I know, I know, you can never go home again; I’ve heard it said–heck, I may have heard it sung– but it sure did feel good to be pointed north and climbing into the mountains. Depending on where you’re from you may call them hills. I say mountains because this time I’m coming home from the flatland and when I’m on flat land for too long I lose perspective. I’m into topography. I’ve gotta have some around. Though, I’ve learned to get along without any by negotiating roundabouts and navigating by water towers. Wait, where was I? I’m home now, by the river, in the mountains. The sun is setting and under it, just over the range in the next valley, the lights are coming on at Lamade Stadium. Dad picked up a steak for the grille and my cousin suggested we stop at the farm down at the end of the road for a half dozen ears of fresh sweet corn and one of the finest watermelons ever grown; and seedless. What am I going to spit on the ground? Dad & I are in for some good baseball this week. It’s that time of year; the air is crisping and cooling, the mountains are still covered in their summer green, the mighty Susquehanna River is full & flowing, the corn fields are tall and topped with brown silk. The Kids, coaches and families are here from all over the world to play baseball. There’s a 12-year-old wizard warming up on the mound. The chalk is down on the red clay dirt, the grass on the infield and the out is manicured and striped. The catcher fires one down to second. Around the horn once. Batter up. Let’s play ball. The riders of the cardboard are storming down the outfield hill. All is well. It sure feels like home.
Dang, Farmer Dan, this corn is good! I’ll be out again tomorrow.