Again and again

How many times does a person fall? The amount of the leaves alloted to us in our yards? I get on track, get anger and issues under some simmering, and something else boils up and over. So I sit and stew, another leaf falls in the pool.

Left Field

I did not want to play baseball. I was afraid of fast balls. My Uncle William Clark, a semi pro ball player would visit us summers, pitching fast balls to me, stinging my palm, busting my lip. When we moved to Kentucky in my fifth grade year, that summer, my friends all played baseball. I wanted no part of it. There was a tall, black pitcher on the Reds named Sam I feared to face, another William Clark. But the boys of Wilmore talked me into it, telling coach to pick me, and so I became a Little League Cub. Being a leftie I wound up in left field, which suited me, far from the action as possible. I was a terrible batter with an .097 average. I cringed when the announcer made that known to all. I did all I knew not to play, but despite my lack of batting skills, I was moved to first base, another good position for a left hander. Now I was part of the action on nearly every play. I even had my dad buy me a Ted Williams first baseman mitt at Sears. I did ok, making few errors. Still I persisted in trying not to face the fast balls. I told my dad the coach cussed. My dad to my embarrassment confronted the coach about it. I never tried that tactic again! What the "heck" was I thinking?

It was that same evening we faced the Reds and their ebony fast baller Sam. I could hear my dad cheering. We were behind. We had two on base. I nervously came up 9th in the order. And there went that announcer, "batting .097, first baseman John Stokes." I did not expect anything different to improve on that fact. All other at bats were strike outs. Sam wound up with two strikes and the former cursing Coach gave me the go ahead to swing. I closed my eyes and swung, hitting to my amazement a ground ball between first and second. It got past the infield. With my running speed I made it to second, the center fielder dropped the ball. With two RBI's, the third base coach motioned me on. I rounded third, the ball was dropped again, he motioned me home. By the time the short stop gained control over the hot potato, I had made it home. My only home run! My only hit for that matter.

It was a score keepers nightmare to plot. We won the game, beating  the lip busting Sam and the Reds. I still have the mitt. One home run, two RBI's, improved on that .097 average.

Damn he was a good coach.

Journey Lost

Today I put in to delete the Lost in Florida and Journey with John Stokes pages on Facebook. It was a little viewed, little commented on page. I do not understand the reasons, I felt the content worthy, I suppose it wasn't.

So in 14 days from today they will go away. I keep the John Clare poetry page because I've long since given up on anyone showing interest in it, save for about 6 people. Meme Clara page gets interest because my mom is more interesting than all. 

Party party

Secular Christmas parties are the absolute worst. Rotund ladies in screaming to burst skinny dresses, dancing to some foreign drum, all too familiar to the clubbers, as we the out of touch sit back amused with the scene. Such was the hospital party at the Country Club last evening. 

It will be a marked contrast tonight as we attend our Christ's Felliwship "party" at Aaron's. We are doing the white elephant gift thing though, which I really dislike.

CC

Callie Curtis the old outside cat has nice green eyes. She is hard to photograph. skittish. Soon after this, she jumped off the lawn chair. 

2:57

Sandhill group silently flew over at 2:57. I only had the iPhone6 in the back yard. Quickly zoomed and got 6. 

Still too Soon

Too soon to return. I logged in briefly to see how many resoonded to the Robert Jones video. Only two. Again, that disappointing frustration. I deleted the link and logged out. It's futile. I am not ready to return with the anger still seated.

When the product you offer in retail is inferior, out of style or not selling, you have to take measures to unload it, to make room for something that will. You try and move it to a high traffic area, you dress it up, you mark it down, and hope it sells. I recall how joyful we would be when another store would take our 144 dog dynasty tees, selling off the shelf in their market. And so I seek a tee that will sell in my market. I have yet to find it.

Fast Fade

One email today. Six yesterday. I had to return briefly to Facebook to say I am here, not there. 

Treemie

Tonight I got to thinking back to Melanie and my first Christmas. We lived in the upstairs garage apartment of Mr Emory Gray on Camp Street in Lake City. I had as a bachelor finally secured the quaint one bedroom for $125 a month after being on a waiting list. I believe it was Vicki Morrell who lived there before us.

At the time, Landon was not due until August 25th and Melanie worked in Gainesville as a RN at Shands in the NICU. That is where we got the name for our little live fur tree, Treemie, after the preemie babies she nursed. In the painting one sees the trappings of bachelorhood in place, the running shoes, the barbells. On the curtain rod is her Cockatiel Hank. On the Sony 13inch TV is Barney from Andy Griffith. Her cat she bought from her apartment in Williston Callie and Andy my black cat.

The oil of the fisherman, my first painting at age eight behind Treemie along with the oil of Renoir painting from my Florida Southern days. It was a grand first Christmas in that wonderfully cozy garage apartment.

Much has come full circle in many ways twenty six years hence. With Melanie now working back in Williston at the hospital she began in, Monday thru Friday, it is like the old dating days of only seeing one another weekends.

I cannot say I am enjoying our arrangement. I am not working, being a houseman. I have not even the desire to set up our many snowmen we have. 

Perhaps we will find the time this Saturday. With our son and grandson away in Japan, having heard nothing from them in nearly two years, we sag terribly this year. We desperately need our garage apartment back!

Far Fence

As runners we always recall our first race. Monticello was the second move of my young life. The first was from Vicco, Kentucky to Sopchoppy in Wakulla County, Florida as an infant. This move came as a shy third grader. I missed my friends Sam and Robert. We could go and do as we pleased all over town with no concern for safety. We had the river and plenty to occupy our Mayberry like days. Monticello was cultured, historical and too large to wander. Making friends was difficult for me.

I did not fit in well and really did not know how. But I could run. 

The day came near the end of Easter break when our PE coach announced we were going to hold a race to determine the fastest runner in third grade. Everyone knew that was going to be Jimmy Haines. They did not know me.

The day came when coach lined us up with instructions to run from the building, down the hill, touch the fence and return.

I had no illusion of winning, I just wanted to not finish last. The whistle blew and I was in the pack but soon moved up near Jimmy. By the fence I had pulled along side him. We touched together. I was being noticed. By midway up the hill, I pulled ahead. I won by several strides.

There was some celebration, but mostly confusion that someone had outran Jimmy.

It was the in that helped me find new friends in Monticello. 

I went on from Monticello back to Kentucky to begin Fifth grade in Wilmore.

There were no races needed to fit in as I was now the confident champion from Monticello.

Board Walk

It was always a joy to land on Boardwalk in Monopoly as long as no one else owned it. Well, today after visiting Bob, I just needed a boardwalk to land upon. I thought immediately of the long, low winding walk on the Florida Trail at the entrance to the Ocean Pond Campground. I have been going here for years. I have shots of Landon, my estranged twenty six year old son, as a toddler on the walk.

Arriving, there was a sign on the trail. Boardwalk removed, swamp impenetrable. I had to hike in to see. Sadly, only a few remnant boards remained. Another destination spot gone. Bobs mind gone. Judy's plaque gone. What is happening here? A photo of how it was:

Judy's Tree

Several years ago Steve Williams and I had Bill Sepko route a nice wooden plaque that read Judy's Tree. We rode out in the Osceola off Still Road and attached the plaque high out of reach.

Judy Hancock was a passionate defender of the forest and all things wild. She died of cancer nearly ten years ago. She was Steve and my friend.

Today while riding back from Ocean Pond, I slowed at the crooked pine, given the name by the Forest Service, and I noticed the plaque missing. I poked around the base but found nothing.

The road has been resurfaced and possibly some worker was amused or had a girl Judy he thought would like it. Someone several years placed a mocking sign Mary's Tree down from Judy's and I tore it down. Perhaps Mary was exacting revenge.

I will know it was Judy's tree. I doubt few will. Just another among thousands.