The Millers & The Saints

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  • My First Film – Part Three

    My First Film – Part Three

    August 10, 2021

    I don’t remember running through the center of camp.  I don’t recall passing the flagpole or the four Dads lounging in their lawn chairs.  I am quite sure they all saw me. 

    I picture them like four farm boys at the circus, their heads swiveling in union as a short clown traversed the three rings being chased by a bigger clown and then by another bigger clown.  The only things that were missing that day at summer camp were the funny suits, a tiny car, and a clown horn.

    After my brothers and I had vanished from sight, I have to assume one of the Dads asked my Dad, “Weren’t those three yours?”

    There are two sounds from that day that I will never get out of my head.  The first is my tennies digging into the wet beach and the ‘shwoop-shwoop-shwoop-shwoop’ sound of the sand being replaced by the ‘thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk’ of the wooden planks as I flew down the dock.

    Everyone on the hill who witnessed Pan’s last second grasp of my shirt collar said if not for his heroics, I would have surely run off the dock and plunged into the water.  A few believed I might have drown.  Tilt later remarked the worst that would have happened to me was that I’d gotten a bath that week.

    The second sound I distinctly remember is my Father bellowing, “What the hell is going on?”

    Pan still had a hold of my shirt.

    “Wes messed with our tent,” Tilt complained.

    My heart was pounding so fast I thought it was going to burst through my chest. 

    “He what?” my Father asked.

    Tilt confidently presented his evidence.  “He yanked up one of our tent stakes.”

    I stepped back from the edge of the dock.  Pan released me.  My Father looked at me and then his two older sons and shook his head.  He sighed.  “No he did not.”

    “Told yah,” Pan fired at Tilt.

    “He did too,” Tilt fired back.

    My Father smiled.  He sighed again.  “No. He. Did. Not.”

    Tilt pointed a finger at me.  “I saw him him and Eldon sneaking around our tent.”

    Pan raised his hands in the universal gesture of not guilty.  “I wasn’t there for that.”

    Tilt reloaded his finger and pointed it again at me.  “And he yanked up a second stake, but this time we caught him red handed!”

    Pan shrugged his shoulders.  “I was there for that one.”

    My Father waved his hands gesturing for his two older sons to move.  Pan and Tilt stepped to the edges of the narrow dock allowing my Father to move closer to me.  He placed one of his large hands on my head and asked, “Wesley, are you OK?”

    I was still gasping for air so I nodded.

    He tapped my head.  “I didn’t think you could run that fast.”  He turned to his older sons and said eight magic words.  “You two owe your little brother an apology.”

    During my life I have used those words to my advantage at multiple family events.  I’ve also thought about having them carved into my headstone.

    Their jaws dropped.  Miraculously, I caught my breath.

    Tilt blurted out, “What?”

    “Dad, are you feeling OK?” Pan added with a concerned tone. 

    My Father reached into the front pocket of his pants.  “I tripped over your stake.”

    Tilt mumbled, “Huh?”

    “Told yah he didn’t do it,” Pan quipped.

    “Shut up,” Tilt shot back.

    My Father continued, “Your Mother sent you three a letter.”  He pulled an envelope from his pocket and waved it as if it were a white flag.  “I tripped on your tent, trying to deliver it.”

    Right on cue, my oldest brother spoke first.  “Sorry Wes.”

    And right on cue my older brother fell silent as he weighed his options by studied the faces around him before responding.  Impatient with the delay, Pan lovingly smacked his brother’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Apologize,” he demanded.  Tilt smacked Pan’s shoulder then cocked his head to the side. 

    They locked eyes.  They didn’t move.  “Boys …,” my Father warned.  He should just said ‘go’ because they immediately started pushing each other.

    “What is your problem?”  Pan pointedly inquired.

    “I don’t have a problem.  You have a problem!”  Tilt insisted.

    “Don’t you dare push me.”

    “Don’t push me, if you know what’s good for you.”

    My Dad was blocking my view so I didn’t see who tripped whom.  All I know is one moment they were pushing and shoving, the next they were rolling around on the dock, and then ‘splash’, they were in the water. 

    Bobbing up to the surface I could hear them continue their endless argument. I looked over the edge of the dock and saw the waves slapping their faces as they treaded water to stay afloat.  It was arguably one of the happiest days of my young life.

    “You weren’t really thinking about swimming across the lake,” my Father asked me.  “Were you?”

    “The thought crossed my mind.”

    He glanced down at his two sons in the water.  “Well next time,” he said handing me Mom’s letter.  “Think again.”

    Walking up the hill with my Father at my side, I was greeted by my fellow campers as if I had medalled in the Olympics.  Some who lined the path smiled at me.  I smiled back.  When my pace slowed because some kid stuck out his hand to shake mine, my Father’s powerful hand gripped my head and steered me back onto the path ahead.  

    As he left my side to rejoin his lawn chair buddies and I continued toward my tent, I realized the one face I hadn’t seen during my dock drama was Eldon’s.

    I bounded into our tent.  I excitedly began, “You would not believe what just happened.”  I flopped down on my cot.  “Guess who yanked the …”

    I couldn’t finish the sentence.   

    He was there but he wasn’t.  His head hung low over his lap.  His arms rested on his thighs.  Next to him on his sleeping bag were his glasses, a carefully opened envelope, and a once tri-folded single page letter written with big loopy block letters and little hearts drawn in the margins.

    “What happened?” I murmured.

    With the back of his hand he wiped the tears from his eyes and raised his head.

    “I miss my little sisters.”

    Stay tuned to this space for Part Four

    and the exciting conclusion to

    My First Film.

  • My First Film – Part Two

    My First Film – Part Two

    August 6, 2021

    As Eldon and I walked up the path from the dock toward our tent we passed by the four Dads.  They were all veterans of World War II and our camp chaperones.   They spent much of their day seated on old worn out aluminum lawn chairs in front of a fire in the center of camp drinking coffee, smoking, and telling stories.  One of those four Dads was my Dad.

    It was a camp custom for the kids to address our chaperones as “Mister” followed by the first letter of their last name.  As Eldon and I passed Mr. L, the tallest of the Dads, he pointed his coffee cup at the camera I was cradling and quipped, “Hey Wes, are you going to be the next Alfred Hitchcock?”

    Without missing a beat I replied, “Hey Mr. L, don’t you mean the next, Mister Hitchcock?”  The three Dads chuckled.

    Mr. L shook his head and refilled his cup from a black coffee pot that looked as if it had never been washed. “He’s a pistol, that one,” he remarked.  Mr. K and Mr. B nodded.  My Father smiled and winked at me.

    The center of camp was a clearing in the woods about twenty-five feet in diameter and a short walk up from the lake.  In the center of that clearing stood a flagpole.  And on that flagpole flew the flag of the United States of America. 

    Every morning the 25 campers, the four Dads and I assembled before breakfast to salute Old Glory as it was raised.   With the sun streaking over the tree line a Dad would bark, “Cump-knee ten-hut.”   Then all four Dads with their receding hairlines and wrinkled faces would snap to attention.  With straighten backs and squared shoulders they instantaneously looked twenty years younger. 

    As a son of soldier Dad, I stood with my hand on my heart trying as best as I could to imitate his crisp military stance as the flag was raised to the top of the pole and then secured.  Then a Dad would bark, “Comp-knee dish-ma!”  Then I scattered like the rest of them, each to our own campsites to cook breakfast.

    I always thought my father looked like Humphrey Bogart.  They were about the same height, rail thin, had broad smiles and walked with confidence.  I swear you could take a photo of my Dad from the 40’s wearing a crisp white shirt, his best double breasted suit with its broad lapels and sharply creased pants, pull a wide brim fedora down to his eyebrows at a rakishly angle, and voilà!  Humphrey Bogart.

    And they both had a similar habit.  They’d raise their pants by pressing their forearms against the waistband and then shrug their shoulders.   Bogart usually did this in his movies while holding a revolver in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.  My Dad occasionally did this while repairing the family car and holding a coffee cup and a greasy wrench.  

    They had another characteristic in common: large powerful hands.  This explains how Bogey could convincingly fight his way out of a jam when cornered.  For me, this explains why I avoided my Father’s ire at all costs.  Those large hands of his were powerful deterrents for my wicked inclinations.

    But the thought of those hands didn’t always stop my impulses from getting the best of me.

    Eldon and I were standing at the entrance to our tent for what to me seemed like an eternity.  He appeared to be deep in some thought.  I was holding the camera and expecting him to open the flap so I could enter the tent.  I cleared my throat.  He still didn’t move.  So with the arm that wasn’t holding the camera, I reached for the flap. 

    “Wait!” he cried.

    It was too late. When I pulled the flap the tent collapsed.  It gently descended until the old green canvas revealed the outline of our two Army surplus cots.  Our deflated home now looked like two flat mountain ranges with a valley between. 

    Eldon pointed to a dirt-caked tent stake sticking out of the ground.  “I’m tellin’ yah, that didn’t happen by accident.”

    We inspected the other stakes.  They all had been yanked out of the ground just enough so that any movement of our pup tent would cause it to collapse.  Plus there were footprints, large footprints, footprints made by tennies several sizes larger than ours.  Eldon looked at me and asked, “Who would do that?”

    “My brothers,” I said carefully perching the camera atop a pile of firewood.   Standing on opposite sides of the tent, we pulled the ropes taunt and pounded the tent stakes back into the ground.

    “Why would they do it?” Eldon asked.

    “Have you met my brothers?”

    With the tent re-pitched we climbed inside.  Eldon watched me pack up the camera.  “What are you going to do?” he asked. 

    I pulled out my pocketknife. 

    He warned, “They’ll retaliate yah know.”

    I opened and closed the blade of the knife.  “I know.” 

    I started to get up.  He pushed me back down.  “Leave your glasses.”

    I furrowed my brow at him.

    “In case you’re hit in the face,” he added.

    I nodded. Then I asked, “You coming?”

    “Nope.  Can’t stand the sight of your blood.”

    I don’t remember walking to Pan and Tilt’s tent.  I do remember making a beeline through the woods for their campsite while my mind was flashing through all the sibling injustices I had endured that summer like getting their hand-me-down clothes and being forced to sit between them in the backseat for the whole ride to camp.  And then there were all the past pushing, shoving, teasing, taunting, the disregarding of my presence, and of course those damn 13 Ghosts. 

    I stepped out of the woods and stopped at the entrance of their tent.  I reached into my pocket and could feel the cold metal of the pocketknife in my palm.

    The sound of Pan’s voice hit me like a slap across the face.  “What are you doing here?” he bellowed.

    I pirouetted with my tiny fists clenched.

    Standing in the middle of the path shoulder to shoulder were my two older brothers looking like a couple of tackling dummies.  I squinted at them.  They appeared annoyed.  I tried to look ferocious. 

    Tilt gave me his best stink eye.  “What’s that in your hand?”

    I snarled in my deepest nine-year-old voice, “You owe me fifty cents”.

    He threw his head back and chuckled, “Come and get it.”

    I stood my ground waiting for him to charge me.

    “He’s right,” Pan said breaking the tension. 

    Tilt looked surprised.  “What?”

    “He held up his end of the bargain.  You hold up yours.”

    “Yah right, in your dreams.”

    “Nooo,” Pan said shaking his head and pushing a finger in Tilt’s face.  “You were there.  We all agreed.”

    Tilt laughed and nodded.  “Sure I was there, watching the two of you agree to a deal that didn’t involve me!”

    “What are you talking about?”

    “You know what I’m talking about.”

    Their verbal volleys started out softly but built up stream as they went.  

    “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

    “No, you don’t know what you’re talking about!”

    And just like that, my two older idiot brothers resorted to what they did best: argue …  very loudly … with each other … to a draw.

    I studied the tent stake near me.  I slid the knife back into my pocket as I tiptoed around the corner of their tent.  I noticed a cluster of trees to my left.  Without my glasses on I had to squint pretty hard to get a clear view of them.  I thought those trees would make a good escape route.

    “Go ahead Twerp,” Tilt said with a villainous threat.  “Go ahead pull it.”

    Pan slowly shook his head at me and dropped his jaw so low his ‘O’s’ sounded like a foghorn. “Nooooooo.”

    I looked at them.  I looked at the trees.  I pulled on the stake and took off like a jackrabbit.

    This was not the first horse race wherein I was the Shetland pony.  I knew speed was not my long suit.  Zigzagging would be my one and only strategy.

    Two steps into the chase I could hear the ‘clump, clump, clump’ of Pan’s flat feet behind me.  I headed for a large birch tree with a low hanging branch.  I ducked under it.  They out flanked me.  Now they were only a step away.  Entering another campsite I flew under a string of wet clothes hanging out to dry.  They had to run around it.  I now had three steps on them.

    The forest floor in front of me was covered in pine needles.  With no obstacles between us, they gained on me.  A dirt footpath was coming up fast.  Suddenly, I was only a step a head of them.  I gambled and turned left onto the path.

    “Get ‘em,” I heard Tilt cry.

    I dug deep and shifted into the highest gear my short little legs had ever known.   At a large oak tree I zigged right into the woods.  At the stump of an Elm I faked to my right but zagged to my left.  This meant I had doubled back onto the path and was now heading right for the center of camp.  Opening my fear valve I lit my after-burner and headed for the dock. 

    I wasn’t the best swimmer but I knew what would happen if they caught me, so I was prepared to keep flailing the water until I had reached the opposite shore.

     

    Stay tuned to this space for Part Three

    and the exciting conclusion to

    My First Film.

  • My First Film – Part One

    My First Film – Part One

    July 29, 2021

    The very first film I ever made wasn’t a slapstick comedy or a tear jerking melodrama nor was it a fright-fest monster flick with hideous creatures terrorizing a small town.  It was a hard hitting no-holds-barred subjective documentary made to record for posterity the heckling, teasing, berating, intimidating, needling, and harassment I suffered on a daily basis at the hands of my two older brothers. 

    The story treatment for this movie was simple; film my two older idiot brothers on location and capture them in a natural habitat performing their smorgasbord of abuse on my person thereby providing damning and unimpeachable visual evidence that they were mean to me.  The location was a Northern Minnesota summer camp.  The intended audience for this 3-minute 8mm expose’ was my parents. 

    The film was an utter failure. 

    Traditionally at the beginning of an explosive sibling tattletale like this, a disclaimer is inserted acknowledging that names have been changed to protect the innocent.  Well, there are no innocents in this tale.  However, I will use pseudonyms in the story in the hope that it may reduce the probability that a turkey leg will be pointed in anger by someone in my family this Thanksgiving across an autumn themed tablecloth with a horn-of-plenty centerpiece.

    “Get that leg outta my face.” In a full disclosure, threats with poultry are a common occurrence in my family.

    The pseudonym I’ve chosen for my oldest brother is “Pan”.  To pan a camera the operator swivels it from side to side like someone who’s saying ‘no’.  Growing up, every other word out of my oldest brother’s mouth was “No”. 

    “I said no.”

    “No you can not.”

    “No way Jose’.”

    The name Pan is perfect for him.

    The perfect name for my older brother is another camera move, ‘tilt’.  To tilt a camera the operator tips the camera up or down like someone who’s gesturing ‘yes’.  With clock-like regularity Tilt tried to trick me into doing something that would get me in trouble.

    “Yes it’s dead.”

    “Yes Dad told me you could.”

    “Yes of course it’s dry.”

    If you believe there is no stronger love than the love between brothers, you probably also believe the Vikings will win the Super Bowl© this season.  Good luck with that.

    My first film might have been delayed by a decade if it were not for a raffle held at our hometown VFW.  The grand prize of this raffle was a 8mm movie camera, a projector, and a portable screen.  My parents were the winners.  To this today I believe the creator of the cosmos hand picked my Mom and Dad to win the camera raffle as a consolation prize for losing so badly in the gene pool raffle with their first born and especially their second.

    Arriving at the wooded campsite I quickly located Eldon, my troop mate and the kid with whom I would share a tent.  We chose a spot, pitched the tent, and unpacked our belongings.

    Eldon was my age, my height, wore glasses like me and had a passion for gadgets.

    “Wanna see something?” I asked.

    “Sure.” He replied.

    I pulled a bundle from my bag and unwrapped the shiny camera.  Its knobs, buttons, and dials were enchanting to nine-year-old nerds like us. 

    “Wow,” he remarked.  “She’s a beauty.”

    “It’s a movie camera.” I proudly said.

    Punching his glasses up his nose he said, “I can see that.”  He picked up the camera and looked through the lens.  “What are you going to film?”

    I said with a grin, “Told my parents I was going to make a nature film.”

    “What are you really gonna to do?”

    “I’m gonna make a film of my two brothers being idiots.”

    He nodded.  “Nice.”

    Earlier that summer Pan and Tilt had convinced my parents that we three were old enough to see a Saturday afternoon matinee un-chaperoned.  In our pitch for this bus trip to the cinema, we chose a run-of-the-mill-shoot-‘em-up Western as the film we going to see.  My parents agreed. 

    What happened next is forever seared in my memory because Pan, Tilt, and I didn’t see a Western, we saw the 3D B picture horror classic 13 Ghosts.

    I don’t recall why but we arrived at Hennepin Avenue and 7th Street late that afternoon.  The Western flick had already begun.  Studying the colorful theater marques up and down the street, it was Tilt that suggested we go see the film with the poster of a screaming little kid with his hands covering his ears. 

    Little did I know by the end of the day, I would become that screaming little kid.

    This 1960 completely forgettable production was cranked out to capitalize on the 3D horror craze sweeping the country that year.  Every patron walking into the theater received a cardboard viewer with cellophane windows designed to enhance its 3D ILLUSION-O! effect.  View the movie screen through the blue cellophane window and the ghosts disappeared.  View the screen through the red window and the ghosts leapt off the screen and tried to claw you up out of your seat and into their living hell. 

    It was all promotional deception.  I saw those damn ghosts through the red window, the blue window, without a window, and even through my tightly closed eyelids.  Frightened beyond belief with my sweaty palms planted in my eye sockets, I begged my brothers to tell me when there wasn’t a ghost on screen.  It was Tilt who goaded me to look when, of course, the ghosts were at their rampaging worst thus terrorizing me the most. 

    “Look now Wes.”

    “No!  Are they there?”

    “Look now Wes.”

    “Augh!  There they are!”

    “Look now Wes.”

    “No!!”

    Those 13 ghosts had a four-poster bed with a frilly canopy.  They lured their prey into that bed, then immobilized them, and then slowly lowered that canopy onto their screaming victims.  I knew the person was dead because they stopped screaming or Tilt stopped trying to get me to open my eyes. 

    Those ghosts terrorized me.  Walking out of that theater and riding the bus home, I refused to let go of my two older idiot brothers. 

    Pan, fearing my ghost-induced catatonic condition might jeopardize his future privileges, negotiated with me, a money-for-silence deal valued at one dollar.  For this bribe, at home that evening or at any time in the future, if either Mom or Dad asked me, “How was the Western?”  I was to reply, “Bang bang.  Good.  Bang bang.”

    Sensing this deal would make me wealthy, I said yes.  Pan paid me his half of the bribe on the spot.  To this day, Tilt still owes me four bits.  For a week I couldn’t fall asleep at night without a light on in the bedroom.  Tilt complained.  Pan allowed it.

    I can draw a direct line from the seeing of that film to my propensity to sleep in a fetal position and finally to my creative drive to make that first film and every film thereafter.  My biographer should begin their book about me with, “He tried not to wet himself but …”

    On the second day at camp I wolfed down my breakfast, finished my camp chores, then hurried back to my tent.  Eldon was waiting for me.

    “You gonna go film?”  He asked.

    “Yup.”  I said.

    “You want some help?”

    “Sure.  You can be the assistant director.”

    “What do they do?”

    “Help me find my brothers. 

    “OK.”

    We searched the tents, the entire campsite, and the surrounding woods.  Pan and Tilt were nowhere to be found.  We wandered down the hill to the lake and onto the dock. 

    Looking at the crystal clear water and the tree lined sandy shores Eldon said, “You could start your film with a shot of the lake.”

    “You’re no longer the assistant director.”

    “How come?”

    “You’ve been promoted to actor.”

    “That’s a promotion?” he quipped.

    I got a shot of the lake, a shot of Eldon smiling at the lake then a tracking shot of him walking up the forest path towards our campsite.  In my first exercise of directorial power, while the camera was still rolling, I told Eldon to keep walking. I stopped.  I filmed until he was out of sight.  Then I yelled, “Cut.”

    Stay tuned to this space for Part Two

    and the exciting conclusion of 

    My First Film.

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

     

  • A Pink Pearl Eraser

    A Pink Pearl Eraser

    July 22, 2021

    I write every single day.  For this creative endeavor my preferred tools are a No. 2 pencil, a sheet of paper, and a pink pearl eraser.

    The first draft of everything I write, I write in long hand.

    What I consider to be my first complete story was written in the 3rd Grade.  Mrs. Thurston, my stylish thirty-something teacher, fetchingly attractive with her black cat-eye glasses and auburn Betty-Crooker-helmet-hairdo, assigned our class a creative project wherein we were to tell a tale of the first Thanksgiving Feast hosted by the Pilgrims living in the woods.

    The tale I told was scribbled on thin brown paper with wide blue lines.  I handed it in early. 

    But that accomplishment was overshadowed by Mrs. Thurston’s rejection of my one page masterpiece.  She told me in no uncertain terms that my composition would not join those of my classmates on the classroom bulletin board because parents attending our upcoming Autumn Pageant might read it.  She said my Pilgrim tale with its colorful descriptions and realistic dialogue would not be posted because the story included a bear. 

    Now, it was my contention that if you live in the woods, as these Pilgrims did, then you’re going to encounter bears.  And if you encounter a bear, they’re going to eat you or someone else.  Since I was the one telling the story, I couldn’t have the bear eat me.  So I picked my best friend Tedd to be the victim.  He sat one row over and a chair behind me.  In my adolescent logic, as we were running for our lives the bear would reach him first.  In my tale, Tedd didn’t make it and I did. 

    It was my opinion back then as it is now, that Mrs. Thurston would never have made it in the cutthroat business of today’s pop culture publishing.  She had literary tunnel vision.  I know that’s harsh, but it’s the truth. 

    This opinion of mine is based upon the meeting she and I had at my desk.  At that time she informed me, in no-uncertain-terms, that my two favorite story elements; the bear and the state in which Tedd’s remains were found, had to be removed.  And not just rewritten mind you, removed.

    In my story, I led the town’s search for Tedd because, of course, I was the last one to see him alive.  The lead up to the bear’s appearance involved a morning walk in the woods, an encounter with the bear, and my hair raising escape due only to my superior foot speed. 

    Having marshaled the town’s elders, I led the late afternoon search back into the shadowy woods for my best friend.  As I rounded an enormous trunk of a fallen tree my eyes beheld the disturbing sight of what was left of my best friend. I then dropped to my knees and cried out in anguish, “Look what they did to Tedd!  Oh God!  Look what they did to Tedd!!”

    My story then went on to describe, in detail, not the partially devoured limbs and torso of my best friend, but rather a large pile of what bears do in the woods with a little scrap of his shirt perched on top of the brown pyramid for dramatic impact and ease of identification.

    “It’s Tedd I tell you!”  I sobbed to the crowd, “I know it’s Tedd!”

    The secret audience for whom I wrote my Pilgrim and a Pyramid tale was my beguiling freckle faced classmate Bonny.  She had declined my invite to spend lunch together the day before.  Undaunted by this disappointment, I thought an exciting frontier adventure with a vicious bear chasing a young hero, played my me, and the untimely gruesome demise of his best friend, played by Tedd, would melt her heart.

    Obviously, Mrs. Thurston put an end to that daydream.

    To perform these draconian editorial directives, she gave me a brand new Pink Pearl eraser.  Rubbing away my cherished bear passages written with an oversized No. 2 red pencil from the thin brown paper with its wide blue lines was like cutting off my arm. 

    But I removed them and replaced them with a passage where Tedd and I found an orphaned baby bunny hiding behind the fallen tree and brought it home to adopt it.

    Mrs. Thurston loved my new tale.  I hated it.  It was posted with the others on the bulletin board.  I’ve never written of this until now.

    Tedd, I’m sorry I killed you off.  Bonny, I’m not sorry I turned you into a bunny.

  • Summer Baseball

    Summer Baseball

    July 1, 2021

    I am a child of the 50’s.  I’m the kid in the middle row, first from the left, in the arms of the Mom in a plaid housedress. 

    There were so many kids on my block that we filled a school bus.  That driver had such an easy route: one block and then drive to the drop zone in front of Lovell Elementary. 

    When those final few hot sticky days of the school year came to an end, it truly was ‘School’s out for Summer!’  Alice Cooper had nothing on us. 

    My daily routine was simple; wake up, eat breakfast, and then race out the back screen door in the search of who else was out and ready to play some baseball.  There were no parks in my neighborhood.  Sometimes we’d play in the street.  Other times we’d play ‘small ball’ in a backyard. 

    There were different rules for backyard small ball – no bunting, no ground rule doubles, and no stealing bases.  The rules were reached via a unanimous vote after Kenny had bunted and was able to score a homerun because my throw to first was so wild that it broke my Mother’s kitchen window.

    My parents were understandably furious with me.  My Mother scolded, “You’re letting in the flies!”  I got such a stink eye from her when I replied, “It wasn’t a fly. It was a bunt.”

    The broken window incident forced us out of every Mother’s backyard and to the literal edge of town, a block and a half away.  The boundary of my little hometown of Lexington, Minnesota was Flowerfield Road.  Which was really just a tractor path in the dirt separating a cornfield from my neighborhood of newly built identical houses.  

    The farmer that owned the cornfield planted pretty close to Flowerfield but left just enough open land for us to mark out a makeshift infield and outfield.  It was flat enough, grassy enough, and devoid of cow pies so it was perfect.

    We played complete 9 inning games without an umpire.  We used an umpire once.  But the kid who was designated to be the caller of balls and strikes was the kid that wasn’t chosen for a team.  That kid was me.  I retaliated by calling every player out as soon as they stepped into the batters box. 

    The next day we played umpire less which meant we called balls and strikes by consensus.  Some pitches were easy to call.  If the ball hit the ground before it reached the batter – ball.  If the ball hit the plate – ball.  If the ball hit the batter – well did he/she deserve it? – OK strike.  Walks were not apart of our style, you either swung or got dinged.

    Our strike zone was looser than the hinges on a screen door.  A batter was wise to swing at anything above the shoelaces, lower than the armpits, and anywhere left or right of the catcher’s glove because if they didn’t it’d be called a strike.

    Every player on both teams was allowed to protest a call.  After a few games the strike zone was established and we learned to play more than protest.  None of us were great ball players but we had ethics.

    On those rare occasions when the kids from the nearby street challenged us to a game, it never went well.  Our gerrymandered rules never sat well with our opponents and no one ever thought to discuss the rules before the first pitch so chaos repeatedly ensued.

    The first street vs. street game lasted only 1 ½ innings and ended in acrimony. 

    The game started with their side winning “bottle caps” (translation: cheated first) and our side taking to the field.  Their first batter was called out on strikes and from there it went downhill fast. 

    No one scored.  No one got on base.  Our pitcher threw every pitch inside and sometimes directly at the batter and when they took the field their pitcher did the same to us.   In the top of the second, our pitcher dinged their batter in the back and then the gloves literally came off.

    Luckily no punches were thrown.  The game ended with prejudice.  A week later we made it through 5 innings before disbanding.  And by August we were able to complete a full 9 innings without any batter being intentionally hit.  For a bunch of grade schoolers we learned the game was bigger than any of us.

    Oh, to play some summer ball in a cornfield again.  Bottle Caps!

     

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Historic images courtesy of the Minnesota Historical Society and the Hennepin County Historical Society

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