Ain't no cure for the summertime blog

I feel that I've used up all my prose over the last few days. I'm not a poet, so I'm not sure where that leaves today's post. I am committed to keep posting daily, at least until decide to stop doing so. I guess I could list some things. That'd be good, right?

Things in the yard (paired up to create interest):

fenceposts and a hose reel,
old clothesline posts and a brown dog licking my arm,
a black dog sleeping under the shady bush and freshly cut grass,
bugs and weeds,
chewed up sticks and tennis balls,
bean plants and a yellow-handled trowel,
sunshine and a gentle breeze,
a bowl of water and an air conditioner humming,
shadows and blue flowers,
butterflies and a brown dog dragging a big stick,
panting sounds and clover,
vapor trail above and a shovel hanging on the fence.
Why is it on the fence? We put it there - it has a little hook on it. It's not that "shovel" hasn't made up it's mind... it has... it's a shovel and it is on hand for shoveling. It is quite literally on the fence. It was my grandfather's shovel. He's gone now. I don't think of him every time I use the shovel. But I do think of him every time I see a freight train full of tank cars go by with GATX on them.
old closet doors and a black dog chewing grass,
dragonflies and activity,
thoughts and distance,
heat and time,
a black dog drinking water and a jet overhead,
perspiration and longing,
a smile and a lick,
flip flops and pale skin,
slow motion and a forest of trees,
a useless antenna and dogs ready to go inside.

Americana's Game

When baseball season rolled around growing up, it was time to sign up for Little League. We got the forms in school, maybe one of my friends was passing them out or maybe they were available in the main office, I'm not sure which. We'd take the signed form down to the hardware store on a Saturday morning to a table set up way in the back. I don’t recall how they chose the teams... I think maybe the coaches got together and had some sort of draft. We'd get a call from the coach a few days later and receive our schedule. It was always fun getting the schedule and circling the games, seeing which field we were playing at and picking out the biggest matchups. Games were either at the field above the middle school or out at the park. I preferred the cozy confines of the field at the park, the school field was very wide open. Neither had an outfield fence, so any homerun was an inside the park homerun. I think I hit one once... I was more of a singles and doubles guy.

We started with tee ball, then had a year where it was three innings off the tee + three innings pitched, then on to regular pitching. Games were six innings long. We weren’t part of the Little League, so there was never any thought of the national stage and playing in Williamsport for the World Series. It was all local. The Marcellus Optimist Club organized it all. I don't know who these optimists were, but I liked that they gave us a baseball league. All of our team names were regional tribe names... Iroquois, Crow, Oneida, Seneca, etc. No one wanted to be the Crappy Crows. I really like the local flavor. Iroquois vs. Tuscaroras sounds much better than the Marcellus Astros vs Marcellus Mets. We'd get colored tee-shirts and mesh hats. The hats were generic, but colored differently for each team - some got all gray, some got red white and blue, others got yellow, and to continue on, still others got other combinations of colors. At some point I decided I'd rather wear my fitted Yankees hat, that I believe was a hand-me-down. It was wool, just like the real thing. I didn't play long enough to wear the cool pants and stirrup socks, the full uniform. I don't think I ever wore shorts; I almost always wore jeans so I could slide and dive. If I didn't get dirty playing I would be disappointed. I never wore cleats.

There are pictures of me swinging a big plastic Snoopy bat when I was a toddler. I've always liked to play.

Another highlight of summer was playing softball at the King and King Architects office picnic. Looking back now, I imagine my Dad would have rather had a day away from the people at the office, but I was so psyched to play ball with a bunch of adults. I'd always bring my glove and bat and a ball. That was up there with Christmas... I always looked forward to it.

I don't know if the Optimist Club still runs the youth league in Marcellus. I assume they do. But I’m sure it's different now. And that's ok. There may be kids about 10 years old playing for the Marcellus Astros tonight. And that's ok, too.

How to change your transmission fluid

Not really. I'd rather not write about transmission fluid and you'd rather not hear about. At least, I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to hear what I have to say about it.

Last September I took the train from Portland up to Seattle on Amtrak's Cascades Line... very nice. It was not very full, no more than half. They showed a movie, had little updates on train arrival times and had a snack car. I stared out the window, sometimes blankly, sometimes thinking. I watched that part of the world go by. I pulled out my laptop and did some computer work on Publisher to feel and be productive. I had moments of inspiration where I would break out a pad and write down ideas for song lyrics inspired by the sights and my trip. One line was a remnant from an idea I had on the plane ride into Las Vegas as a part of that same trip.

(cut to plane)
The angle of the sun was just so. There are brilliantly colored lakes on the approach to the Las Vegas airport. They are so striking against the forbidding terrain and manicured, lush, irrigated patches of green civilization. Brilliantly colored lakes... what color? I'm guessing blue, but it could have been green or aqua or a shade from far across the color wheel. Anyway, in the jet, flying above a cloud, you could see the cloud's shadow cast on the surface of the water. It was pretty neat. You could pick out a cloud, make out the shape and find its copy on the ground. Some clouds were bold, almost heavy, others were wispy and meek. One set of thin clouds caught my attention because I couldn't find their twins on the lake surface. "Clouds so light their shadows never reach the ground."

I'm off track...(literally?)... back to the train. The rail journey was three hours well spent, all for 29 bucks if I recall correctly. I highly recommend it because I thoroughly enjoyed it.

You can use your cell phone on the train. This has the upside of unlimited communication and the downside of unlimited communication. A semi-hipster guy was sitting across the aisle from me. About twenty minutes into the trip he got a call from his daughter. (There are many details I learned through his phone conversations not by intentionally eavesdropping, but as result of not being able to avoid listening. So any further facts and/or assumptions are a result of information I never wanted to learn, but could not avoid. All of which I pass on to you now. Back to it.) Her car had broken down up in Seattle. From what she told him he diagnosed it as a transmission problem. Specifically, she was probably low on transmission fluid. That is likely the result/symptom of a greater problem, but a transfusion of some transmission fluid would at least alleviate the problem momentarily. He got in touch with his ex-wife, the daughter's mother, and told her what the problem was. He then called his daughter back and tried to come up with a plan as he was still a couple hours away. She was not going to be able to get transmission fluid or know where to put it if she got. He called a couple others and related the story. Some unwitting folks called him for other reasons entirely, only to be told the entire story, which I got to hear yet again, yet again, and yet again. He told the women sitting across from him the situation. I avoided all eye-contact not wanting to be included in any of it. Why relate all this? Well... every time the semi-hipster Dad discussed the problem and the solution, he would say the words "tranny fluid." "I think she just needs some tranny fluid." "If we add a little tranny fluid we'll be able to get her home ok." "Tranny fluid... yeah, tranny fluid. I'm pretty sure it's tranny fluid." "What's that... right, tranny fluid." "I'll get some tranny fluid, I think that'll do it." Tranny fluid this and tranny fluid that. Tranny fluid ad nauseum, ad infinitum.

I couldn't take it. I tried to remove myself from it all with my ipod. No amount of volume could make it go away. No song was powerful enough. No spoken word forceful enough. No podcast was sufficiently podcastic. It was undeniable. It defined the moment. It was tranny fluid.

I scrambled to break loose from its clutches... its tranny clutches. But what could I do? I was otherwise comfortable in my seat. I wasn't going to move... I had a nice window seat with no one beside me. Hipster McTrannyFluid should move. Dear god, save me... just give me the tools to make it right. Then, while I was in the depths of my despair, when it seemed there was no way out... (cue chorus of angels) the clouds didn't part, no beams of light shown through and I heard no booming voice. But I did find deliverance. Salvation was sitting in my lap, spiral-bound. My only chance for escape was through words. Words on the page. Written words on the writing page. So I wrote...

Tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid...

It became almost hypnotic. Typing it repetitively has a similar trance-inducing power. That is how you change transmission fluid. Transmission fluid turned into tranny fluid. Tranny fluid turned into an hypnotic escape vehicle. Tranny fluid powered my descent into madness and fueled my escape.

tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid, tranny fluid,...

What ends in stars

The perimeter of the farmland has been breached once again. There is a line of little ant hills across the northern leg of the plot. They have successfully destroyed the remaining cucumber plant. I think they gummed up its roots like they did to the other. These may not be ordinary fire ants, there is no mound to speak of, as yet. I have yet to launch my counterattack, I think I'll do it on the weekend when they least expect it. They always let their guard down on the weekends. I guess they're all liquored up and busy gambling after pay day. They'll get theirs. There are a number of other colonies starting up around the property as well. They'll also get theirs. Everyone gets theirs.

Bean plants are the fastest growing... if fairy tales are at all based on truth, this should be no surprise, eh Jack? There is one lone squash plant trying to make it - not looking too promising. The lettuce plants are small but seem to be growing... I think they take quite awhile to mature. I remain optimistic. It's a mix of lettuce varieties, so they are already multi-colored. Very cool. Two tiny tomato plants have been about the same size (size small) for the last couple weeks... they may have fruit on them right now, but it would be impossible to see. There are similarly sized carrot plants that I don't expect to produce carrots. The peppers are a no show.

I'm outside as dusk is settling into night. The waxing crescent moon is about to slip behind the pine trees. It's got a prominent earthlight glow this evening. It did last night, too. There's a single bat flying overhead in a pattern only it understands, not that I'm studying it too closely. I wonder if it flies at a certain height and speed to get the most mosquitoes per minute. I wonder if it thinks about that. We've talked about building a bat house. I wonder if it'd like that. Insects are making a racket tonight. Frogs and birds too. I like to think the birds are Whip-poor-wills. I like to think the frogs are happy. I count seven celestial bodies - planets and stars.

Profuse Lee

I remember in bygone days when the height of basketball playing pleasure was found at the RAC (Roanoke Athletic Club). A full court, hardwood, usually pretty empty. We'd suit up in our Stromgren and Pumas and make a day of it. When you needed a break, you could go watch tv. Then, back to it. Some days there would be other kids playing, but usually if a game was to be had, it involved older guys... guys as a old as I am now... yes, that old. They were generally slow on their feet, had awkward looking shots and relied on backing you down then tossing up sorry looking hookshots. I now can relate.

As a scrawny lad, I always preferred to be shirts rather than skins (so as not to alarm anyone with my pale, bony physique, as if someone wouldn't know that I was pale and bony by seeing me with my shirt on - pretty sure they would). More often than not, I managed to manipulate events to keep my shirt on... so the old guys wound up being skins. This was to their advantage. They sweat so much that you would slide off of them. Combine that with their "back you down and body you up" philosophy and it made for a generally unfortunate experience.

I just shot hoops for about five minutes and I'm dripping. Yes, it's a little hot and sunny, but I am now that sweaty older man. damn.

Scott, one of my college roommates, said it best (though I'm sure he got it from somewhere else): "We become that which we despise." Maybe a bit strong here... but you get the idea.

I have rich, disturbing memories of the past. So, should I ever play ball with some teenagers, I refuse to sweat on them and back them down. Although... if I don't sweat on them and back them down, they may never learn the hard lessons that brought me to this point. Perhaps I owe it to them (and generations to come) to play old guy basketball. Who am I to break the chain? A great moment of truth awaits me sometime in the future. I know not what my choice shall be nor the ramifications thereof. therein. thereabouts. thereto. thereupon. there.

Now, for all you fashionistas:
click on image and it's like you're right there with me! dig it.

Day 6

This is a personal best... six straight days providing tantalizing blog posts. None have been a lame video link like some of mine in the past… and none are a cheesy clip show of my all time great posts. We'll save that retrospective for another time. Maybe we should look at some short clips of my all-time great upcoming posts. Who doesn't like a peak into the future?

April 12, 2013

‘The Liberty Tax service has stepped up its game big time. They’ve got the Statue of Liberty mascot, and in a visionary move they've added huddled masses to the street show. It's this kind of performance art that really makes you think. Well done.'
--------

April 13, 2013

'Correction. It turns out the "huddled masses" was a bag of trash gently blowing around near the Liberty mascot's feet. Garbage was strewn all across Market Street this morning… a whole lot of Hardee's wrappers.'
--------

July 14, 2015

'Another Bastille Day is upon us and I still don't know the appropriate way to celebrate. I'll stick with my usual singing of Aux Champs-Elysees and eating one dozen bagettes.'
--------

Autumn 2017

'My seasonal blogging has been well-received this year. The Spring and Summer posts both received ratings of 3.5 stars from my three readers. How the math worked out to average 3.5 stars I'll never know.'
--------

Smarch 13, 2020

‘Lousy Smarch weather...’

(Is it wrong quote Homer Simpson here? I could find no other relevant references to Smarch.)

Lax

Memorial Day weekend is the time that I watch college lacrosse. It’s final four weekend. Syracuse is normally in the mix for the National Championship, that’s why I watch. Lacrosse is pretty popular in the northeast, we played it in school in gym class but I never got too into it. The game originated long ago with the native American tribes up there - Mohawk, Oneida, Iroquois, Crow and so forth. They would play it ceremonially to honor their gods and to settle disputes. Teams had somewhere between 100 and 1000 players a side and the “field” could be miles long. Some of the games would last several days. It was not made for tv. Reality tv maybe… what with the tribes and councils and loincloths and such.

It’s a contact sport, no doubt about it… like hockey on grass with less padding and more scoring.

Cornell beat UVA to reach the final, Syracuse beat Duke. I’ll pull for the Orange just because that’s what I do, but a Big Red win would be pretty cool, too. The schools are about fifty miles apart. Picture Duke and UNC playing for the basketball title. Lacrosse is just about that big up there.

My pre-game meal will be a spicy turkey burger. Game starts at 1:00pm eastern on one of the ESPN’s.

--------
Basketball update:

Soreness has subsided. I took the basketball out back on the patio and had Mickey guard me - knowing he would try to get the ball. When I would dribble between my legs he would go through my legs too. He’s that fast and interested in getting/running with/mouthing/eating the ball. I won round one.

No love for the glove

I got out my old baseball glove last week. All the nostalgia about the “smell of the old glove” is bunk. It smells musty, feels dry and has atrophied. It’s been tucked away for ten or so years. If you find a truly old glove, in the range of 50+ years, it would smell no better. Old gloves don’t smell like well oiled leather, don’t smell like fresh cut grass of a childhood ballfield, don’t smell like “baseball,” they smell like mold. The idea of the old glove might bring back memories of past baseball glory, but the glove itself brings to mind grandma’s basement. And that’s ok. Instead of smelling the glove, go to a game... get a new glove. Seeing baseball alive brings back the past better than dragging out an old glove and trying to force bloated fingers into rough, sweat hardened leather.

An old bat, mini or otherwise, has a more timeless role. Grabbing an old bat brings it back right away. Nothing like the feeling when you get ol’ hickory on the ol’ roundhouse. I had a dream a few nights ago that I had a batting cage in my yard that I had never used. I was upset at myself because batting cages are fun and you can use old bats in them. But that was just a dream. If I had a batting cage, I’d surely use it. Waking Doug is smarter than Sleeping Doug when it comes to batting cages and fun.

--------
Basketball update:

He shoots, he's sore!

Gooooooooaaaaaaaaal!

As in, I got a basketball goal. The design of this one is pretty nice. The parts all nested in the molded plastic base in the box… good packaging. After some time assembling, which was a little trying with one set of hands, the job was finished. It has a nice spring loaded rim and a clear acrylic backboard. It’s none too fancy, but I’m quite pleased. We raised it up and I tried to touch the net. The earth’s gravity relented momentarily and I was able to touch nylon. I decided it must be half a foot too short. A double-check of the height confirmed we were at ten feet. Mad hops… I got ‘em.

The court leaves something to be desired, which is ok. What it leaves to be desired is flatness and hardness. Remember how the old Boston Garden parquet floor had all those dead spots? The Celtics players, especially Larry Bird, seemed to know intuitively the nuances of the floor while visitors were continually frustrated. My court is a lot like that, except after only an hour of court time, it confounds me while my imaginary foes seem to have it figured out already. It’s a gravel driveway, but solid enough for dribbling. Where the ball bounces, the rocks disperse and a little patch of dirt opens up, but the randomness of my ball handling should prevent any one spot from wearing out. But talk about dead spots… get out in the grass at all and you get the bounce of shotput. I’ve over inflated my ball a little to simulate a good bounce, with decent results. Other interesting court tidbit: the most difficult shot in sports is the “follow” from the left side at about 4pm, the sun is right there and, man, is it ever bright.

I’ve still got it… “it” being whatever I once had, which was not all that much. I like to play like I live, so I shoot from the hip. Yeah, that’s right. It’s fun to bounce around and shoot again. This fat man sho needs some exercise. I expect to work some muscles that have been neglected over the past few years - specifically the leg muscle, the arm muscle and the torso muscle. Also, many a frustration has been pounded out on many a basketball court over the years. Good stuff.

Basketball court - Therapeutic value of 8, Exercise value of 7, Blog topic value of 1 entry.

Me + Basketball = Happy.

Critter, Scooter, ...

I saw a gecko (actually an anole (Anolis carolinensis), maybe you call it an American Chameleon, but you shouldn‘t) friday on a piece of wood. There was something on its butt, but it ran off before I could investigate further. I’ll keep an eye out for him.

I also saw a guy on a moped riding with a weedeater. That can’t be easy. I remember when I was little trying to ride my bike with a bag on the handlebars. The bag had a 3-liter drink in it and some Doritos. My balance was seriously compromised. That guy is yet another who is getting the job done even if he doesn’t necessarily have all the right tools. I’m putting him in my Occupational Hall of Fame along with the Liberty Tax Service mascot. There’s a new roadside attraction down there now, a Super Cuts mascot. He’s wearing a giant black fur hat with white feathers on it. I think a big outrageous wig would be me more appropriate. Well, what would be appropriate? Maybe nothing.

I was pleased that the only email I received on the Friday afternoon before Memorial Day was a fantasy baseball trade offer. I’m considering the offer, it’s certainly fair. I’d like to see how Daisuke Matsuzaka fares coming off the DL before I decide on a course of action.

It sure is a nice day.