Rambling Prose/Poetry about Remembering the Past--Playing Baseball with My Brothers
My Three Brothers
Living in the Present . . . .
The air was cool, the dog clipped along, eyeing eagerly the kids in the yards and the occasional squirrel darting across the street, while my brain was going, going, going, back to a place, a place I wanted to go, a place where all I wanted to do was hang with my brothers and play cut-off man. . .
Not sure why my mind was going there, crazy, running the old, faded pictures through my head like an old film reel that just kept going and going. . . . It was so strong, that desire, just to go back, just to feel it again--but I was feeling it, I am feeling it. Can't I just be there??
Memories of the Past: Cut-off Man
A baseball game, of sorts, with just a few players, three of us (after my parents' divorce) throwing, hitting the ball, then tossing it in to the pivotal cut-off man, who then threw it to home plate. Playing 'til dark on the grassy side yard after a supper of beans, potatoes, and cornbread, and I’m sure fried okra and sliced tomatoes from Mom’s big garden.
And the scene years before at our old homeplace where three boys played their own game while I looked on as a little girl. Making their own field of dirt out of one area of the yard, using their bright red baseball bats that we got on bat day in St. Louis at a Cardinals game. OCD packrat of a sister had to hide hers, knowing they’d regret ruining those bats one day, while hers is still shiny and red, with just a hint of scraping that tells me they sneaked it out to use a few times.
To be there again. Soft grass, blue skies, so cliché, yet so real, with Mom calling out that it was time for supper. And where does it all go? Is it another life? So it seems. And I’m here walking a dog, going back to an empty house, but it’s what I do. It’s what we all do. Our own lives. No more baseball, no more Mom calling from the window to come in for supper or Dad pulling up with more chickens in a sky blue Ford pick-up truck.
. . . And They Grow Up
And how sad is it that the boy who picked on little brothers (while his sister screamed for him to stop) and sold Grit newspapers and Christmas cards and dragged us along with him to walk up and down those dirt roads to peddle his wares had to grow up without siblings after divorce but still made it into a man now with a passel of kids and farm animals. A boy who hunted and fished and ran around in the woods with his little brothers and sister and even tried to build a cabin out there. A boy who grew up to remember and laugh at all the silly little games we used to play, and grew up to raise step-sons and step-kids more than once, and his own son who was gone and came back, and the lost little one taken by stealthy waters. How does that happen?
And the one in the middle, always adventurous, a spunky kid who said he felt better after Mommy spanked him, who played sports—they all did—and liked fishing—and still does, and sold cool Tom Wat stuff for FBLA that we still remember and even have some of. And was made by his sister to dress up like a girl but still wrote her letters at Girls' State in the summer and who later always hung out with his big sisters’ friends like one of the girls and even sometimes dated them. Still adventurous, always hopeful, grew up to start his own ventures and adventures--without regret. Always looking forward, moving ahead, even through loss. How does that work?
Of course, they put the little guy in the outfield!
More From the Past
- My Grandma's Oil Lamp - a Poem about Memories
A poem about remembering. The light from my grandma's antique oil lamp reminds me of the memories.
. . . And Everything Changes
And the youngest one, the baby, who was supposed to be a girl (or so this sister says), so was for sure, with my last chance for a sister, made to dress up like a girl and was pulled around in a dress on a red wagon. A boy who turned out to be one of the sweetest boys ever born, who looked like his daddy, who got picked on and spoiled and is still the baby of the family with babies of his own, one all grown up, and little baby brother making his way, leading, growing, and reaching out to others in so many ways--no longer that little boy but still the same. How could that be?
And me, the sister, off on her own, life not turning out with the 3.5 kids and white picket fence like she thought, but a pack of God’s creatures instead, none human, but maybe close. A loner, who values family, with friends she can’t seem to keep--or does she want to? Sometimes it’s too much, easier to be alone with her thoughts, but her mind doesn't stop, so she often writes, and too much wine may help or not, but she can’t forget playing cut-off man and breaking up green beans or fishing in the pond—and how it all fits or how to move on without it when it all seemed so real.
Other Ramblings . . . .
. . . And Back to Now
. . . so I hurried home from walking the dog, into my house, my own house, not Mom’s, with no brothers there and no supper waiting. I had to write it down. My throat had started hurting halfway home, tight and tender, my eyes pained but not wet. No tears, no tears, but my whole face hurt so bad all the way through my jaws that I had to write it all down. Then it would matter. Or maybe it always did. And always will? How do I get back there? How do I go on without it? Writing and writing, with my mind still a-whirling, really all I wanna do is go back there, on the soft grass or the worn-out dirt, with my yelling brothers, and play us some cut-off man. Yeah, that's it! I might even let them use my red bat. It’s no joke. I really might. I just wanna go back.
Like to Write Rambling Prose-Like Poetry?
Well, I figure that rambling poetry-like prose is a real thing since Google showed me lots of links to it. Oh, well, I guess it's not my own style--as others have done it before--but I do feel that it fits my own style and that maybe I could make it mine. I do find the rambling prose therapeutic, as the mind guides the pen more than any kind of conscious thought.
My Red St. Louis Cardinals Baseball Bat
© 2014 Vicki L Hodges
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