Hanging out at the library. The giant window lets me peer at Lassen (for which my most recent summit time was 1 hour 10 minutes), Dirty’s work, UN-Safeway (which is technically also Dirty’s work) and Tiger Field. The warm memories of that field bring a sentimental sadness that seems to have little impact on the squirrels that are scampering on it.
The boys were 7 and 9 when they did their first Colt .45s camp there. It was a fun way to break up their summer days. They had summer freedom, but as their parents our days were very filled with those silly things known as J. O. B.’s (boo).
The camp was reasonably priced and made a number of promises it completely fulfilled. The boys got to have all day baseball for a couple of weeks with collegiate athlete leaders. They got t-shirts, free A’s tickets, some popsicles, and a sense of importance and belonging to something meaningful on the nights we’d come to watch games. Win-win-win.
There were also some things that went along with camp that weren’t advertised.
The first being drop off.
As a woman who’s always worked concurrently with being a mom, I was unprepared for how the other side of that coin would show up at 7am. My drop offs happened after leaving Red Bluff and frantically preparing for trying to get the boys’ needs taken care of while bracing myself for whatever scenarios child welfare social work had in store for my day. It’s reasonable to assume that I had on sensible wash and wear clothes and perhaps some peanut butter in my hair. My vehicle at the time had a stain on the headliner from a time when I was readying on the go and completely smeared mascara on it. Don’t ask me how. I couldn’t tell you.
There were my boys; hurrying from one thing to the next with a hot mess of a mom who’s trying to pass as a functioning adult.
There were many other moms who showed up in more makeup than I’d worn in a 90’s Glamour Shot, hair perfectly coiffed, high heel sandals, and so help me god,….tube tops. Who. Who can possibly be that ready for eyes at 7 am on a weekday?! I know there are a lot of right ways to parent, and hopefully everyone got the ingredients they needed to grow into incredible humans whether their mom was in business casual with protein in her hair or if she was ready to walk a runway.
As noted, the field is next to library, and ironically the police department. Why is this ironic? Let me tell you something….There’s a lot of folk with a lot of struggles who don’t have other places to be. This played out in a couple ways in camp days. One was when the boys noticed a syringe behind a dugout. The .45s play well, make no mistake, but I don’t think it was a syringe from someone’s “supplements.” I also don’t think a diabetic left it there. It’s not uncommon to find a rig like this in the downtown area, but you still hope it’s not something your kids have to point out to you. On the upside, in my talking to Parks and Rec about it, it’s quite likely I was talking to Dirty’s future mother in law without even knowing how lives would intertwine in the future. Good thing I wasn’t a Karen about it I suppose.
Another colorful experience was related to how the boys did feel extra comfortable at the park. Until they didn’t. Chasing foul balls was a favored activity. The field would trade an ice cream after “x” number of foul balls were returned. The budding entrepreneurs would instead just keeps the balls knowing they were worth more individually than saving up the rescues for one ice cream. Their strategy was called out by the head coach when they were collecting signatures on yet another ball. You could see the lightbulb go on over his head when he realized a small group of elementary kids found a system hack.
It was in the spirit of foul ball collection when they suddenly, efficiently, and quietly joined us in the bleachers. These kids (and Calvin) simply did not sit in the bleachers. Eyes forward they said clearly and calmly, “There’s a guy out there with a machete and a gas mask.” The parents suggested the kids not chase anymore balls for the night. Parenting.
We’ve made sure to go to at least one game every year (except for that little pandemic year) ever since. They have a chute to the bathrooms fenced off to prevent things like syringes and machete guys. Which is good. They also have some new rules about foul balls. The Adams/Paoli Act of 2008 would be a good title for it. And sadly now there’s rules about no kids running around the ball field. We’re not responsible for that one.
I guess it’s all a sign of changing times, and whether it’s okay or not, I’m grieving that chaos and clear sense of purpose.
On the Spain pilgrimage, I’d met some “gap year” pilgrims. Europe expects after college to be soul searching time. I told the Dutch physicist who talked to me about it that I guess this stage of our lives is another kind of “gap year(s)”.My work on the child rearing chapter is done and I hope my kids look back and see that despite the imperfections we tried all we could to give them the best.
Despite the melancholy, the future holds some kind of yet to be revealed excitement. I’m grateful for the memories and can’t wait to see what happens next.
Thanks for reading!
Bifocals and Barbells 