Dozer, the bulldog

Dozer, the bulldog
Dozer: He was the best dog on the planet.

Bonding

Bonding
The author of Mark's Work with Ellie Mae

Guess who's coming for dinner

Guess who's coming for dinner
Blue heron, sitting on the dock of our pond

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.

HappyDay Farms bees are happy bees.
Air-borne bees

BFF's forever

BFF's forever
Margie and Ellie Mae

Tomatoes and peppers are us.

Tomatoes and peppers are us.
Spicy salsa with roasted peppers, here at HappyDay Farms

Much love, John-Bryan

Much love, John-Bryan
Eric at 26 on the left, and John-Bryan in January of 1973.

Halloween fun

Halloween fun
SmallBoy and Dancing Girl

Our house

Our house
The snow season approaches...

Mahlon Masling Blue

Mahlon Masling Blue
My friend and brother.

Mark's E-mail address

bellspringsmark@gmail.com

Saturday, March 31, 2012

Good Enough for Her

Good Enough for her
Byron could play baseball.  Good Buddha, could he orchestrate the flow of a game.  He had all the components of the complete player:  he could hit, for both average and power; he could run, a cornerstone of his success; he could field, with superior range; he could throw, with a cannon for an arm; and he could think as quickly as a computer chip, to determine the best approach, to the myriad of baseball logistical questions, which crop up every day on the playing field.
Unfortunately for Byron, his biggest problem did not take place on the field, because it involved the love of his life, his sweet Lucinda, who was not a fan.  Period.  She didn’t like baseball, she could not understand why grown men wanted to hit a ball with a stick, and she sure as hell did not want to go sit in a packed stands, and watch while other people watched the men on the field, chase after a little white ball.  She would even have to pay money to get into the stadium.
Why couldn’t Byron take after his father?  Lucinda had seen how his students had looked up to him; she had seen how the faculty and staff had respected him; and she had seen how the people of the community had admired this fine example of black stability and pride.  Now there was reason to sit up and take notice, not because you could hit a ball with a stick.
Byron begged Cinda to attend just one game.  Just one, he pleaded.
“Why?” she had asked.  “So I can see how well you can hit the little white ball?  Can you tell me what that accomplishes?”
Byron stared at her.  “Accomplishes?  I ain’t trying to accomplish anything, Cinda.  I just like to play baseball.”
“That’s what I mean.  You “ain’t” trying to accomplish anything.  You said it, so I don’t have to.”
“Will you just come and see one game?”  he asked one final time.  And who knows why?  Maybe she saw the futility of resisting; maybe she saw the determination; maybe she just let love get in the way of her better judgment.  Whatever the reason, she attended a game, one in the hometown stadium and this is what she saw.
She saw how the patrons of the game looked up to him.  She saw how the players and coaches respected him, and she saw how the people of the community admired this fine example of black stability and pride, within the community.
And she saw him track down and catch the most wicked, screaming liner, that would have cleared the jammed bases, and won the game, and she saw how his fans idolized him.
And she finally got it.  Byron could play baseball, and it was good enough for her.

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