Stories From A Small Town

 For The Love OF The Game

There is an undeniable chill in the air. The bats have gone silent and the cheers from the crowd have grown faint. The Boys of Summer have disappeared from the ball fields for another season, leaving only remnants of game days past and the nostalgic recollections that will one day fade into a blurred history of time. 

Neatly tucked away in the corner of the cedar chest was a ticket stub from Ebbets Field dated Sunday, April 25, 1943.

Admit One Service Man-IN UNIFORM it read.

On the back my father had written in blue ink:

Brooklyn versus Philadelphia

                   score

       Phillies-3  Dodgers-2

At that time the Dodgers were in the Flatbush neighborhood of Brooklyn and my father was in New York City attending Columbia University courtesy of the United State Coast Guard. He would become a Pharmacist’s Mate, serving during World War II.

That Sunday afternoon match up between the Dodgers and Phillies was the second game in a two day series; the teams would split one each in the young season. World War II had already taken its toll on many major league rosters; the Dodgers were feeling the strain. They would finish third in the National League race in 1943; the Phillies would move up a notch finishing 7th. Just two years prior the Dodgers had battled cross town rivals the Yankees in the 1941 World Series, losing four games to one.  In 1944 the Brooklyn boys would drop to seventh; finishing two games behind the Boston Braves and a couple wins ahead of the Phillies who would wind up in the National League basement.  

That Spring day my father would see an aging Schoolboy Rowe pinch hit for Philadelphia and watch future Dodger Hall of Famers Billy Herman, Arky Vaughan, and Ducky Medwick play for the losing side. In less than 15 years the Dodgers would be in California; three years later the concrete, brick and iron of Ebbets Field would be just a memory…all gone, the work of  a two-ton wrecking ball that was painted white with red stitching, to resemble a baseball.  The home of the Dodgers from 1913 to 1957 was turned into apartment buildings.  

Underneath that yellowing ticket stub, among a few other fragile and fading papers was an envelope postwar marked Saint Louis, MO., Oct. 13, 6:30 PM, 1949; four years before I was born. The envelope was addressed to W.R. Caldwell, News Chronicle Printing Company, Scott City, Kansas;  both the ticket and that letter had purposely been kept and remained in that chest for nearly 60 years.

 My father’s love for the game of baseball was obvious to all that knew him. After his war-time service he became a sports writer and editor for the local weekly newspaper, he umpired both baseball and girl’s softball games as well as spending countless hours lugging bats, balls, helmets, and the catcher’s gear from practice field to practice field where he made time to coach Little Leaguers and Senior Division baseball teams.  Before that he played fast pitch town team softball for the News Chronicle in the late 1940’s through the early 1950s; giving it up shortly after I was born in December of 1953. He truly delighted in the game.  

And of course he liked nothing better than to relax in a recliner on a Saturday afternoon and follow one of the baseball games of the week that were being aired that day.  We watched them all or at least as many as we could; listening to the likes of Leo Durocher, Joe Garagiola, Pee Wee Reese and the ever popular homespun rhetoric of Dizzy Dean as he called the games for CBS.  

I enjoyed the games and the time with my father, but for a boy of seven in 1961, it was the Hamm’s Beer bear that I really wanted to see. Those commercials were always worth the wait as I sat with chin in hand for the inning’s end and a chance to glimpse the antics of that bumbling bear.  I  still remember the drum beat…BUMP bump bump bump… BUMP bump bump bump… and the cartoon animals that seemed to make “From the land of sky blue waters” a place well worth the visit…which at some point was followed by the rhythmic lyrics  “Hamm’s the beer refreshing”…”Hamm’s the beer refreshing”. Turns out the Hamm’s Beer Bear was by far more refreshing than the taste of the beer itself as I would discover years later.

As did many Americans, my father looked forward each year to the World Series. There was no escape, it was a national phenomenon or at least it seemed so from the plains of Western Kansas. 

Radios blasted the play by play in homes and businesses;  Shoot, I could keep up with the game without missing a pitch as I peddled my bicycle home from a friend’s house several blocks away. Television sets clicked on in the middle of the day and school children got a break from their usual studies as the games echoed by radio through classroom intercom systems.

World Series chatter was the talk of the town at local diners and coffee shops. Office pools popped up over night, allowing anyone who could afford the price of admission the opportunity to buy chances and make predictions on the series outcome. For some it was the challenge of picking a winner; for other the hope of winning the cash pot. My father always seemed to do well when it came to picking the winners, he was a longtime student of the game. There was a rumor one year that a local church was running a pot…that was never confirmed or denied. I guess Hitting A Home Run For Jesus never seemed to catch on like BINGO.

But no matter the circumstance, everyone had an opinion or game prediction, a favorite team and a favorite player.  Friends and neighbors flocked around radios and television sets like kids to a movie theatre on a Saturday afternoon.   

 Over the years my father would have few opportunity other than his time at Ebbets Field to see the major leaguers in action at the ball park; it was a long 11 hour trip to St. Louis for a Cardinals game and nearly a seven hour drive one-way from Scott City to Municipal Stadium in Kansas City where the Athletics played their home games.  

However, on one of those rare occasion in 1955, the startup year for A’s in Kansas City, he would see a young Micky Mantel, in his fifth season, and Yogi Berra playing in his prime, when the Yankees came to town, beating Kansas City twice in a three game series.  He would bring home both New York Yankee and Kansas City Athletic felt pennants; flags that hung on my bedroom wall until the Yankee blue faded to grey and the image of Uncle Sam with top hat had lost much of his luster.  The A’s pennant  fared better, the elephant that was balanced on a baseball holding bat in its trunk, remained until the Athletics moved to California’s Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum.

 Now prior to 1955 the A’s had been in Philadelphia for over 50 years marking their presence known there as a fledgling club in the newly formed American League and winning six A L Pennants and three World Series titles.  But now in Kansas City,  the A’s would never be in pennant contention.  My father would see the hapless Athletics just one more time before owner Charles Findley moved the team to the west coast. 

Despite their perennial losing streaks, I liked the A’s.  The Athletics would never replace my childhood favorite Yankees, but they would become the team to follow from the plains of western Kansas. I would listen to games on an old Zenith console radio in my bedroom after lights out.  I would quietly turn the knob just past the static and lean my head over the edge of the bed near the open speaker door to catch the play by play.…it was just barely louder than a purposeful whisper but low enough to keep my parents in the next room from shutting it down; I’m sure they knew.  

I remember one game in 1965, as a special promotion by owner Charlie Finley, the A’s shortstop Campy Campaneris would play every position during a game against the Angles…Campaneris would be the first player to complete that feat in a major league game. Finley tried everything short of turning Municipal Stadium into a three-ring circus and having his team ride elephants around the bases to boost sagging attendance numbers. 

Three years later, in 1968, the A’s would move to Oakland, California; a new team, the Royals would arrive in Kansas City one year later and set up shop. I never could get behind a team called The Royals.

 My father would never make a trip to another baseball park and he would never see a World Series game from the seats of a stadium, but he continued to follow the game with religious devotion until his death in 1983 at age 62; which brings me back to that envelope and letter that remained in that cedar chest until my mothers death in 2010.

The letter read:

Dear Mr. Caldwell,

When those Dodger Bums beat out our St. Louis Cards for the Pennant, it gave us all a terrible jolt.  We had hoped to see another World Series in St. Louis. However, the Cards went down fighting and swinging and as Eddie Dyer says, “They just ran out of gas.” ( Eddie Dyer managed the St. Louis Cardinals post war from 1946-1950)

We made every effort, the letter continued, to fill your request for World Series Tickets. The Cards had them all printed, we sent in the money at the appointed time on September 28, and were able to get a few tickets. We thought you might like to have one as a souvenir for the World Series that we didn’t get to see in 1949.

Yours very truly, 

Blackwell Wielandy Company

 I’m sure my father would be pleased to know that those Dodger Bums took it on the chin at the hands of the Mets this past year during the National League playoff series but then again so did the Cardinals…but likely no one would have guessed at the hands of the cursed Chicago Cubs…not even my father could have seen that one coming. 

                                                                            -30-

Aunt Annabelle

   My old brown shoes were tucked neatly away under the top left-hand corner of the bed.  They had remained untouched since making a funeral appearance nearly 3 1/2 years ago.  The dust from the Scott County Cemetery still covered them from heal to toe...It was time to brush them off.
   Aunt Annabelle died a couple of days ago.  She was married to Uncle Leo; my mother's brother.  We had known for a short while that her passing was inevitable; she was 87 and had been diagnosed with cancer…nothing could be done, it would just be a matter of time.
    The funeral will be Friday at 2p.m. in Healy I was told. Funerals not something I look forward to...or embrace.  It's just a part we play in the cycle of life and death.  I know it's important to commemorate and show respect for a life gone, but I prefer to keep my memories of that person in tact. You can't unsee a lifeless body laying in a casket. And I understand for some the memorial service represents a sort of closure …Guess, I need to find my suit.
    Annabelle was character. It wasn't unusual for her to dance around a room, no accompaniment necessary; she was a free spirit. She just loved to dance.  And her laugh, you could pick it out in a room full of people. It wasn't a cackle exactly, but it certainly wasn't something you heard everyday. If you followed the sound of that laugh, you'd find Aunt Annabelle.  She had a great sense of humor. 
   Visitors to their house in Healy were always greeted with a "Don't just stand there", Annabelle would say, "sit your skinny butts down";  a trip to the hospital a few day before her death proved to be no exception.  We sat our butts down, skinny or not, for a short visit.  It would be the last visit….There it is. Found it.
   My suit was mashed up tight, pinned against the wall in the back of the closet just like that loaf of bread at the bottom of the grocery bag filled with cans of peas on top.  It will require some pressing…maybe if I just give it some air.  OK there's my shirt, vest, tie, belt, and pants…all accounted for, and damn, all wrinkled except for the belt. Guess you can't wrinkle a belt.
  There is something in the pocket of the jacket, you know the one inside, the secret one I called it when I was a kid... I pulled out a folded memorial card.  It's from my mothers funeral in July of 2010. And there's that missing pen, the one I had hunted for several weeks before giving it up as lost.
  Aunt Annabelle will be missed.  She and Uncle Leo would stop by the house in Scott City from time to time.  She would generally come to the door first to make sure we were home and then motion for Leo to come inside.  She did the driving and he rode shotgun. She claimed to be a great driver, better at it than either one of her daughters she would say…I could see from the front door that the white mini-van was parked at least 4 feet from the curb toward the middle of the street.  I didn't say a word.
  Sometimes they would stay for an hour; other times for two.  And after stories had been swapped and tales from world war II retold, she would say "Guess we had better go daddy, now get your lazy butt up."  Uncle Leo would pull on his ball cap and lift himself from the chair and out the front door they would go. We would follow to make sure they navigated the step alright.      
   Generally after pushing past the steps Annabelle would stop, turn back and say, "You guys be good, and if you can't be good, be careful; and if you can't be careful",  with a laugh, "Name it after me."  And off they'd go.
                                                     -30-

Decoration Day

Our history is laid out in plots, with names and dates and stories to be learned if we take the time to listen. I now wish I had paid closer attention to detail and tuned-in more carefully to what the voices above ground were telling me. Those voices are all gone.

We didn’t  just decorate family graves. For my grandparents, the patch of ground north of Healy was more than just a final resting place for loved ones related by blood, there were headstones marking the passing of old friends and long-time neighbors; some had been gone for more years than they cared to remember.  It was apparent that roots run deep.

Small communities are not just dots on the map or a place to call home. The people here form lasting bonds and live by an unwavering code of ethics that knows no bounds. Life and death and memories matter.

My grandparents always called it Decoration Day. It was a time for muted smiles, moments of laughter, a deep breath here and there, and the occasional tear slowly creeping from the corner of the eye…It was personal and private and social all at the same time; a gathering for the living to honor the dead. It was a sacred spot for kindred spirits, both above and below ground and a place to share memories. Coming here transported the mind on a journey back to another life-time ago…a flipping of pages from the ever-changing scrapbook of life.

Decades have passed since I first walked the graveyard in Healy Kansas. My grandparents are now buried side by side in that small rural cemetery; my grandfather died in 1971 and my grandmother in 1975.
    I have gone to that solitary piece of ground many times over the year, sometimes looking for answers and other times just to remember. Some 57 year later I can still point out the headstones and markers that we visited on those May days so long ago. The lessons learned here have lasted a lifetime.

                                                                        -30-
Petunias Anyone?
     The voice from across the aisle said “Do you want any petunias? AvNell and I looked up to see a woman  quickly loading one pot of flowers after another into her shopping cart.
     “No Thank you’” I said with a smile. “You just help yourself.”
     I don’t want to hog them all,” the woman said as she continued to pack up the plants from the half-price racks at the local garden center. “Im going to take them to the cemetery,” she continued.
     “That sounds like a good idea,” I said as we quickly pushed our cart past some pots filled with daisies and toward the back of store and the stacks of plastic, terra cotta, and ceramic pottery.
     Ten minutes later we see the woman at the check-out counter piling all the plants on to the conveyer as the cashier looked overwhelmed…ringing-up one pot at a time.
     “That’ll certainly brighten up the cemetery,” I say as we push past with our cart.
The woman turns and says “I sure hope so,” then pauses and with a laugh says “If the relatives don’t fight over them.”