Play Ball

It was approaching dusk and the two little girls were burning off a little energy before bedtime.  The youngest was reaching the frustration stage with her hula hoop when the older one ran by with a plastic ball and bat, "Lets play ball!"  Hula hoop forgotten they ran to the grassy area beside the barn just in time to meet their dad coming in from evening chores in the barn.  "Pitch for us daddy!  Pitch for us!!"  Grinning he agreed.  Mom wandered over from watering the flower bed to watch.  

The oldest daughter grabbed the bat and took her batting stance.  Back straight, knees bent, elbows out.  Daddy wound up for the pitch and lobbed one over the "plate".  With a mighty swing she blasted the ball past her daddy, beyond mom and into the gravel in front of the shed, where it was neatly fielded by the Australian Shepherd.  "Run!  Run!" shouted her daddy.  "Where??" she responded looking around the grassy area.  "Just pick a spot for bases." responded her parents.  So off she ran, touching the light pole and yelling "first", high-fiving her mom and yelling "second", smacking the old maple tree and calling out "third".  Her sister cheered her into home, wanting her turn at bat.

Soon a spirited ballgame was taking place with the little girls taking turns at bat and mom serving as cheerleader and second base.  Lexi, the shepherd, scurried happily around, chasing down the balls.  There was a slight hitch since she would only return them to mom and only then after calls and begging, but then mom would toss them to dad and the game would continue.  The yard rang with cheers, yells, and laughter, with daddy laughing and mom cheering the little girls on as they ran happily around the "bases".  

The game ended, with the full moon beginning to show in the early evening sky, when the dog grew tired of running after the ball and decided to keep it.  In high spirits the girls gathered up their toys and went to the house to begin preparations for bath time.  Mom and dad smiled at each other and wondered why they didn't stop more often to just enjoy the life they worked so hard to build for their family.

Mom and dad walked hand and hand to the house feeling satisfied with their time with their children.  Sometimes, we have to remember that children need nurturing as much as the flowers in their beds and the calves in the barn.

The Men's Group

Hubby loves people!  Especially if they come in clumps, groups or crowds.  I blame this on high school athletics that teach young men that it is all about the "team".  After four years of Hubby playing baseball, football and basketball (The transition from football to basketball was a little tricky,  resulting in a few fouls for some pretty physical "blocks" before he acclimated!)  the idea of being part of a group activity was embedded.  Other men tend to have been raised with the same ethics, so we have some pretty healthy "groups" in our town. 

Right now the place to be is at Hardee's from 6:30 to 10:00 on about any morning.  The working men arrive early and grab breakfast and the latest news (gossip).  Before the last of these leave the retirees are starting to arrive to add their two cents worth.  At about 9 am those working in town come for their morning coffee break.  The talk and laughter rolls on and on.  Like Henry says in the show Longmire about his bar, "it is the home of the continual soiree".   

This "men's club" will hold forth on any subject with the steadfast authority of experience and/or just plain pig headedness.  No subject is safe.  Hubby has come home with absolute opinions on everything from politics (I won't even begin with what they proclaim) to growing prize winning vegetables.  In between they cover moon signs, current events (who is chasing who and who got caught), overnight police activity (the ex-police chief is a member), grandkids who are obviously the first of a new super race, break-throughs in medicine (Did you know that eating lots of garlic will prevent the flu?  Probably because no one will get close enough to you to give you a germ!), and probably a few more topics that hubby is smart enough not to pass on to me.

It has gotten so bad that it has moved into the arena of family history.  Whenever someone comes up with a really off-the-wall statement we all look at each other and shout, "coffee group!!!!"

Hubby just grins and keeps on arranging his schedule around 9 am coffee. 

The other morning I had an early appointment.  Hubby announced at bed time that he would get up and go to breakfast in the morning to give me some extra time, since I wouldn't have to cook breakfast.  I demurred, "It's ok.  My appointment isn't until 9:00, I'll have plenty of time to get ready.  You don't have to get up so early."  Knowing that there aren't many things this man hates more than getting up in the morning, I didn't think it really made sense.  "No, no, I don't mind" he returned.  This went back and forth until he confessed, "I couldn't make it to  coffee today and I really want to go to breakfast and see what I missed!"

After he went peacefully to sleep, dreaming, no doubt, about his morning meeting with the coffee group, I decided maybe I had better show up at a few coffee breaks and hone up on my conversational skills.  It's been a long time since Hubby has been that enthusiastic about breakfast with me!

Forty-Five Years

Forty-five years ago,  I tied up the middle Campbell boy on a hot Saturday afternoon during Labor Day week-end.  There were some, including my mother-in-law, who thought we were nuts for getting married.  Maybe my mother did too, but she was sure crazy about my hubby, so maybe not.  I honestly don't remember much about the event except there were a lot of parties and my mother and Aunt Anne had a wonderful time planning it all.  Unlike brides today, I pretty much just went and did whatever they said for me to.  I know there were a lot of people at the wedding, partially because they liked my parents and partly because my Aunt threw great parties and she was hosting the reception at her home.

Just about the time the party started to get going, we were told that it was time for us to leave.  I changed out of my lovely wedding gown into the dress and coat that I had made in my tailoring class at college and we dashed to the car amid a ton of rice.  We were married.  As we drove away we looked at each other and for the first time in weeks, there was no one telling us what to do.  I think at that moment we realized that we were really on our own, sink or swim.

It was a time before the extravagant honeymoons of today.  Hubby had worked as a summer intern for the Intermediate Credit Bank in Louisville and had saved every penny for our honeymoon.  I had worked as a taster (giving out samples in stores) for the Ale-8-One soft drink company and had squirreled away as much as I could.  Hubby had found a little motel on one of his banking trips that he thought would be perfect.  So we took off on the long trip to Fulton, Kentucky and Tennessee.  What we didn't know was that this pretty, quiet little town on the Kentucky-Tennessee line in far western Kentucky was hosting the International Banana Festival that week-end. (Yep.  I have probably heard every joke you are now thinking of!) 

It seems that Fulton was historically the railroad center that received all the bananas that were shipped up the Mississippi River.  From there they were shipped by rail to the rest of the United States.  It was a big deal in the late 1800's and early 1900's.  We arrived to be met at the city limits with a friendly greeting and a welcome banana.  We entered the town to discover it teaming with people and festivities.  Over the next couple of days we ventured out from our little motel (which was actually on the Tennessee side of town) to enjoy the art displays, craft vendors, contests and the colossal 500 lb. banana pudding, plus a free banana every time we crossed the city limits.

However, by about the third day we had reached a crisis point.  Things were beginning to come unraveled in the honeymoon suite, humble though it may be.  Hubby had grown up in a family with two brothers--no sisters.  His mother while sweet, was low-maintenance to a fault.  He was used to getting up, showering and having his breakfast on the table.  The world of primping with make-up,  the teased hair-do's of the sixties, and endless female preparations before breakfast were fast getting to him.  On top of his concern over starving before I finally got ready was the very real problem of how we were going to pay for that very breakfast.  We were rapidly (and literally) eating up our meager savings.  So, as we counted out pennies for our breakfast tab,  I realized we needed to get out of there and go home where I could cook his breakfast in my robe or the marriage might be short lived. 

The marriage was saved and I have spent the last 45 years preparing his breakfast so he can eat when his feet hit the floor.  I figure that I have fixed about 16,200 breakfasts in that time. 

Not bad, considering that I don't even eat breakfast.