Youthful Adventures - Sweaty hands and a rotary phone Part II

As promised, published a little early, thank you for sharing and commenting too....

When we last left our Hero, he had been marred by an adolescent  crush, and his inability to move the relationship forward.  How does he extract himself from this predicament?  Does he somehow gain insight into a deeper meaning because of it all?  We need only to dial the years forward a little to find out (just like that rotary phone).....

     Years passed, I married a local girl, but not the cheerleader.  She married her high school sweetheart, not me.  We ended up working together on one of the high school reunions and as luck would have it we both arrived early one night for a planning session and had a few minutes to talk.  We both were happily married and exchanged stories and pictures of our kids and their exploits.  At some point, I reminded her of my call to her, and she had no recollection of it, ouch.  What she said next, however, was a total shocker.  She said that she had been shy in high school, not very athletic which was why she cheered (the sport now barely resembles cheering like we knew in the 70's and 80's). She said that she suffered the same teenage angst as I did.  If I got the story right, she dated 2 times, and married the second guy she dated.  What an epiphany I had at that moment!!  Wait, ALL kids have teenage angst?  Popularity doesn't stop it?  Good looks don't prevent it? Money doesn't solve it?  This was huge information, too late for me to use in high school, but not too late for me to share it with my children and the world.  And share it I did.

     I told my daughter, Molly  Prior to high school and during those years I reminded her of this.  I think it helped her to get more comfortable in her skin.  Ironically she became the smart, athletic, popular and beautiful cheerleader.  She reached the upper echelons of popularity in her school, but was unaware of it.  Her social circles and dates included kids from all over the social pyramid in the school.  I used to accuse her of bringing home strays.  All through her life, she picked up these kids, like some people collect cats.  What a kind heart she had, and has.  She did it all with a confidence that I did not know at her age.  In 3rd grade she opened a chorus concert in front of a packed auditorium singing a few lines a cappella, and never missed a note.  In her last couple of years of high school, prior to cheering for the basketball and football teams, she would go to center court/field and sing the National Anthem.  She amazed her mother and I.  She graduated near the top of her class, earned a great merit scholarship and is now pursuing a nursing career at the University at Buffalo.  The nursing profession will benefit from her, of that I am sure.  For the last year, she has dated a non-athletic guy who is kind of geeky, imagine that (we like him too).  Anecdotal as it is, it seems that the advice worked.

     I told my son Dan.  Dan is finishing up his last year of high school now, and he is, quite simply, tearing it up.  If I listed all the accolades he has received, you would swear I was making them up.  The partial list includes N.H.S., Boys State, President of Leadership Class, and Eagle Scout.  Last week he got voted Most Likely to Succeed (incidentally I got voted most talkative, I lived up to expectations, we'll see how Dan does).

He is not as humble as Molly, that is not his nature.  He loves a good debate and is leaning towards law or political science. He hasn't dated as much but is currently dating a sweet girl, and I've never seen a high school student that handles relationships with the maturity and respect that he does. He also casts his net wide with his circle of friends.  It seems, the advice has helped him too.

     I told my son Nolan.  Nolan is 10.  To say Nolan makes friends easily is to vastly understate his ability.  Nolan can interact with any person, of any age, in any setting.  He makes a point to walk down and visit his Grandmother, unprompted, on a weekly basis.  Last week we visited Molly at college and Nolan got along so well with some students that he got invited back to a college party (He was pretty upset when Mom wouldn't let him go).   Two weeks ago he was elected to lead the Hall Boy Scout Troop, and he is the youngest member of the Troop. He is the most comfortable in his skin of all my kids, and it's a little scary to think where this will take him.  He has been "dating" a girl for a little over a year now.  Sufficed to say, it seems to have helped him too.

Nolan in Richmond this spring

     I told a complete stranger on a plane back from Dallas at 20,000 feet one time.  A mother placed her teenage daughter next to me on the plane and for a long part of the flight I listened to her story of entering high school and the trials and tribulations that she had thus far endured.  It was wrought with raw emotion and angst.  When she finished, I told her my story, and she seemed to accept it as fact.  I could visibly see some of the worry leave her face as she pondered the new data.  As I was leaving the plane, her mother thanked me profusely.  The Director of HR for Paychex was sitting adjacent to us, and handed me his card as we left the plane.  He invited me to come in and interview for a sales position.  I politely declined and handed him back his card (I like that company, but they are a little stiff for me). 

     So I suffered a little hurt long ago, but because my cheerleading friend shared her story with me, I have been able to help friends, family, and strangers alike.   It's a bargain I would make again any day....but wait it gets even better.  My wife and I found ourselves attending a wedding a little while ago, and my cheerleading friend and her husband attended also.  At one point we were all on the dance floor and they started inviting couples that were married for certain lengths of time to remain on the floor.  The 5 year mark passed, the 10, the 15, and even the 20 and the 4 of us were still dancing.  It turns out that we all have been married for 23 years now and very happily.  There weren't many other couples on the floor as we left, which I found a little sad.  We count this couple among our friends now and we try to get together for dinner now and again, but it seems like it is never often enough.  They are raising two beautiful girls, and it is clear to me, from the outside looking in, that they have found their soul mates.  How cool is that?

     I think I made out pretty well myself.  I married a beautiful girl who was kind of shy.  Over the years we challenged each other to stretch our comfort zones.  I watched her take leadership roles on committees and in organizations like Girl Scouts and Boy Scouts.  She's the humble one in our relationship.  My second epiphany happened only a short time ago, when I reflected what it has been like to be married to me.  I'm flirtatious, opinionated, egotistical, and a little divisive. This combination can cause conflicts with people, but every time it does, she has my back.  I've even had a couple of periods of unemployment in my life and during each of them, she stood steadfastly behind me (even when I gave the card back to the Paychex guy, when I wasn't working).

Friends celebrating in the Garaj-Mahal

Last year, I won an award at work that was under-celebrated, and my wife, realizing my efforts and my love of attention, organized a surprise party for me. What an absolutely perfect life partner she has been for me.  So in closing, you know, years ago I failed to get the date I wanted, but years later, there is no doubt in my mind that I ended up marrying my biggest cheerleader.  Come to think of it, my hands were sweaty that day too.

Char and I dancing this summer.

Youthful Adventures - Sweaty hands and a rotary phone

I didn't date much in High School. My brother Ace, who was 4 years older than me seemed to have an endless parade of girls coming to the house on a regular basis, but that wasn't the case with me.  It took me a while to get comfortable in my own skin, a truth that most people who have met me as an adult will struggle with, but it is the truth nonetheless.  I could have been uncomfortable with my social status, or insecure with my looks, or just plain unsure and uninformed on how to start this process called dating, hell it could have been those red jeans of mine, but the point remains, I didn't reach out much to the opposite sex in my first few years of school.  When I did, however, boy did it make a nice blog.

     Towards the end of my sophomore year I had developed a nice group of friends in school. Although I never reached the pinnacles of popularity at Canandaigua Academy, I could see it from my house (Thanks Sarah).  My circle of school friends intersected at a couple of spots with some popular kids, and in my eyes, that was enough.  Truth be told, from where I started in my social status, with almost no one knowing me, to where I was that year, with a few popular people knowing my name, it seemed a huge leap.  Only years later did I realize how ridiculous these self-perceived barriers were, but also how common and widespread the belief or misconception, but I digress...   I'm 2 paragraphs in and I haven't even introduced the main character, Jeez I'm slipping.

     I had met her in a few classes in my freshman year, and wound up at a table during study hall with her most of my sophomore year.  She was better friends with my best friend Dan, as they grew up down the road from each other, but that year, I got to know her better with that 45 minutes each day.  Our group would frequently be gently chastised by the school librarian for laughing a little too much, or too loudly, but honestly I think Mr. Chapman liked overhearing our stories or jokes, so the rebukes were short and well spaced.  It was during this time that I developed my interest in this girl and started my plan to try and move our relationship from friendship to something more.  It was a huge risk and a move seldom tried in high school, as she was at the top of the popularity pyramid, and I was still placing my blocks at the bottom.  I was a geeky, non athletic, poor kid, who wore red jeans and smelled like a fry cook.  She was a smart, beautiful, head cheerleader, popular girl, who came from a fairly affluent family, and she smelled like flowers.  It was an epic mismatch (in my eyes), and the ending of this story surely writes itself, or does it?
                                                                                                                                                     

     The end of that school year I started to ponder the best way to approach

Not me, not her, but you get the picture.

her.  My options for a first date were limited, I had little money, no car or license, and she lived out of town and I lived in the center of it.  She didn't seem the type to accept a ride on the handlebars of my bike, although she was athletic enough to do it.  The months passed and no good opportunity presented itself, or my lack of courage stalled me from moving forward with my plan.  The summer came and those months started to ebb away too, until finally it was August and my church festival was a week away.  It then dawned on me that this could be the perfect first date.  Hadn't I seen her at the festival before?  Sure I had.  It was walkable for me, and her family would surely be attending.  It was well within my budget and it had rides like Ferris Wheels, that would put us in close proximity.  If I could get her there, with me, couldn't I charm her enough to start this dating thing?  I thought I could, I only had to reach out and invite her..... over the telephone!

     You need a little background on my parent's house and the telephone technology that existed at that time.  The phones of the day were heavy and had big dials on them. You would put your finger in the corresponding number and dial it to the end, and then release it to turn back so you could dial the next one.  You hated people that had 9's in their numbers.  My parents had one phone, mounted on a wall in the center of the house, with an upstairs vent conveniently placed nearby to deny any user any semblance of privacy.  It was at this phone that I found myself one evening, with hands so sweaty that it was tough to get the friction I needed to turn the rotary dial.  I had put this off long enough, I was now determined to do this thing.  No guts, no glory I thought, and a hundred other idioms that would give me courage.  I lifted the receiver, listened for the the loud dial tone and dialed the first number.
"WHO'S ON THE PHONE" bellowed my Dad from the living room.  "I have to call a friend for a minute"  I yelled back, my voice cracking slightly.  I dialed the second number (dammit, a 9!).  The dial took forever to come back from that one, and meantime a brother entered the room.  "Who ya calling" he asked, "just Dan", I lied and he passed through on the way to another room.  I dialed the 3rd number, man was it hot that summer?  And so it went for the next 15 minutes, with me starting to dial the number, hanging up, restarting, answering my siblings inquiries as to my intentions, and then finally when the coast seemed clear, I got the whole number dialed and it started to ring.  My heart was beating as fast as it ever had at that point in my life, and wasn't its position supposed to be lower that my throat?  Her Father answered and I squeaked out a "Hello, is *** there?  The dining room was suddenly full of my curious siblings, with the all knowing smirks on their faces (you know I have 11 right?). OK, they weren't all really there, but it seemed like it.  When she came to the phone, I stuttered through my well thought out semi-soliloquy (I had to get it all out before she could say no, right?) It went something like this..."

Hi  ***, listen, I was wondering if you were going to the St. Mary's festival this weekend, I think you've gone before, right, I was planning on going there too, and was wondering if we might go together and catch up since we haven't seen each other since June, if your folks could bring you in, I can meet you there and we can hang out and maybe do some rides, and games, and I don't have a curfew so we can stay until the end if you want, I can pay of course what do you say?"   

This may well have been the longest run on sentence of my life, over a hundred words tumbled out and they did it all in a matter of a few seconds.  The pause that followed was equally as long.  Her voice that came back was sweet, polite, but ultimately firm and she said " Oh, I don't think we are going this year, but thank you for asking".  We finished with some small talk and the obligatory "maybe another time" but my words were no longer rushed and my heart had moved lower into the pit of my stomach.  The crowd around me dissipated and then the worry started about whether I had endangered a friendship that I enjoyed by trying to move it further.  I went to the festival and saw her across the midway, but carefully avoided her all night to save us both the embarrassment of seeing each other there.  When September came, it took a little while for our friendship to return to it's previous position, but it happened, and this call became a distant memory for me, painful as it seemed at the time.  High School is like that, every emotion seems overwhelming, every event the most important one, and yet years later try to recall them all, and you can't.  How so many of us survive it is amazing in itself. 

     Now I teased a possible surprise ending to this story earlier, and maybe it is coming, but if it is, it is coming in Part 2 of "Sweaty hands and rotary phones"  If I get over 20 comments on Part 1, I will post it sooner (Yes, it's blackmail, but I like an interactive blog better).



To be continued......



A Swine Time.

Special thanks to my cousins Tim and Denise Mascal for all the pictures that they provided for this blog, and for their photogenic children.

     My family, over time, has instituted a lot of activities that force us to spend time together, we call them traditions.  Included in the list are, Guys Night Christmas Shopping, Thanksgiving, The Yarger Memorial Golf Tournament, The Progressive Dinner, and The Family Corn Roast and Reunion. The list is extensive, but incomplete as I have left out my favorite, which is the subject of this blog and is, my sister's annual Pig Roast. 

The Beaver (Beefer) Barn

     As usual in this blog, I will not name my siblings to shield their identities (For reference see "They call my brother Aquaman"), so this sister will forever appear in this blog as Meter Maid. She lives just south of Ithaca NY on a small 1,000 acre lot. Meter Maid started her Pig Roast over 12 years ago.  I suspect if she could have envisioned how it would have grown over time, she would have put the thought out of her head of ever starting it (well, at least her husband would).  She had the idea of a Fall day celebration where we would give thanks, allow the participants a chance to leaf-peep, and have the fellowship of her friends and family.   It worked, except her friends and family commandeered the party, expanded it to a weekend, and invited ourselves to stay for it's entirety.  A few years in, our relatives from the Boston area started making the trek in and staying.  In full swing, the event looks more like one of Hoover's Shanty Towns than anything else, but that's what you get when you invite some people to a party, especially Yargers.  This is all tongue in cheek as my sister is the most gracious hostess you will ever find and no one loves this event more than her, but as long as I am embellishing, I'll finish this paragraph with an exaggerated comparison.  Were you ever a member of the Columbia Record and Tape Club in the 70's?  No shame to admit it, after all they were marketing geniuses and we were teenagers.  For a penny you would get a ton of 8 tracks, records and tapes and only be obligated buy 12 more in order to fulfill your subscription.  Little did you know that they couldn't get the latest releases until 6 months after the traditional retailers, so you ended up with the likes of Shaun Cassidy and Leif Garrett in your collection.  You didn't really like them but you had to buy something; you were obligated.  I am proud to say that I am the Leif Garrett in my sister Meter Maid's, Pig Roast collection. 


The back view at Meter Maid's house

      My function at the Pig Roast has always been the same, cook and set up crew.  I can't remember the year that I didn't come down the night before and help secure the needed party items.  At first it was tables and chairs from the church, borrowed pots and pans from friends, and the always risky borrowing the pig cooker from a local redneck.  This particular gentleman had an affinity for drinking booze at the local American Legion on Friday afternoons.  We would arrive frequently to find an inebriated guy with a loaded shotgun demanding to know why were on his property in the dark and taking his pig cooker.  My brother in law spoke redneck a lot better than I did, so I would always defer to him to help diffuse the situation, Oh and he would stand between me and the shotgun, which I liked also.  Over time my sister invested in the items for the party, and my brother Ace and I invested in our own pig cooker, thereby saving the trouble of bothering the local redneck for his. We likely saved a pair or two of skivvies in the deal as well.



Ace's cooker front view open

 The cooker my brother built is worthy of a paragraph in itself.  He found a 13' former Army missile carrier in a scrap yard in Lodi, and he envisioned a pig cooker.  He carved out the missile housing and built a firebox on the end.  Above that he mounted a 4 foot restaurant grill and then he put the whole thing on an axle and installed a winch system for the cover.  It cooks as good as it looks, and I am a proud contributor to it's upkeep and maintenance.  I can't tell you how many whole hogs we have cooked on this bad boy, but I do know we never cooked a bad one.


So a typical Pig Roast now starts around 2 pm on Friday and finishes at 2pm on Sunday.  Since we don't have to run around to get the needed items, Friday night we help to set up the decorations, tap the keg, build a bonfire, drink from the keg, and so on.  Late in the evening, we put the pig on the grill and commence the cooking.  We are low and slow cookers (no jokes about mental aptitude or height please), we take about 14 hours to cook a whole hog.  Wood fire only for us.  We roast the pig, skin on, and cook it until the fat melts into the meat and becomes pulled pork.  We used to have to check the fire every 15 minutes, but we bought some electronics and some fans to help control the temperature, so we can now get 2-3 hours between checking and stoking the fire.  This means only one us technically has to stay up all night...NOT IT!  My brother Ace generally takes the bullet and it seems like less and less I stay up for the entirety of the cooking.

The Mascal children with the guest of honor at the Pig Roast.



The cooking crew pulling the pig.

  So Saturday rolls around, it's normally about 35 degrees when the morning starts and the dew/ice is thick when we awake.  Breakfast is fast on Saturday and we start the final preparations for the food.  The menu consists of pulled pork, chili, ham soup, clam chowder,pasta, beans, salt potatoes, salads, rolls, and all kinds of interesting dishes that the locals bring.  One time after cooking a pig we consecutively cooked a bear and a deer on the pig cooker, true story.  We serve between noon and 1, 100-150 people show up, and then the festivities start.  There is pumpkin decorating for the kids, a hayride, a cake wheel (bet on 9 the wheel is heavier there, trust me), music, a pinata, and the piece de resistance, a "Pink Pig" auction.  This developed over time and involves folks either wrapping a real or gag gift and then donating them to the auction.  For the better part of an hour people bid and outbid each other, only to unwrap a collection that could come from any garage sale on any block.  I swear one time, I got my own 8 tracks back (I knew they were mine cuz they had Shaun Cassidy singing Da Doo Ron Ron in them).  I never mind losing, as my sister, true to her nature, donates the proceeds to local charities (This year she donated $1,000, not too shabby).  I did mention the Pig Roast was free, right?  There is laughter and camaraderie, and another bonfire and we talk well into the evening.  The event has gone on so long, I remember one drunken argument with a nephew of mine about where he should attend school, and now enough time has passed that I have adopted his side of the argument and he has mine. He made it through graduate school a few years ago.   Good times.

Another view in back and a few of the participants.

Sunday morning comes and we generally wake up to the smell of country sausage and bacon.  Meter Maid's friend Jim and his family insist on sending us out with our bellies full, so we eat pancakes, sausage, bacon, home fries and eggs until we burst.  We waddle around pretending to clean up but actually load our vehicles with pumpkins, apples, gourds and homemade jams that Meter Maid has left conveniently around for us.  I almost got a weedeater this year, but was caught loading it in my car.  I always come away with more than I bring, but I don't know if that is the same for everyone or just me.  That's  how I roll. 


I always leave with the same two thoughts....   Why don't I visit my sister more often (it's an hour and a half away from my home), and how soon until the next Pig Roast?  The best parties always leave you feeling this way.  I'll finish with this invitation... If you ever find yourself in the Ithaca area (Wilseyville NY) on Columbus day weekend, and you smell some pork cooking, follow your nose and come join us for my sister's Pig Roast.  Meter Maid surely won't mind and hell, who knows, you might end up with a full stomach, a few laughs, a beer or two, and a great deal on some Shaun Cassidy 8 tracks.

Night of the Skittle Pancakes!!

I honestly don't know how it happened.  She grew up in a house where meals were cooked at multiple times each day.  I have been in the food business all my life and my wife is an excellent cook.  Molly passed by us both while we were chopping, peeling, battering, dicing, brining, roasting, sauteing, baking, and tasting.  Our trash can is not piled high with pizza boxes and styrofoam takeouts.  For 17 years she watched the process, but here she was about to go to college, and my daughter couldn't (or wouldn't) cook a thing.  So I simply asked her to plan and cook a meal for the family, once a week until she went away.  OK, I "asked" her like I "ask" my kids for anything, which is telling them to do it and expecting full and complete compliance. You've met me right?  In the house I grew up in, you had two choices for dinner, what was served or you went hungry.  Not surprisingly, my "request" was met with resistance and counter arguments.  I remember these classics, like "I'll just marry someone who cooks"  or "I'll just make enough money to hire someone to do it for me"  or the dreaded, "I will just eat Ramen, and pizza".  Now I could have backed down, but it's not my nature.  In a stubborn match I will win, and quoting from my son Dan, "You don't negotiate with terrorists", so the edict stood  (Dan is going to be an excellent parent, because he gets it already).  Which brings us to Skittle Pancake night...

     Day 7 of the first week had arrived and I was home from a trip.  I asked Molly if she had cooked for the family while I was gone, and the answer was no, so I "suggested" tonight would be the first night then.  After the obligatory rolling of the eyes, sighs, grunts, and assorted noises meant to show her displeasure, she arose from the couch and entered the kitchen.  I gave her space, less I squash her creative thought process.  I listened to the cupboards opening and closing, pots and pans clanging, drawers opening and closing, all mixed with the constant muttering.  I can't say for sure what she was saying, but I swear I heard things like "if he thinks I will ever..." and "I'll show him".  The word stupid got muttered a few times for sure. I read my paper, and laughed recalling the same type of deals with my Father, in which I was the mutterer, and he was the smug adult watching me do all the work.  You see, that's how it's supposed to work, they teach you how to parent, and you parent the same way.  Minor variations allowed.  I gave her space and after it sounded like she had started the process (PRO-cess, for my few Canadian fans who read this blog), I sauntered in for a preview. I knew we were in trouble when there were only 2 things on the counter, pancake mix and Skittles.

I hate breakfast for dinner, and she knew this.  I think it's cheating, and doesn't qualify as actually cooking dinner.  I know more than half of you are saying...  "oh, I really like that when we have pancakes, and waffles and stuff for dinner, it's so cute..."  Quit it. It's my blog, and my story so get with the program and hate breakfast for dinner too, or the post won't be near as funny.  There yet?  I'm waiting...  You did read up top that I win stubborn contests, right?  OK, good.  To continue.....

     I couldn't say anything, because she was following the rules I had set.  She had planned the dinner and was cooking it. I now felt compelled to watch.  She dutifully mixed the batter, and poured it onto our non-stick skillet, smirking all the while.  She then liberally sprinkled Skittles into the pancakes and let them melt.  It looked like a clown ate a box of crayons and threw up on my stove, but I couldn't say anything, because she was following the rules.  After the first couple, however, they started to stick.  The sugars caramelized and then burnt, and each subsequent Skittle pancake that came off the griddle, had less and less of a pancake shape and more burnt sugars attached to them.  It looked like a clown, ate a box of crayons, threw up on my stove and then spontaneously combusted.  It took the better part of an hour to make enough to feed the family, with the spatula getting a better workout each time. The last skittle pancake that came off of my formerly non stick skillet looked more like a pile of disassembled parts of something, than a pancake, but it was now time to serve dinner.

What I should have been eating, but at breakfast and sans Skittles.

The family gathered at the table with the multicolored discs set in the middle, yet no forks moved towards them.  Dan looked around for the hidden camera.  Nolan just stared.  Char looked back at me with a look that clearly said "Do you have to be like this? Now look what we have to eat."  I started loading my plate, and did the same for the rest of the family.  I took my first bite.  I'd like to say how delicious they were, how my daughter, on her first attempt at cooking had found the perfect mix of ingredients, to make an incredible dish, but I can't.  They were as horrid as you would expect them to be.  They tasted like a clown ate a box of crayons threw up on my stove, spontaneously combusted, got cold and congealed, and then jumped into my mouth.  They went together like Yoko Ono and singing.  Forks dropped around the table, with family members either offering false compliments or exclaiming how they had forgotten how big and late a lunch they had.  I, on the other hand, finished my plate.  I then asked for seconds.  You see in a stubborn contest, I will win, no matter if they might have to pump my stomach later, or not.  I also made Molly clean the dishes after.

     So she learned a few things whether she had intended to or not.  She eventually accepted the loss graciously and even bought me a chicken wing kit for us to cook together that summer.  By the next year, she started the "Sunday Night Supper Club" on her dorm floor where each room had to cook a meal on rotation for the other rooms.  Another time, I came home to find the house full of sauteed garlic and onion smell and Molly standing at the stove.  This week, she invited me to her home in Buffalo and cooked me a delicious meal.  You have to have to have some mad skills to make Tofu taste good, and now she does.  So, ending with a lesson, like I like to do, keep the faith, they do come around eventually, even if you have to choke down a Skittle pancake or two to make your point.

     I dedicate this blog to the cast of the original TV series Wild Wild West.  It was one of my favorites growing up and I loved that the titles always started with " The Night of...", as did this blog, this time.

Reflections on Evans Field

For those not familiar with this small field in the center of my hometown, it has been in the news lately as the school district decides it's place in the athletic future of Canandaigua Academy....

     Fort Hill Avenue in Canandaigua NY was a great place to grow up.  My mother never drove when we were younger, so it was conveniently central to many places that were within walking distance. The list included St. Mary's School and Church, Canandaigua Academy, Papa Franks, Sonnenberg Park and Gardens, Downtown Cdga, and a whole host of others.  Back in the day, we could walk a lot of places, untethered, without cell phones or tracking devices, and we did.  The shortest place we walked to, however, was kitty corner across Fort Hill and was called Evans Field.

     The field consisted of a baseball diamond on one side, and a football field and a running track on the other side.  The path that we took into it, bisected them.  A sloped hill on the west side became a sledding hill in the winter and a popular perch during the football season.  The field itself was surrounded by houses, with fans that would host parties in their yards during the games, and on the south side stood an an older barn colorfully inscribed with well wishes to the  Canandaigua Braves.  In all my travels, I've never really seen a field like this, one so humble to look upon, but so grandiose during the athletic events played there.  It is truly one of a kind.

     I am sure that any football player that played on Evans Field, could write and talk about the place much more eloquently and emotionally than I can.  I never had the chance to don the Cherry and Gray, because my mother didn't let us play football after my older brother had suffered an injury doing it.  My perspective therefore has to be one of a Braves wannabee.  Statistically this should help me connect with the readers, as there are significantly more of us wannabees than actual football players.  Even without that experience, Evans Field and I had a history and these are my reflections of it.

     I walked on Evans Field almost daily.  I worked during high school at Papa Franks and the quickest way there was to cut across the field.  Each day heading to work and each night coming home, my feet would travel the same path as some the the legendary players at CA had and would travel.  As a wannabee, frequently I would run a pattern and imagine a perfect spiral placed right before me, and the inevitable touchdown that I would score after the reception.  My brothers, some sisters, and neighborhood kids would actually play football some afternoons on the Pleasant Street side of the field, but as the youngest of the group, I rarely distinguished myself in the plays, although I was pretty quick.  At one point one of my dreams of greatness intersected with Evans Field.  I had saved the extra rubber bands from my paper route and inter-connected them and made a big rubber band ball.  It weighed close to 10lbs and one day I spent the majority of the day unraveling it back and forth between the goal posts at Evans Field.  It easily went back and forth 20 times, and I was sure a Guinness Book record was in my future, until I actually looked up the record.  I wasn't really as close as I had thought.  Pictured here is the current record holder for those interested.

     I heard the sounds of Evans Field.  On game days, even if I couldn't go, (you see, back then kids were grounded, or had chores, so they sometimes had to miss events, oh the horror!) I could always tell how the Braves were doing based on the fan noise.  I could hear the crack of the bats, the announcements, the whistles, the cheerleaders cheers, the starter's pistols, the football players calls and grunts, and each one I can still hear clearly now. 

     I smelled the smells of Evans Field.  The Quonset hut that held all the equipment smelled of mildew and the sweat of generations of players that used the pads and equipment in it.  The concession stand smelled of the caramelized  sugars from the hot dogs on the grill.  The smell of thick coke syrup was prevalent there too, and your biggest worry wasn't the calories from the drink but the fear of ingesting an ever present bee from the paper cups.  I swear the grass on Evans field even had it's own unique scent apart from every other fresh cut lawn I have smelled.  Maybe it was the mixture of the paint or chalk lines added to it, but I can smell it right now.

     I spilled my blood on Evans Field.  Each winter we would sled on the hill and play King of the Mountain on it. One day, defending my position at the top of the hill, I leaped over my brother, and forgot to put my hands out to lessen the impact of the fall.  I fell face first on the icy hill and my top teeth and bottom teeth connected and severed my lower gum, clean through.  I absolutely gushed blood (as head wounds tend to do). My older brother scooped me up into his arms and he ran me clear back to the house, and behind him left a significant trail of my blood showing the path we had taken.  It is one of the few scars I have from childhood that still remain, and I earned it on Evans Field.

    I vandalized Evans Field.  On another day, we were flying kites there and we got hung up on the large scoreboard on the west side of the field. While throwing rocks at the scoreboard, we accidentally broke some bulbs on the board.  We liked the cool sound so much, my 2 brothers and I spent the next 10 minutes breaking many more of them.   Honestly until the police came and scooped us up, I don't think any of us realized that we were vandalizing the board.  We were run downtown, given a stern lecture, released to tell our father what we did (the worst part of the punishment), and made to pay restitution.  It was the last thing that I ever vandalized. 

     I rode in a Homecoming parade to Evans Field.  In my junior year, I was elected Class King for Homecoming.  I honestly don't know if it was a lark on behalf of my peers, or if I had started to gain some popularity at that point. That's the funniest thing about High School, is that you are never truly aware or comfortable in your social position while you are attending.  If it was a joke, the punchline was that I got to ride in a parade with one of the sweetest and prettiest girls that CA has ever produced (shout out to Stephanie Leuzze).  It was hard, but I mustered through.   I do miss the tradition of float building and homecoming parades.  Gathering in a barn to create the floats certainly does a lot to instill school spirit and pride. Sadly, my kid's school doesn't have this as a tradition.

     So my reflections on Evans Field contain sights, and sounds, and smells and memories, and a possible world record, and I never played a sport on the field once in my high school career.  It does make me ponder, that if I never did, and I love that place so much, how do the athletes, and parents of athletes that did feel?  Save Evans Field.
   

Travel Log - The Accidental Pick Up.

     A little background for those that don't know this, but I am a Flirt.  Given my druthers I will always choose to spend my time out with women than with men.  Men will inevitably turn conversations to business, politics, or sports.  I work in business, so I don't really want to dwell on it when I am relaxing.  My entire knowledge of all sports could fit between the last letter of this sentence and the period.  As to politics, I find these conversations really frustrating, so I like to avoid them. Women on the other hand I find fascinating.  They talk about relationships, their children, themselves, their jobs, food, wine, and the list goes on and on. Plus, they smell better.  I heard recently that it is healthier for a male to spend time in the company of women, versus men, and in fact it increases life expectancy!   What a wonderful benefit from doing something I already enjoy!  So this story deals with one of my many evenings out in the company of my choice, a woman.

     It was last October and I was on a trip to NYC.  I would have normally stayed in Secaucus, but my regular hotel was booked, so I ended up in a Homewood Suites in Edgewater NJ. The first night there I realized that this was an ideal location. The rooms were reasonable, I was next to an upscale mall with a Fleming's Steakhouse at the end of it, and I was an exit outside of the Lincoln Tunnel.  All in all, a wonderful place to stay. I didn't entertain on this particular trip, so I did something I rarely do, I ate at the Fleming's all 3 nights.  I sat at the bar, and noshed on some specials  they were running (see the surf and turf above), and got to know the bartenders pretty well. The story begins on my last night there.

     I arrived at Fleming's at 6:30 and seated myself at the bar.  It was the normal crowd of business folks drinking expensive cocktails, and reliving the big deals of the day.  I ordered some dinner and about halfway through an attractive African American woman seated herself next to me. She was in her 40's, had long full hair, was rounded in the right places, was wearing a blouse and a skirt and she smelled good.   She started to read a book she had brought.  I found her choice interesting, it was "The Bell Jar" by Sylvia Plath.  I had read it and loved it some time before, so I struck up a conversation, and gradually the book was closed, but her life was opened up to me.

     Her name was Deborah and she was a regular at Flemings. She was a lawyer and she worked in the City.  She was engaged to a gentlemen who lived in Bermuda and she hoped within a year, to move there and join him.  She ordered dinner as well and we spent the better part of 2 hours talking about my family, her career, her plans to move, and of literature.  I found her to be quite articulate on a wide variety of subjects.  I can safely say that we both enjoyed each others company for the evening.  As we were about to finish, the bartender, Megin, came by and invited me to join her and her boyfriend later at a dive bar down the street.  They were having a Halloween party (Karen was going as Tinkerbell), and she thought it would be my type of place.  Deborah was also told about it, but immediately expressed some concern about the dive bar and whether there would be other Black people there or not (her words, not mine).  Megin couldn't guarantee it, but said it should be fun, it started at 11, and hoped to see us both there.  I told her I would try and I started to get up to go and to wish Deborah a good evening.  The conversation follows...

Deborah:  Bill, so do you think you will end up going to the party down there or not?

Me:  I really can't say, I'm just as likely to get caught up in my work and stay in for the night.

Deborah: Well, if you do go, would you mind calling me and maybe we could go over together?  I am not sure of the crowd. 

Me: Sure, if I go I'll call you.  

She proceeded to take a napkin, write her number on it, and fold it over once, and then twice.  She handed it to me and I put it in my shirt pocket, said my goodbyes and exited.  As I said before it was an enjoyable evening.

     I went back to my room, and hunkered down on the computer, pretending that my tortilla work was important.  I had emptied my pockets on the desk next to me and the napkin had started to unfold.  It unfolded once and then the other half unfolded a few minutes later.  I could make out a name and number in my peripheral vision, but along with it was a shape and color that seemed out of place.  I turned to look and could not have been more surprised to see a perfect pair of lips formed from lipstick kissed onto the napkin!

You could have bowled me over with a feather.  I have to say I have not been the recipient of many lipsticked kissed napkins, but I think I was correct in interpreting her action. She was not just looking for a drinking buddy.  I actually laughed out loud and tried to replay our conversations back in my head.  Let's see, I said I was married, I had my ring on (I always do) , she was engaged, I showed pictures of my kids, she showed me one of her fiancee, I think I had it covered.  I could think of no specific thing that I had said or done that might have been misinterpreted, but there it was on the desk. The fruits of my labor for the evening, the promise of the affection of a beautiful woman, and only a phone call away. Now to say I wasn't tempted would be a lie, I am human and testosterone driven.  How then did I avoid this temptation?   I can't say it better than the incomparable Johnny Cash did...

As sure as night is dark and day is light
I keep you on my mind both day and night
And happiness I've known proves that it's right
Because you're mine, I walk the line

There was no decision to be made, I threw the napkin in the hotel trash and missed a great party (I actually thought about bringing it home to show Char, so she could have a good laugh too, but then I thought, what if she finds it before I can tell her the story? So, into the trash it went).  I can be stupid, but I wasn't that night.  I can't think of a better way to end the story than with a link to Johnny singing the song.  Look hard at it, I swear Drew Carey is slapping da bass next to him.  Oh, and if you are ever in Bermuda, and you run into Deborah,  please offer her my apologies, Hell show her this blog, or better yet a picture of my wife.  Enjoy the link.

Johnny Cash - I walk the line

My best magic trick EVER !

Do all Dad's do this?  I make no claim to being an actual Magician, having never studied, and having no specific talents, but all my life as a parent I have reveled in the art of making my kids think I am magic.  Admittedly this works better at age 7, than 17, but there are tricks for all ages.  I don't remember when I started to try to amaze my kids, but I do remember one of my first tricks.  I would frequently come home from trips with pens provided by a hotel I had stayed at.  I would find 2 pens from the same hotel and insert one in my left sleeve.  I would then call the kids over and show them the "trick".  I would take the hotel pen and put it into my right sleeve, and contort my body and shake my arms until the "other" pen fell out my left sleeve.  Then I would repeat it the other way around.  Inevitably the kids would think they could do it too, so I would give them one pen and watch the hilarity ensue for the next 10 minutes.  I wished I had videotaped more.  I sometimes "magically" guessed the endings of a TV show we were watching, as sometimes I had seen the show while on the road.  I actually have a great record of guessing the card turned over in Euchre to be trump.  I went 4/4 just the other night.  All my tricks were small slights of hand, or hyped up intuition, or a little pre-knowledge of a situation about to happen, but as a fun loving Dad, I always spun them as "Magic".  One day I almost fell victim to my own hype...

We had a family gathering at my mother's house in Bristol and about 6 of the smaller kids, my kids, and assorted nieces and nephews were playing in a back room.  I was reading the Sunday paper in the front living room, when I heard a loud exclamation from either Molly or Danny.  What I heard was the ending of an argument (short of the Nanna, Nanna, Boo Boo), and  they said "MY DAD CAN TOO DO MAGIC!".  This did not bode well for me, as previously mentioned, I have no actual magical ability.  What I did have, however, was the ability to quickly assess the next actions of a group of 7 year olds, so I immediately acted.  I scanned the room, leapt out of my chair, and grabbed a banana off from the counter, quickly concealing it in my right sleeve.  I put my paper back up and pretended to read just before I started to hear the tramping of 7 pairs of adolescent feet come down the hallway.  They gathered in a group in front of me, I was able to ignore them for a while, but then the interchange took place....

The Group:  "Uncle Bill, you can't really do magic can you?
Me:  "Who told you that?"
The Group:  "Molly and Danny"
Me: "Molly and Danny should know better than to tell our family secrets" (Paper going back up).
The Group (still skeptical, but on the verge of belief): "But, you can't really do magic, can you?"
Me: " Well, I am not supposed to show others, but tell you what, I will do one trick only, and then you are never going to ask me again, or talk about it again, Agreed?"
The Group: "AGREED!"
Me: (folding my paper onto my lap) "OK...what do little kids like?  Oh, animals, name me some animals...."
The Group:  "Lions, Giraffes, Bears, Gorillas..."
Me:  "Oh, I like Gorillas, what do they eat again?"
The Group (in squeaky unison): BANANAS!!!

So the story telegraphs itself a little, but the ending is still spectacular, with a clap of my hands and a loud TADA, a single banana suddenly materialized in my hands!  Every jaw struck the floor.  I quietly handed the banana to the nearest kid for them to pass around.  I put up my paper, and said "Remember our deal." 

 

      I didn't grow up with a magical Father, but if you want to know what it is like to, feel free to ask my kids.