“I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer — and what trees and seasons smelled like — how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.”
― John Steinbeck
The gravel road in the front raised dust in the summer that drifted into the crevices and cracks of our little house, which consisted exclusively of a kitchen, a front room, and two bedrooms.
Located on Walker Street, adjacent to the baseball field and across from Sarah Jeffrey’s house, it was small but had the amenities of a west-facing front porch off the kitchen and a back “outside” attachment which contained the washing machine and storage. It was unheated with a screen door that led to a small landing where a water pump gave us fresh water. The long-handled pump usually needed to be primed before water pulsed out.
Seasonal climate variations were sharply suffered inside as well as outside the house. Our central heat consisted of a potbelly coal-fueled stove in the living room with some mealtime relief from the kitchen stove. The two adjoining bedrooms had to fend for themselves. Summer’s heat could be abated only with a fan and by pillow flipping.
Arrival of Spring
Spring in the late 1940’s was especially intriguing for a boy between 5-12. Thunder and lightning storms were both pleasant and frightening. At night we would count the seconds between the flash and the sound. As the time between these events shortened, it meant that the storm was coming closer, so Mom would burn some dry palms to protect us. Then, as the counts became longer, the rain stopped, and we knew that the storm had passed. The burnt palms, and its incense-like fragrance, had again worked its magic.
The next morning, the brisk, cleansed air seemed to feed all living things around me. The storm also left me with a new opportunity…to sail my homemade wooden boat in the ditch, now filled with standing water, in the front yard. By cutting a small, rectangular piece of wood in the shape of a boat and cutting out a small section of the back of it, a space was left for a paddle. The paddle could be wound with a rubber band and I had a self-propelled boat. Toy cowboys usually made the journey across the water without a hitch, a matter of three feet.
Baseball
But with spring, it was also baseball with the neighbor kids that was the greatest fun, and only 90 feet from my front door to the diamond. Without any prior planning, neighborhood kids would arrive, ready to play. Barney and Mike Faletti, Richard Bone, Buddy Pinnick, and Danny Turner lived about half a mile away and would gather on the field for a pick-up game. Eddie and Billy Poppleton might also be there, along with Pete Cinotto. Although there were never enough kids for regular baseball, rules were adapted to accommodate our situation.
We would use the bat to initiate first draft pick, right field was out unless you were a lefty, and pitcher’s hands were out. The at-bat team supplied the catcher and he was supposed to play honest. He seldom did, “accidently” missing the throw from the outfield as a runner scored. A foul ball had to be at least 3 feet over the batter’s head to be considered “catchable.” Better, bigger, kids had to bat opposite-handed.
After playing several hours in the hot sun, the best part of going home was the big, sweaty pitcher of lemonade that mom would bring out. I would sit in the front yard under the apple tree and gulp down huge quantities of lemonade, pulp, and ice. Nothing ever tasted better.
Summer
We all have had magical moments when everything stands still and quiet. Times when it seems that the soul gently leaves the body and floats effortlessly. Times when you’re conscious only of the air, the soft breeze, and nature’s sounds. I don’t know when others experience these moments, but I remember the times when I first did. It’s easier to do when you are young, and your head is uncluttered with thoughts about jobs, family problems, and the future.
For me, the magic appeared at the Walker St. house after supper. The sun had just dipped over the horizon. It was neither day nor evening. It was summer in the cool of the evening, with its accompanying dampness, just beginning to be felt.
To stand quietly on the back porch of the house near the long-handled water pump and stare toward the east was the calmest I’ve ever felt. I could stand still for many minutes for almost an out-of-the body experience, thinking of nothing, in total sync with the environment. I was suspended in the center of the universe.
As I’m older, it has become much more difficult for me to replicate the magic moments…except when I picture myself at age seven standing alone after supper in the backyard of my house on Walker Street.
My Backyard
Backyards can represent an entire world for someone who is seven years old. Our backyard had the barn/garage, an outdoor toilet, and a grape orchard. A chicken coop was also in the mix. There was enough room to play “one-boy” baseball by hitting stones or apples with a wooden bat or throwing a baseball high in the air and circling to catch it.
One time, my mother made the timing mistake of walking out of the back door on her way to the outhouse at the same time I fired the ball straight (or so I thought) into the air above me. Had I intended that the ball would land directly on the top of her head, I would’ve been the next Whitey Ford or Allie Reynolds. My precision, if not velocity, would have been that great. Watching the downward arc of the ball and instantaneously calculating the speed and direction of her steps, I clearly saw that the ball had a good chance of landing on the top of her head. And it did.
The shock to me was so profound that seconds before contact I stood there frozen. The sound of a ball on head is very similar to a ball on a fungo bat, but my mother’s shock resulted in a yell that I can still recall. I said I was sorry. She picked up the ball, threw it back to me, and continued on her way to the outdoor facility. All without a word from her.
I wonder. Did she get a bump on her head?
Braidwood Beginnings 