SO MUCH F***ing BASEBALL!

"It's okay to love something a little too much,

as long as it's real to you."

-- Gerard Way

Candy jar with baseball gumballs, candy and toys 10-4-14

Okay.

I promise.

Really.

I mean it.

Baseball won't be my "good thing" for every single day of October.

It's just that there is so much good baseball happening right now that I'm on kind of a baseball sugar rush at the moment.

And what goes in is bound to come out.

Yesterday I went on a baseball binge that started at noon with the first pitch of Tigers vs. Orioles, and didn't end until after 1 a.m. when Kansas City clinched their third extra innings game in a row with an epic 3-run blast by Eric Hosmer that gave them a 4 to 1 win over Anaheim.

Plus, there were two other games sandwiched in between.

It was like a double-stuff baseball Oreo.

And like any good sugar-loving kid around this candy-centered time of year, I'll consume more of the good stuff today, and more tomorrow, and more the day after that until the jar is empty and I give myself a monumental baseball belly-ache.

That being said, I will try to find other good things along the way.

I promise.

Really.

I mean it.

Maybe.

Switching Loyalty

"I used to advertise my loyalty

and I don't believe there is a single person I loved

that I didn't eventually betray."

-- Albert Camus, The Fall

Wind up tiger toy walking all over Chief Wahoo 10-3-14

"Such loyalty is admirable, of course ... 

but Dumbledore is gone Harry. He's gone."

-- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with.

That's my stance on post-season baseball.

I cheered loyally all season long for my Cleveland Indians until they pissed away their final chances.

So now, if and until they lose, I'm a Detroit Tiger's fan.

Hold up. Hold up.

Hear me out.

It's not just some tawdry fling.

I can explain.

I grew up in Michigan cheering for the boys in orange and blue with the Old English "D" on their chests. 

I was a loyal Tiger's fan my whole young life. I watched them kill it in the 1984 World Series when Kirk Gibson still had hair. (*Hell, I was already a Kirk Gibson fan when he was an All-American wide receiver for the Michigan State Spartans and I was just a little kid in a snowsuit snuggled up to my dad in the stands eating stadium dogs and yelling "Go Green! Go White!")

I listened to hundreds of Tigers games on the radio, working in the yard with my dad, stacking firewood, raking leaves. The work was just something to busy my hands while the game was on. 

I fell asleep to the sound of my dad shouting at the television when the Tigers fucked up (which they did monumentally last night in their 3-12 debacle against the Orioles.)

I celebrated my 21st birthday (a 104-degree day with no A.C.) sprawled on the living room floor splitting a 4-pack of Seagram's wine coolers with ... yep, you guessed it, my dad.

I was weaned on Ernie Harwell. When a batter heard strike three smack into the catcher's mitt we'd say it along with him -- "He stood there like a house by the side of the road!"

I got married and moved to Ohio in the early '90s, back when the Tigers were cold and the Indians were on fire. Almost 20 years ago, on my due date, hugely pregnant with my first baby, I sat through 13-innings of Indians vs. Twins when Jacob's Field was still called Jacob's Field. 

Somewhere along the line the scales tipped and I realized I'd lived more of my life cheering for the Indians than the Tigers.

And I didn't mean to, but gradually I became a loyal Tribe fan and it stuck. And yet, when the Tigers come to town, I'm always a little torn.

But this is the playoffs. It's the World-Fucking-Series.

I can't just watch it.

I need a team to root for. I need a team to shout at.

I need a team to care about.

It's a good thing I have another team up my sleeve.

Go Tigers!

*(Just for the record -- living in Ohio has not made me an Ohio State fan, nor will it ever, no matter how long I live in the buckeye state. My daddy raised me better than that.)

October Baseball

"First of all, it was October, a rare month for boys."

-- Ray Bradbury, 

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Pumpkin 10-2-14

"With those who don't give a damn about baseball, I can only sympathize.

I do not resent them. I am even willing to concede that many of them

are physically clean, good to their mothers and in favor of world peace.

But while the game is on, I can't think of anything to say to them."

-- Art Hill

"October had tremendous possibility."

-- Sarah Guillory, Reclaimed

Ah, October baseball!

It's the magical season of new beginnings and possibilities and big dreams and all-you-can-eat ball park drama.

If Heaven doesn't have baseball, then fuck it. I'd rather stay here.

And even though my Cleveland Indians broke my heart and didn't make it into the October playoffs, there is still plenty of baseball to get excited about this month.

And even though I can't root-root-root for my home team, I am already flirting shamelessly behind their back, forming romantic dalliances and hooking up with a different team every 9 innings.

They say that diamonds are a girl's best friend.

I agree, just as long as they're baseball diamonds.

Ball Park Hot Dogs

"An onion can make people cry,

but there has never been a vegetable invented 

to make them laugh."

-- Will Rogers

Me and Onion at the ballpark 9-25-14

I went to my final Indians game of the 2014 season last night.

Thanks to me being their lucky charm and them always winning when I'm in the park, the Tribe beat the Royals 6 to 4.

You're welcome.

That was all well and good, but the really good part was that we got to the stadium good and early and had time to wander around before the game. As I was strolling down the concourse, who should I see coming my way?

Onion! My favorite stadium mascot.

Me and Mustard 

There are three hot dog mascots at Progressive Field: Onion, Mustard and Ketchup. Onion is clearly the best mascot, and here's why.

"Mustard" is yellow.

Duh, right? Mustard is supposed to be yellow.

Well not in Cleveland.

Every baseball fan in C-Town knows that real stadium mustard is brown. Therefore, any self-respecting hot dog costume representing the Tribe in a Cleveland ball park should be embarrassed to wear a weak yellow squiggle on its chest.

Any real Cleveland stadium hot dog costume should look like it's slathered in runny brown baby shit.

Until that happens, I just can't get behind Mustard. On principle. I just can't.

Me and Ketchup 

As for "Ketchup."

I reject Ketchup on so many levels. But mostly because ketchup is just so fucking obvious.

Ketchup is the child's choice.

Plus, everyone knows that even salsa has passed ketchup as America's favorite condiment. So this hot dog shouldn't even be in the race anymore. He's a little passe.

Sure, the hipster glasses are sorta cute. But are they enough? I think not.

Maybe if Ketchup's wardrobe handlers spiced up his costume a little bit with some chunks of jalapeno, cilantro and onion, then maybe I could get behind him.

As is? Kinda lame.

But Onion?

Oh, Onion! Why do I love Onion? Let me count the ways:

A: She's the only girl. So, points.

B: She clearly has the best wardrobe. Jesus. That chopped onion bustier alone. Points. Plus the Chief Wahoo mini. More points. Her onion curls? Points again.

The other hot dogs don't even have pants. Which, ew. No pants, no points.

C: She knows how to accessorize. Earrings and a hot pink purse? Points. Points. The other guys have ball caps, but who the fuck doesn't have a ball cap at the ball game? That's not even trying.

And not to beat a dead horse, but Mustard's hat is yellow. Yellow isn't even an Indians team color. At. All.

D: Her Amy Winehouse mascara and Nicole Kidman lips. Who but Onion could make those two things work flawlessly on one face? Points.

Sadly, Onion didn't cross the finish line first in last night's hot dog derby. I guess she was running on fumes.

Which is another reason Onion is the best mascot.

Because despite last night's win, the Tribe's post-season hopes are running on fumes as well.

But hope on fumes is better than no hope at all.

Just ask Onion.




*photo credits go to my husband for being super awesome and taking me out to the ballpark!

Eating Sunflower Seeds Like A Ball Player

"Baseball and spittin' go hand in hand."

-- DavidSeeds.com

Sunflower hulls 9-16-14

"In the United States, they're mostly seen 

as an alternative to chewing tobacco 

for baseball players and other bored people 

with a penchant for spitting."

-- Mental Floss, 

"When Did Baseball Players Start Chewing Sunflower Seeds?"

When you watch a shit-ton of baseball, you also watch a shit-ton of dudes spitting. 

They spit a lot. 

They spit constantly. 

Spit. Spit. Spit. Spit. Spit.

Bubble gum spit. Tobacco spit. Regular spit. 

And they spit out lots and lots of sunflower seed hulls.

I have watched a shit-ton of baseball this season.

And maybe it's simply the power of suggestion, but I've been craving sunflower seeds. So I got some of the in-the-shell kind just like the teams have in the dugout. Then I taught myself to crack them open with my teeth, extract the seed with my tongue, and spit out the hull without losing the seed. Just like the big-leaguers do it.

Right now I can only do one at a time. The most I've done is three or four. I'm working my way up to holding a fistful inside my cheek, chipmunk-style, like the players do. 

I set my goals, I go for 'em.

I know it's not that sexy of a trick for a girl. It'd probably be much sexier if I could, say, tie a knot in a cherry stem with my tongue. 

But I'm not that girl.

I'm me. 

And sexy isn't really my thing.

Here is my thing, though.

I have a strong tendency to overdo it with snacks. I especially like to nibble on salty stuff while I am cooking supper, thus ruining my appetite for the real meal. And I am no stranger to the late-night chip binge.

But eating sunflower seeds in the shell slows me way down. I can't eat a bunch of these little guys all at once. Extracting each teensy weensy seed one at a time takes a while, which means I won't go overboard, even if I eat them through all nine innings.

Plus, sunflower seeds are a lot healthier than, say, pretzels or potato chips. They're packed with all kinds of vitamins and other good things.

Spit.

A Doubleheader

"We've got the setting -- 

sunshine, fresh air, the team behind us.

So let's play two!"

-- Ernie Banks, 

National Baseball Hall of Fame induction speech, 1977

Baseballs in cycling and batting helmets 9-12-14

"I love doubleheaders. 

That way I get to keep my uniform on longer."

-- Tommy Lasorda

They say two heads are better than one.

I couldn't agree more.

Take yesterday, for instance.

The Indians were scheduled to play a doubleheader against the Twins to make up for their Wednesday night rain-out.

And I was out on my bicycle.

The first pitch of the first game was at noon, which is right in the middle of my daily ride.

But ...

Clever fan that I am, I tuned the game in on my iPod and pedaled happily along while I listened to Tom Hamilton and Jim Rosenhaus call the play by play.

The weather was still pretty dismal and gloomy, but inside my head it was all sunshine and summer. And, I had the best seat in the house.

I'm not usually much of a multi-tasker, but I had this one nailed, doing two of my favorite things at once.

After I got home and showered, the second game of the doubleheader came on, and I got to do it all over again. Except this time, instead of riding while I listened, I ate lunch, did some laundry, and made today's photograph celebrating the day's good turn of events.

In an even better turn of events, our boys swept the doubleheader, beating Minnesota in back-to-back games.

Go Tribe!

Team Spirit: If You Can't Grow One, Faux One

"Well, you tell Marge Schott to shave her Saint Bernard,

and I'll shave my moustache."

-- Rollie Fingers

Self portrait 9-2-14

So my team, the Cleveland Indians, is doing this "rally 'stache" thing in response to third baseman Lonnie Chisenhall's Twitter challenge to "raise awareness for mustache extinction."

It's kind of silly, but lots of players are rocking some pretty ridiculous mustaches, and so are plenty of fans.

It looks like fun, for the boys. 

But what about those of us who can't grow facial hair but want to jump aboard the 'stache-wagon?

What's a girl to do if she wants to show her team spirit and solidarity with a full and furry upper lip?

We fake it, of course, and go with the faux.

I don't know how truly concerned I am about mustache extinction. But am seriously concerned about my team's chances in the post-season.

So I am wearing a rally 'stache today in a show of team spirit, and to hopefully help my Indians secure a spot in the playoffs. After their 12 to 1 rout by Detroit yesterday, it looks like I'll have to do whatever it takes.

It's only weird if it doesn't work, right?

Hey. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.

Oh, and in case you're wondering what you stick a faux rally 'stache on with, the answer is ...

Spirit gum!

So show your team spirit, no matter what your team's thing is -- mountain man beards, Mohawk haircuts, the rally 'stache -- whatever.

And remember, if you can't grow one, faux one.

Go Tribe!!!  Wahoo!!!

Two People Sharing One iPod

"Happiness quite unshared can scarcely be called happiness; it has no taste."

-- Charlotte Bronte

Styrofoam wig forms 8-4-14

"It ain't no fun if the homies can't have none."

-- Snoop Dogg

Maybe I'm a slow learner, but yesterday I discovered that I can listen to the actual radio through my iPod.

That means I can listen to baseball games -- through my iPod.

So that's what I did.

We were at the firing range shooting pistols, and I wore my ear buds underneath my protective sound-canceling headphones. It was the best of both worlds. I was shooting and listening to the Indians beat the Rangers in a 12-inning showdown -- through my iPod.

When we were done shooting and waiting for the others to finish up, my husband sat down beside me on a bench where I was listening to the final innings. I'd been giving him game updates all afternoon. 

I held one of my blue ear buds out to him.

Me: "Want one?"

Him: "Sure."

And so we listened to the last couple of innings like two kids, heads bent toward each other, shoulders pressed together sharing their favorite songs -- two people listening on a device meant for one. 

It felt a little like a date -- kind of sweet and romantic, intimate in a way -- a modern tech-age version of holding hands. 

I guess the kids have known it all along. If you want to get closer to someone, there's a really good way to get there -- through an iPod.

A Family Outing

"What greater thing is there for human souls

than to feel that they are joined for life --

to be with each other in silent unspeakable memories."

-- George Eliot

Chessmen 7-20-14

"The memories of my family outings are still a source of strength to me.

I remember we'd all pile into the car -- I forget what kind it was -- and drive and drive.

I'm not sure where we'd go, but I think there were some trees there.

The smell of something was strong in the air as we played whatever sport we played.

I remember a bigger, older guy we called 'Dad.'

We'd eat some stuff, or not, and then I think we went home.

I guess some things never leave you."

-- Jack Handy, "Deep Thoughts by Jack Handy"

Because I'm a baseball junkie, for my birthday the guys took me out to the ballgame.

The Indians are on a two-week road trip, so instead of going to Progressive Field, we went to see the Lake Erie Crushers play the Florence Freedom in a Frontier League showdown at All Pro Freight Stadium.

I like Crushers games because the ballpark is smaller, parking is simpler, tickets are cheaper and you can get a lot closer to the action. And for me, baseball is baseball. I'll watch anyone play as long as its a good game.

And it was.

We had front row seats directly behind home plate.

The rain stopped just in time.

The french fries were hot and crispy.

The beer was cold.

Leo got a rare lucky "double dog" -- he unfolded the foil and discovered two wieners in one bun.

We saw a rainbow (also lucky).

One of the Crushers players (#25, you're my favorite) gave me a foul ball.

The Crushers slammed a few dingers and taters and, well, crushed the Freedom 16-4.

When we got home, we all ate chocolate cake.

It was all good, but the best part was that we were all together having a really good time. 

I think that's why I prefer "experience" gifts over "stuff" gifts.

Stuff just sits around, takes up space and gathers dust until you eventually lose interest. 

But experiences happen. Here. Now. 

Everyone gets to take part. 

And the only space they take up is in your memories, where it's a good thing there's always room for more.

The Power Of The Rally Cap

"Indians erupt late to cruise past Yankees in finale."

-- Indians.com

Self portrait 7-11-14

All I'm saying is, before I put my rally cap on last night, the Indians were down 3-0 to the Yankees and the game was flat-lining after six scoreless Tribe innings.

Immediately after I put my rally cap on, Cleveland scored 9 runs in the 7th and 8th innings and the Yankees didn't score any more all night.

After rookie catcher Roberto Perez slammed his first big league homer in his first big league appearance, the guys in the row behind me said I should wear my rally cap to every game.

No shit.

In a post game interview, Indians DH Nick Swisher said "Regardless of what's happening early in the game, it kind of seems like we always find a way to fight ourselves back into a game."

That's right, Swish. You found a way alright.

I proudly take full credit for the win. It was me. All me.

Never, ever underestimate the power of a good rally cap.

That's all I'm saying.

Anticipation

"The idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting."

-- Andy Warhol

Beans and Jack and the Beanstalk, 7-9-14

"When I think something nice is going to happen

I seem to fly right up on the wings of anticipation ..."

-- L.M. Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

"... that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself ..."

-- Jane Austen, Sense and Sensibility

I love that feeling when, during a regular old ordinary nothing special day, I remember that something really good is going to happen tomorrow, and a little wave of happy expectation ripples through me.

It doesn't have to be a big thing.

Maybe it's reservations at a really good restaurant.

Maybe it's a visit from a really good friend.

Or maybe, as in the case of tomorrow, it's really good seats on the right base side, just behind the New York dugout, for Derek Jeter's final game in Cleveland in game four of the Indians' homestand against the Yankees.

Anticipation can be awful and torturous. But it can also be the perfect thrilling antidote to a stubborn case of the summer ho-hums. 

I feel like Jack laying in bed all wound up like a spring waiting for the beans to sprout.

This is going to be good.

Listening To A Game On The Radio

"I watch a lot of baseball on the radio."

-- Gerald Ford

Garage radio 4-25-14

"I would get a pillow and I would crawl under the radio, 

so that the loudspeaker and the roar of the crowd would wash all over me, 

and I would just get goose bumps like you can't believe. 

And I knew that of all the things in this world that I wanted, 

I wanted to be that fella saying, whatever, home run, or touchdown. 

It just really got to me."

-- Vin Scully, aka The voice of the Dodgers

"Part of the ineffable radio experience is the pace of baseball,

fraught with its pauses and ellipses.

The flights of memory and wit that fill these gaps are why baseball's

great radio voices are also master storytellers."

--  Bruce Dowbiggin, "What's Better Than a Road Trip 

With a Baseball Game On The Radio?" The Globe and Mail

Our TV was on the blink for a couple of days -- something went funky with the cable or something. It would only stay on for 15 seconds or so before the screen went blank.

Which is a problem when the game is on.

So I went Old School for the last two Indians/Royals games and listened to them on the radio.

Sure, I listen to games on the radio from time to time, if I'm working outside in the garden, or on a project that keeps me upstairs in my workspace, or if I'm in the car. But this time I didn't even try multitask. I just stretched out on the floor under a blanket and listened to the radio voices tell me pitch by pitch, hit by hit, out by out, play-by-play, inning by inning, exactly what was happening on the diamond at Progressive Field.

And you know what? I didn't miss the visuals at all, because the familiar voices of Cleveland's ace broadcasters Tom Hamilton and Jon Rosenhaus expertly painted in all of the colors and shapes and details and atmosphere for me, while my very own imagination supplied all of the imagery.

And because there weren't a dozen little icons constantly reminding me of strike counts, and pitch counts, or how many outs there were, or what inning it was, or who was at bat, or where the base runners were, or the arc of the ball or the location of the pitch etc., I had to think a little bit and stay in it and pay attention.

It was like listening to a really great story where I had to remember what happened earlier, and didn't know what would happen next, and couldn't wait to find out. It was like reading the book instead of taking the easy way out and watching the movie instead.

The TV is fixed. Which is a good thing. I guess.

A Beer At The Ball Game

"Beer needs baseball, 

and baseball needs beer --

it has always been thus."

-- Peter Richmond

Beer bottle caps 4-214

" ... there is only one game at the heart of America and that is baseball,

and only one beverage to be found sloshing at the depth of our national soul and that is beer."

-- Peter Richmond

Beer and opener 4-21-14

Ray Kinsella:

"So what do you want?"

Terence Mann:

"I want them to stop looking to me for answers, begging me to speak again,
write again, be a leader.

I want them to start thinking for themselves.
I want my privacy."

Ray Kinsella:

"No, I mean, what do you WANT?"

(gestures to the concession stand)

Terence Mann:

"Oh. Dog and a beer."

-- Field of Dreams

I've been seriously trying to curb my alcohol consumption. I'm doing it for a number of reasons, but primarily because alcohol seriously fucks with my sleep.

After a long, drawn-out, desperately-hard-fought battle with insomnia, trust me, a solid night's sleep is a lot more satisfying than a drink.

But what is a recovering insomniac girl to do when she's at a baseball game on a perfectly sunny day and she wants to enjoy the pure, simple pleasure of a cold beer? Every baseball fans knows beer and baseball just go together. It's a no-brainer, one of those unwritten laws of humanity, and baseball.

So you feel kind of left out when you're at the game and everyone around you is slurping a foamy, amber, cold one and you're, well, not. 

We spent Easter day at the Indians vs. Blue Jays game (Tribe won 6 to 4). The beer yearning started on the drive over, and then intensified sharply as we walked to our seats (which were awesome, by the way), and past every single beer vendor on the concourse. And this is Cleveland, people. Cleveland is a beer town. So the beer choices at Progressive Field are vast and wide, including everything from from the typical big name stuff, to a huge and lovely selection of little-known craft beers and local brews, offered every which way -- in cans, in bottles, on tap. I've heard that they even tweak their beer selections throughout the year to appeal to fans of the visiting clubs. And we were playing a team from Canada, for fuck's sake.

I was a sitting duck.

But I had a strategy.

At home, I've become quite the connoisseur of non-alcoholic beers. Don't judge. Some of them are pretty damned tasty if you give them a chance, and if you aren't in it for the beer buzz. My favorites are a German one (Kaliber, by Guinness) and a Canadian one (Labatt's, by duh Labatt's). Coors is a close third. Sharp's and O'Doul's are at the bottom of the beer barrel.

Anyway, I figured that any baseball stadium offering Spotted Cow Ale had to serve at least one n/a brew. 

My dear and persistent husband asked at almost every beer stand we passed. The concessionaires all shook their heads. Some referred us vaguely to a restaurant way back and up one level at the far stadium entrance that might have it, but they weren't sure.

Leo was getting a little impatient with the search.

Him: "Why don't you just get a Bud Light? It's the same thing."

Me: "I am not going off the wagon for a Bud Light."

Then we struck gold. Or amber. Or, well, watery amber, but still, it was better than nothing.

The last place we passed before our section had O'Doul's.

It took a while to get it, because the clerk couldn't find the button for it on her register, because there wasn't one. She said we were the first people to ask for it all season. She wasn't even sure how much to charge for it. My husband convinced her to charge me the soft drink price (since there's no booze in it), and he even finagled me a souvenir drink cup. (It helps to have a really cute husband in situations like this).

Clutching my hard-won prize, we made it to our seats and I took my first long sip. Yes, it was a little watery. Yes, the flavor was a little thin. But it was cold and foamy and fizzy.

Licking the foam from my lips, I didn't feel left out. I felt like part of the crowd.

It was a little thing, but a good thing.

Best of all, it was beer. 

And even better than that -- I slept like a baby.

Easter At The Ball Park

"God what an outfield,' he says. 'What a left field.'

He looks up at me, and I look down at him.

'This must be heaven,' he says."

-- W.P. Kinsella, Shoeless Joe

Egg-dyed baseballs and glove 4-20-14

"Baseball? It's just a game -- as simple as a ball and a bat.

Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes.

It's a sport, business -- and sometimes even religion."

-- Ernie Harwell, "The Game for All America"

"Baseball is like church.

Many attend, few understand."

-- Leo Durocher

I asked the Easter Bunny to skip the damn basket full of jellybeans and please bring me tickets to today's baseball game between the Cleveland Indians and the Toronto Blue Jays.

He hit a home run.

So instead of making myself sick on candy, cooking a lame-o ham, and nodding through a long, boring sermon, I'll be worshiping at a church of a different color, noshing on ball park snacks, reaching for foul balls, and root, root, rooting for the home team.

I love watching baseball. I love listening to it. So for me, spending a day at the ball park is one of the very best ways to spend a day. (On the day my son Sam was due to be born I was at Jacob's Field enjoying 13 innings of the Indians vs. the Twins.)

Like, I totally get it in that movie City Slickers, when Billy Crystal's character "Mitch" nostalgically describes his best day:

"Seven years old and my dad takes me to Yankee Stadium, my first game. 

We're going in this long dark tunnel under the stands and I'm holding his hand, 

and we come out of the tunnel into the light. It's huge, how green the grass was, brown dirt ... 

We had a black and white TV, so this was the first game I ever saw in color.

I sat through the whole game next to my dad. He taught me how me to keep score. Mickey hit one out.

I still have the program."

Best Easter ever.

Go Tribe!

Cultivating My Soil

"We have the power to craft our growth 

the way a landscaper crafts a majestic garden,

or we can leave it to chance, 

allowing it to unfold wild as the weeds 

that spread across a vacant lot."

-- Scott Edmund Miller

Garden soil before and after 4-7-14

"In nature we never see anything isolated,
but everything in connection with something else
which is before it, beside it, under it and over it."

-- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

"We must cultivate our own garden."

-- Voltaire

I have a ragged little patch of ground that I call a garden, which I tend to in the Spring and Summertime. And in spite of my horticultural shortcomings, the soil still manages somehow to squeeze up some pretty delicious vegetables all season long.

I got the process started yesterday by raking up the scruffy debris and getting down to the soft, fragrant dirt underneath. It was a sunny, brisk, Sunday afternoon. The Cleveland Indians were on the radio. The air smelled fresh and clean and the work limbered up my Winter-stiffened back and shoulders.

The atmosphere made me more than a little nostalgic for my Dad. He and I spent countless Sundays just like this, working together in the yard, listening to the Detroit Tigers. It made me miss him. But I could also feel him in the chill breeze against my face.

It was sweet and lovely.

Garden 4-7-14

By the time I finished, my hands (and jacket) were good and dirty. My jeans had slid progressively further and further off my hips until they sagged halfway down my ass, just like my Dad's always did. My boots were caked with damp soil and so were my fingernails.

It's not a huge garden -- just big enough for me to handle without being overwhelmed. It doesn't look like much. It's pretty ordinary -- a rectangular box of landscape timbers filled with topsoil surrounded by a warped wire fence.

It was originally my son, Sam's. He wanted a garden and plants for his birthday one year, and so we all made it together and he took care of it for several growing seasons until the demands of school and work and  the busy life of being a young man pulled him away. He bequeathed it to me and I promised to tend it with care.

Maybe that's what makes it so special. Maybe by taking care of Sam's garden I still feel a little bit like I am taking care of Sam -- a seriously independent, self-sufficient, highly capable 19-year-old who doesn't seem to need me much for anything anymore.

I can do this for him. He needs me to do this for him. Without me, Sam's garden would disappear into an unwieldy tangle of overgrowth, get swallowed up by briers and brambles and leaves and weeds gone wild.

I admit, I'm not the best gardener in the world.

My thumb is not so much green as it is a multi-colored, random-patterned tie-dyed swirl. But as long as I feed and water stuff, it seems to grow. Healthy stuff. Good stuff.

So I guess I'm gardener enough.

Lord knows I am not the best mother in the world, either.

My parenting skills are pretty colorful and random, too. But in spite of my parental shortcomings, as long as I feed and water them, my boys seem to grow. Healthy boys. Good boys.

So I guess I'm mother enough.

In a few months my garden will be choked with an over-abundance of zucchini and tomatoes, broccoli and cauliflower, all fighting each other in the confines of the overcrowded space for room to spread out. Everything will grow until it's too big to stay and I'll have to harvest it for it's final destiny -- sauce, or soup, or salad.

Dads and boys do the same. They stay until they're called away to something beyond the confines of where they came from, until they chafe against the boundaries and it's time to move on. It's the daughter's and the mother's role to not only let them go, but to help them go, before they spoil on the vine.