Addendum to the Las Vegas Games

The day of the first game, as we were sitting in the stands, one of the fathers who had flown in to Las Vegas for the American Legion Regional Championship Games that morning was nice enough to bring copies of the local newspaper from home with him. He brought three copies, one for his family, one for Tighe in the dugout, and one for me.

The newspaper captured a big photo of Tighe in uniform, ball cap slightly askew, smiling brightly. The article featured his pitching, and the interview they did with him was wonderful. At one point in the article, Tighe stated that he owed his success to his Mom. He said I was his best friend, and that I gave him the best advice ever when I said to play to have fun; that when he followed my advice he did well, but when he played just trying to do well, he didn't have fun, and he didn't do as well, either.

That game was a long one. He wasn't supposed to be pitching, but our starter got in big trouble quickly. They brought Tighe in with the bases loaded and already down several runs. He'd be able to tell you how many, but I don't remember. He pitched the rest of the game, even though it went into extra innings. I sat there holding that newspaper for the entire game. I kept rereading the wonderful things they had said about him, and the wonderful things he had said about me. (Actually, I still have that clipping.)

When he finally threw the last pitch, and our team got the victory, I was ready to talk to him, but I had to wait. First there were the reporters flooding the field. Then there was a line of little kids with their baseballs waiting for signatures from these young World Series game winners. Then they had to get their things out of the dugout. Tighe was always the last duck out of the pond, anyway. Finally he came up the steps. He stopped and looked at me. He looked at the newspaper, clutched in my hand. He came up and put his arms around me. He whispered in my ear.

"Don't believe everything you read in the newspaper."

American Legion Baseball in Las Vegas

The whole family drove to Las Vegas to watch Tighe's American Legion team compete for the regional championships, and the right to attend the World Series. We got a room at Circus Circus, at special rates that were arranged through the team. Jeremy asked a very smart question for a fourteen year old while we were there. He wanted to know why he wasn't allowed to gamble his money on a slot machine, where he might have a chance of increasing his five dollars, but he was allowed to throw it away on the video games, where he had no chance of increasing his money. I never did have a good answer for him.

When we got to the game the first morning, someone came to the bleachers and told us that the temperature of the grass on the field at game time was 124°. That was at about 9:00 a.m., if I remember correctly. That was just the first game. By the time we won the series and went home, we were all sunburned and exhausted from the heat, but thoroughly overjoyed. Not only had Tighe's team won, but he had pitched beautifully. We also got to see my favorite ever professional baseball player, Mickey Hatcher.

Hatcher was sitting on a chair at field level watching the game. He was coaching a semi-pro team at that time. They would take the field for a game after we were done, and he was waiting for our game to conclude. When Tighe popped out of the dugout to point him out to me, I'm afraid I got so excited I might have embarrassed him. I yelled, "Hey, Mickey!" and waved. I think people were guessing I'd had heat stroke and thought I was at Disneyland talking to Mickey Mouse or something. Good grief, I never talk to celebrities. I guess my brain was fried.

I always felt that Hatcher embodied my convictions about sports being a balance between fun and effort. The more effort you make, the more fun you have and the better you do. If it becomes a chore, you don't do well. If you're having fun, you will be doing your best. And in Mickey's own words, "I didn't like to fail. I always believed that I was very competitive. You have to have that fighting mentality. . . . Even though I enjoyed it and had fun, I knew when the serious parts were.'' That sounds so much like what I was telling my kids. Mickey always played hard, and as a utility player, you never knew where on the field you would see him. He might be thrown in to pitch an inning, or he might be out in left field. He never said, "That's not my job." He was just glad to be playing.

So we packed up our car and headed home from Las Vegas after the final game, knowing that the World Series was too far away for us to drive to. It would be in Fargo, North Dakota, and buying plane tickets for the family would be out of the question. It seemed that the team would have to go without us. I was registered with a temp Service and looking for full time work, so hopefully money would start rolling in soon, but once it did, the time to do things like follow a team would no longer be there. That's the ultimate quandary. When we've had money to go places, we haven't had the time. We drove home, smelling of burn spray and baseball dust.

Camping With Jeremy

With no close second, the best camping trip I ever had was just Jeremy and me. We drove together to a young redwood forest in Northern California near Yountville. The year was 1992, and Jeremy was was not quite fifteen. We were there to see Tighe's American Legion baseball team compete in the State Championship games. I love baseball, and definitely remember the games, but some of the sweetest memories were of camping out with Jeremy. I couldn't have been treated better if I had been royalty.

Jeremy didn't have his learner's permit yet, so the 450 mile trip (each way) was driven entirely by me. If you know Jeremy, then you are well aware that as soon as the car starts up, if he's not behind the wheel, he's asleep. It tends to make for a long trip, if it's a long trip. He turned from slumbering companion to Super Son as soon as we pulled into the camp site, though. He pulled open the back of our little car, a Mercury Topaz, and pulled out four things: a chair, a bottle of wine, my guitar and a book. He set them up next to the campfire area, and told me that my entire job for the rest of our stay was to enjoy myself. I was to read, make music, and get us back and forth to the games. He'd take care of everything else—and he did.

He set up camp, got the fire going in the fire pit, and proceeded to make us the first of many wonderful meals. He cooked, he served, he cleaned up. We laughed and talked, and had a grand time together. Some of the things I'll never forget include the lady ranger that I (perhaps indiscreetly) described as having "Cojones." She was on some kind of power trip. I'm not sure what her problem was, but she just had a mean streak. Jeremy later got in a wee bit of trouble for using that expression in his Spanish class. When asked by the teacher where he had learned the term, he nicely told her, "From my mother." Thanks, kid.

Another indelible memory would have to be using the showers. One of the reasons we chose this campground was because there were showers. Most of the people attending the baseball tournament were staying at hotels. We didn't want to spend a week around hotel people as we got more and more campground rank. We just didn't realize that the showers only had cold water until we got in there. Jeremy went first and nearly froze, but he was nice enough to let me be surprised. I was.

I wonder if Jeremy remembers getting his first driving lesson at that campground, or that we ended up having to hide from that lady ranger afterwards. I think she wanted to see his permit.

And the baseball games? It would be worth mentioning that Tighe's team won the State Championship. Actually they did even better than that, but that's another day's blog. I'm still busy remembering camping with Jeremy.

Candlelight at Disneyland

I'll admit I was devastated when Benjamin dropped out of baseball to take on a second choir class at school. This was my last four years to have a son in the high school. I had followed Tighe's four years of baseball, then Jeremy's four years. Now it seemed like Ben would only have two years of baseball. Choir was something we already did with him, and I knew I'd really miss the baseball. It was his choice, though, so I think I was fairly good natured about my disappointment.

I can't imagine there are all that many choir directors who are as incredible as Mr. Bonn, their fearless leader. He ran a tight ship, and really taught music. Their concerts were astounding, and I was proud to be one of the mothers attending. Ben's tenor voice blended well with the others, and having him in both the main chorus, plus the advanced choir, gave me twice the opportunity to burst my maternal buttons. Ben was never the vocal star, but being so tall, he was a standout on the risers at all times. His sunny smile and proud stance always made me feel good. I've rarely seen such a tall man with such great posture.

Living only a couple of hours from Disneyland, they would send in competition tapes to join the annual Candlelight Service at the Magic Kingdom. Anyone who gets the chance to attend this awesome service can have my whole hearted recommendation right now. Being so well trained, it was fairly customary for their choir to be chosen to attend. As a family, we'd pack up and watch, listening and trying to pick out our group from the thousands of singers holding candles and singing the sweet Christmas carols we all loved. Then one year, they changed to an indoor venue, and we didn't realize that we'd have to run like mad to a location where we could get tickets. We were there, but unable to get tickets. I was beyond depressed. It's the only time I've been to Disneyland and not felt the magic.

The following year, as they prepared to go again, I was unable to get a ride. John was on a business trip. Tighe and Jeremy had moved out and were both busy. Cataracts prevented me from driving after dark at all, and limited my driving in unfamiliar territory. I was almost prepared to drive there alone anyway, but Ben convinced me that I shouldn't. He said he'd try to find me a ride. It seemed that he had, but it fell through when other friends or family members had come to claim all the seats in the car. I found myself sitting home alone. My son's last Candlelight would come and go without me. Life could be a bummer.

The day crawled by. Evening began, and I sat alone, thinking, "Now they'll be marching in. Now they'll be reading of the journey to Bethlehem. Now they'll be singing." In my mind, I tried to be there, not to feel sorry for myself. It wasn't working. I didn't turn on the television or pick up a book. For hours I just sat there.

Then the phone rang. "Hello?" I could hear singing. I listened carefully. Nobody was saying anything, but I could really hear singing! After the song ended, I heard Ben's voice. "Mom, are you there? I can't put the phone to my ear, but we want you with us. I'm going to pass you around now." And then, from the receiver of the phone, I heard the parade of voices saying things like:

Hi, Mom!
Hi, Ben's Mom!
Hi, Mrs. H!
Hey, Mama! We're marching out now!
Listen up, here comes the next song!

For about fifteen minutes they kept me on the phone. As they exited through the cast doors, Ben was finally able to put the phone to his ear and make sure I was really there. He hadn't been able to tell for sure. Of course I was crying. He had made my night, giving me a memory for all time, and letting me know that I was important to him. Parents sometimes feel insecure about that. OK, so I still feel insecure about that at times, but that night I knew I lived in his heart, just as surely as he lived in mine. Thanks again, Benjamin.

Grandpa's Camp

We call our home in the foothills Grandpa's Camp, in memory of the spot that lives so beautifully in the mind of my inner child. I hope our grandchildren come to love visiting here like we all loved visiting there. My grandpa's camp was in the woods in Northern Michigan, not terribly far from where I was born. Grandma had a home in town, where she and Grandpa raised their fourteen children. (Hey, it was cold there in the winter!) For some reason we always called it Grandma's House, and Grandpa's Camp. Just outside of town on the edge of a gemlike lake, was the camp. It was our favorite spot in the world.

There were trees and hammocks. There were birds, blueberries growing thick and wild, a dock for lazing on or jumping off, and a rowboat. There was even a change house over the boat house next to the dock. Of course, we and our cousins didn't call it a change house. We called it our club house. Since there were fourteen kids, and most of them had produced cousins for us, we always had fun when we went to Grandpa's camp. The clubhouse was sacred. Each year, if you were old enough, you were sworn into the the group that was granted clubhouse privileges. That meant that you were given the secret password and told how to make it work.

That's right. You not only had to know the password. It wasn't as easy as presenting yourself at the door and reciting the password. You would simply be ignored. There was more to it than that. There was a small hole in the door, just large enough to stick a finger through. Inside, there was a hook and eye that allowed us to keep the uninitiated out of the fun. Benches surrounded the small space, and we'd play cards, tell ghost stories, eat blueberries and have normal innocent kid fun, typical of the fifties and sixties. If someone came up to the door, we'd all get quiet and watch the hole in the door. Unless the proper ritual was performed, we remained quiet.

I'm now at liberty to publicly admit the entire ritual. You had to come to the door and stick your finger all the way into the hole. Then you had to say, in a loud and clear voice, "Stick your finger in the hole, and when you stick your finger in the hole, say stick your finger in the hole." When confronted by one of our mothers and a tearful younger cousin, one of us had admitted the ritual at one time. When asked why we had to both say and do that, he said that we were pretty sure we'd either recognize the finger or the voice.

One other thing about camp that we always like to talk about when the family starts remembering this particular part of our past. There didn't happen to be any indoor plumbing. Grandpa had a wonderful two-seater outhouse just down the path in the forest. It wasn't really that far away, but we all knew that there were bears in the woods. It wasn't a problem as long as you let them know you were coming. You had to either sing or talk out loud. Some of us would carry a kazoo. My younger brother Kenny hated to go to the outhouse. Usually he would get someone to walk him out there, but sometimes nobody was willing. One night we all said no, as we were playing a game. Then we felt guilty and started to follow him. We heard him creeping along, singing, to the tune of "Yes, Jesus Loves Me."

Yes, there's no bears,
Yes, there's no bears,
Yes, there's no bears,
In Grandpa's Toy-o-let.

About fifty-five years later, we still haven't let him forget that song. He never knows when one of us will start singing it around him. Still, he hasn't been eaten by a bear yet.

Sunrise from the Cruise Ship

Always a night owl, as the boys got older and I began to work full time, I was lucky to have a job where management believed in flex time. I could start my hours very early and be home around the time the boys returned from school. This gave me the advantage of still being the kind of mother I needed to be. I always felt that the only part of motherhood that was optional was the fun stuff. It was also the only part I was sure they'd remember. I didn't think that in years to come they'd stand as adults in front of their bathroom mirrors saying, "Wow. I remember when my mom taught me to brush my teeth, and here I am doing it all these years later." They'd remember that I was at their baseball and basketball games, though, or that I brought my guitar or accordion to their classrooms for music. Besides, the fun stuff was more fun.

Working full time gave me a new group of friends, though, and it taught me the joy of being up early in the morning, something I had never in my entire life learned to do. I'd be on the road by five, but I'd be home by about three o'clock. Getting up early is a habit that persists to this day. I'll never regret it, even when I'm still awake and reading at midnight. I'll admit that I now add in an afternoon nap when I want to.

Not too many months after I had started working, about twenty of the women at the company put together a trip to the Mexican Riviera aboard one of the cruise ships traveling out of San Diego. It was really affordable, and with my family's blessing I signed up to go along. The cabins were tiny, deep below the water line, with little bunks; never having been on a cruise ship before, I didn't realize that there were better rooms available. This is why our passage was so reasonable, I now know, but the trip couldn't have been more wonderful for me. The food was great, and the women all got along extremely well. (Shocked about that, are you?)

By now, however, my body clock refused to let me sleep in. Even though we had been up on deck laughing and watching the ship's lights on the water until quite late, by four thirty in the morning, I was wide awake. Rather than squirm around and run the risk of disturbing my roommate, I quietly slipped from my bunk and dressed. Grabbing my key, I snuck from the room.

For some reason, I was amazed that although the hall lights were ablaze, nobody else was around. It took me quite awhile to find a cup of coffee, but once I did, I made my way to a deck rail. We had docked at Santa Catalina Island at some point during the night, and there was silence around me as dawn began to gray the sky. I sipped my coffee and watched the silhouettes of fishing boats and yachts become more visible. The air was crisp and clear, just barely on the cool side, and the light breeze off the ocean felt wonderfully refreshing. I remember that there was only one other person, a crew member, in sight. He was on a lower deck, and was doing something with the anchor.

I'm not great with distances, but I'd estimate about 75 yards away, close enough for me to see clearly in the pre-dawn light, there was a really big yacht. From out of the hatch came a man carrying what appeared to be a bag. It was a bag, but not just any bag. He carried his bag to the bow of his craft, facing the rising sun, and stood there waiting. He was facing the sunrise. I was facing him and Avalon Bay beyond, where the sun's first rays, I had heard, would turn the buildings pink. That was what I had come to see. I never saw it.

My eyes were filled with tears. As the first rays of the sun crested the ocean, the gentleman on the yacht lifted his bagpipe and began to play Amazing Grace. The world stood still. The ship slept. The night owl cried in the sunrise. I had been blessed.

The Tupperware Party

When our youngest son started Kindergarten, I went to work part time as a church secretary. It was important that I get to know the ladies there, since there were monthly jobs that needed the cooperation of many hands, and the more people who knew and liked me, the quicker those jobs would go. One of those jobs was folding, stapling and sorting the monthly newsletter, and that was either a four day or a four hour project, depending on whether or not I had to do it alone.

One of the first things I was asked to do in order to get to know the ladies was to attend a Tupperware party. I was working for the money so I could have things like food and clothing for the family, with maybe some extra books and music thrown in, not plastic containers, so I had no real desire to go, but as it would assist me in getting to know these ladies, that's what I did. They got to know me a little better than I had planned. Luckily most of them were very nice ladies.

We had punch and cookies, then sat for the dramatic demonstration of all those things we absolutely had to have. I kept thinking of my big kitchen with nearly no cupboards. No woman had ever designed that disaster of a kitchen. It was so poorly planned I couldn't believe it. The only thing it lacked more than cupboards was counter space. There was plenty of floor, but little else.

The first problem I caused at the party came when, for some reason (maybe because everyone seemed to be trying to get to know me) the demonstration lady turned to me and asked what I did with leftovers. I simply burst out laughing. "Leftovers! My husband is six foot seven and I have three sons, ages five, nine, and thirteen. I don't even know what a leftover is. No matter how much I cook, they eat it." The woman just stood there with her mouth open, literally, while everyone laughed. She never spoke to or looked at me for the rest of the evening. I wasn't sure she'd even give me a catalog at the end, although she did (not that I ordered anything).

The second problem came when we were all sitting around with our little plates balanced on our knees, trying not to spill anything. The catalog orders were being taken at the kitchen table, and I had nothing to buy, so people kept coming by to talk to the new secretary. That was nice. They were gently ribbing me about my leftovers comment, but it was all in god fun. I had been honest, and they somehow thought that was charming. I almost pictured getting out of there without having another major foot in mouth moment.

Then there was a knock on the door and another lady joined the mix. She was way beyond late, but had brought her brand new baby along. He was about two weeks old, and this was the first time many of the ladies had gotten to see him. The mom hadn't wanted to see the demonstration, but she had wanted a chance to support the hostess and make an order. While she grabbed a catalog, the ladies took turns passing her little son around, while he slept soundly in one pair of arms after another. A sweet great-grandmother named Polly sat right next to me. When she got the little boy she turned to me, and was the center of attention as she said, "It means you're getting old when you see a baby and want to hold it, and hug it, and love on it, and you no longer want to take it home!"

Without even thinking, I responded, and unfortunately all the ladies heard me. "What does it mean when you feel that way about men?"

It's a good thing these were such great ladies. I made good friends that night. I accidentally let them see the real me. I forgot to wear that polite public mask, and it separated the real friends from the judgmental women I needed to be careful around. It was like culling the herd in fast forward. I think every new girl in town should be given a Tupperware party.