COOPERSTOWN HERITAGE MOUSTACHE TEE SHIRTS

If you've had enough of Winter, keep in mind some of the best words ever uttered: "Pitchers and catchers report". To Spring Training, that is. In just a little less than 2 weeks.

Hope is on the horizon for most all of the teams, though for some that horizon is a little farther than for the perennials who covet and have a realistic shot at another crown.

We used to love Spring Training when the Cardinals were in St. Pete, Florida. When it coincided with schools' Spring Break, it became an annual sojourn for our family. Since they moved to Jupiter, Florida, I've attended one game.

Since we moved to 'Zona, I can only recall one Spring Training game when a friend of a player got us some free tickets. The DBacks and Rockies built a new complex not far from us at all for the 2011 season, but I don't expect to attend any games.

This year I even dropped my partial season tickets to the Dbacks regular season games. (The first time since the early '80's that I haven't had partial season tickets.) Although I certainly plan on attending with the Cardinals are in town.

All that to say, as a friend of mine used to say, I think the team moustache tee shirts pictured above are great. I'm sure I'll put in an order for the Ozzie. The Rollie Fingers Brewers one is cool, too. I couldn't identify which Yankee--Catfish Hunter, Thurman Munson, or Reggie Jackson. The Mariners' Randy Johnson is also a dead giveaway.

Ahh, baseball and (Hope) Spring(s) (Eternal) Training is a great precursor to warmer weather and more outdoor fun times. "Fun at the ol' ballpark" as baseball's best announcer, Mike Shannon is wont to say.

IT SURE WOULD BE EASIER

with masks, I mean.

Earlier this week a former JAVA editor shared on FaceBook that her moods were as changeable as the weather. I thought it was a good analogy.

Come to find out, she gets that way when she's pregnant and that was her way of announcing it to her FB friends. It didn't take one of them long to decipher.

In Ray Bradbury's Martian Chronicles, I believe, he creates characters who put on different masks to indicate their moods. I like that. It cuts to the chase. By the way, I've found that women were not the only ones to be moody; it just seems they have the reputation for it.

But we all have been subject to not discerning a mood and as a result not being able to communicate effectively. It especially seemed to hamper some of my relationships with girls in high school. My not being able to read their moods. Probably because I had my own agenda. I was real good about that back then.

But even after a few decades after high school, my skills of observation though honed by experience, still would like to take a page from Bradbury and see people wear masks announcing their receptivity or emotional state.

SHOCK WAVES

When historians and sociologists look back in about 50 years, they may determine that the Baby Boomer generation was blessed to live in the time they did. More so than any other.

After WWII, it seems that Americans were richer than they had been and happier. Which resulted in well, a boom in the number of babies born from approximately 1946-1958.

Fathers worked, mothers stayed home, factories produced and children growing up in these times had plenty of playmates. Neighborhoods were neighborly. Kids had clubs and clubhouses instead of gangs. Outside games and board games. Night time games.

Laws were laws and respect for others' property were the way it was. When I was growing up, I know we had a key to our house. I just didn't know where it was. I never had one and our house was rarely locked. Even when I was in junior college and keeping some pretty late hours, when I returned home, the door was open.

Now before you get the idea that this entry is highly romanticized, I realize that it wasn't idyllic. Remember, I wrote "women stayed home". Most, certainly did. I didn't include Blacks and other minorities whose basic rights were denied them, who for the most part were ignored. Including women, who if they did work, most often received less pay that their male counterparts.

So maybe a caveat is in order. When historians and sociologists look back at the Baby Boomer generation in about 50 years, they'll say the best of times did indeed occur then--if you were White males.

OLD FRIENDS

I always liked Simon and Garfunkel. "Sounds of Silence" is, of course, a classic. But several others are or should be right up there. "I Am a Rock," for one. And a lesser popular one, "Old Friends," whose lyrics "sit on a park bench like bookends," as well as the haunting "how terribly strange to be 70."

On FaceBook, last weekend I started reflecting on 1966 and what I did on a typical week-end. It was surprising how many comments of encouragement I got. In addition to others' reminiscences, too. I even picked up two new FB friends who had read and wanted more.

And I could go on all day. But there's a little danger in that. Because looking back provides security. We survived those times and have a fondness for some of the events, places, and people. But are old friends the best? Sometimes.

But if I solely restricted my oiyka (Greek for the 8-15 closest people in my life outside of family) to the people I was close to in grade and high school, I would have missed out on my best ever friend--my wife.

In addition to a whole lot of other close friends that I've shared other seasons of my life with.

It is a comfort to reflect. Especially in these unnerving, uncertain times. So I'll look back and smile in remembering,and try to block out all those times that didn't add much to my life then or now, and look forward with hope and trust in God.

BIRDIES

After having visited South Africa, Namibia, and Botswana, I came back thinking there is no place on earth like those countries. The stars that put on their display from horizon to horizon. What I mean is, from all directions they seem to touch the ground as well as light up the heavens.

But I was almost equally impressed by their birds. Huge, beautiful birds and brightly colored birds of all sizes. Their coloring was just different even from the ones you see in stateside zoos.

But during our round of golf last week at McCormick Ranch, we must have spotted 75 herons. There are a few trees they choose to nest in on the Pine Course. We've counted as many as 10 white herons guarding their little bird families there before. From the penthouse tip top to lower branches. Hierarchy in the aerie kingdom.

But the number was bigger than ever. Maybe not in the heron trees, but around the lakes and ponds. On the 16th hole which runs alongside the lake, they were lined up, filed up as if waiting for a water parade. Two ducks fighting over which was the real preference of a lady duck was the only activity. But there they stood as guarding the waterways from invasion.

Blue herons equaled if not surpassed their white brethren. Not only in number but in shapes and sizes.

What's more, not a one seemed impressed by the birdie putt I rolled in--my first of 2011.

CITYSCAPE



I've lived in a medium small town. I've lived on a college campus. I've lived in a big city. I've lived in two story houses, one story houses, dorm room, condos, apartments, trailers.

I've spent additional nights in tents, on a dock, in hospitals, at a school, at friends' houses, at hotels, motels, and cruise ships. I even spent one night at a gas station and another in my car.

So where am I going? Patience, patience.

I won't even begin to tell you where I've fallen asleep. You'd be hard pressed to name a place or an activity where I haven't snagged a little shut eye.

As events unfold in our lives, we have a tendency to reflect, analyze, reminisce about how we got where we are. What bits and orts of our lives have contributed to the tapestry that is the total sum of who we are.

I have a feeling that there's very little uneventful; stuff. It all becomes ingredients and without a little oregano here and there, then the final product like Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder" would be altered.

A cityscape has myriad elements. Some stand out. Some blend in. Some are recessed. I think TQ City is bleeding Madras.

AT THE BIRDHOUSE

We used to play poker at The Birdhouse. When we were in junior college. We never gambled with much money. A lot of penny ante stuff. Remember, we were in juco. Had we had a lot of money then we would have been in university as the Brits say. I know, some Amers like to say that, too. It makes them seem more worldly.

We past the time there. It was called The Birdhouse because it was where one of the guys lived. His last name was Bird. His parents were often up at those odd hours so they didn't care if we played cards late into the night and into the early morning. Actually, sometimes they would come home very late so we had the Birdhouse to ourselves. Not that we did anything bad. Except smoke a whole bunch of Marlboros, Tarrytons, Winstons, and Camels. There weren't any light ciggies back then. I mean Viet Nam was going on and none of us expected to last long anyway.

Thinking back, Bird, Sherm, and I were the only ones not to go. There were 5 Air Force guys, one Army, and one in the Navy band. Fortunately, all the guys came back. But by that time, there were no more poker parties. That's not right: little Bird got married and we had a few poker games at his house. Until I got married. That ended that.

We were pretty harmless back then. Lots of stories, half-truths, bald or is it bold faced lies, bragging, sharing concerns. And smoking. All fired up, though a couple only smoked cigars. We drank coffee, too. Especially at the Bus Stop where not too long after, all took their physicals for the service and most departed from there for duty.

There were some raucous times. Once two buds decided to have a fist fight. Navy vs Air Force. Navy won. Navy also won the rematch, which surprised most. Not me. Navy was a hoss.

I guess why I'm thinking back to The Birdhouse is that's where we watched the first Super Bowl. Forty-five years ago. At the Birdhouse on a Sunday afternoon/night at our junior college frat house.

The Packers won.