older daughter’s family I regret to admit I’ve never met, but I know we would cherish being around them just as those down here in Southeast Texas.

Christmas Eve, we go to my in-laws, Jim and Janelle, for the most delectable, most tasty, most Cajun of gumbos. If your sinuses are clogged when you sit down at the table, one thing I can guarantee you, partner, they won’t be when you get up.

Susan, Little Mikey, and Big Mike spent Christmas Eve with his mom and grandmother, two of the most gracious and fine ladies you’ll ever meet. Amy, Keegan, and Jason spent Christmas Eve with us at Jim and Janelle’s.

Christmas Day, after exchanging gifts at the house, we headed for Janelle’s and Jim once again. It’s always a feast there with turkey, roast, dirty rice, deviled eggs, cornbread dressing, candied yams (with marshmallows), sweetpea salad, cranberry sauce, and buttered rolls, topped off with a thirty-thousand-calorie Sweetheart Salad.

Look out bathroom scales.

This year my grandsons added a little spice to the gathering.

The four year old, Keegan, arrived first. He was his usual amiable little self. My nephew, Cory, took Keegan out back to play with the puppy. That little squirt could have played with the dog all day until he discovered the mud puddle in the corner of the yard.

He was wearing tennis shoes, jeans, and a pullover, none of which we could identify when his mommy pulled him out of the mud. In fact, the cream-colored dog was brown.

So, Cory gave Keegan the hose to wash off the dog. Keegan did a great job, a spectacular job cleaning off the muddy mutt, and then he calmly turned the hose on Cory and did the same spectacular job cleaning him off, all the while laughing like a maniacal little devil.

Cory dug up some dry shorts and an Orangefield T-shirt for Keegan who rushed outside just in time to greet his little cousin, Mikey.

Now, Mikey wore tennis shoes, brilliant white socks, starched shorts, and neat pullover, a perfect picture for Christmas.

Well, I don’t have to tell you what happened.

Those two little guys found every mudhole, ditch of water, and soggy flowerbed they could. Now,
you might not believe me, but since they’re both kinda tow-headed, I had to look twice to tell them apart at the end of their adventure.

But on that Christmas day, those two little ones had the time of their lives, racing through mud, falling in water, and in general, seeing who could cover up the most of their skin with mud.

Needless to say, when the day was over, and they were cleaned up as much as was possible, they headed home.

I don’t need to tell you they were asleep before they hit the end of the block.

They gave all of us a Christmas we’d never forget.

And I hope you enjoyed yours as much as we did.

grandson sleepover

Keegan slept over Tuesday night. Twenty-four hours later, we're still tired. Naturally, we like for the grandkids come over, but one thing their unceasing energy has underlined is that the good Lord had an excellent reason for . twenty and thirty year olds to bear children. ThI ey have the energy to keep up with them.

Usually when the boys are over, I don't get a lot of work done. Consequently, the ensuing days are much more hectic trying to get back on schedule. As I've told my writing classes, you have to produce everyday. It has to be so much a part of your routine that you're lost without it.

I read somewhere a succinct definition of a successful writer. I wish I'd been perceptive enough to come up with it, but it went somethin like this, "The difference in a neophyte writer and a pro is that the pro never stopped writing."

Now I might have butchered it, and if the author reads it, don't get upset. Just accept my apologies.

I worked late last night, and I will again tonight, but by tomorrow, I'll be back on schedule.

Unless we have another sleepover.

http://jessyferguson.blogspot.com

Keegan

I have five grandsons I’d like for you fine folks to meet. Here’s a column I wrote October 15, 2004.

Welcome to the World, Keegan

I’ve told just about everyone, but if you haven’t heard by now, I have a new grnadson. Yep, a brand-new, spanking clean, never-been-used-before grandson, and his grandmother is already trying to decide what position he’ll play on the Indian football team. He’s our first, though I do have three in the Fort Worth-Dallas area. Unfortunately, I don’t see them too often, but this little guy lives only about a mile from us.

And of course, such proximity means that whenever we go anywhere, Port Arthur, Winnie, Beaumont, Nederland, or Bridge City, our route goes right down in front of their house.

Right, all you grandparents?

Named Keegan Alan Johnstone, he was born October 5 at 3:27 a.m. at Christus St. Elizabeth. Only a short six hours elapsed from the time Keegan decided he was ready to take on the world until the energetic little bundle emerged, a real go-getter. He greeted the world as the proud owner of ten fingers, ten toes, two ears, and all other appropriate fixtures as well as sporting a head of black hair long enough to be braided.

It’s been twenty-eight years since I was around a new baby, but I never forgot that a new baby coming into a family creates a more sensitive awareness of just how precious is the gift of life God gives us.

Sad to say, we’re all caught up in the hustle and bustle of today’s hectic life. I think most feel as I that if we don’t stay up with it, life will steamroll over us without a backward glance, and that somehow we will be the poorer for it.

In the midst of a family working two jobs, paying bills, struggling to tuck funds away for an emergency, forced to buy two or three sets of clothing a year for growing children, constantly racing from church to soccer to Little League to football to dancing to whatever, we often tend to become more pragmatic in our approach to life. We find it easier to live more in the secular world where feelings and emotions are shunted aside in a desperate effort just to keep our lives and those of our family on an even keel.

In other words, we, the majority of us, have the tendency to wear a coat of no nonsense practicality that prevents us from enjoying those gifts in life that are truly valuable, that are truly priceless, that cannot be purchased with any amount of money.

And so when one looks down upon an infant sleeping so peacefully (whenever that might be), he realizes the value of those treasures that cannot be purchased with money.

We visited the hospital when Keegan was about seven hours old. I expected to see a red, wrinkled little lizard, but to my surprise, he was pink, and sleeping soundly. Jason, his Dad, pushed the carriage from the nursery to the room where we fussed over him for the next hour or so.

Once or twice, he opened his eyes, but the rest of the time, he slept. When I saw Gayle hold him, it brought back memories of how she had so gently and tenderly cradled our own girls.

When first offered, I declined to hold him, not that I was scared of breaking the little guy, but just because I wasn’t quite ready. And if you asked me why I wasn’t ready, I couldn’t tell you. But, after taking pictures (naturally) of Amy and Jason and Gayle with Keegan, I figured it was time.

I held him for several minutes, but when I tried to give him back to Gayle, I couldn’t figure out how to do it with taking a chance on dropping him, so I carried him over to the bed, leaned over until he was only a couple inches above the soft mattress, had Gayle slide her arms under him, and then, and only then did I transfer him to his Grandmother’s sure and steady arms.

Joyce Kilmer, the poet who died in World War I, wrote the unforgettable poem, Trees. In it, he said “Only God can make a tree.” To paraphrase the memorable line, it is certainly true that “Only God can make a baby.”

In the few nights Keegan’s been on the good earth, I’ve awakened in the early hours and thought about him and the world he will face. I’m not sure what it will be; I only know it won’t be like the one in which I was reared.

But that’s okay. He has two wonderful parents to guide him, and two sets of grandparents for support. The little fella will do well.