Good Blood, Bad Blood

Spring Trees, the audio version. Click here and follow along with the text.

First, a few notes.

I’ve been reading Late Migrations by Margaret Renkl. (thanks Ginger!) and The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben.

Today, May 10^th, 2024, my brother Earl/Butch turns 80. He has Alzheimers Disease and lives in a facility in California. He was the first of those grim reckonings I mentioned in my blog post. We played a lot of baseball together in front of our house in South San Francisco. Happy Birthday Bro.

Spring Trees

“Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky, …”

Khalil Gibran

Spring is all gussied up for the summer parties ahead. In early April, cream colored blossoms adorned the orchard trees. Clouds of flowers perched atop the leafed out branches. Westerlies returned to the valley. The blooms drifted away, confetti in the breeze. Later in the month, dogwoods began to illuminate the neighborhoods. Their cotton candy pink petals, soft as velvet, glowed above the lilac bushes. Vine maples blushed crimson. Their cut-leaf cousins shine green with envy.

I spent much of the winter doom scrolling through a jungle of nostalgia. Each grim reckoning led to another. Eventually, the somber skies departed, vanquished by a wonderland of trees. The infusion of color reset my mood. Enchantment with life returned.

Spring is also the season for our national pastime. My wife and I attend ball games each week. We put up with the cold. We cheer through the drizzle of wet days. We groan and laugh at the comedy of errors as our grandkids learn athletic skills. They are seedlings sprouting in the dirt of a baseball diamond. Winning and losing is secondary to just being part of a team. Hot dogs, popcorn, and soft drinks fuel their enthusiasm. Dad helps with coaching. Mom handles the logistics. Parents collaborate. Families bond. Communities grow.

I have vivid memories of my foray with Little League. Sixty five or more years ago, I played second base for Twelve Mile House Inn, which sponsored our team of 10-12 years olds. I was not a star, but I had moments of shared glory with the real athletes. My history as a ball player is pockmarked with spiked shins, scary fastballs on cold days, and nerves a-jangle by bad hop grounders bouncing my way.

I did, like my grandson, enjoy playing in the dirt. I packed my mouth with a wad of bubble gum. I was adept at spitting. I contributed to the infield chatter, “Hum baby, hum baby, batta, batta!” Friendships formed. Impressionable years, for sure.

I may see some of those teammates this fall. My high school is staging a 60th year reunion in October. To attend or not to attend, that is the question. I missed all the other reunions. Looking back, I was a bit of a wallflower, young for my class and small for my age.

In high school, the girls loomed over me. The boys were stronger, more sure of themselves. I was a thin sapling surviving on filtered light, which slipped through the canopy of more developed teenagers. I stopped playing team sports. In my senior year, I dropped my last period in order to work at a country club. There, I learned to play golf, a good activity for those who like to be alone.

If I overcome procrastination, if I forego my tendency for introversion, and if I choose to attend this reunion, it will be motivated by those friends from our Little League team. We’ve maintained casual contact all these many years. We share a friendship that germinated in the dirt of sandlots.

We are remnants, weathered old growth trees in the forest of humanity. Our bark is thick and gnarled, defaced by the lightning strikes of life. But, we are still standing. We lean (literally) into the incredible journey of being. Maybe I’ll go. First, I must wrestle with my ‘You Can’t Go Home Again’ doubts. It’s complicated.

Hum baby …

PS: I forgot to mention the background music. These are ukulele solos composed and played by Tobias Elof.

To those of you who tuned in, thanks for listening. Until next time.