Homerun




	WRITE 2 THE HEART Stories that are aimed "Write 2 the Heart" January 9, 2002 Issue 010902 Cheryl Speir, Editor, moderator@write2theheart.com -------------------------------------------------------- By subscription only! Welcome to your next issue of "WRITE 2 THE HEART" You are receiving this FREE newsletter because you requested a subscription or a friend generously forwarded their copy to you. ------------------------------------------------------- Once again Alison writes a wonderful story. I am sure you will agree that this story hits a home run! ------------------------------------------------------- Home Run By: Alison Peters --------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------- I was ten. Home was love, safety, and security. Life that summer was softball, climbing trees, pollywog hunting and bike riding, in that order. It was the year I was madly in love with my teacher. The end of that school year meant the heartbreaking necessity of graduating away from my beloved fifth grade teacher, Mr. Dunworth. In my autograph book, he wrote: "Days may come and days may go, but you'll always be my favorite schmoe." Clearly, a Love Letter. Parting is such sweet sorrow...better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.... Love hurts.... Profoundly true, all of them...especially of a first REAL love. Our city street was made for softball. A well-hit grounder could skip for a mile down that paved "field". There was, thankfully, very little traffic to disrupt our practice and games. Whenever a car would approach, we simply ambled off to the curbsides, waving to the driver as he passed, he'd wave back, and the instant he cruised out of our playing field, we would resume our various positions. The neighbor kids and I did not mind sharing our space in the least; it was the neighborly thing to do. Amazingly, I remember not a single accident, mishap or problem with this arrangement. ...except one. Just one. The instant that softball shot off from my bat, I knew I had messed up. Big time. In a neighborhood graced with houses lining both sides of the street, room for error was limited. Hours upon hours of practice greatly improved our odds of keeping the ball between curbs and thereby avoiding houses, lawns, cars parked in driveways. Any ball hit beyond either curb was, by necessity, a foul. Any ball hit across a lawn was cause for worry, and a ball smacked over a curb, across a lawn, and into the Hanson's dining room window was cause for praying that a speeding car would suddenly mow me down where I stood immobilized at home plate. Immediately following the dreaded earsplitting shatter of that enormous square of glass, (in my mind, a pane roughly the size of a very prosperous car dealership showroom window), my playmates, my team split to parts unknown. This realization served only to impress even more deeply upon my conscience how very grave a situation I was in. This was no time to contemplate the obvious fact that I had a flock of chickens for friends. I could, after all, get new ones. Now the Hansons were not trolls. Well, at least not as long as no one was trip-trap-trip-trapping over their lawn... (for those who are children's-tales-and-fables-challenged, that will be an annoying choice of jibberish)...and up to this point they had never, as far as I knew, killed any neighbor child. Over the course of the thirty-some years my family lived next-door to them, I can think of only two hard-to-forgive offenses they committed. Mrs. Hanson had once threatened that if I did not keep my dog off her grass, she would call the police. After she shared this bit with me, and went back into her house, I cried, and another neighbor, Mrs. Pace, Friend of Children, came outside to ask the reason for my tears. Promptly, I tattled, and Brave Mrs. Pace went right straight to Mrs. Hanson's house and asked her about it. I don't remember the conversation, only that I headed home happy because Mrs. Hanson, who apparently was not so bad, had admitted, in my hearing, that she would never REALLY call the police... The second Hanson crime was that mister had once beheaded a snake with a shovel in his yard. (The snake was not armed with the shovel, Mr. Hanson was.) Forgiveness for this type of offense? Extremely slow in coming. One of eight kids, daughter of a milkman, I was aware that, mostly, money was for essential things...not to be taken lightly. I also knew, instinctively, that my dad would replace that window. (First and foremost, this was MY dad we're talking about---and secondly, this was in the '50s, not the '90s. Today in similar situations in which my parents were not involved, police would be called, voices raised, fists would fly, lawyers consulted, suit and counter suit filed, dogs and cats of each party poisoned, bitterness and hate would rule, and a long, heated court battle would commence.) I was a minor child. My dad was my dad and responsible for me... for better or worse. He would pay for the window because I broke it. Simple as that. Case closed. Ahhhhhhhhhhh, the good old days... But first things first. The Hansons had a giant jagged gaping hole in the front of their house and I had put it there. I finally set my bat down, not wanting to carry a smoking gun with me on this particular journey. Suddenly each leg weighed about a hundred pounds as I trudged up the walkway to the porch of the House of Horrors. No need to knock. Mrs. Hanson wasted no time greeting me, door wide open, and escorted me inside to this new vantage point of the crime scene. Like a stoic wooden judge, her grandson's highchair stood starkly in that very room. Mrs. Hanson was saying what if he had been sitting there... Even though the baby was not in the house, the highchair several yards from the window, and the window screen still intact, I absolutely felt as if I had killed the baby long before Mrs. Hanson finished with me. About a year later, I was released, and as I walked down the sidewalk, (NOT across the grass) toward home, I wondered if it were possible to feel any worse. Oh yes, it was. Now I had to face my dad with what I had done. I was surprised to see Mr. Terryberry leaving my house. He was an Across the street neighbor and had never come over before. His son and daughter were on my street-softball team---part of the chicken clutch. I wondered briefly if perhaps his kids had told him what I did, or maybe he was an eye witness, and he had come over to squeal to my dad. If so, at least I might be spared going over some details. My natural curiosity barely got off the ground, though, concerning Mr. Terryberry at our house. I had much more pressing matters to tend to. Now to tell my dad. I knew I was not going to get hit. I knew I wouldn't even get yelled at. But my dad would no doubt say "Man!" in an agitated and not happy manner and he might grumble for a few seconds before walking nextdoor to apologize and measure the hole where the window belonged, and then would drive off to buy the replacement. He would be disappointed. And it was my fault. When I walked in the door and stepped into our living room, my dad was right there to meet me. I avoided looking right at him, but plainly heard what he said, “I am proud of you.” Oh great. There was some kind of enormous misunderstanding, as if this wasn't already hard enough. Anxious to enlighten him and get the truth out of the way as quickly as possible, I blurted, "I was the one who hit the ball!" Hadn't Mr. Terryberry told him that part? "I know," my dad said. He had kind eyes. "Mr. Terryberry saw the whole thing." I was still confused. I was missing something here. I had shattered a window; I had upset the Hansons; other neighbors knew; I had almost killed a baby--sort of---; my foul ball would cost him money.... My dad, Mr. Character, was proud of me? He told me Mr. Terryberry had seen his son pitch the ball to me, saw me belt it, saw the window shatter, and could hardly believe his eyes when his kids and the others hightailed it and left me standing to face the music alone, with my bat. Mr. T., I learned, watched, thinking that I would surely drop that bat and follow the chickens' lousy example. He was, he said, so pleasantly surprised to see me walk up, instead, to face Mrs. Hanson. Mr. Terryberry told my dad, "I am as proud of your kid as I am ashamed of my own." And it was Mr. T. who bought the replacement window--every dime of it---and would not accept any argument. My dad was proud of me and I was on Cloud Nine...until he said no more batting in the street, only ball and gloves.... But Cloud Eight didn't feel too shabby. Alison Peters Sweetpetes3 @ cs.com (Remember, there is a space before and after the @ symbol to protect our writers from viruses. You are encouraged to write the author, just remember to remove the spaces in the address.) -------------------------------------------------------- Alison also wrote "Brotherly Love" which can be found in the Write 2 the Heart archives. She is happy to report that "Home Run" has been chosen to be included in the upcoming "Chicken Soup for the Grandparent's Soul." Alison also has stories appearing in the books "Stories for a Teen's Heart" and "Stories for the Extreme Teen's Heart." -------------------------------------------------------- FROM OUR READERS This was so funny. Stories about how children interpret things are so cute. I bet Pat often had funny moments with her daughter. Looking at life from a child's perspective is always refreshing and can be startling. Jill **** Kid's, they can sure having you holding your sides laughing. Marie -------------------------------------------------------- <>< Prayer Request For Those In Service To Our Country <>< As you read over this list of names, take the time to pray for each one and their families. If you have a request to add, hit reply and send me their name. Trey, Emmett Summers, and Eloise asks for prayer for her family members in the Armed Forces and her extended family. --------------------------------------------------------- Cheryl's Corner I know this is going out early. I am having a problem with renewing my domain, I received notice that it is due NOW. Problem is, no one wants to take my money, I keep getting referred to another department or service. Since this looks like it is going to take a while, I thought I would get this out and then devote my time to trying to convince someone somewhere that I really do owe them and would they please take my payment. I've never had this problem before; usually someone is more than willing to take my money. Why can't I have this problem with grocers? See you next week! Cheryl --------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------------------------- © 2002 Write 2 the Heart Nothing may be reproduced or published without the written permission of the individual author or copyright owner.