The Big House On the Hill
The Yanks were playing a double-header last week and a lifelong pal who also grew up on Shirley Road sent me the following text:
"Bah, I miss the big house on the hill on days like today."
He didn't really have to describe it for me, but he did.
"Cukes and tomatoes and basketball and foose and beers and Yankees."
I wrote back:
"We were blessed."
Then I added, don't forget my Dad screaming "Bah!" every three minutes.
"He loved those days," my buddy said.
And truer words have never been spoken.
My father loved to be the master of ceremonies at those types of days. He'd cook enough food for every neighborhood child and adult. We'd chase each other around, playing spirited games of hoops, drinking beer as young adults, and fighting, laughing...
...just loving, I guess.
Memorial Day Weekend always had a wrinkle in it too because that was when we had to plant the massive garden. As adults it was rough because we didn't want to plop on the ground and plant the tomatoes and cukes, but when we did Dad would stand there and tell us some of the old stories.
"Remember when you threw the cucumber seeds in the manure patch to get rid of them?" he'd ask me every year as an adult.
We never had more cukes than that year. I guess I thought I was hiding them.
"We were blessed," continued to play over and over in my head all week as a result of my few minute texting exchange.
"I miss those days something awful," my buddy said.
And I think of it now as I try to raise my kids in much the same way, but it's different. Friends don't come around here much because evidently this generation doesn't need to just hang out and watch double-headers on lazy, warm days.
And to try and get my kids to plant a garden?
Wouldn't happen.
I wonder how they would've fared with my Dad at the helm.
They would've been on their toes to be sure.
They also would've been eternally blessed.
"Bah, I miss the big house on the hill on days like today."
He didn't really have to describe it for me, but he did.
"Cukes and tomatoes and basketball and foose and beers and Yankees."
I wrote back:
"We were blessed."
Then I added, don't forget my Dad screaming "Bah!" every three minutes.
"He loved those days," my buddy said.
And truer words have never been spoken.
My father loved to be the master of ceremonies at those types of days. He'd cook enough food for every neighborhood child and adult. We'd chase each other around, playing spirited games of hoops, drinking beer as young adults, and fighting, laughing...
...just loving, I guess.
Memorial Day Weekend always had a wrinkle in it too because that was when we had to plant the massive garden. As adults it was rough because we didn't want to plop on the ground and plant the tomatoes and cukes, but when we did Dad would stand there and tell us some of the old stories.
"Remember when you threw the cucumber seeds in the manure patch to get rid of them?" he'd ask me every year as an adult.
We never had more cukes than that year. I guess I thought I was hiding them.
"We were blessed," continued to play over and over in my head all week as a result of my few minute texting exchange.
"I miss those days something awful," my buddy said.
And I think of it now as I try to raise my kids in much the same way, but it's different. Friends don't come around here much because evidently this generation doesn't need to just hang out and watch double-headers on lazy, warm days.
And to try and get my kids to plant a garden?
Wouldn't happen.
I wonder how they would've fared with my Dad at the helm.
They would've been on their toes to be sure.
They also would've been eternally blessed.
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