THE WILBER CONNECTION: Okay now, pull up a chair and I will tell you a story about an old major league baseball scorebook given to me by a kind neighbor lady in 1954.

In appreciaction of good neighbor lady
Florence Myers, gone but not forgotten

When growing up in the town of Dresden there were three or four dear ladies who took me under their grandmotherly wings. It was just the way it used to be in small towns during the l940s and '50s. A kid did not have to be a relative to be the lucky recipient of love and affection from a kind matronly heart with a cookie treat to share.

One of those dear souls was a Sydenham Street neighbor, Florence Myers, the widow of Dresden industrialist Frank Myers. Childless, they owned a winter home in St. Petersburg, Florida. She always sent me post cards during her stays in Florida, but she topped it all the spring of 1954.

Knowing of my passion for the game of baseball, Florence saved for me a souvenir scorebook she purchased while attending a Florida Grapefruit League exhibition baseball game between Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees at Al Lang Field in St. Petersburg (a baseball toss from the Myers' home). Making the scorebook even more special was the fact that Florence had managed to get autographs from three Boston players, catchers Del Wilber (highlighted for a reason to be explained later) and Sammy White, in addition to outfielder/firstbaseman Bob Broone. Still in mint condition, the scorebook remains a prized item in my sports memorabilia file and list of fond memories from days gone by.

But wait! That's only half of the story...Now, turn the clock calendar ahead some 70 years.

A couple of months ago I was approached by a publisher's agent familiar with my work on Wrights Lane, asking me if I might be interested in a new book written by a chap by the name of Robert Wilber.

"Wilber", there's that name surfacing again after so many years.  Could there possibly be a connection to the Major League baseball player Del Wilber whose signature is so prominently displayed at the top of the front cover of that 1954 scorebook given to me by good old Florence Myers?

I responded affirmatively to the agent's request and within hours I was hearing directly from "Bob" Wilber himself offering me a review copy of his book "How Far? A Tale of Determination, DNA and Drama." We exchanged pleasantries and briefly shared our coincidentally similar backgrounds in media and public relations.

And yes, you guessed it. Bob is indeed the son of Del Wilber a jouneyman catcher with St. Louis Cardinals, Philadelphia Phillies and Boston Red Sox (1946-54) who also served professionally as minor league manger and coach for may years before retiring from the game.

Del spent perhaps five of his prime baseball years in the American military, signing up for service during WW2 in 1942. He attained the rank of captain with the Army Air Force and was discharged Feb., 1946. He made his major league debut with the Cardinals in April of that year.

It was only natural that Wilber's young son Bob would grow up with aspirations of following in his dad's footsteps, as did older brother Del Jr.  

"In the Wilber family, my father was always traveling thanks to his lifelong employment in baseball. My childhood was filled with annual trips to Spring Training (either on a train or in the family car) or towns where he was managing or coaching (dad's MLB playing career was over by the time I was born, so I never got to experience that"), Bob explains in a blog site he established a year ago.

Bob Wilber, How Far?

To his credit, young Wilber earned a full scholarship from Southern Illinois University-Edwardsville and graduated with a bachelor’s degree in Broadcast Journalism. He then went on to play several seasons of minor league baseball in the Detroit Tigers and the Oakland A’s farm systems. When his playing days were over, he spent time as a regional scouting supervisor for the Toronto Blue Jays.

Thanks to his mother Taffy Wilber, a broadcast celebrity in her own right, Bob also grew up with a talent for writing, and ended up journeying through the world of international sports marketing before he became a senior executive for three professional indoor soccer franchises. An interest in NHRA drag racing led to his 22 years as a public relations representative and team manager for professional racers. He published his autobiography Bats, Balls, & Burnouts in 2017.

"How Far?" is his first work of fiction bringing to life a "surfer dude" baseball player from Southern California and an over-achieving hockey player from Minnesota, both aiming for greatness but unaware of the pitfalls ahead of them. It is a cleverly creative story that is just as much about life as it is about sports, written in distinct first-person voices of the two main star-crossed characters. "There's a lot of me in each one of them," author Bob adds.

Once I have done reading justice to all 560 pages of small print, no less, (really two stories in one) I may attempt to publish a formal review of How Far? For the moment though, I will not go That Far. Meantime, it may be better if my readers simply obtain their own copy of How Far? Publisher: Outskirts Press

ISBN-10: 1977250394

ISBN-13: 978-1977250391

Available from Amazon.com

So there you have it...a small and coincidental world coming together after 70 years by means of a story within a story, within a story. 

I only wish there was some way I could tell Florence Myers all about it. She's been gone now for at least 50 years and I never got to sufficiently tell her how much I appreciated the thoughtfulness she bestowed on that shy kid from across the street who was never without his right hand stuffed into a weather-beaten baseball glove.

Such is life!

*NOTE FROM DICK: I found it interesting to discover that brothers Bob and Del Wilber Jr. have established "The Perfect Game Foundation" in honor of their parents. Through the non-profit foundation they facilitate internships for young men and women who want to get a foothold in the business of sports.

ABOUT PENNIES FROM HEAVEN AND ANGELIC MESSAGES

A long time ago
A million years BC
The best things in life
Were absolutely free

But no one appreciated
A sky that was always blue
And no one congratulated
A moon that was always new

So it was planned that they would vanish now and then
And you must pay before you get them back again
That's what storms were made for
And you shouldn't be afraid for

Every time it rains, it rains
Pennies from heaven
Don't you know each cloud contains
Pennies from heaven

You'll find your fortune falling
All over town
Be sure that your umbrella is upside down
Trade them for a package of sunshine and flowers

If you want the things you love
You must have showers
So when you hear it thunder
Don't run under a tree
There'll be pennies from heaven for you and me

It may be a good thing that pennies no longer exist to add to the bulk of loose change currency in circulation today. In a way, it is kind of sad though that some rich history and good old-fashioned sagedom has fallen by the wayside along with the loss of the vintage copper coinage so common in pocket books and purses little more than a century ago.

Admittedly of minimal value in my time, we still "saved our pennies" for a rainy day because they "added up". How often we heard the expression "a penny saved is a penny earned." We also considered it a stroke of luck when we found a penny and fervently believed that "When it rained, it always rained pennies from heaven."

We placed a lot of stock in priceless lyrics of the song "Pennies From Heaven" as they came over the radio air waves in the form of the rich baritone voice of crooner Bing Crosby (lyrics reproduced above to add impitus to this bit of nostalgia on Wrights Lane). 

To my way of thinking, nothing captured a valued life lesson better than those words written by Johnny Burke and Arthur Johnston for the 1936 movie by the same name. Pennies, representing a gift from Heaven accompanying rain that washed away all troubles, trials and tribulation.

Pennies from heaven came to mind the other day as I sipped a coffee at my neighborhood Tim Hortons. A Penny, not in the original form, but in a flash of devine white light.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

As an old-school kid, discovering a penny from heaven always meant that angels were trying to redirect my thoughts in a way that would enable me to discover my worth at a time when I perhaps needed it most.

In essence, if I sensed a feeling of despiration, pennies from heaven let me know that the clouds would soon dissipate and the sun would start shining again, so I should keep going. Kind of like sentiments expressed in the aforementioned Pennies From Heaven song.

Because they represented an energy purified, pennies from heaven were frequently referred to as circles of good luck. During their time in circulation, all coins make their way through many hands, serving as a strong reminder that we all connect in different ways and that people who are no longer physically here are still present in our hearts and memory.

Consider too that the beautiful meaning of eternal life is much like a timeless coin. It behooves us to always remember to leave our stamp here on earth while we have the time, for we are a part of a vast and intricate universal system. Nothing wrong in thinking that Angels give us our own little piece of heaven right here on earth.

Angels, if considered in the proper context, have a type of energy that restores a sense of fullness within us when we feel down. When life seems too much of a struggle and when things get very difficult.

All of which leads me back to my experience in the coffee shop the other day. It was really a day like all others in my life lately as years mount, health wanes and faculties deminish, all contributing to bouts of depressive worthliness and uselessness.

When you struggle with the impression that you are just putting in time and taking up space to no good avail, you pretty well accept that life as you formerly knew it is gone, never to be repeated. As disappointing and as debilitating as the reality of it all may be, I have come to grips with most of it as an inevitable phasing-out process imposed on a worn out old man who finds himself of no earthly value to anyone or anything.

On this particular occasion as I sat in customary solitude, however, I experienced a flash of white light that cast an unexplainable glow on my surroundings, bringing with it a whole new realm of love and light. I was immediately engulfed in a positive aura that enabled a sense of compassion and oneness for the individuals around me...And the world in general. I was overcome with the impulse to run around hugging everyone within my purview.

"Is this really happening?" I asked myself, half hoping that time would slow down for a moment and allow me to take it all in.

Yea, for the first time in a long time, I saw clearly then...literally and figuratively.

I no longer felt lonely or useless and was overwhelmed with the spiritual responsibity to keep the special moment alive. If only I could have bottled it or otherwise contained it. My challenge now is to apply that momentary clarity to the rest of my life.

Regardless, I have accepted that fleeting moment as an equivalent of the oldtime penny from heaven on an otherwise rainy day and I intend to save it for when I need it again for reinforcement, as I most assuredly will.

Indeed, we can tune into our angel's energetic qualities and welcome a whole new realm of love and light into our life, simply by paying attention to signs like this that are sent our way. When we do, we are more able to channel life's difficulties with a positive aura.

We do well to remember that life consists of what we put into it, even to the bitter end.

"So when you hear it thunder
Don't run under a tree
There'll be pennies from heaven for you and me."

STORY OF ICONIC JAZZ ERA BIG BAND LEADER ERNIE FIELDS: ENTRENCHED RACIAL PREJUDICES DID NOT HOLD HIM BACK

Ad for upcoming book launch in Tulsa

As publisher of this Wrights Lane site I get dozens of media op solicitations each week involving worthy new publications coming off the press...far more than I could ever hope to accomodate even if I had the time and inclination as an occasional book reviewer. Every once in a while, however, one new book catches my attention because it involves a story that my audience might otherwise have missed. Such has been the case with a personal approach to me by prominent American author and broadcaster Carmen Fields who will soon launch a book about her role model father Ernie Fields, a talented musician and big band leader in the 1940's. I'll let Carmen take it from here, in her own words, as only a proud daughter could.

My father, the late Ernie Fields, was a big band leader. He was on the ground level of the swing era in the infancy of jazz, which was on its way to becoming America’s original music. But that magical time of the late 1920s into the 1940s with its stage shows and ballroom dances, had a dark side. The exhilaration was sometimes stained by encounters with prejudice and racism.

My father’s very first foray outside his Tulsa, OK base into a Texas oil boom town, brought his first encounter with racist rage. One of the band members walked into their lodging house while a white officer was questioning people there. Quite unexpectedly, my father said, the ranger slapped the band member, “practically knocked him down.” He reportedly then said, “Don’t be coming in here when you see that I’m busy.”

 Ernie Fields, trombonist

That late 1920s incident, though startling, did not deter my father’s quest for the “big time” with his fledgling music organization. He returned to Longview, Texas where a December 15, 1931 article in the Longview News Journal promoted an upcoming engagement noting, the Fields orchestra was “one of the best ever to play in East Texas.”

 

He would go on from there to augment his small group into 17 pieces, purchase a bus for traveling sound the country—west coast, along the eastern seaboard and of course, the often-dangerous deep south. His travels and triumphs are detailed in my newly-released memoir, “Going Back to T-Town: The Ernie Fields Territory Big Band.” (OUPress.com) Neither racism nor the hardships of the Great Depression deterred his career, known now as the last great territory big band. By the late 1930s his group caught the eye of talent scout John Hammond.

 

After Hammond heard the band, first in Tulsa, then in Wichita with promoter Willard Alexander, Fields was signed, and off to New York City for performance at the Apollo Theater and other east coast venues and recording sessions on the historic Vocalian label. Although the recordings met with modest popularity, the next decades brought ups and downs. He often recalled many “close calls” over the years, but blessedly no harsh consequences. The stories he told were without rancor or bitterness—only from time to time, an occasional touch of annoyance at the inconveniences.

 

One such close call came in Lee County, Florida, known, he said, as one of southwest Florida’s “bad places” for Blacks. His bus broke down and while he waited at a nearby service station, trouble arrived. At the stop, “You couldn’t hardly call it a town,” he said, “maybe four or five stores” a white man dad described as “so dirty he was nearly black as me,” arrived. The redneck insisted no Blacks were allowed in the town, and the bus would have to be moved to the other side of the town line, a telephone pole a few yards away. “I work with people on the railroad,” the bumpkin said, “but we just don’t allow them in our town.” The band members hustled out of the bus, with the vocalist, Melvin Moore, proclaiming, “You heard what the honky said, we don’t want to be in this town if he don’t want us in his town!” He reminded his colleagues, “Twelve men can move a house. Let’s move out of this town.” All the band members scampered out to help push. They pushed the bus down the road past the telephone pole that marked the town line.

 

By his own account, the best days for the Ernie Fields organization were the mid-forties, when Dad thought his band was “tightest” in musicianship and instrumental arrangements. But, indeed, it was also dangerous travel for Blacks, never knowing when an unspoken or unwritten rule might be broken and violence resulting. He often recalled the challenge of traveling with a white musician, long before Benny Goodman integrated his band.

 

In piecing together the saga of his career for the book, I was struck over and over again by his leadership. His organization was an important training ground for hundreds of musicians who cycled through. Some of the names jazz enthusiasts might recognize, like Freddie Green, Harold “Geezil” Minerve(a), Leroy Cooper and Yusef Lateef. Others are less prominent like Rene Hall, Al Duncan, Melvin Moore, and Booker Ervin. Countless others are obscure; some forming their own combos or groups that did not travel, or became school teachers, preachers, bus drivers, porters, postal workers—you name it!

 

Modest fame would find my father in the early 1960s when his rock and roll version of the old Glen Miller recording “In the Mood” took off. By this time, he was in his mid-50s when the trades dubbed him a “new talent.” The national television appearances and other recognition, including a gold record for one million record sales, brought the fame he craved. Ernie Fields loved every minute of it!

 

The fame he enjoyed was not just a testament to musicality. It was an affirmation of his resolve in the face of obstacles. Yes, the obstacles included firmly entrenched racial prejudice, but it also included the ever-evolving music tastes of the public.

 

But as Father’s Day approaches there is something else striking about Ernie Fields that comes to my mind—that is his integrity. Many a deal was made on a firm handshake and a steady gaze in the eye. Those were the bygone days when one’s word really meant something. His integrity meant trust and assistance from western music legend Bob Wills and pioneering promoter Jim Halsey. Such reputations for ethics were not always the case. That reputation would hold my brother, multi-instrumentalist Ernie Fields Jr. in good stead. As he took over our father’s organization and began traveling, our dad said he was “proud that I had made the reputation that there wasn’t anywhere that he (Jr.) went where he was ashamed to say that he was my son, and a lot of those promoters down south all east and west, [said] your dad played for me.”

 

I’m proud to share the Ernie Fields story with the world.

NOTE FROM DICK: Carmen Fields is an Emmy Award–winning broadcast news journalist who currently produces and hosts the public affairs program Higher Ground on WHDH-TV, Boston. A former Boston Globe reporter, she also co-anchored WGBH’s Ten O’Clock News from 1987 to 1991 and wrote the script for the American Experience documentary “Goin’ Back to T-Town” (1993). 

THE HINDSIGHT IN BEING A BETTER VERSON OF MYSELF

I could have been better at a lot of things in the past 85 years of my life -- a better son to my mother, a better than the below-average-student I was in school, a better employee in my first job(s), a better husband, a better father; a better worker in every aspect of chosen career paths, a better communicator, writer and minister of good in later years, a better friend in what few relationships I've had -- better at a lot of other things too numerous to mention!

I've been too-often guilty of the fall-back reasoning that at the time I was doing the best with what I had.

The only trouble was that I tried to do too much with very little know-how or capability, for the most part going through the paces and hoping that equated to the acceptable norm, or good enough. In essance, I guess I didn't know any better, a slow learner, blissful in my ignorance...yet a good enough pretender to squeeze by.

An insular and awkardly methodical kid from the sticks, so to speak, and with so much to experience, I was easily distracted and wanted a taste of it all while I could get it. Often spreading myself dangerously thin in the process and unable to prioritize. I was in a hurry, to get where I do not know. Ironically, I now have all the time in the world...and nothing on which to spend it.

Experience has been my best (pardon the pun) teacher, however. I readily accept that there is absolutely nothing I can do about any of it now. I have come to grips with my limitations and have learned to not beat myself up over them. 

I am also thankful for the way things have turned out in my life, in spite of the odds and myself in particular. Certainly, my fate could have been a lot worse.

In this regard, I harken to the lyrical sentiments: "We all could have done better but it is good to keep in mind that we may also have done worse."

In the twilight of this lifetime I survive now by putting my best foot forward if and when I can, as limited as it may be. Sometimes that is good enough...other times it is not. There are times when my writing on Wrights Lane falls short of the intended objective but there is also the odd occasion when my literary efforts have mission-accomplished impact.

But it still all remains the best I have to offer at this juncture in time. No excuses.

I am who I am and what I am. I don't think I would change now, even if I was miraculously born again and time permited.

No apologies at this late date!

Most certainly though, I could have been a much better guy capable of doing a lot better with many things in life. If only I knew then what I think I know now. 

Do you catch my drift?

COPING WITH FALLING ROCKS IN LIFE: NOT TO WORRY

Rocks that I have collected stabilize a ramp leading up to my front porch.
They also help discourage Chipmunks looking for place to nest. ~~ Photo by Deb

I have a thing for rocks! In fact, I collect them -- all shapes and sizes -- but primarily those of five-pin bowling ball proportions, due to the ease of handling, I guess. They can be found as outline edging for my gardens and lawn. They are also great for plugging cracks and crevices around the foundation of my 100-year-old house...There's always room for one more.

When I spot an interesting stone or rock along the wayside, I struggle with an internal debate...Will I pick it up or not? I simply cannot help but conjure images of the steadfast, the eternal, and the permanent while considering these powerful, but familiar ancient objects of nature.

Place rock and stone in the same context and their symbolism invokes appreciation for their beauty, their majesty, or their tranquility. Then, too, consider the awe-inspiring fact that they are almost as old as the world itself.

Of course, there is also a hazzardous side to rocks. They are solid, unforgiving and heavy. They can do a lot of damage if and when they fall on you, all of which brings me to the purpose of this Wrights Lane offering -- worrying about things you cannot control (as promised in the post immediately below this one).

Allow me to elaborate by asking a leading question: Have you ever driven along highways in the mountains or on roads bounded by high rock formations where "Beware of falling rock" signs are posted?

As an interesting aside, the question was once posed: "Should those signs really warn drivers about 'fallen rocks'?" Both are no doubt equally as hazzardous, but if you're like me you will be pondering that question long after you have read this post.

No doubt there is an unavoidable hazzard involved when driving through rocky or mountainous regions. Your rate of speed has nothing to do with it, nor the way you handle your car, nor the condition of your tires. The potential for falling/fallen rocks is based on past history and it is the chance we take when moving forward.

If, per chance, a huge rock did break loose and come crashing down on your car, what good would worrying about it in advance do? It would not have held the rock in place; neither would it have jarred it loose.

It is typical of those troubles in life which no caution can avoid. The general insurance industry labels such incidences as "Acts of God." This is not fatalism, but a recognition that God is the universal creator, having made certain natural laws that govern inanimate things.

When considering the rocks that are certain to fall in our lives, we should understand that there is nothing we can do to stop them. Can you, by worrying, keep something unpleasant from happening? Do you soften the blow, ease the burden or lessen the pain?

Of course not, but you stand a good chance of reducing your ability to cope with it.

A good deal of the strain and tension of modern life is due to our unwillingness to accept situations that are beyond our control. We must be realists as well as idealists.

For certain, rocks will fall. We just don't know when. Worring about it, fearing it, does not help.

When troubles come, when the rocks do fall, it will not help to reject faith altogether and fling away in revolt from all that you once believed. Where else would you go? To what else would you cling?

What would you substitute for the Christian faith that most of us have grown up in and some of us still pay homage to?

We are not left comfortless, but we have to be in dire need of comfort to know the truth. It is in times of calamity, in days and nights of sorrow and trouble that the presence, sufficiency and sympathy of the Holy Spirit grow very sure and wonderful.

And when rocks fall, not to worry needlessly. What you are experiencing is an "Act of God" that is beyond you.

I handle all the rocks in my life with respect, care and foreboding.

DON'T WORRY, BE HAPPY...HAVE A NAP!

Here's one for you...

What should be our attitude toward troubles that we can do nothing about?

I dare say that the most common attitude is one of worrying about things over which we have no control. In fact this is a widespread transgression marking our inconsistency as human beings.

Generally, people have never fully realized just how destructive worry can be. It truly plays havoc with one's life. It ruins digestion and causes stomach ulcers. It interferes with sleep and forces us to face another day unrested and irritable. Trust me, I've learned the hard way.

Anxiety and tension, which are twins in the worrying scenario, bring on heart disease, high blood pressure and nervous disorders.

Ask any doctor, and he will tell you that the patient who is apprehensive retards his/her own recuperation.

Hard work, even overwork, never killed anyone. It is not the amount of work we do, or have to do, that takes its toll on us. It is the strain or tension caused by our anxiety over the work that does the damage.

We would live longer, and do more and better work, if we could bring ourselves to adopt the philosophy of an old farmer I once read about, who said:

"When I works, I works hard;

   When I sets, I sets loose;

      When I worries, I goes to sleep."

Would that sleep would overtake us all when we begin to worry.

Common sense tells us that we are wise to accept what we cannot help and make adjustments as are necessary...then to get on with the rest of our lives.

I intend to expand on this subject in Wrights Lane posts that follow.