Gratuitous Dread Presence

Maine picture of the day--Thursday

West side of Chute Island, Great Pond

Maine picture of the day--Wednesday

Golden Pond Lane, Rome

Maine picture of the day--Tuesday

Francesca Buxton at Jamaca Point, Great Pond

Home Runs

I stand at home plate, ready to swing. The pitcher studies me closely, his eyes picking out where he wants the ball to go. He pitches, and as the ball comes in, I start my swing. My arms stretch out, and whack: the ball sales over the center fielder's head. As the fielder chases down the ball, I quickly race around the bases. By the time I reach home, I'm out of breath.

'Home run' is one of those wonderful English phrases that has a meaning much greater then the sum of the words. As an event in a sport, it's significance is grater. In football, one has touchdowns, and you can't get more then 1 in a single play. Soccer and hockey all focus on scoring a goal, also just one point. Basketball has the term 'slam dunk', which comes close to the meaning of home run, but has subtle differences in the context of meaning. A slam dunk is something you do in your opponent's face, but still is just (usually) one field goal.

A home run, however, has the ability to score up to four runs in a single play. In professional baseball, when a player hits the ball over the fence, he's able to casually trot around the bases. It's a big moment, and always helpful to the team. In the recreational leagues I've played in, how far you hit the ball is a lot more important—there are no fences. A fast fielder with a good arm can easily cut you down at the plate if you trotted around the bases.

And I'm one of those players who hits home runs. I currently play 16 inch softball in an extremely informal league. I've played there for over 20 years now. I had to quit early this year, and barely played a half season—and this year is the first for me in this league where I haven't hit multiple home runs. Makes me feel a bit old.

It wasn't this season, though, when I realized that I took hitting home runs for granted. I played baseball for years, and other then a year or so in little league, I was able to regularly clobber the ball. At Vershire, I was one of the students that had brought a glove, and spent the springtime playing games in the field next to the dump. In college, I played in college in intramurals, and even took a class for softball.

But most of my home runs came after I joined the Screwballs. During my first game, when I felt like I was being auditioned, I concentrated on getting hits. I did swing away once, but wasn't able to get it far enough. It didn't matter—I went on to hit 6 or so home runs that season, the most on our team that year.

I can't tell you how I hit a home run. I really don't remember. As the pitch comes in, there's a moment where it seems that I lose sight of the ball. It doesn't matter, I've started my swing, and I just know that the ball will be in the right place. I complete my swing and start running. I usually steal a glance on my way to first to see how far the ball's gone, but it's hard to look closely and run.

Over the years, my ability to hit home runs in the league has been dampened by my reputation. When I approach the plate, the outfielders back up a respectable distance. It's kind of satisfying to watch them treat me so, it's even more satisfying when I still hit it over their heads. One team in particular that has suffered many times has a center fielder who is able to make spectacular catches over his shoulder. He's caught me this way once this season, and twice last season.

One of my favorite home runs came in a championship game. It was top of the last inning, and our team was down by one run. I managed to hit a solo home run to right field, which gave us the only run that inning. Unfortunately, my pitching wasn't as good, and we lost the game—but my homer kept us in a bit longer.

The problem, though, in life, is that the home runs we all hit aren't so easily defined. It's not a simple crack of the bat, and a casual trot while lapping up applause from the assembled crowd. Home runs come in many different forms, and often you don't even know that it's happened until you realize that there are spectators, and they're cheering. Or sometimes you are the only spectator.

Tidewater 41009

So I spent the last few days in southern California. I brought my daughter to meet my mother in law, who can't easily travel. Because of her maternity leave, it was best if my wife remained behind, so I had the experience of taking the baby solo through the US Airline system.

Traveling with a baby is pretty difficult, especially solo. I had my first experience taking the baby into a men's bathroom ... which will prove to be more of an interesting affair as my daughter grows older. I also had the experience of changing an honest to goodness poopy diaper in an airplane. It was an experience that was unappreciated all around.

I was surprised at the level of service provided by the TSA staff. I was kind of expecting some kind of horrorshow experience from what I've seen across the net, but the staff was very helpful. They allowed me to bring several bottles of water for the baby, and there was a person who was detailed to me upon completion of the screening who helped me get everything back together. The airline, Southwest, had a special envoy who worked at the head of their really long line who allowed me into a special 'baby' line that was much faster.

My visit with the inlaws was fantastic, but I knew it was going to be even before I left. My sister in law provided me with a bevvy of fine brew, as well as taking me to several nice restaurants, including a sushi buffet. It's amazing to have inlaws that I actually like.

But I cannot explain the level of joy it gave me to bring my daughter to see her grandmother. My daughter is a fickle beast when it comes to being in the arms of strangers, but she knew something was special about Mams. No tears came, and Mams had her laughing within a few minutes. They had a great time together, and I have already noticed that the baby misses her.

This is the promised land callin', and the poor boy's on the line.

No Mean Mr. Mustard

“And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”

A week or so ago, Joyce had to stay up late to get a few things done. As a result, she was only going to get about two hours of sleep before I had to go to work. When I brought Frannie upstairs, I realized that Joyce was too tired, and needed sleep. I decided to call my work to tell them I wasn't coming in that day.

I was completely dressed for work when I brought Frannie back downstairs. When I did so, I found out that my son was home early because it was the last day of summer school. He made himself a ham sandwich and was eating it as I fumbled with the phone and baby, and started the laborious process of calling in. As soon as he realized what I was doing, my son immediately indicated that he would be willing to watch the baby while I went to work.

This was a far cry from the 16 year old that has been indifferent to his new baby sister. He was pretty uninterested in the new addition to the family, and in the few weeks after the baby came home, he seemed to wade through some serious depression.

So he watched the baby, and started watching her on a regular basis when I go to work. At first, he was a bit unaffected by the process, but the eventual chore of watching an infant began to frustrate him in the same ways it frustrated Joyce and I.

The day before yesterday he gave Frannie a high five for throwing up on me. Last night, he showed me how she laughs when you blow in her face.

One of the downfalls of how I look at life is that, because I always acknowledge that things are in a state of flux, and that nothing is permanent, and everything changes. But in watching my son interact with his baby sister, it's like I have just been granted a quick view from some kind of future telescope.

I liked what I saw.

Insert annoying Rolling Stones reference here

Went to a softball game last night. I haven't played since Joye went back to work. My team is a ragged group of people that we've just barely managed to keep together over the years. I've played for over 20 years now, and this season is the first time that I've missed more then one or two games. They won, 9-3.

Of course Frannie was the big hit. She was alert for most of the game in my lap. She had smiles for everyone, and one person showed me through her actions how to get Frannie to be content in the arms of someone new. I was in awe as she did it, and taking notes for a future visit to Grandma, so I can avoid the annoying crying in being handed to Grandma.

On my team, two members have significant tattoos. By significant, I mean tattoos that cover their arms and necks. So severe that my employer would only place one of them where I work, and he would have to wear a collared long sleeve shirt to do so. The other one looks badass, with a striking blond goatee with thinning blond hair.

Both men's tattoos were of the artistic type as opposed to the gang type. Looking at them, though, I could understand how people could confuse the two. I also realized that I never wanted to get a tattoo because I was always proud of the way my body looked as is.

The tattooed players on my team are bothers; the father also plays. He's in my age range, and he has no tattoos at all.

Can't get here from there

I have started another project, called sub-Urban Blog, which can be found at www.sub-urbanblog.com, .net or .org. Tell your friends.

Postings on this site will be unabated.

PayPal Security Department

Am I the only person that deliberately puts in bad information in phisher's websites?

J.O.E.

I usually get pretty annoyed when I come across an evangelical Christian. The problem is that I’m usually too much of a free thinker, and I quickly get annoyed by their appalling anti-intellectual positions. So annoyed, for example, that I fired off an email regarding this site – before my wife and I concluded that it was really satire.

So, when I met my fellow election judges on Monday, finding out that one of them was an evangelical wasn’t very thrilling to me. In the few minutes we worked together, she managed to bring up her religion twice—enough to make me comment about it to my wife that evening.

But as we all started our 14 hour day, it wasn’t too bad. I deliberately held back—she was a nice woman, after all, and there wasn’t any good reason for us to get into it. Ultimately, she ended up getting involved in a few heated discussions over abortion and war with our lone Democratic judge. She wasn’t overly confident, and would quickly bow out of arguments by explaining that her faith didn’t necessarily give her the intellectual sword needed to fend off the likes of me.

Late in the afternoon, however, she explained how she had come to find God.

It seems that when she was younger, she had issues with mental instability. She said she had been hospitalized four times for nervous breakdowns. As she continued to describe her decent into despair, she began to talk about how she was hearing voices.

At first, she said, she didn’t hear them. But as she got older, they began to distract her. She sought treatment from a psychiatrist, and was taking ‘several medications, including lithium.' None of it was helping, and she would occasionally go off meds—only to be pestered by those voices.

After several years of this, she was pretty frustrated, and made a conscious decision to seek out spiritual guidance. She said she went to several churches in a quest to find one that met her needs. After going to a few, she finally found an evangelical one that she felt comfortable in. But that didn’t really help.

Her new church gave her a referral for a pastor of a different church, who was also gifted in counseling. When she met this man, she said she knew immediately that he would be able to help her. And so he did. He explained to her how the voices were daemons, and that she had to work to drive them out. He told her about Christ’s love, and how that was the power that would heal her.

He enforced lifestyle changes – he made her stop drinking, for example – and apparently even performed some kind of exorcism. After he saw her for a while, he even instructed her to stop taking her medications.

At one point, she began to forsake him – and ended up back in the hospital. She came back, however, and this pastor continued to guide her to the plane of mental stability that she sought.

She still hears voices, she said – but now says it’s the voice of God telling her that she’s doing the right thing. Through her church and faith, she found the peace she so desperately needed. And, while working with her throughout the day, it was evident in her attitude. The woman positively glowed.

On Monday night, after we sparred on religious issues for a bit, I reassured her by telling her that I thought her faith in God was a truly beautiful thing. But I didn’t see how beautiful it was until I heard her story. Her quiet conviction really allowed the beauty of her faith to shine.

Sometimes it’s better if we just take a few minutes to listen.