I'm in the midst of negotiating a deal for a new Ford pick-up with a dealer in Bellevue and one of the issues that has come up is paying transportation costs for moving the vehicle up from Oregon. In stating my objection to paying this fee I pointed out that their marketing costs dealing with me via e-mail on the internet were very low and they should reflect that in their pricing. After all, it's not like they're trying to sell my father!
In 1968 Pa "had a few" of a miserable Saturday afternoon and decided to attend an on-site sales promotion at Lowes Motors, a truck outfit on Rainier Ave. in Seattle at that time, not a hardware store in Renton. They were handing out free hot dogs to all comers, no purchase required, of course; just looking was just fine. When he finally came home he announced that he had eaten 5 hotdogs before they had finally sold him a new 3 quarter ton Ford Ranger, eventually to be aka "Freddie" around here. Freddie's price new was $3800 so Pa figured he ate four $750 hot dogs and one especially good one at $800. He told this amusing story with various elaborations and exaggerations pretty regularly when "he'd had a few". It was a good fable and well presented, so we didn't object much, even after ...oh, about the hundredth telling.
Well "Freddie" , after a couple of fall hunting trips, miscellaneous light hauling, maybe a bit of driving to work and the bowling alley in the Hilands, saw pretty minimal use over the years as Pa "had a few more" and lost his license. When I took it over it actually got more of a workout in a few years than it did all the time he had had it. In fact, you could say he got more mileage out of his truck buying story than he ever did out of the truck.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Down at the Crick
"Down at the crick!" That would have been a frequent answer to the question, "Where's Waldo?" (or anybody else) during the springs and summers of the late 40's and 50's. We kids spent a LOT of time on the reach of May Creek between the Kennydale School trail and the stream's outfall into Lake Washington. We fished, waded, grubbed periwinkles for bait and just messed around.
In those pre I-405 days there were several easy ways to get to the creek. We could drop down 100 or so yards directly below Kennydale school on a trail that started about where the ARCO station is now and ended at an old bridge. I haven't looked recently, but that trail may still be there. When fishing season opened in the spring (May Creek was a "juvenile fishing only" stream that opened when lowland lakes did in April rather than May with the rivers and beaver ponds; it's closed entirely year around now) I would take fishing gear to school and "fish my way home" downstream after school. After (often ) catching a few small trout I'd claw my way up the bank from the creek to the old washed out May Valley road that exited on the Vergello property (the east stub of 38th No. is all that now remains of this road ), cross 106th (Meadow) into to our back pasture, acrobatically navigate the electric fence and gates, usually without a major shock, and finally, emerge into the back yard.
Besides the school or Vergello property routes we could, depending upon what our purpose was, go down or up the bank at the Roger's place, also across from our back field, or the Fawcett's (northeast corner of Meadow and 40th now). To reach the very lowest portion of May Creek we would go to the mouth at Bar B mill or the crossing at Lk. Wash. Blvd.
It's interesting that most of this reach of May Creek still appears pretty much like it was 60 years ago, at least in terms of streamside development. A typical coho stream with small pools, riffles, and woody debris, salmon still run in it, though probably not in their former numbers. The mouth HAS changed a lot, though. There's a CSO outlet at Lake Wash. Blvd. now and the channel has been straightened and "improved" through the mill property (Connor Homes). One of these Tuesdays Ranger and I are going to go down to the Blvd. and wade upstream to get a first hand look at what's going on in these modern times on the mighty May. If you want to get in touch with us that day, we'll be down at the crick.
In those pre I-405 days there were several easy ways to get to the creek. We could drop down 100 or so yards directly below Kennydale school on a trail that started about where the ARCO station is now and ended at an old bridge. I haven't looked recently, but that trail may still be there. When fishing season opened in the spring (May Creek was a "juvenile fishing only" stream that opened when lowland lakes did in April rather than May with the rivers and beaver ponds; it's closed entirely year around now) I would take fishing gear to school and "fish my way home" downstream after school. After (often ) catching a few small trout I'd claw my way up the bank from the creek to the old washed out May Valley road that exited on the Vergello property (the east stub of 38th No. is all that now remains of this road ), cross 106th (Meadow) into to our back pasture, acrobatically navigate the electric fence and gates, usually without a major shock, and finally, emerge into the back yard.
Besides the school or Vergello property routes we could, depending upon what our purpose was, go down or up the bank at the Roger's place, also across from our back field, or the Fawcett's (northeast corner of Meadow and 40th now). To reach the very lowest portion of May Creek we would go to the mouth at Bar B mill or the crossing at Lk. Wash. Blvd.
It's interesting that most of this reach of May Creek still appears pretty much like it was 60 years ago, at least in terms of streamside development. A typical coho stream with small pools, riffles, and woody debris, salmon still run in it, though probably not in their former numbers. The mouth HAS changed a lot, though. There's a CSO outlet at Lake Wash. Blvd. now and the channel has been straightened and "improved" through the mill property (Connor Homes). One of these Tuesdays Ranger and I are going to go down to the Blvd. and wade upstream to get a first hand look at what's going on in these modern times on the mighty May. If you want to get in touch with us that day, we'll be down at the crick.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Playing Detective With Miss Benson
Paloma starting school; Ina soon to arrive; and a "Forensic Files" TV episode which featured "old school" and "new approach" teachers across the aisle as defendant and victim in court probably combined to bring to my mind this snippet of experience from my Kennydale Elementary days.
Miss Benson was a rookie teacher for my 5th grade homeroom. We all thought she was nice, but too dolled up, maybe, and definitely overperfumed. Otherwise ok. At the time, of course, I had no idea there was such a thing as workplace politics, but in hindsight I can see that there might have been a bit of tension between her and our stalwarts, Miss McMillan and Mrs Rose. Maybe Mr. Ogden, that jerk, figured in there, too, though in a different way. Miss Benson used some teaching techniques we kids hadn't seen before and one of them led to.... dum de dum dum...trouble.
For getting us involved in math and showing how it applied to our lives Miss Benson decided to set up a classroom "store". We all were to bring some stuff for the store and she supplied real money for us to use in transactions, making change and so forth. Two things ensued from this scenario, both of which could have been predicted, and no doubt were by our vet teachers: 1.) Most kids were bored, having long since been experienced in real store dealings at the mom and pop establishment across the street from Kennydale in those days. 2.) Crime occurred.
It wasn't long, of course, before some of the money disappeared and Miss Benson was faced with the thorny problem of figuring out what to do about it. She consulted with Principal Cooper and their decided approach was to have us visit Miss Benson for individual interrogation. Now, in an amazing feat of pedantic multi-tasking, we were going to get lessons in civics and criminal justice to go along with the arithmetic. We all crowded into the hall and went into the room one at a time for brief face time with the teach. My own interview was brief and to the point: I ratted, "Look no further. Jack Rog..." No, I'm kidding. She said, "I know you didn't do this, did you Mike?" "Nope" and I was outta there. Looking back, I'm sure they knew the villain (obviously Jack Rogers little brother, right?) but needed to demonstrate fairness and due process. Students were never told the final outcome of this, but after a few days the store was liquidated and we moved on.
Clearly Miss Benson learned more from all this than the kids did. She went on to work at Kennydale for several more years, a respected member of the staff, and a good teacher. The last time I spoke to her I was then in high school. She was Mrs. somebody by then, but still a bit dolled up and perfumy. If I didn't mean that in a good way in fifth grade, I did then.
Miss Benson was a rookie teacher for my 5th grade homeroom. We all thought she was nice, but too dolled up, maybe, and definitely overperfumed. Otherwise ok. At the time, of course, I had no idea there was such a thing as workplace politics, but in hindsight I can see that there might have been a bit of tension between her and our stalwarts, Miss McMillan and Mrs Rose. Maybe Mr. Ogden, that jerk, figured in there, too, though in a different way. Miss Benson used some teaching techniques we kids hadn't seen before and one of them led to.... dum de dum dum...trouble.
For getting us involved in math and showing how it applied to our lives Miss Benson decided to set up a classroom "store". We all were to bring some stuff for the store and she supplied real money for us to use in transactions, making change and so forth. Two things ensued from this scenario, both of which could have been predicted, and no doubt were by our vet teachers: 1.) Most kids were bored, having long since been experienced in real store dealings at the mom and pop establishment across the street from Kennydale in those days. 2.) Crime occurred.
It wasn't long, of course, before some of the money disappeared and Miss Benson was faced with the thorny problem of figuring out what to do about it. She consulted with Principal Cooper and their decided approach was to have us visit Miss Benson for individual interrogation. Now, in an amazing feat of pedantic multi-tasking, we were going to get lessons in civics and criminal justice to go along with the arithmetic. We all crowded into the hall and went into the room one at a time for brief face time with the teach. My own interview was brief and to the point: I ratted, "Look no further. Jack Rog..." No, I'm kidding. She said, "I know you didn't do this, did you Mike?" "Nope" and I was outta there. Looking back, I'm sure they knew the villain (obviously Jack Rogers little brother, right?) but needed to demonstrate fairness and due process. Students were never told the final outcome of this, but after a few days the store was liquidated and we moved on.
Clearly Miss Benson learned more from all this than the kids did. She went on to work at Kennydale for several more years, a respected member of the staff, and a good teacher. The last time I spoke to her I was then in high school. She was Mrs. somebody by then, but still a bit dolled up and perfumy. If I didn't mean that in a good way in fifth grade, I did then.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Mr. Sensitivity, the Early Years
Without a lot of explanation as to what brings about these self-reflective and "converstions with" thoughts it's clear to me now that my approach to trouble is pretty clinical. Figure it out; be useful; leave that touch-freely crap to the girls.
It knew me early. Mrs. Crotts lived in what is now the Robbins place and when I was 5 or 6 I used to visit over there, scurrying through the hedge almost daily. My mother worked at Longacres Cafe in Renton in those late 40's days so Mrs. Crotts also babysat us at our house from time to time. Mrs. Crotts had three sons: Boo, Kenny (who was my uncle, married to my dad's sister Ruby) and a soldier son who had been killed in WWII. One day, after I and some friends had been enthusiastically conducting mock battles as US Marines, complete with Army surplus canteens and helmets I visited Mrs. Crotts and noticed and asked about the portrait of the uniformed fellow on a shelf above her dining room table.
Who was he ? Her son. Where was he? He died in the war. Was he shot? Yes. WHERE was he shot? Oh, in the heart, I suppose.
My mother was appalled when she heard about this "conversation with Mikey", the early Mr. Sensitivity.
It knew me early. Mrs. Crotts lived in what is now the Robbins place and when I was 5 or 6 I used to visit over there, scurrying through the hedge almost daily. My mother worked at Longacres Cafe in Renton in those late 40's days so Mrs. Crotts also babysat us at our house from time to time. Mrs. Crotts had three sons: Boo, Kenny (who was my uncle, married to my dad's sister Ruby) and a soldier son who had been killed in WWII. One day, after I and some friends had been enthusiastically conducting mock battles as US Marines, complete with Army surplus canteens and helmets I visited Mrs. Crotts and noticed and asked about the portrait of the uniformed fellow on a shelf above her dining room table.
Who was he ? Her son. Where was he? He died in the war. Was he shot? Yes. WHERE was he shot? Oh, in the heart, I suppose.
My mother was appalled when she heard about this "conversation with Mikey", the early Mr. Sensitivity.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Talk is Cheap
Stuff my father used to say:
- "If you've got 'em, bet 'em; if you don't, bluff."
- "You get busy and find that hammer (pliers, screwdriver, whatever)."
- "Well, I'm gonna have to call you a liar, then."
- "Eat your mush first; THEN you can have some bacon and eggs."
- "No use going out 'til you can see; can't see 'em, can't shoot 'em" (this was probably so for the kind of hunting he did, but not for most of that I've been exposed to since).
- "Shoot them between the eyes or in the neck!"
- "Stop that WHINING!"
- "You're good when you can do the job with bad tools."
- "A little shock never hurt anyone."
- "You go find your switch."
Things Jim and Tiny used to say:
"Ow, Ow, Owwww!
- "If you've got 'em, bet 'em; if you don't, bluff."
- "You get busy and find that hammer (pliers, screwdriver, whatever)."
- "Well, I'm gonna have to call you a liar, then."
- "Eat your mush first; THEN you can have some bacon and eggs."
- "No use going out 'til you can see; can't see 'em, can't shoot 'em" (this was probably so for the kind of hunting he did, but not for most of that I've been exposed to since).
- "Shoot them between the eyes or in the neck!"
- "Stop that WHINING!"
- "You're good when you can do the job with bad tools."
- "A little shock never hurt anyone."
- "You go find your switch."
Things Jim and Tiny used to say:
"Ow, Ow, Owwww!
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Age Crimination
When you're 67, 3 or 4 years difference in age between friends and relatives is a yawn, but when you're 6 or 7 it's a yawning class gulf. Caste lines are obvious and sometimes rigid when you're a kid. My social environment was like that and consisted of same age peers, mostly schoolmates; slightly elder mentors; younger mentorees and "the big kids." You might want to read "The Body", aka "Stand By Me", to get Stephen King's take on "big kids." This is part of mine.
The most relevant big kids in my life were my older brothers, Jim and Tiny. In many ways we lived completely separate lives both at home and out in the world. Some of the older fellows all over Kennydale, for whatever reason, seemed to devolve into a rougher crowd in the mid-fifties, the era that invented "juvenile delinquency", and Jim, Tiny, Jack Rogers, Paul Stark, Dick Madsen and others around here were caught up in that. Several of them even became semi-career criminals with multiple stays in various institutions. Our local guys were getting busted for shoplifting, car theft, bank robbery, various scams (including one having to do with ripping off paper route customers) and burglary. No murder, though. As far as you know. There was a boatload of criminal activity. It almost seemed like someone was getting caught for something new every week. Though most of them grew out of this errant behavior as they grew older, some didn't live long enough;others suffered opportunity lost in their lives.
My reaction to this state of affairs was very like the epiphany I had re smoking. It just seemed stupid and was causing a lot of grief and I decided I wasn't gonna do any of that. Pretty much became a goody two shoes, if you can imagine. No. I know you can't . Forget I said that.
The most relevant big kids in my life were my older brothers, Jim and Tiny. In many ways we lived completely separate lives both at home and out in the world. Some of the older fellows all over Kennydale, for whatever reason, seemed to devolve into a rougher crowd in the mid-fifties, the era that invented "juvenile delinquency", and Jim, Tiny, Jack Rogers, Paul Stark, Dick Madsen and others around here were caught up in that. Several of them even became semi-career criminals with multiple stays in various institutions. Our local guys were getting busted for shoplifting, car theft, bank robbery, various scams (including one having to do with ripping off paper route customers) and burglary. No murder, though. As far as you know. There was a boatload of criminal activity. It almost seemed like someone was getting caught for something new every week. Though most of them grew out of this errant behavior as they grew older, some didn't live long enough;others suffered opportunity lost in their lives.
My reaction to this state of affairs was very like the epiphany I had re smoking. It just seemed stupid and was causing a lot of grief and I decided I wasn't gonna do any of that. Pretty much became a goody two shoes, if you can imagine. No. I know you can't . Forget I said that.
Monday, April 6, 2009
Playing in Traffic Planning
Reading in the paper this morning about various coming "improvements" to I-405 (looks like some of them will be in place to show Lloyd new jams next time he visits) it occurred to me that the big highway back there has always been a concern and a routine topic for local conversations. Initially, as soon as it was a confirmed project in the early 50's, folks in the neighborhood wondered where it was going to go; whether they would have to move or not; what it would do to property values; etc. One alternative route pretty much followed 104th Ave. SE, now Park Ave. No. Mostly we just talked and worried about it. Once, however, we decided to DO something.
In those days 104th was a gravel road with all that goes with that - flying rocks; mud and puddles in the winter and dust in summer. We felt we had to pour used motor oil out front to control the dust and enrich Lake Washington. The County grader came through a couple times a year as our road maintenance and there was talk of much desired paving, but until the new highway alignment was set planners understandably didn't want to spend for current 104th improvements. They conducted some studies , though. One of them involved a rubber traffic counting hose across the street in front of the Nimtz place. We kids were in the garage there when the study crew set up the apparatus. Mr. Nimtz was working there , too, and having a beer. Or two. After the technicians left we kids went out and started jumping on the hose. We couldn't tell and didn't care if we were "counting" or not. We were just messing around. After awhile, apparently on the theory that more data was good data and a strong step in the direction of getting our street paved, Mr. Nimtz came out and gave us ball peen hammers. So, one kid on each side of the road, under Oan's dad's encouraging watchfulness, we enhanced the data collection process for traffic planners. You could say we "beat 'em daddy; four beats to the car!"
And that's how I, after putting Kennydale on the map with Clint Eastwood, collaborated with King county to get our street paved.
In those days 104th was a gravel road with all that goes with that - flying rocks; mud and puddles in the winter and dust in summer. We felt we had to pour used motor oil out front to control the dust and enrich Lake Washington. The County grader came through a couple times a year as our road maintenance and there was talk of much desired paving, but until the new highway alignment was set planners understandably didn't want to spend for current 104th improvements. They conducted some studies , though. One of them involved a rubber traffic counting hose across the street in front of the Nimtz place. We kids were in the garage there when the study crew set up the apparatus. Mr. Nimtz was working there , too, and having a beer. Or two. After the technicians left we kids went out and started jumping on the hose. We couldn't tell and didn't care if we were "counting" or not. We were just messing around. After awhile, apparently on the theory that more data was good data and a strong step in the direction of getting our street paved, Mr. Nimtz came out and gave us ball peen hammers. So, one kid on each side of the road, under Oan's dad's encouraging watchfulness, we enhanced the data collection process for traffic planners. You could say we "beat 'em daddy; four beats to the car!"
And that's how I, after putting Kennydale on the map with Clint Eastwood, collaborated with King county to get our street paved.
Saturday, April 4, 2009
B...B...but I didn't mean to!
I've been communicating with a "retention specialist" at Nationwide, our homeowners and auto insurer, to review our policies and see if we need to revise anything. In their marketing materials describing liability coverage they specifically use the example of a child or guest breaking a neighbor's window as being covered. Takes me back.
When we were kids BB guns were a big deal and we had a lot of fun with them, target shooting and even playing William Tell type games (shooting tin cans off one another's legs or arms). Local birds and mothers weren't as enthralled ("you could put someones's eyes out!"). For several years I wasn't allowed to have one and had to rely on Oan and other slightly older kids for my BB fixes.
When I was about 11, my Snoqualamie cousins, Benny and Gary Duvall (also slightly older) got an upgrade of their airgun arsenal to a Daisy lever action, so at the end of a family hunting trip to Teanaway they gave me their outmoded pump type. My mother reluctantly, with lots of warnings and cautions, unfortunately allowed me to keep the thing. Alas, the VERY FIRST day of being a gun totin' dude became probably the worst in my life to that point and is still a Hall of Famer.
Home alone while the folks were at work, I invited Jimmy Spencer up to try out my new weapon. From the upstairs bedroom by the fireplace we decided to see if we could hit a bird in the pear tree next door (Swan Vue now). We missed, but that didn't mean we couldn't do serious damage anyway. After a couple of shots at the bird we noticed Mrs. Held way across in the house at the southeast corner of Park AVe. No. and 38th No. - you, know, the one with the huge picture window? - come out into her yard and start looking around. Well, who woulda thought the thing could send a BB that far and still have enough steam to put a hole in what must have been their cheap flimsy window? Two holes, actually.
The wait for Pa to come home to tell on myself was worse than the telling. It cost the astronomical sum of $45 to replace the window. Really a lot, then. Shortly after Pa and Mr. Spencer worked something out with the Helds (they tried to keep the holed glass to cut for other uses, but broke it in the process) he upgraded the homeowners policy to cover such things. Thus, I'm happy now to relate that the NEXT time, a couple years later, some buddies and I accidentally smashed a huge window in a slightly less stupid manner (my part was just "being a McNeely") he actually came out ahead by taking full responsibilty, making an insurance claim and collecting a few bucks from my collaborators' parents.
I guess I should relate this true story to the Nationwide "retention specialist". It seems like they ought to know what they're getting into.
When we were kids BB guns were a big deal and we had a lot of fun with them, target shooting and even playing William Tell type games (shooting tin cans off one another's legs or arms). Local birds and mothers weren't as enthralled ("you could put someones's eyes out!"). For several years I wasn't allowed to have one and had to rely on Oan and other slightly older kids for my BB fixes.
When I was about 11, my Snoqualamie cousins, Benny and Gary Duvall (also slightly older) got an upgrade of their airgun arsenal to a Daisy lever action, so at the end of a family hunting trip to Teanaway they gave me their outmoded pump type. My mother reluctantly, with lots of warnings and cautions, unfortunately allowed me to keep the thing. Alas, the VERY FIRST day of being a gun totin' dude became probably the worst in my life to that point and is still a Hall of Famer.
Home alone while the folks were at work, I invited Jimmy Spencer up to try out my new weapon. From the upstairs bedroom by the fireplace we decided to see if we could hit a bird in the pear tree next door (Swan Vue now). We missed, but that didn't mean we couldn't do serious damage anyway. After a couple of shots at the bird we noticed Mrs. Held way across in the house at the southeast corner of Park AVe. No. and 38th No. - you, know, the one with the huge picture window? - come out into her yard and start looking around. Well, who woulda thought the thing could send a BB that far and still have enough steam to put a hole in what must have been their cheap flimsy window? Two holes, actually.
The wait for Pa to come home to tell on myself was worse than the telling. It cost the astronomical sum of $45 to replace the window. Really a lot, then. Shortly after Pa and Mr. Spencer worked something out with the Helds (they tried to keep the holed glass to cut for other uses, but broke it in the process) he upgraded the homeowners policy to cover such things. Thus, I'm happy now to relate that the NEXT time, a couple years later, some buddies and I accidentally smashed a huge window in a slightly less stupid manner (my part was just "being a McNeely") he actually came out ahead by taking full responsibilty, making an insurance claim and collecting a few bucks from my collaborators' parents.
I guess I should relate this true story to the Nationwide "retention specialist". It seems like they ought to know what they're getting into.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Basebawling
Today, returning from a morning jaunt at Newcastle Park with Ranger, I noticed a flyer on the pole by Connor's Bar B Homes. City of Renton Recreation Dept. is advertising for participants in a softball league. "Hmmm...", I thought. "Hey! They have a senior's league. But am I (heh, heh) old enough? Oh, yeah. Should I hurry and enlist? Let's see"
We played a lot of ball in Kennydale from my grade school years all the way through Jr. High. "Softball" wasn't in our vocabulary but "hardball" was; that was the organized game operated by the Little League. Some local neighborhood stars did go on to LL and, later, Renton High School teams but I never did. Even though I was a fair to middling player I chose to do fishing and paper routing for after school and weekend activity. Whatever we chose later, though, on the block almost everyone got involved in what we called "baseball" and today would probably be known as pick-up softball.
We played two places: the Budd's (aka Chapman's) vacant lot at the northeast corner of 36th No. and Park Ave. No. - this property is still vacant, overseen now by the huge ivy-covered original old growth timber stump; and our back field, across Meadow Ave. No. from the Rogers and Vergello properties. Both places had their challenges with rough terrain (also, cow pies at our place), foul ball trajectories, no backstops and acute (or obstuse) base line angles, but we were able to overcome those with little hassle. What brought our games to an end was our own growth. The fields became too small to contain our Jr. High strengths. Everyone started hitting homeruns onto adjacent properties every time up.
Our get togethers were co-ed and spontaneous with a constant revolving cast of characters fitting the game into their familial and chore schedule as best they could. Often, a game was on all day with different characters or the same ones twice or thrice at in am and pm time slots. Equipment was varied. Some of us had real mitts and a good bat or two; others, nothing. We friction taped a lot of balls to keep them intact.
Rules were always evolving and we played pretty rough. A couple of times there were broken bones and barbwire cuts. Hey, it was all for fun and learning social skills, right?
So, I'm thinking about all this and considering whether to rush right down and sign up for a senior softball team. "They probably have regulation fields, effective fences, real baselines with infield dirt, excellent equipment, and (gulp!) umpires", I say to myself. "Probably limited opportunity for 'just being a McNeely' in that kind of environment!" That's the 'decider' right there, alright. I'll pass this time and wish them well.
We played a lot of ball in Kennydale from my grade school years all the way through Jr. High. "Softball" wasn't in our vocabulary but "hardball" was; that was the organized game operated by the Little League. Some local neighborhood stars did go on to LL and, later, Renton High School teams but I never did. Even though I was a fair to middling player I chose to do fishing and paper routing for after school and weekend activity. Whatever we chose later, though, on the block almost everyone got involved in what we called "baseball" and today would probably be known as pick-up softball.
We played two places: the Budd's (aka Chapman's) vacant lot at the northeast corner of 36th No. and Park Ave. No. - this property is still vacant, overseen now by the huge ivy-covered original old growth timber stump; and our back field, across Meadow Ave. No. from the Rogers and Vergello properties. Both places had their challenges with rough terrain (also, cow pies at our place), foul ball trajectories, no backstops and acute (or obstuse) base line angles, but we were able to overcome those with little hassle. What brought our games to an end was our own growth. The fields became too small to contain our Jr. High strengths. Everyone started hitting homeruns onto adjacent properties every time up.
Our get togethers were co-ed and spontaneous with a constant revolving cast of characters fitting the game into their familial and chore schedule as best they could. Often, a game was on all day with different characters or the same ones twice or thrice at in am and pm time slots. Equipment was varied. Some of us had real mitts and a good bat or two; others, nothing. We friction taped a lot of balls to keep them intact.
Rules were always evolving and we played pretty rough. A couple of times there were broken bones and barbwire cuts. Hey, it was all for fun and learning social skills, right?
So, I'm thinking about all this and considering whether to rush right down and sign up for a senior softball team. "They probably have regulation fields, effective fences, real baselines with infield dirt, excellent equipment, and (gulp!) umpires", I say to myself. "Probably limited opportunity for 'just being a McNeely' in that kind of environment!" That's the 'decider' right there, alright. I'll pass this time and wish them well.
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