True Memorials
The Memorial Day celebrations of my youth were epic. I'm sure I'm not alone in the feeling of excitement as the summer months stretch out before me. When we were kids the party was always going strong.
We'd barbecue of course. Dad's epic chicken that was burnt on the outside and pink on the inside, but that only happened every so often. The ribs were more than enough to make up for it. We'd plant the garden, the sun blistering us, but turning all of us dark brown. The brush cuts, the baseball games, endless rounds of golf. It always seemed like the Rocky movies opened on those weekends too.
And the parade through town. It's hard to forget the parade through town. All the familiar faces of my father's friends as they marched in uniform.
"I know you're a Fuzzy, I just don't know which one," always behind the smile that greeted us.
On Saturday night I went to Sam's first game of the baseball season under the lights. He got in the car talking about going 3 for 3 and being carried off the field on his friend's shoulders.
He started his night by striking out, then he ripped one to right and then he walked. A good night for him but he lamented the K.
"We all strike out from time to time," I said.
And a bat flew over the field at one point. Not a baseball bat, a real bat. The excited crowd pointed at it.
One man told his wife to 'hold out your hand, they have rabies.'
We laughed a lot at that one.
And the entire time I sat there on a lawn chair I felt a little sorry for myself. The activity of youth swallowed up in the sore back and the battered hip. Memories of my own games, 36 or 37 years ago flooding my mind.
The night air was still warm despite the fact that they'd started the game at 8:15, 'under the lights'. The fans at the other game cheered loudly at one point. The fans beside us cheered as Sam's team held on in the bottom of the last inning to win by two.
I passed by a few American flags on the way as we laughed our way to the car, Jake chiding Sam for the strike out. Sam talking about dominating in the next game. I thought about the freedom we have. God Blessed America.
God also blessed me with a great memory. I truly recall snippets of conversation from games all that while ago, sitting on the edge of my Dad's bed, telling him I didn't want to get hit by the pitch. He tried to teach me a few tricks.
I bet he felt like saying, 'Toughen up Nancy.'
He didn't. He let me know that striking out was okay, and that I should hold my head high, and keep talking shit. Dad didn't ever stop me from believing that I'd dominate eventually.
At the end of the game a kid hit a ball and raced around the bases, lightning quick.
"I never was a very fast runner," I told Jake.
"Oh really," he said. "That's hard to believe considering the way you motor now."
We laughed.
A snippet of a conversation that I hopefully bring back to him as a memory ten or twenty years from now.
Truth be told, Jacob, you can still certainly dominate, but I have some bad news for you:
You run like the old man.
We'd barbecue of course. Dad's epic chicken that was burnt on the outside and pink on the inside, but that only happened every so often. The ribs were more than enough to make up for it. We'd plant the garden, the sun blistering us, but turning all of us dark brown. The brush cuts, the baseball games, endless rounds of golf. It always seemed like the Rocky movies opened on those weekends too.
And the parade through town. It's hard to forget the parade through town. All the familiar faces of my father's friends as they marched in uniform.
"I know you're a Fuzzy, I just don't know which one," always behind the smile that greeted us.
On Saturday night I went to Sam's first game of the baseball season under the lights. He got in the car talking about going 3 for 3 and being carried off the field on his friend's shoulders.
He started his night by striking out, then he ripped one to right and then he walked. A good night for him but he lamented the K.
"We all strike out from time to time," I said.
And a bat flew over the field at one point. Not a baseball bat, a real bat. The excited crowd pointed at it.
One man told his wife to 'hold out your hand, they have rabies.'
We laughed a lot at that one.
And the entire time I sat there on a lawn chair I felt a little sorry for myself. The activity of youth swallowed up in the sore back and the battered hip. Memories of my own games, 36 or 37 years ago flooding my mind.
The night air was still warm despite the fact that they'd started the game at 8:15, 'under the lights'. The fans at the other game cheered loudly at one point. The fans beside us cheered as Sam's team held on in the bottom of the last inning to win by two.
I passed by a few American flags on the way as we laughed our way to the car, Jake chiding Sam for the strike out. Sam talking about dominating in the next game. I thought about the freedom we have. God Blessed America.
God also blessed me with a great memory. I truly recall snippets of conversation from games all that while ago, sitting on the edge of my Dad's bed, telling him I didn't want to get hit by the pitch. He tried to teach me a few tricks.
I bet he felt like saying, 'Toughen up Nancy.'
He didn't. He let me know that striking out was okay, and that I should hold my head high, and keep talking shit. Dad didn't ever stop me from believing that I'd dominate eventually.
At the end of the game a kid hit a ball and raced around the bases, lightning quick.
"I never was a very fast runner," I told Jake.
"Oh really," he said. "That's hard to believe considering the way you motor now."
We laughed.
A snippet of a conversation that I hopefully bring back to him as a memory ten or twenty years from now.
Truth be told, Jacob, you can still certainly dominate, but I have some bad news for you:
You run like the old man.
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