"TO everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose, under heaven." Who is to argue that the scribes of Ecclesiastes would not have included baseball backstops in "everything", had they but known?
Our Beloved Backstop (hereafter referred to as "BB") has stood like a sentinel, watching over the diamond at BenWay Park-Rees(er) Stadium for eight summers. Not only does it serve as guardian, it also has protected against a variety of slightly errant deliveries; from the knuckler, slider and cut fast-ball (all questionable) to the patented mystery ball and hesitation pitch (legitimate and verifiable). A plethora of players, from as far away as Indianapolis, have taken their swings at the plate in front of its perch.
It also has stood watch as Ben, the elder grandson, first cleared the fence with a mighty blast in June of '08, and Rees, the younger, followed suit two months later.
As the picture above attests, our BB has withstood the withering effects of the sun's glare in the central Oregon savannah since the summer of aught-two. The strike zone shows symptoms of attrition, commonly referred to in humans as middle-age sag....not that any batter ever conceded a called strike to an un-erring, but voiceless umpire - sag or no sag. It has endured the indignity of countless patchings and re-bindings, yet still manages to nobly preside over an infield with foul lines and pitcher's mound that are non-existent.
Every Memorial Day Weekend, "BB" has been paraded out of the shed; lately to the strains of the Colonel Bogey March (think: "Bridge on the River Kwai"), and correspondingly retired every Labor Day, all performed with the fervor, if not the precision, of a drill team.
Alas, nothing lasts forever, as the characters of Toy Story 3 will tell you. Ben, now approaching his fifteenth birthday, walks around the bases, unless severely challenged. The Elder even suggested that our baseball be switched from soft hide to wiffle. Evidently, the search for the homerun ball, after the fact and beyond the fence, has become a tad wearisome. The Younger still swings and runs with gusto, and the fence, for him, still beckons. The angst inevitably returns when pondering how long these good times will last.
As Woody allowed to Buzz Lightyear, Mr.&Mrs. Potatohead, and company, "We all knew this day would come." Understandably, their owner couldn't bring it upon himself to tote along his precious relics of childhood as he headed off to college. So, it must be reluctantly acknowledged that other diversions and venues will one day occupy the place now held by "BB" and the spartan patch of turf in the backyard of 157 North Circle Drive.
Yes, Lord, it all must come to pass. But please, don't let this season be the last....for the sake of the Backstop, of course.
In my days as a classroom teacher, I would start every new school year by telling students that they may call my methods "dull", "insipid", "bland", or, gasp, "uninspiring", but the word "Boring" must not be employed as one such adjective, inasmuch as for the upcoming year it is to be considered a proper noun. The justification: it was, and is the place where I happen to live.
This has been our home for 41 years. As with the tv series, "Cheers", eveyone knows your name. That's the good news. It's also the bad news.
The name of the town derives from the surname of the original settlers - not a collective state of mind, as some auslanders have implied.
Having said that, the local gentry has been known to suffer occasional fits of intense apathy. Our Sunday Farmers' Market had it's grand opening with a terrific fanfare. Two years later, all the vendors and musicians had folded their canopies and scattered to the four winds. Melodramas at the local grange have suffered the same fate, leaving some delightful damsels and dastardly villains to wonder when the next footlights would be beaming in their direction. Consider also the west-side road sign pictured above, for which truth in advertising was obviously not a primary consideration. It is now shrouded in undergrowth, leaving it to the town's elder statespersons to locate and identify, like some archeological find, for passersby on State Highway 212.
The ultimate statement of dispassion (which, after all, cannot be considered synonymous with "boring") happened when the electorate could not even agree to become a "village", which would have at least granted us territorial independence. As it stands for the present, we could fall prey to Sandy sprawl from the east, or Damascus deluge to the west, and all that is Boring could disappear from the postal service, telephone directory, and county animal control unit data banks.
Despite all that could happen, I think paranoia wouldn't become us inhabitants. Indifference is the virtue that will preserve our identity over all manner of consuming forces. Velveeta cheese will still be found in the gourmet section of the general store. Ten years from now, you might yet be able to score a '51 Packard Clipper hubcap at Grandma's Antiques, and Jeff will continue to greet patrons with "How's it goin'?" when he serves up your double latte at his Espresso Depot, hard by the post office. (He is genuinely interested. The more mundane the answer, the better.) Life goes on at the same uniquely monotonous pace around our wide spot of the highway. We are not a town. We are not a village. "Community" doesn't even fit. We are an aggregation, and one which fondly embraces its vanilla umbrella.
When asked if life is really "boring" in Boring, my patented response to the curious is, "That's what we like the outside world to think." Wink. Wink.
HLR
This exotic medium is all so new to me that I feel just a tad intimidated and a scosh challenged. However, the doing of things new and different is said to combat the effects of mental aging, so even for just that reason, it's worth a "go". I've attempted to add a snapshot I took of a Lahaina sunset on the island of Maui. Previews show no such addition - so please, don't expect perfection for awhile with my entries.
The focus of this blog will vary from one day to the next and will be very mood dependent. For example, when I am in a mild state of euphoria (such as today) I might be given over to posting about the San Francisco Giants, and their domination of the Dodgers. If I hear the beckoning of far away places, I'll probably write about where we've been or wish to visit. If I'm snorting fire, it will probably be a day for a political rant. Those of you who've been invited to this blog already know of my affiliations, and are hereby forewarned. (hah!) Please, feel free to add your two cents-worth at any time. I'll keep you apprised whenever "something new has been added."
HLR
