Skeeball Wizard
June 30, 2009
Laurie took three tokens worth of practice Sunday night at the carnival on the town common. The crowd swirling around included the usual town suspects, clouds of teenage girls, swaggers of teenage boys, mothers struggling with strollers in the grass criss-crossed with electrical cables overlain with rubber doormats.
Last night we went back to the common and I got Laurie five tokens for Skeeball. In the 24-hour hiatus, she had apparently been thinking about her lack of success on Sunday when her high game had been 110 points. The minute the token fell and the balls were released, she went into her old-school stance and concentration, right arm holding the ball high in front of her while she visualized the coming launch of the ball.
Five balls snapped off in rapid succession, she waved to the attendant, pointed to herself and mouthed, “I won!” For which she received a rather tired nod, and in a brief consultation Laurie was told that she could only win twice – but if she did win again before she ran out of tokens, they would be repurchased.
Five more balls, 160 points, another win.
Two stuffed bears and three dollars were exchanged for the remaining three tokens and a most pleased smile broke out on Laurie’s face. She strolled the rest of the evening cuddling a bear in each arm.
Most satisfactory.
Skeeball Wizard
Contemplation of the simpler life
October 13, 2008
- On Walden Pond
Addie took this and we all enjoyed it. A Columbus Day weekend trip to search out fall foliage ended up with us picnicing alongside the location of Henry David Thoreau’s hootch on Walden Pond. Literally, I could spit and hit the hearthstone from where we are seated. So…bread, cheese (no wine…not allowed in the park)…and Oprah’s magazine, which Laurie took about two minutes to take up and begin searching the article on the season’s hottest boots.
Eccentricity
July 19, 2008
Maurice Webster was my father’s mother’s brother. An achitect who played chess at the open-air chess boards in Chicago. He rolled his own cigarettes from a pouch of Bull Durham, a process that fascinated small children. Once, when he was visiting Beloit to look after a building project on the college campus, I saw him drive by in his Henry-J sedan. I hopped on my bike and pedaled madly after him, arriving out-of-breath at the garage where he was going to have it looked at. “Hello, Uncle Morris,” I said. He said nothing to me and walked past me to talk with the mechanic.
Later in the day he made a special trip to the house to tell my parents that he was sorry that he had not recognized me.
At the family Christmas party, we knew it was time for the party to break up when Uncle Morris laid down on the floor, took up a lighted candle and held it with crossed hands on his chest and closed his eyes.
If ever there was an example that allowed each of us to be exactly what he wanted to be, Uncle Morris was it. This video clip shows his contribution to his sister’s 75th birthday celebration.
Hey, Mr. Balloon man…
March 9, 2008
Having posted the photo of my mother taken in 1917 or so, it’s not totally out of place to insert this one here. I’ve Photoshopped it for the sepia look, because the color of the original makes it obvious that it’s not a true period photo. It’s actually me at 17 (June, 1958) with the balloons. The occasion is my grandmother Josephine Strong’s 75th birthday celebration, in honor of which her siblings, children and grandchildren (and friends) dressed up in period clothing. My brother Walt and I found “bathing costumes,” lacking somewhat in originality but we ended up being the most comfortable people there.
The most notable thing, I think, was the excess involved in the balloon thing. For the afternoon event, we inflated balloons starting in the morning and continuing on through noon; my fingers were raw from tying the ends of the balloons. We were staging the balloons in the bunk house, and the strings hung down from the balloons forming a room-sized fringe. I think the point was that we had been given a whole great tank of helium and ‘way too many balloons and we just didn’t know when to quit.
We all have in our mind’s eye that picture of a balloon man with a fistful of strings attached to his wares, and in our mind’s eye that cloud of balloons above him is full, robust, and shaped not unlike a fat bush. Trust me, that fullness is not easily achieved. It was almost impossible to hold this group of balloons down for any lengthy period of time, and the tangling of the strings suggested that there was some secret real balloon men have not shared involved in being able to give to each child just the balloon they desire.
Adeline Carpenter Salmon
February 9, 2008
Yesterday morning my sister Anne called, something she never does. Mother had died during the night. She had lived in a nursing home for two years, crippled by a broken hip and arthritic joints, unable to get about except by wheelchair and specially-equipped vans.
But she had been travelling for some weeks, visiting friends and family, far away in place and time. She received a visit from her parents. Her imagination had slipped its bonds and made its way where she wanted to go. Towards the end it had been less important to get up in the morning.
Or at least these are the things that I imagine from the things that I have been told. From my perspective here on the rocky coast of New England this seems to have been a peaceful leave-taking. But I was not there, and only Anne can really say.
This photo carries the comment, “for Uncle Marion.” A search for him turns up a Marion S. Bonneville who enlisted in the Marines on May 28, 1917. Of the many muster rolls that mention him, the one below reflects his promotion to Corporal during April of 1919. So this must have been mom at a homecoming celebration (it can’t be the Fourth of July because of the heavy clothing she’s wearing).
