9:00 AM in Phoenix and we’ve only been up a few minutes. We had to wake yesterday at 2:00 AM to catch our flight from Eugene. Arriving, we caught a shuttle to the car rental center, upgraded to a Camry, and wandered around Phoenix until we found our resort. I think we were addled by lack of sustenance and so we had stopped at an IHOP (again after much wandering) and had some breakfast served cheerfully by a native American girl who looked to be 12.

The resort is actually some sort of time share, but very nice. We’ve decided to submit to the sales pitch for some fabulous gifts, or so I was told.

We napped.

Our wanderings recommenced as we made our way to the ballpark, a “sports center” in the jargon of suburban cities trying to impress tourists with their cultivation and panache. This trek turned out to be a simple, straight shot down the road where we were greeted and guided by one of several hundred red vested seniors with too much time on their hands, volunteering at the game. The competition for greeter jobs here at Walmart must be ferocious! Once inside, having revealed the contents of our bags and pockets, we passed the busy lines of food vendors to find our seats along the third base line.

It was only ‘warmish’ in the stands as I waited for Lydia to return with food and drink. These days she does most of the hunting and gathering. In any case my mind went back to the baseball games of my childhood as I sat there looking out at the empty bases and green grass. I was reminded of the snack stand in our little ballpark. Most things were five or ten cents then. A dime could get a Sugar Daddy that would last for days, if I didn’t bite off hunks of the hard caramel, and five squares of Double Bubble gum, I never got Bazooka if I had a choice. Of course, the alternative was a pack of baseball cards. They were a dime, but came with a sheet of gum that, if rationed would last an entire game. (Over time and a booming economy, the price of a pack of cards increased and the size of the gum decreased until it was not much larger than a postage stamp.) I mention all of this as the background to the snack stand tradition of baseball in our town. At the end of a game, one or two of our fathers would offer up a nickel or dime a piece at the snack stand. On a particularly good afternoon, if we had won and it was just after payday, we could cajole several dads into pitching in so that we would up with an entire quarter apiece to spend on candy and cards. (I remember one landmark evening game after which we scored a record 40 cents, enough to buy cards candy and a bottle of pop.) It was an innocent and wonderful time.

 

Last night I paid seven dollars for a bag of Cracker Jacks. It may have been worth the money just to remember the earlier time.

 

Blessings

There is a precursor to this post in the pages section under Reflections and Recipes.

The Road