My Football Journey - A Long and Winding Road

 

Super Bowl Sunday!   Coming Soon!

There was a time when my home would be full of people on this hallowed day.

It started when I was a little thing and growing up with a dad who was an obsessive Colts fan.  Actually, I'm not sure there was any other kind of Colts fan.

Tickets were all but impossible to come by.

When someone died their Colts tickets were passed down.


My dad did not own a Colts season ticket, but he owned "part" of one.


He didn't get to go to all the home games, only when his turn came up in the rotation, but those he did get to were always something he enjoyed more than just about anything else in life.


And he was usually in trouble the next day.


He would go with this crazy crowd of cronies.  They were always later getting home than he said they would be.  Much later.  And he would usually bring my mom a gift to ease the pain of the wrath of Hazel.  That gift ploy never ever worked.  Never.


I hesitate to mention some of the gifts 'cause I don't want you to think less of my dad, but LordAMercy.  They were awful.  (But funny.  At least to me.)


Okay.  Here's one.  (My mom would absolutely kill me for telling this story).


Only a group of idiot men coming home late from a football game will think it's a good idea to stop along the side of the road and pick up (okay, let's just say it - steal) a State of Maryland smudge pot.

Anyone remember when this is what road crews would use at night to mark the roads?  Like say, they were doing a repair and wanted to re-route cars away from the repair site?  There would be a line of these flaming smudge pots showing a new traffic pattern.


Well, we had one.


And no, my mom was not happy.  She did not love her smudge pot.


I think I remember her saying she was going to call the State of Maryland and turn him in for stealing state property.


And I think we all got kinda tickled about that, truth be told.


What can I say - I was raised by crazy people who laughed at crazy stuff.  And did crazy stuff.  I would not swap parents with anyone.  Never wanted to as a kid, and am thankful for having grown up to have them as friends.  They were the best.



Anyway.



When my dad couldn't be at a game and when it was on TV there was always this group of rowdies hanging out at our place.  


Here's the roster - Tom Duncan and his dog Bobo (I loved Bobo.  Loved Tom too).  Dude Willoughby and his younger brother Young Dude Willoughby.  Some guy named Fish.  Another guy named Moose.  There was a Donnie (the only one I didn't particularly care for).  And a sweet old guy named Fred.

They would drink beer.  A lot of beer.


My mom would make sandwiches, or sometimes cook them a nice meal.  She would put it out on the kitchen table so they could help themselves and then she would disappear into the bedroom, close the door and read or nap.


She was not a fan of football.


Me?


I was usually on the floor, sitting between my dad's feet sneaking sips out of his beer.


This was a problem.


My mother would pitch a fit about him allowing his only child to become an alcoholic before the age of 10.  (I'm telling you, she had some great lines).


It was also a problem when the Colts would score and everyone in the room would stand up, arms straight up in the air, screaming SCORE!


I occasionally had my fingers stepped on.  I also occasionally would accidentally hit someone in the nose when my hands went straight up for the SCORE!


We had an old sofa that sat on 4 short little wooden legs.  When the guys sat back down one Sunday after the SCORE! all four legs popped off the sofa and pinged against the walls.


Oh, yes - Hazel Wilkinson was thrilled.


Long story short - a new sofa was bought.


But the very next time the guys were over to watch the Colts someone's cigar was dropped and there was a nasty burn in the sofa arm.


WHY my mom put up with all this I will never know.   But.  She loved all these guys.  They were all a huge part of our family life for many, many years.

And these things did make for great stories, I have to say.



You might already know the end of this particular saga.





Colts owner Robert Irsay moved the team from Baltimore to Indianapolis, completely unannounced, in the early morning hours of March 29, 1984. This after having been THE team in Baltimore since 1953.




Believe me when I say this is still a topic of conversation and it has not yet been forgiven.


When Donald and I were cleaning out my mom's apartment we found this -

Oh, yes.  This was a huge hit back in 1984.


But I had to laugh that my mom still had it.

Tucked in a drawer.

An old 45 that had been my dad's.

Back when he was heartbroken and mad as hell about losing the Colts.

Back when we actually had a turntable on which this record could be played.



Moving ahead quite a few years and I was now in Atlanta and pulling for the Atlanta Falcons.  This was before, during, and after the Bartkowski years.


There were always, always, always, people at my house watching football.


Once again, the more things change, the more they stay the same.


My furniture was now the furniture bearing football scars.


My house was now the place people were drinking beer, a lot of beer, and standing up to shout SCORE!


I was the one making sandwiches and leaving them in the kitchen for everyone to help themselves.



LordAMercy.



I had become my mother AND my father.


I was also totally in love with the Pittsburgh Steelers.  More so than the Falcons, truth be told.

Mostly I loved Terry Bradshaw, Mean Joe Greene, Franco Harris and Lynn Swann.  Man - I loved those guys.



But, as time went on I lost my taste for football.


Then, for maybe a year, it was back when Cam Newton was a fun new player with the Panthers.

Then it was gone again.

(Am I the most fickle football fan ever?!)


But.


It's back.


and in a big way.


Now I'm head over heels in love with The Chiefs.

Well, okay - yes, Travis Kelce does make me swoon a little . . .

And yes, I love the Taylor & Travis fairy tale and hope they last forever together.

And yes, I think the haters and the conspiracy nuts are pitiful, pathetic, sad, and ignorant.

Now I'm a happy girl with my bum parked in front of the TV watching The Chiefs play ball.  And I will still stand up and shout SCORE!



Football is fun for me again.


Who knew?!


So.  In a couple days I'll be reliving the kind of Sunday I have lived, off and on, since I was a little bitty thing.  Back from the time I was a kid sitting between her dad's feet stealing sips of beer.  I'll be in my own chair for this game, drinking my own glass of wine, and I'll be thinking about my dad.

Watching The Kansas City Chiefs play The San Francisco  49ers in the Superbowl.


No big crowd of people.  Just me, Donald and Annabelle.  Not as many superbowl snacks sitting around as there might have been back in the day, but some.  More than enough.



I am a very loud football fan, even watching it on TV.  That will never change.


I still jump up and yell SCORE!

It seems to be a part of my genetic make-up, that "SCORE!" thing.

And I still yell at the refs.

And I am, of course, a great armchair quarterback AND coach.  

It's fun to have a team to cheer for again.  To know the players and their positions.

Truth be told, none of this would be happening for me if it weren't for one person.

And you know who I mean - Taylor Swift.


I love her.  The woman just rocks and she's made football fun again for people like me who walked away from the NFL for so many reasons.

Man, I hope she makes it to Sunday's game and I hope the Chiefs win, and I hope she and Travis get to share a big ol' smooch on the field afterwards.

Go Chiefs!

I am ready for some football!

Note: This is a revised piece which was originally posted at the Jungle Reds blog back in 2016.

Easter 1962

Ocean City, MD

Missing my mom and dad this Easter

Plans for a memorial service for my mom

There are no words to express what I feel for what you all have given me these past weeks. Please know I will never forget the love you've shared during this time when I have felt lost and broken. I will miss my mother for the rest of my life, but knowing she's with my dad again makes me smile. He's been waiting for his dancing partner for a very long time and I know the two of them did one of their jitterbugs they were so, so good at as he escorted her through those pearly gates. She's surrounded by friends and family she's been missing and I feel at peace knowing that she's home and in a better place.

Some of you have written to ask about a service for my mom.

We're not planning an immediate service, but there will be something in the future.

She requested cremation, and some "Hazel Ashes" will find their way here, there and yonder in some of her favorite places over time.

Right now what we're thinking is that we will take some of her remains to Atlanta to be placed next to daddy.

Probably there will just be an informal graveside service.

I will let everyone know details, of course.  

Right now, we just don't know when that might be.

For those who are unable to attend, I'm hoping you'll raise a glass at the time of the service and share a thought or two of my mom with those of us who are there.

And no, it doesn't have to be her drink of choice - some of us just don't like Diet Pepsi.


obituary - http://www.austinandbarnesfuneralhome.com/obituary.php?name=1485

November Photo A Day Challenge - Day 2

Topic of the Day

 

is

 

"Me - Age 5 - 20"

 

June Photo A Day Challenge - Day 14

Topic of the Day

is

"Time"

My Parents - Hazel & Al Wilkinson

photos of my folks beginning with one taken soon after they were married, and ending with one of the three of us taken the Christmas before he died.

Home of My Heart

This was one of the original versions of a piece I wrote a few years ago.  There were many.  A better version (edited by the incomparable Celia Miles and Nan Dillingham) was published in the regional anthology WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES.  It's a wonderful collection from a group of extraordinary women.  I'm proud to be included. 

(isn't the cover wonderful?!  It was done by Karen Hollingsworth.  You can see more of her work at her webpage)

This is dedicated to Celia.  She may not remember this, but I'll never forget.  When we were at the "Meet & Greet" for WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, standing around chatting, having pictures taken, etc., she looked at me and said, "You were born to write.  I want you to stick with it."  Celia, every word I have written since you said those words - and every word I ever write until I am no longer able to find words, or to write them, will all - always - be dedicated to you.  With my heart.

I spent the first 16 Christmases of my life in the home of my heart.  The Arcade Apartments.  It wasn't fashionable, but oh my, it was special.   Made special by my parents, Hazel & Al Wilkinson, their families and friends and my friends who they always welcomed with open arms.
And as those of you who know me already know, it was in Cambridge, Maryland where I was born and raised and still hold dear.

Here's my Christmas gift to all of you.  I hope you enjoy it.



HOME OF MY HEART

As much as I dearly love these mountains and our life here, my heart often gets a longing for my childhood home.  I grew up in a small town on the water and it’s essential to my very soul to get back to it when I can.  Back to where I learned how to ride a bike.  Learned how to drive a car.  Kissed my first boyfriend.  And even learned what it meant to have my heart broken by a best girlfriend.  Back home to stand on a riverbank and stare out into the expanse of forever where the sky and sea become one, in a small town named Cambridge, on the eastern shore of Maryland.  A land of charming, gracious living.

I feel its pull, and know its tug at my roots; calling me home.  I feel that need to cross bridges over huge expanses of water.  To watch white sails skimming elegantly across sun speckled azure seas like ballerinas on-stage.  When I mention this urgent need for water to Donald he points out that we have a creek, and we have a pond - a pond chock full of rainbow trout, by golly.  True enough.  And quite lovely.  But.  Not big enough for need of a bridge, and certainly not big enough that I'll ever see a sailboat out there.   I need to smell marshy smells.  Need to eat crabs that have recently been blissfully swimming along minding their own business.   I need to spend a little time with friends who have known me since we were kids.  People I can just be myself with; letting down all walls and defenses. So off I scoot to where I’m safe in the knowledge that lifelong friends will open their arms and their hearts yet again and give me back my sense of home.  Where I can feel salty air cling to my skin.

I get to cross my bridges over huge sweeps of water, and, just as lovely – smaller ones.  The Chesapeake Bay Bridge makes my heart swell.  The Choptank River Bridge into Cambridge makes me cry buckets. 

Once I’ve crossed that bridge, there’s an almost indefinable pervasive sense of wholeness that wraps me in a hug.  A sense of peace not easily explained, but effortlessly understood by anyone who has experienced the joy of returning “home.”

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 17 we lived in a grand, if somewhat bedraggled, old apartment in The Arcade. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and dining room had immense bay windows.  Those two rooms opened into one another through an archway. The kitchen was huge with a separate pantry and our stove was an old timey thing on high legs.

This kitchen was “the” place to be.  Many an hour was spent sitting at the kitchen table looking out the windows.  One window overlooked a big grassy lawn, which sadly, after a few years, became a parking lot.  Sad for me as a kid ‘cause there went my back yard.  Fun for me as I got older, however, and enjoyed observing some of the goings-on that took place when folks didn’t realize there were eyes above them.  Oh my – the tales this girl could have told! 

From the other kitchen window we would watch the rear door of Woolworth’s and see who was coming and going.  Thus began my love of people watching.

This was not Eloise at the Plaza. This was small town living. We were not wealthy people; not by any stretch of the imagination. There was no private entrance into our apartment. There was a downstairs lobby, and in the lobby was the entrance to the Arcade Movie Theater. If we had been out and arrived home before the movie started, it meant socializing, mixing and mingling with the folks buying tickets to see a movie. Since everyone knew everyone, it sometimes took awhile to get through all the "Hi, How are you’s?" to get up those stairs. 

None of us had a key to the apartment, which meant it was never locked.  Which also meant we never knew who might be there waiting for us.  Rest assured, there was always someone. It might be one of my aunts, uncles or cousins - there was a gracious plenty of them. Or it might be one of dad's cronies, or one of mother's girlfriends, or friends from school. Amazingly enough, as odd as it might now sound to some, it was never cause for concern back then. That apartment was, as my mom often said, "Grand Central Station."   And the kitchen was the hub where everyone gathered.  Even if we weren’t there.

That wonderful old kitchen was where we had most of our meals.  The dining room was for “special occasions.”   We had, of course, that ubiquitous chrome and leatherette table and chairs; a set I’d surely love to have today.

This was where we sat for conversation and gossip over a cup of coffee.  Hot chocolate for the kids.

And it’s where I sat and watched my mom and dad cut a rug.

There was a radio that sat right inside the kitchen door.  I have the most delightful memories of my dad scootin’ through that door, turning up the radio and leading my mom into a vigorous jitterbug all over that room.  Oh my.  Could they dance!

I remember a lot of laughter around that table, one day in particular . . .

(Laws, I hope my dad forgives me for telling this one!)

When I was growing up there were a couple of "stag" bars in Cambridge. No women. I don't know if they specifically ever said "No Women," or if women just wouldn't be caught dead in them. There was one not far from our apartment called the DD Bar. It was owned by a friend of Dad's, and it was a wonderful little place. I adored it.  The DD Bar was one of those grown-up "No Kids Allowed" places I would sneak into under the guise of “needing to see my dad.”  Then acting all stunned and bewildered about why I had to leave when my mom showed up at the door to retrieve me.  It was a long, narrow, and dark.  With a charm that only bars from that era can possess, without a smidgen of artifice. There were maybe 4 booths in the front, along with a long mahogany bar with a brass foot rail. There were also pinball tables, a shuffleboard table and a dart board.  Nary a fern to be seen; plastic or otherwise.

If Daddy needed to work for a couple hours on Saturday afternoons, he thought it was a great way to make some extra money.  Where else could he earn a few extra dollars while hanging out with his buddies laughing and watching a ball game on TV?

We had a local radio station and on Saturdays the DJ, Ed Brigham, would make a phone call to give away a free prize to someone if they could answer the question of the day. 

On this particular Saturday, Mother and I were home, in the kitchen, and the radio was on, of course. We heard Mr. Brigham announce that the question of the day phone call was about to be made.  We crossed our fingers hoping it would be our phone to ring. Well, it didn't, but we did hear a very familiar voice over the radio say "DD Bar, Al speaking." 

How fun!  My dad!!!! 

Mr. Brigham said "Hey Al, this is Ed Brigham, how ya' doin'?" After a few minutes of small talk exchanging some "how's the family" kinda stuff, Mr. Brigham told Dad he would win two free tickets to the Arcade Movie Theater if he could answer the question of the day. 

You could hear all the local Cambridge bar flies talking and hollering and laughing in the background, along with the TV blaring and pinball machines ping-pinging.  Dad told everyone to quiet down 'cause Ed had a question. 

The question was "How long is a decade?" 

Well, Mother and I laughed and she said she guessed she and Dad would be going downstairs to see a free movie soon. 

Then we heard dad over the radio yelling to the guys in the bar "Ed wants to know how long is a duck egg?" 

WHAAAT?!? 

Mother and I just about fell in the floor screaming we were laughing so hard.

A DUCK EGG?! 

You could hear all these men saying stuff like, "a Duck Egg? Hell, I don't know, Jim Bob - what do you think?" Answers like "2 inches, 3 inches - oh hell no, an inch and a half," and things like "Who even cares??"  “Is that a real question??” were all loud and clear over the radio. This went on for awhile and finally dad stopped laughing long enough to say "Well, Ed, we think maybe an inch and a half." 

Ed Brigham was hysterical and said "Al. Hazel is going to kill you. NOT a Duck Egg! A DECADE!!!!!!!!" 

Dead silence on Dad's end. Then he started laughing really hard and had to tell the guys he'd made a mistake.  When he told them what the question really was we could hear them hootin’, hollerin’, shoutin’ and a brayin’ – mass hysteria.

For years, when we went out to eat or went shopping downtown, someone would holler "Hey Al! How long's a Duck Egg?!" 

We all share a common bond of memories of “home.”  Those special moments which make our homes unique and special. 

I have a beezillion of them. 

There was a little mini-community besides the movie theater in the Arcade lobby.  There was a jewelry store, a beauty shop, an insurance company, and the gas company. I was in and out of those places like I owned them. I don't know why those people put up with me. If some poor woman was having her hair washed, I'd just march right over while she had her head in the sink and strike up a conversation. 

The three of us were also piling into the car for a weekend away every so often; usually to the beach and boardwalk in Ocean City.  One particular weekend while we were off doing who knows what, one of my uncles was going to paint our dining room.  Mom & Dad bought the paint and said it should be enough to cover the walls well enough if he was careful. 

Our dining room was a big room with a big bay window.  The sun would shine through that window seems like all the time.  Well, that ol’ sun told some tales on those painters. 

When we got home on Sunday evening, everyone was really pleased about how terrific the room looked with its new paint.  Mother was pleased as punch. 

The next day was a whole different story, let me tell you.  Wheweee. 

Seems my uncle, who was quite the artist, invited a friend to help him.  Adult beverages were involved.  Artistic tendencies arose.  From the muses came pictures of Mickey Mouse and all his pals on our dining room walls.  The painters, at some point, realized this was not what my folks had in mind when they asked to have the walls painted, so they painted over the Disney guys.  But, not well enough.  With the sun streaming into the windows, those images showed right through the paint. 

Its made for hilarious stories since, but things were a little tense around the apartment for awhile.  They did put up another coat of paint and it did help, but even years later, if you knew where to look, you could find a shadow of Mickey's face.  Or Goofy's.  And, honestly?  It was a fun and lovely thing.  What is lovelier, after all, than a home that possesses a bit of whimsy and can make you smile?  That is, after all, what makes it "home."

Note:  If you're interested in purchasing a copy of WOMEN'S SPACES WOMEN'S PLACES, I think there are still some copies available through Celia's webpage.  Along with another regional anthology I'm quite proud of, CLOTHES LINES.    AND some of Celia's books may still be available there also.

 

Hey - Was Ed Gorman Hanging Out in My Kitchen ?!?

I recently discovered a new (to me) author. I should be thoroughly embarrassed to admit to not knowing anything about this author previously. And ashamed of myself for not being aware of one of the mystery world's icons.

Ed Gorman is, I think it's fair to say, a prolific writer. He's written about 20 books, and is still writing them. They include five series and a couple of stand-alones. He's edited numerous anthologies. AND he co-founded and edited Mystery Scene Magazine (he is now Contributing Editor). He writes mysteries, crime fiction, horror fiction and western fiction, under three different pen names. AND he writes a blog. Prolific might be a fair term, don't you think?

The book I read was from Mr. Gorman's Sam McCain series - THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED (1999). This from Publisher's Weekly: "There's a dead-on sense of time and place (February 1958 in small-town Iowa) in Gorman's latest, which, despite minor problems with plot resolution, makes an enjoyable start to a new series. Narrator Sam McCain, "a young lawyer in a town that already had too many lawyers," earns most of his income by working as an investigator in Black River Falls for the wealthy and eccentric Judge Esme Anne Whitney, who smokes Gauloises in Chesterfield country and takes pleasure in shooting McCain with rubber bands. The day after a long drive to what turns out to be Buddy Holly's last concert before his fatal plane crash, McCain discovers the body of the wife of Whitney's rotten nephew, Kenny, and then is unable to stop Kenny from killing himself. Everybody, including the loutish local police chief, is sure that Kenny murdered his wife, but McCain has his doubts. Complicating matters are the troubles of a local former football star now crippled by booze and of McCain's teenage sister, who is trying to get an abortion. Gorman sketches the people of Black River Falls, especially McCain's family and various girlfriends, with a sharp eye, and even the very late appearance of a possible villain doesn't spoil the fun: despite the title, Gorman, as usual, rocks."

I'm excited about having more in this series to read and hope I enjoy them as much as I did THE DAY THE MUSIC DIED.

But.

What I really want to know is how come a scene I was sure was a memory of mine, and mine alone, ended up in Mr. Gorman's book?!

Harumph.

Only thing I can figure is that he was hanging out with me in the Arcade Apartments in Cambridge, MD when we were kids. He's a few years older than me, but not much. He could have been one of the kids that, as my dad used to say, was "one of Kaye Alan's friends who was always underfoot." But no, I really don't think that's it either.

I guess I have to admit to myself that the memory I cherish must be a memory many of us must share. While I kinda hate that, it's nice to spend a little time remembering those simpler times. Times when wives could afford to be housewives if that's what they wanted, and young mothers could be stay-at-home moms, if that's what they wanted. Times when we kids knew we had to drop whatever ball we were playing with, in whomever's yard we might be playing in, so we could be home and seated at the dinner table at 6:00 p.m. NO excuses.

Times when moms and dads turned up the radio and danced in the kitchen.

From the time I was 3 months old until I was 16 we lived in a wonderful old apartment in Cambridge, Md. The Arcade Apartments. I loved that place and I wrote about it some in my Father's Day post. All the rooms were big and spacious and the living room and the dining room had big bay windows with window seats. There was a wall separating those two rooms, but it was a large archway. The kitchen was huge, and off the kitchen was a pantry which was larger than most kitchens I've had in my homes since then.

That kitchen. Oh my how I loved that kitchen. My memories are many - and still quite vivid. I remember that we rarely used the dining room. I remember sitting around that chrome kitchen table for meals, and continuing to sit for long periods of time after meals talking. Just talking. We three talked about everything. And, my love of sitting around the table talking after a meal has never diminished. I have to feel a small sadness for families today who seem to rarely. if ever, even have a meal around a table together, let alone that special time following the meal. There was always time for Mother and Dad to have another cup of coffee (and yes, that ever present cigarette) just so we could talk.

And I remember the radio playing in the background.

There was always music.

For some reason, even today, when I see an old radio I immediately hear Teresa Brewer in my head singing "Music! Music! Music! - Put Another Nickel In, In the Nickelodeon."



And Bill Haley - oh my! Whenever a Bill Haley and His Comets song came on, my mom and dad would dance. They would dance all over that big ol' kitchen. And they were good! I watched them jitterbug to Bill Haley more times than I can even count.



So, dang. Imagine my surprise when I read "They still dance in the kitchen on Saturday nights, the radio playing the old tunes, Benny Goodman and Harry James and Artie Shaw, . . . " That's Ed Gorman's Sam McCain talking about HIS mom and dad. Not my mom and dad. dang. Oh well, so I now share my memory of Mom and Dad dancing in the kitchen with a fictional character named Sam. I suppose things could be a whole lot worse. How sad to think about neither of us being lucky enough to have that memory.

Donald doesn't know this yet, but he and I have a date to dance in the kitchen tonight . . .