Do the Right Something

I want to do the right things. Things like being nice, buying local and helping the poor. I want to recycle everything that should be recycled. I want to bake homemade cookies for my kids to take to school. Rather, I buy them at the bakery section of my local grocery store hoping, if I put them on a pretty plate, that everyone will think they are homemade. I want to drive a Prius and grow vegetables in my garden. I want to save, not spend. I want to eat better and laugh more. 

Instead, I do some of the right things some of the time. On most days, I am okay with that. I tell myself, “You are a working mom” and “You do the best you can.” But then I meet someone that is doing everything I aspire to do - plus, they are making their own clothes, canning food for the winter months, writing a book and hiking across America to raise money for some charity I didn’t know existed. Many adjectives spring to mind to describe these amazing individuals. Most of which are not appropriate to print.

People like this often inspire me to improve upon one or more of the aforementioned items. Or, depending on my hormone level at the time, I want to slap them across the face and say, “Hey! Cool your jets, honey. You are making the rest of us (or at least me) look bad.” 

In truth, I think I do a lot of things right. My kids say please and thank you (except when they forget).  I smile at strangers. I hold the door open for people and offer to return shopping carts to the cart corral for the elderly. I read bedtime stories to my kids. I vote. I recycle (most of the time). I buy local (some of the time). These things are easy for me. And, that is the problem that I have with myself. I don’t challenge myself to do better. I convince myself that what I am already doing is enough. It’s not.

So, what am I going to do about it? I can tell you what I am not going to do. I am not going to try and do it all. I am, however, going to challenge myself with one or two new things. I think it will be easier to implement these changes in my life if the entire family gets involved. So, although they don’t know it yet, they are getting on this “ship of change." (A phrase and managerial style I owe to my days in corporate America). I might let them have a vote in the process. I am not sure yet. It doesn’t matter because (starting tomorrow) we are all trying something new. 

Tiger Stadium Waltz

My memory spins and dances with thoughts of Tiger Stadium.

Double headers, extra innings and rain delays. Day games and night games. Pitching duels and homerun frenzies. Games won and games lost. 

There were games with my dad. Games with friends. A game with co-workers and our unforgettable boss, Dave Carpenter.  And the game I attended with a couple of ladies that played for the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League.   

There were moments big and small.  Banging the olden wooden green seats up and down while yelling, "WILLIE! WILLIE! WILLIE!" A few minutes standing on the grass near the first baseline, looking into the empty stands.  A brown paper bag filled with snacks that my great Aunt Alice packed for me to take to the game.  The time, when I was six, that a blind women named Mary sat next to me.  She listened to the play-by-play on a red transistor radio, banged the backstop with her cane, and gave me an autographed photo of Al Kaline.

There were firsts and there were lasts. Alan Trammel's last game. My first autograph (from Dick Sharon, thank you very much!).  The first game I attended with my husband - who was not yet my husbad.  The last time my grandfather saw a game at Tiger Stadium. My final trip to the corner of Michigan and Trumball. I took a sentimental stroll up that steep ramp to the upper deck and choked back tears while singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" during the 7th Inning Stretch.

And that moment, not all that long ago, that I was driving past the long-deserted Tiger Stadium.  A gaping hole, made by a demolition crew, allowed me one last glimpse inside.  I saw the blue and orange seats.  I could almost hear the roar of the crowd.  I imagined the green grass that always took my breath away.  I saw Herbie Redmond, as he did his little dance and tipped his hat, just for me.

And just like that, Tiger Stadium was gone.  I watched her disappear at 70 mph in my rear view mirror.