Saturday, May 10, 2014

The incident falls within the category of re-building of the World Trade Center, I suppose. One might remember within a week of buildings tumbling down rumors and positive statements circulated of re-building them – higher and better.

The incident of which I’m thinking is the ball field across the street from me. Oh, not the re-building of it, but . . .

I’ll call it the Curious Case of Twice Mown, Thrice.

The ball field is far more enduring then my tenure in the village. Its history recedes in the era of poverty and pre-oil boom and decline in the county. That means the ball field’s life extends just over a hundred years back into dimness behind the current shining civilization.

As the village has declined, with the loss of the local school, the advent of more and straighter roads and better all around vehicles to use those roads, the decline in revenues from local taxes, the decline of population and therefore the slimming of the children to use the ball field, the field has re-invented its manner of existence.

It maintains itself now, still as a ball field, but its surface is cared for by its users. The users are from the surrounding. country side. Farmers, occupiers of bedroom homes whose bread winners are aircraft workers, citified play farmers with family and the like.

These people assess themselves penalties and hold fund raisers and sell soft drinks during  games to settle the debts incurred to having lights, fences and stands.

The ball field surface is maintained by volunteer grounds keepers and therein lies todays tale of small village living.

For recent years a retired gentleman, who has spent his life in the village, and whom, upon retirement, purchased equipment adequate to the task of mowing and dragging the in-field.

This gentleman could be seen at least weekly, if not more, spending his time and gas money, mowing and maintaining the ball field – enen after the season ended, and once or twice as the snows fell.

This year It was noticed on the Monday of this week he was out mo wing. And on Tuesday, again, he was out mowing.

It rained on the Wednesday.

One the Thursday it was noticed that three of the current responsible adults in charge of the youth athletic activies, with their children of upper ages, were out with three mowers mowing the ball field and its adjacent parking areas.

It should be noted that the group was in proper form; wherein one adult supervising the other two, the other two supervising the youth. The youth doing the actual work.

On the Saturday it was noticed that once again the ball field was subjected to mowing by a group of adults (with its attendant supervision protocol),

There are several items which strike the fancy of this observer

  • .That such enthusiasm indicates a new croup of parents.
  • That it seldom last long.
  • That the age of  the children will be inadequate to fully utilize the ball field.

And, briefly, and lastly, in regards to the working groups, the military adage applies:

  • Shit slides downhill.


From the reaches,

Ten Whiskey



About tenwhiskey

User tenwhiskey is also the author of this blog. He currently lives in small town Kansas in a semi-retired condition. His kids are married and gone (thank you). An empty nester. Divorced. Very happy with life as it is. Ten Mile maintains a personal blog here, writing of events as they appear to him; commentary, and opinions abound. He deviates into fiction as the mood strikes and creates flash fiction stories and short stories. He will not warn the reader when he drifts from fact to fiction. He feels adults are, generally, smart enough to figure out which is which. He does, however, attempt to make his fiction sound as true to life as possible. You have been warned. He, as time permits, writes and occasionally sells writing. More often than not he gives it away to various non-paying publishers of Ether Magazines, forums or for entertainment on a wall for in need of a hand friends. He likes candy, pies and a certain amount of strife. In the matter of strife - in his yourth on the farm, he became embroiled in a slinging fight. The fight involved lath as a launcher, fresh cow patties as ammo and it was a six way free for all. A little mud only adds (Umm?) a certain taste to life.
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