SNUB BEGAN A BEAUTIFUL RELATIONSHIP

KEN'S LETTER BROKE THE ICE

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One of my soon-to-be published books will be entitled Dresden Life Remembered. In putting this book together I keep coming up with little long-forgotten gems from the past.

I have written extensively about my mother and father and their love affair which began in their teens. This evening I came across an old weathered envelope bearing a two-cent stamp and postmarked July 3., 1918. It was addressed to Miss Grace Perry, Town (which meant it was mailed in Dresden for general delivery/pickup). Everybody knew everybody in town and street addresses were unnecessary, in fact houses were not even numbered in those days.

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The contents of the envelope are just too priceless to keep to myself. Or at least I think so anyway.

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The years were stripped away as I removed a neatly folded letter and immediately recognized my father Ken's hand writing. By means of introduction, I will simply reveal that my father was 19 years old at the time and my mother would have turned 16 within days of receiving the letter on or about July 4Th. Here are Ken's heart-wrenching words as only he could write them.

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Dresden, July 2nd./18

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Dear Friend:

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No doubt you will be somewhat surprised, perhaps annoyed, to hear from me.

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I think I understand thoroughly your wish. It is needless for me to state it, but that is not what I am writing about.

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I have spoken to you several times lately and you never let on you saw me. This leads me to think I must have done you some wrong and made you "sore" at me. I can't think what that might be as I did not do it intentionally. I am not trying to ignore (?) nor am I asking you to speak to me if you don't want to.

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What I do wish is that you would be kind enough to tell me what I have done. I really would like to know, perhaps just for curiosity sake.

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Hoping you will favour me with a reply.

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I am

your friend.

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K. Wright

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Note: I do not know how my mother responded, but she must have communicated favourably in one way or another. I am living proof of that. As it turned out, Grace and Ken never had any other boy friend or girl friend. Amazingly they had a very long courtship, marrying 15 years after my dad wrote his letter. I love sharing stories like this!

THE PRODIGAL SON RETURNETH

We're making progress

Hi folks, it's been a while!

Just minutes ago I released final text and graphics to the publisher for the first of two books that I have been working on this past month. I should wrap up the second project in another week or so. I am self publishing so there is a lot of extra work to do but I am sure that it will all be worthwhile in the end.
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Special web sites will be developed for both publications and all followers of Wrights Lane will be advised of availability well in advance. Details of the books will also be released prior to publication date. An exciting time, no question about it.

Oh Those Bad Church Bulletins!

Having been the editor of a church bulletin at one time, I was amused to receive the following from my daughter the other day.

Snippets from church bulletins and announcements:

The Fasting and Prayer Conference includes meals.

The sermon this morning: "Jesus Walks on Water". Sermon tonight: "Searching for Jesus."

Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale. It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands.

The peacekeeping meeting scheduled for today has been canceled due to a conflict.

Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community.

Don't let worry kill you off --let the church help.

Miss Charlene Mason sang "I Will Not Pass This Way Again", giving obvious pleasure to the congregation.

For those of you who have children and don't know it, we have a nursery downstairs.

Next Thursday there will be tryouts for the choir. They need all the help they can get.

Sermon topic this evening: "What Is Hell?" Come early and listen to the choir.

Scouts are saving aluminum cans, bottles and other items to be recycled. Proceeds will be used to cripple children.

Potluck Supper Sunday at 5:00 p.m. Prayer and medication to follow.

Low Self Esteem Support Group will meet Thursaday at 7 p.m. Please use back door.

The Assoociate Minister unveild the church's new tithing campaign slogan last Sunday: "I Upped My Pledge -- Up Yours!"

TO MY FRIENDS AND READERS

I am taking liberties by re-working slightly a poem forwarded to me by Dargan and Theresa Burns. The author of the original piece is uknown, but I would like to leave my version of it with readers of Wrights Lane as I take temporary leave to concentrate on several books that I need to get off to a publisher in the next couple of weeks.

I will still make periodic posts to this site, but not with the regularity of the past year for a while. More about "the books" at a later date. Meantime, continue dropping in to Wrights Lane when you have a spare moment. It's good to have you!

I have a circle of Internet friends

Who mean the world to me;

Some days I send and post to them,

At other times I let them be.

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When in return I see a name download

And view the message they've sent,

I know they've thought of me that day

And good wishes were their intent.

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I am so blessed to have these friends

With whom I've grown so close;

So this little poem I dedicate to them

Because to me they mean the most.

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God bless!

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Picked up in passing: "To all, I would say how mistaken they are when they think that they stop falling in love when they grow old, without knowing that they grow old when they stop falling in love."

CONFESSIONS OF AN IMPULSIVE KID

We all know that kids will be kids. They always have been and they always will be. We all were kids at one time. Some of us still are kids to varying degrees and there is nothing wrong with that. As we mature, it is healthy for us to remain young at heart for as long as possible. In adulthood, we simply and wisely learn to temper our childish spontaneity and compulsive behavior.
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As a kid, I had more than my share of spontaneity and compulsiveness and it often got me in trouble. In fact I did some things in my growing up years that leave me somewhat ashamed to this day.
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My childhood misdeeds were by no means premeditated, rather they were generally the result of exuberance gone wrong or misdirected. An early example was an occurrence in the cloakroom of our Grade 4 class as students were returning from a visit to the school nurse who was giving needles for small pox on this particular day. Vera Bresett complained that her arm was sore, prompting me to say something to the effect that "it wasn't all that bad." If only I had left it at that, but to emphasize my point I had to give her a poke in the arm at exactly the spot where she had just been injected.
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The poke was a little harder and more accurate than I intended, causing poor Vera to break out in tears. The teacher, of course, saw her crying and asked what was wrong. Long story short, the teacher gave me a strapping for unthinkingly inflicting unnecessary pain on Vera -- six whacks on each hand. I carry the shame of that incident to this day and still wonder whatever possessed me.
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I didn't set out to victimize kids by the name of Bresett, but the next unfortunate victim of my impulsive behavior just happened to be Jim Bresett, Vera's cousin I believe. We were kibitzing around in the classroom and for some reason I happened to have a sharp object in my hand (can't for the life of me remember if it was a pin or a pen). As Jim walked away from me, I jokingly gave him a sudden jab in the bum with the (you guessed it) business end of the pointed weapon. Once again, I did not realize the force of my ill-advised prankish action. The resultant puncture wound was a source of discomfort for Jim for quite some time, particularly when he sat down, and I really do not think that he has ever forgiven me. Can't say as though I blame him.
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Another time we had been dismissed early in the afternoon to take part in our public school's annual field day -- one of my favorite extra curricular activities. Buoyed by enthusiasm and lacking patience with the slow-moving line of kids on the school steps, I gave the girl in front of me a slight push. The unexpected forward progress caused her to miss a step and we both went tumbling forward.
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Once again, a teacher appeared out of nowhere asking what had happened. The finger of course was pointed at me. Guilty as charged, I in turn accused my innocent friend Jim Ruttle of pushing me from behind. Without giving Jim a chance to defend himself, the teacher promptly ordered the two of us back to the classroom, saying "There'll be no field day for you boys today!"
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From the confines of a stuffy classroom the shrieks of laughter and cheering in the school yard for the next three hours was almost too much to endure. I can only imagine what a falsely-accused Jim was thinking. Much to his credit, however, he did not seem to hold a grudge against me in later life.
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There were other incidents back then when my exuberance backfired on me in one way or another. All I can say now to anyone who may have suffered from my youthful indiscretion, is: "I am truly sorry...Please forgive me!"
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Golly, thinking back on it now, Grace Wright really did raise a rotten kid. Thank goodness George Rupert didn't get wind of any of it.
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Oh well, there goes another pure image in exchange for the lifting of a 60-year weight.

ABOUT ROOSTING CHICKENS AND A PERVAYOR OF BRUTAL FRANKNESS

It is incredible how the more I talk to people from my home town of Dresden who respond to Wrights Lane, the more names from the distant past tend to surface and memories of funny little personal stories come flooding back.

I wrote not long ago about Gary Fraser who now resides in sunny California. Gary got a kick out of my Memories of Dresden story about Dave McCracken, a town character back in the 1940s and 50s. It seems that when Gary's family moved to Dresden, they purchased a home that was previously owned by the McCrackens who had moved just across the street. Dave sometimes helped Gary's father, Harry, with chores around a horse barn on the property.

As Gary tells it, Dave was invited in to the Fraser home one day to see some of the renovations that had been made to his old family home. Once inside, Dave took a look around and exclaimed, "Yep, still looks pretty much the same!" Then pointing up the freshly painted staircase, he added: "The chickens used to roost up there."

Gary said he thought his mother was going to have a fit.

More recently a long-forgotten name came up in conversation with another resident of Dresden and it reminded me of a couple of incidents that impacted my young life at the time. George Rupert was a couple of years older than me and it seemed as though his mission in life was to be brutally frank with me.

With a very serious face and eyes that penetrated right through me, George would make great pronouncements. One day a bunch of us had gathered in a lot beside my friend Joe Carr's home. The conversation turned to baseball and George took it upon himself to tell me in no uncertain terms that Hubert McCorckle was a better pitcher than me. He added insult to injury by stating further that the only reason I made the town's bantam baseball team that summer was because my dad was the coach.

Sometimes comments like that can have a motivational influence. I don't know, but I've never forgotten the incident. The tone of George's voice and the earnest expression on his face, are as fresh in my mind as yesterday. Who knows, maybe George's evaluation was right! I honestly do not think that he was intentionally trying to be hurtful, he was simply giving me the benefit of his honest opinion.

Another time, shortly after my barber father had passed away, I had my hair cut for the first time by his barbering associate, Jim Ford. Poor old Jim was so upset and nervous when I climbed into his barber's chair that he gave me the worst hair cut of my life. In fact, he literally scalped me.

The next evening as I was riding my bike to a softball game at Jackson's Park, there was George again approaching me with that look in his eye. "Sally Wilmott used to like you, but now with your hair all cut off she says she likes Curly Clark better!" he announced, almost without breaking stride and leaving me speechless with a churning stomach.

I wore a cap for a few days after that. It took the better part of a month for my hair to grow back and for Sally to "like me" again. But I didn't hear anything more about it from George. I guess he wasn't in the good news business as far as I was concerned.

WHAT IS TRUE LOVE?

The author of the following poem is unknown but I publish it here because it has special significance for me, and others in my life, at this time.

True love is a sacred flame

That burns eternally,

And none can dim its special glow

Or change its destiny.

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True love speaks in tender tones

And hears with gentle ear,

True love gives with open heart

And true love conquers fear.

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True love makes no harsh demands

It neither rules or binds,

And true love holds with gentle hands

The heart that it entwines.

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To which I add:

Sometimes true love takes work

And is worth fighting for,

But once you have it

You could ask for nothing more.

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Cherish it always!

LARRY F. GRAY: I KNEW HIM WHEN...

Canadian military historian once a soap box derby kid.
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I am deeply indebted to Wanda Pellerin (Gray) of Dresden for sending me the above photograph of entrants in the Dresden Optimists Club Soap Box Derby of either 1948 or '49. Identified in the Windsor Star photo are (l to r) Peter Manderson, Larry Gray (Wanda's brother), Bill Foster, Jim Tricker and Bob Drlicka. The photograph will have a permanent home in my Memories of Dresden web site.

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This also gives me an excellent opportunity to continue featuring on Wrights Lane, Dresden kids that I grew up with and who have gone on to interesting and successful careers. Larry Gray (second from left in soap box photo and above right as he is today) entered himself in the senior category of the Second Annual Dresden Soap Box Derby and his "Super Mouse" creation performed quite well, if memory serves me correctly. He worked very hard to make his soap box machine as sleek and aerodynamic as possible so that it would cut through the Dresden air with the least possible resistance as it sped down the Optimists Club's makeshift derby ramp.

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Larry was a motivated sort of young lad growing up in a small community where everyone seemed like family. He is the son of the late Clark and Neva Gray. The family lived on Centre Street. A good student, he was particularly active in Boy Scouts and you just knew that some day he would take a leading role in his chosen vocation. That vocation just happened to be a lifetime commitment to the Canadian military.

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Move the calendar ahead 60 years and Capt. Larry Francis Gray is a distinguished retired member of the Canadian Armed Forces. He served as a radio officer, air navigation and information officer before becoming the managing editor for the newspaper of the Canadian Army in Europe, known as The Beaver. He has also been a United Nations military observer and served as part of the Commonwealth Election Team in Zimbabwe in 1980.

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After he retired from the RCAF with 24 years of service under his belt, he worked with the Royal Canadian Legion, the Veterans Review and Appeal Board, and the Office of the National Defence and Canadian Forces Ombudsman. Emblematic of his contribution to Canadian military affairs he received the Minister of Veterans Affairs Commendation, the Queen's Jubilee Medal, the United Nations Peacekeeping Medal and the Canadian Forces Decoration.

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As an author Larry has published a number of articles on World War One in Esprit de Corps magazine and, with the encouragement of his school teacher wife, has written two books on the war dead from his current home in Carleton Place. His first literary effort in a "Faces and Names" project was entitled We Are the Dead followed by Fathers, Brothers and Sons that gave life to the young men who followed their Great War veteran family members into World War Two.

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It is Larry's wish that his published work will interest young Canadians in their long-neglected military history and with any luck contribute to renewed national pride. He became interested in battlefields and war cemeteries during a posting to Germany and in 1986 he developed and led a Legion tour of young people to military sites and cemeteries for the dead of both world wars.

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He continues to live in Carleton Place and Stanley Bridge, PEI, with his wife of 50 years, Gloria. His interest in the personal, human aspect of soldiers stories has not waned.

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You did extremely well for yourself Larry. Scouter George Brooker and Capt. Frank Brown would be proud of you...So would your mom, Neva.

I'LL DRINK TO THAT...I THINK!

The manager of the Walker House in Southampton has a weird sense of humor. By offering "free beer during all Maple Leafs playoff games", he really knows how to rub it in to die-hard Toronto Maple Leafs fans. Considering the Leafs did not make the NHL playoffs again this year, all I can say is "Thanks for nothing, Mr. Smart Alec!" Just wait until next year though!

ROSANNE STRIKES AGAIN

Rosanne has taken her malaprops to a new level. She has entered the realm of sayings and expressions in recent days.

Commenting on a professional athlete who is engaged in a long-standing common-law relationship, she stated: "He's not going to open the barn door when the cow is free!" I think you can figure out the two or three expressions that she was confusing.

The other day our dog Lucy was giving me extra licks for no apparent reason. "You certainly know what side your bacon is rubbed on, Lucy!" Rosanne said with a knowing laugh. Come to think about it, what do dogs know about buttered bread anyway? They're all about bacon treats and belly rubs. Makes perfect sense to me.

Presto! Just like that, two new expressions are born. Rest assured I'll find ways to keep them alive.

A DOCTOR WHO WAS ALWAYS AVAILABLE

A week or so ago I asked a friend about the health of his elderly father who lives in a small town on the northern shores of Lake Erie. He said his father was holding his own, still living in the family home with his wife, but requiring regular visits from community health care workers and a doctor "who still makes house calls".

That reference to "house calls" got me thinking about small town doctors and how much the practice has changed over the years. I was reminded of a story told by Damon Runyon about a Doc Brackett who served the community of his youth.

You didn't have to make an appointment two months in advance to see Doc Brackett. He would get up in the middle of the night and ride 20 miles to doctor a sick woman, or child, or a farmer with an injury. His office was located over a clothing store and was always filled with people. A sign at the foot of the narrow stairs read: "Dr. Brackett, office, upstairs."

The good doctor was a bachelor. Apparently he was once supposed to marry a young maiden, but on the day of the wedding he was called into the country to attend to a gravely ill Mexican child. Many hours later when he got back to the church, his bride-to-be was not to be. For more than 40 years the sick of the town climbed up and down those creaking stairs to Doc Brackett's office. He never turned away anyone and that included the down-and-out of the community. He was rarely paid for his services.

He liked to have the odd drink of whisky and he was a regular at the poker table in the back room of a local saloon when he was not seeing patients in his office or making house calls. He lived into his seventies and one day just keeled over on the sofa in his office and died. Runyon said that Doc Brackett had one of the biggest funerals ever seen in the town. There was even talk about raising money to put a proper tombstone on his grave as a memorial but the matter dragged on and nothing was done about it.

The town's undertaker noticed some time later that a memorial had suddenly appeared over the grave, complete with an epitaph. Further investigation revealed that the Mexican parents of the child Doc Brackett saved years before had been concerned about him not having a tombstone. They had no money themselves, so they took the sign from the front of the stairs at Doc's old office and stuck it in the ground over his grave. It still read: "DR. BRACKETT, OFFICE, UPSTAIRS."

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We had three doctors in my small hometown of Dresden back in the 1930s and 40s. Practices were not closed in those days and I remember seeing Drs. Payne, Ruttle and McAlpine for various reasons when I was growing up. It was always my mother's call as to which doctor I would see. Dr. Ruttle and Dr. McAlpine had offices in their homes while Dr. Payne had a separate downtown office and was the only one of the three to have a nurse/receptionist working with him.

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Dr. Payne treated my father after a stroke but just happened to be on a well-deserved vacation when my dad took a turn for the worst and fell into a coma. My mother called Dr. (Jack) Ruttle and he was in our home within 10 minutes, giving my father an injection of some kind.

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Almost miraculously, my father rallied ever so briefly and if he said it once, he said it a hundred times during the balance of that day, "Good old Doc Ruttle -- he saved my life!" Sadly, he passed away 48 hours later. Out of respect, I recently told old friend Jim Ruttle about the day his dad "saved" my dad's life, for a while.

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Drs. Ruttle, Payne and McAlpine long ago joined Runyon's Doc Brackett in a clinic with "OFFICES UPSTAIRS". God bless them!

Hate waking up in the morning?

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QUOTE OF THE DAY by my grandson Joshua Miguel Rocha on Facebook: "If you didn't wake up wouldn't that make you technically dead? But yeah, I do hate waking up (in the morning), only because I know I have to go to school."

THINGS WORK OUT IN SPITE OF US

My last post (item below) was the result of rationalization on a depressed, discouraged frame of mind after a much anticipated and well-intended undertaking did not work out as planned. I give this current post over to my absolute all-time favorite poet, the late Edgar A. Guest. In this inspirational piece he writes in his ineffable style about Things Working Out.

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Because it rains when we wish it wouldn't,
Because men do what they often shouldn't,
Because crops fail, and plans go wrong --
Some of us grumble all day long.
But somehow, in spite of the care and doubt,
It seems at last that things work out.
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Because we lose where we hoped to gain,
Because we suffer a little pain,
Because we must work when we'd like to play --
Some of us whimper along life's way.
But somehow, as day always follows the night,
Most of our troubles work out all right.
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Because we cannot forever smile,
Because we must trudge in the dust awhile,
Because we think that the way is long --
Some of us whimper that life's all wrong.
But somehow we live and our sky grows bright,
And everything seems to workout all right.
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So bend to your trouble and meet your care,
For the clouds must break, and the sky grow fair.
Let rain come down, as it must and will,
But keep on working and hoping still.
For in spite of the grumblers who stand about,
Somehow, it seems, all things work out.
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Thank you for that, Mr. Guest!

I find a measure of encouragement in my "horrorscope" for today. PISCES: If you can learn how to use your sense of humour to defuse a source of irritation, your quality of life will be enriched. With time, your quandry will be resolved.
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Okay, humour...Wherefore art thou humour!?

THINGS DON'T ALWAYS WORK OUT

Good intentions can fall short
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I just never learn! I have a tendency to put too much of myself into my undertakings and then when things do not work out as anticipated I am left totally demoralized and emotionally shattered. What I fail to accept, at my peril, is the fact that there is no way to predict the future or how others may perceive good intentions. My journalistic background as an editorialist should have seasoned me, but it hasn't...completely.

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Intensity has often worked against me in my life and I would not be writing this item now were it not for the fact I am a living example of how motivation and enthusiasm can often unexpectedly backfire on a person. Sad but true!

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One should never lose sight of the reality that what is meaningful and important to us personally may well be of little significance to someone else. There is also another disturbing fact of life: people tend to hear only what they want to hear and see only what they want to see. It is indeed an extremely insightful communicator who is able to take all of that into consideration.
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I recently had one of those demoralizing, shattering experiences where my enthusiasm and creativity went the way of a wet balloon. Circumstances generally, were not conducive to a seamless acceptance of what I was presenting and the time that it took me to present it. As is so often the case with me, in a frenzy of passion, I over-worked the situation, failing to remember that sometimes less is more. Or at least some people would have it that way when otherwise inner directed. I exceeded expectations on one hand and in so doing innocently caused consternation on the other.

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Attempts at defensive justification after the fact only made matters worse. I should not have bothered. Minds were set and a simple misunderstanding took on a life of its own. Nobility is frequently in the eye of the beholder.

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I will not divulge further details except to say that there was a hard-learned lesson for me in all of this. There is no way for us to predict all the twists and turns in life, so we should not leave ourselves vulnerable to inflated expectations. We have to understand that many times others view things with different eyes than ours and have expectations quite apart from our own. Perceptions and interpretations also frequently vary and do not necessarily dove-tail with ours. Then, of course, mistakes can be made and we have to be prepared to deal with the inevitability of a certain amount of backlash.

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For those of us who believe we create our own reality, in truth, it is a co-creation with a power much greater than us. We can be optimistic in our thinking as we anticipate a particular outcome, but at some point we need to let go of the picture of how we think things should turn out. Life is a big surprise -- some times pleasant and other times not so pleasant. We can only do our best and then let go. In experiencing what follows, we can be taken places we could never have anticipated.

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The one nice part of a difficult situation is that it will eventually pass. Things tend to work themselves out, although perhaps not always in the way we expect. If we feel that we are moving in the right direction, then we should just keep going. Quiting is also an option, but then we admit defeat.

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Someone once said: "Everything is okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end!"

DISCORD ON HARMONIZED SALES TAX

Click graphic for enlarged view.I have refrained from using Wrights Lane to discuss political issues, but I am breaking from precedent with this post. Generally we Ontarioites accept most Queen's Park initiatives as facts of life with barely a flinch, but I strongly believe that now is the time for seniors in particular to stand up and be heard on a matter that is certain to cost us dearly.
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I am talking about the Ontario government's plan to combine GST and PST into one tax, otherwise to be known as the Harmonized Sales Tax, or HST.
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In fairness, the Harmonized or blended theory is quite understandable, but the plan to apply it to items that were previously PST exempt is ill-advised and will cost all of us hundreds, if not thousands, of dollars on every day needs. The intention to cut down on the paperwork burden will certainly be welcomed by Ontario businesses as will be the opportunity to lessen staff by merging departments. But there is a problem...And that problem is the fact that the new tax will apply to almost all goods and services that you and I do not pay PST on now.
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We are about to become the victim of the largest tax hike in our history. Just look at a few of the things that are to be charged the extra eight percent (8%): gasoline, home heating fuel, water, hydro, used cars, government and city services, and any service you now use for your home or business i.e.) repairs, professional services and construction materials, to name a few. In reality, almost everything currently without PST in our life (except children's clothing, prescriptions, diapers and feminine hygiene products) will now cost 8% more. And here's the kicker, the fuel tax will slide with the increasing cost of gasoline.
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The $1,000 bribe being offered to families with income of $160,000 or less and $300 to singles with income of $80,000 or less will not even cover half of the increased cost to the average Ontario family. Hardest hit will be low-income families who will not see their benefits or incomes rise accordingly. Bear in mind also that the payout to families will be in the form of three installments over a two-year period.
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I get the sneeking suspicion that Premier Dalton McGuinty is counting on taxpapers to do what they always do when a new tax is implemented. Nothing! It is exceedingly important that we research this issue and discuss the injustice of it with friends and family. In the end we need to move quickly to contact our local MPPs and to file objections with the Premier himself. We can suggest two possible options: 1) STOP THE TAX GRAB ALTOGETHER OR 2) DO WHAT WAS ORIGINALLY INTENDED AND BLEND THE TAX ONLY ON THE PRODUCTS THAT NOW HAVE BOTH PST AND GST.
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Take advantage of a convenient objection/opinion form posted by the office of Premier Dalton McGuinty at http://www.premier.gov.on.ca/feedback/feedback.asp. Let yourself be heard!

REMEMBERING THE DETROIT TIGERS

Boyhood heroes

...then and now

I write this post for a couple of my friends who are die-hard baseball fans and grew up with me in Dresden listening to the unforgettable radio voice of Harry Heilmann broadcasting Detroit Tigers baseball games from Briggs Stadium in the 1940s.

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I also have a new acquaintance in mind, Larry S. Balkwill of Chatham, who bleeds Tigers orange and blue. Larry grew up in Leamington where everybody is a Detroit Tigers fan. I have been teasing Larry on Facebook about the early-season success of my Toronto Blue Jays this spring and I don't think that he understands that I was once a Tigers fan.

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Truth be known I had a love affair with the historic Briggs Stadium in Detroit, virtually from the time I was old enough to listen to those memorable broadcasts by Heilmann, himself one of the greatest players to ever wear a Tigers uniform. In fact my grandparents and my mother as a young girl once lived a block away from the stadium (then known as Navin Field) on Karmel Avenue in the 1920s. My grandfather allowed cars to be parked on his front lawn for .25 cents on game days.

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The "Baseball At The Corner" poster (above), given to me by one of my daughters, has a special place on a den wall.

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My father and I were frequent visitors to "Detroit's Field of Dreams" in the mid and late 1940s. I remember seeing "The Splendid Splinter" Ted Williams of the Boston Red Sox; "Rapid" Bob Feller, the great Cleveland Indians pitcher; Ed Lopat, the Chicago White Sox mound ace; Mickey Mantle in his second season with the New York Yankees, Ralph Kiner in his last season with the Indians and Larry Doby of Cleveland, the second black player in the Majors after Jackie Robinson's breakthrough season (to name a few Hall of Fame standouts), all play in Detroit. A rare triple play cleverly initiated by Detroit third baseman George Kell is still fresh in my mind.

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My all-time favorite Detroit players as a kid were first baseman/outfielder Hank Greenberg, lefthanded pitcher Hal Newhouser and the talented Al Kaline (right) who became known as "Mr. Tiger". My dad used to tell me stories about his favorite player, Lynwood Thomas "Schoolboy" Rowe, an outstanding Detroit pitcher who retired from the game in 1942 before I got to see him play.

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The Steve O'Neill-managed teams of 1945-'46 were my favorite edition of the Tigers, not because they won the World Series but just because. The aforementioned Hal Newhouser, Art Houtteman, Dizzy Trout, Virgil Trucks and Stubby Overmire were pitching stalwarts on those teams. Bob Swift, Paul Richards and Birdie Tebbetts handled the catching chores. Hank Greenberg, Rudy York, Bob Maier, Skeeter Webb, Eddie Mayo and George Kell were infield regulars while Doc Cramer, Jimmy Outlaw and Roy Cullenbine patrolled the outfield. Outfielders Hoot Evers, Pat Mullin, Johnny Groth and Dick Wakefield came along a few years later as did shortstop Harvey Kuenn, another favorite of mine.

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Boy, those were the days! A great time for boyhood fantasies. I lived vicariously through Reno Bertoia of Windsor who signed with the Tigers as an 18-year-old "bonus baby" in 1953 and played in his first major league game that season.

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A highlight of my own baseball career came in 1957 when I was invited by player-turned-scout Pat Mullin to take pre-game batting practice with the Tigers at Briggs Stadium and was subsequently selected to take part in a prospects game on the hallowed field. In the late 1960s I developed a working relationship with Tigers public relations man Ernie Harwell and attended several media day events hosted by the team. By then the ball park had been re-named Tigers Stadium. Memorable on-field interviews were conducted with manager Billy Martin, pitcher Mickey Lolich, first baseman Norman Cash, outfielder Willie Horton and rookie pitcher Mike Kilkenny of Bradford, Ont.

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The last time I visited a very tired Tigers Stadium was in 1971 and I didn't even have the foresight to pick up a handful of infield dirt or a patch of outfield grass as a keepsake. The Tigers played their last game at the old Corktown neighborhood location on September 27, 1999 and moved to their new home at newly constructed Comerica Park the next season.

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While most of the old stadium has been demolished, the dugout and backstop area is reportedly still standing and may be salvaged as a historic site if and when the city irons out the red tape.

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So there you go guys. A little trip down baseball's memory lane, or should I say to the "The Corner" of Michigan Avenue and Trumbell Boulevard.

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IN MEMORIUM:

Mark "The Bird" Fidrych (14/8/54 - 13/4/09). One of a kind. God threw away the mould.

ARE YOU IN HARMONY OR HELLED?

"Within yourself lies the cause of whatever enters into life. To come into the full realization of your own awakened interior powers, is to be able to condition your life in exact accord with what you would have it." --Ralph Waldo Trine, author, approx. 1896.
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Optimists and pessimists are about as different as night and day. They are similar, however, in that each has a particular point of view that is a determining factor in their life. I have gone through most of my existence believing that it doesn't hurt to be a little pessimistic at times, providing of course that you are predominantly optimistic.
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Truth be known: You can't be a little bit pessimistic any more than you can be a little bit pregnant. Optimism and pessimism are like oil and water, never blending no matter how hard you stir. I have been wrong in trying to mix the two and I don't mind admitting it.
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I arrived at my current state of understanding by asking myself three questions. 1) Do I prefer strength or impotence? 2) Do I want peace or pain? 3) Do I aspire to success or failure? The answer in each case was obvious.
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Optimists and pessimists both build their world from within based on perception. One, I believe, creates a type of heaven while the other contributes to a certain hell. You and I have the predominating characteristics of either an optimist or a pessimist. We are making, hour by hour, our own heaven or our own hell; and in the degree that we are making one or the other we are helping make it for all of mankind. There is very definitely a domino effect. In both cases we make a contribution to the world, one positive and one negative.
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The optimist calls on wisdom and insight to maintain a positive attitude while the pessimist is questioning by nature and has a very narrow, limited view on life in general.
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The word harmony has pleasing, heavenly connotations. The old English word hell means to build a wall around, to separate; to be helled was to be shut off from. If there is such a thing as harmony in our life there must be something that we are in sync with or in close relationship to. Likewise, if there is such a thing as being helled, then there must be something from which we are held or separated.
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I always suspected that there was something holding me back for all these years and now I understand that it was ME keeping ME from being ME, aided and abetted by that little bit of pessimism that I thought was so healthy. I guess you are never too old to learn something about life -- and yourself.

THE DISTORTION OF OUR FREEDOM

We in North America today are enjoying the greatest freedom our revolving and evolving world has ever known. Sounds encouraging, doesn't it? But wait just a minute.
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The freedom I am talking about is a freedom that has led to the tendency to ignore the very things that others died to provide. That, to me, is scary to say the least.
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We are free to neglect the right of franchise. We are free to neglect the liberties we have inherited. Surely there can be no greater freedom than that! At the top of the neglect or disregard list is religious liberty, the foundation of all other freedoms. Take that away and eventually all freedoms crumble. Somehow that message has failed to sink in.
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Religious freedom has been distorted to mean freedom from religion. But it hasn't stopped there. The well-intended swing to political correctness has been carried too far in other important areas of our life as well. Desperately we need a return to government by principles rather than by politics.
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After all said and done, freedom is not the right to do as one pleases, but the opportunity to do what is right. Our Founding Fathers sought freedom...
--not from law but freedom in law;
--not freedom from government, but freedom in government;
--not freedom from speech, but freedom in speech;
--not freedom from the press, but freedom in the press;
--not freedom from religion, but freedom in religion.
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A few more things for us to ponder in the days ahead. Quite frankly, all this pondering is starting to wear me out!

WANT A CURE? THAT'S THE SPIRIT!

The British Medical Journal once put it this way: "There is not a tissue in the human body wholly removed from the influence of the spirit."
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In other words, it has been discovered that there is a closer relationship between our minds, our emotions, the state of our spiritual health, and our bodies, than doctors thought possible at one time. For instance, it is a well-known fact that the hyper acidity often leading to stomach ulcers, is directly caused by emotional stress and, generally, a sense of frustration. Many of us can vouch for that out of personal experience.
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Physicians have also recognized that the same is equally true of other diseases. No constitutional disease is free from the effects of mental strain. An internationally known specialist in arthritis has recently stated that it has been increasingly evident that physical health is closely associated with, and often dependent upon, spiritual health.
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So it seems to me that if tension and worry are the great sins of our day, and if they affect not only our spiritual health, peace of mind and happiness, as well as our physical health, it is certainly worthy of our utmost efforts to learn how to overcome them.
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A young man, about to be brutally crucified, once offered his "yoke" to the world. The yoke He imposed was an easy one. It does not chafe, hurt or hold you back. On the contrary -- it takes away pain, gives freedom and leads to a fuller and happier life. (Matthew 11:28)

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To me, a perfect antidote for what ails us. How can we not reach out and grasp it?.

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Something to ponder this Easter weekend!?

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NOTE FROM DICK: Check your newspaper this weekend, even television newscasts. How many stories are there about the Easter Bunny and Easter eggs compared to references to the real meaning of Easter and why it should be celebrated. Kind of tells you something about society as it exists today.

WE ARE NOT BOUND BY OUR PAST

We often speak of objective proper behavior or a non-subjective attitude toward the outside world. Most physicists, psychologists and physiologists agree that people yearn to change yet tend to remain the same. It is unquestionably a fundamental human paradox. A key factor in this resistance to self-transformation is that most of us behave as if our future is completely and irrevocably forfeited by what we have done in the past.

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I have touched on this subject numerous times, as recently as a couple of posts ago, and I keep coming back to it. My contention has been that the maturing process should never come to a standstill in any place of human activity if life is to be a healthy, fulfilling experience. We do not have to lock ourselves to our past, particularly if it is a negative, self damaging past that can only hold us back from realizing our full potential and ultimate enjoyment of life.

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What I am saying here is that we all have been subjected at varying stages of our life to expedient truths that have never been tested in reality. We should not, at any stage of our existance, deny the impulse to contradict beliefs and concepts that have been imposed on us if they are personally troubling. We perpetrate old fairy tales created out of societal expediency only at our own peril.

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There is nothing that we know with absolute certainty that warrants acceptance without contradiction. The things we have accepted with utter confidence are simply those which we have taken for granted habitually for a long time without feeling the need to question them. To be truly mature, we must be capable of separating past experience into its component parts and using only those that fit in present circumstances. We are the sole judge of our behavior and the propriety of our judgment depends on personal experience of the world.

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By all means, it behooves us to nurture experiences from the past that comfort us or bring us a feeling of achievement, but there is no rule on God's green earth that says we have to be continually victimized by concepts and situations that we had little control over in the first place.

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The past can be useful only when we use it to provide building blocks for a creative future and to make the road to maturity just a little smoother and less treacherous for those who follow.

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There has to be a reason why I feel compelled to reinforce all of this.

SCRATCHING THE BASEBALL ITCH

Pleased to see that the Baseball Canada Network has picked up two of my recent baseball stories -- The Two Larry Balkwill's and The Boy Who Made A Big Catch -- in the "On the Sandlots" section. The BCN features everything you ever wanted to know about baseball in Canada and is administered by baseball feature writer Bob Elliott.

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...Had a couple of nice emails from Bill Horne of St. Thomas in response to the story I did several weeks ago on his fastball accomplishments. Bill reports that his St. Thomas team may be playing two games in Port Elgin this summer and that will certainly be an opportunity for the two of us to get together after more than 40 years. Also heard from Bill's sister Karen (Horne) Murphy of Oakville. Karen was the Wright's favorite go-to-babysitter at one time.

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...Some good news and some bad news about the baseball-playing Cook twins of Dresden. After picking up the win in relief for Indian Hills College Falcons in a season-opening marathon game against Prima Community College, Matt suffered a badly broken wrist while batting in the second inning of a game against Eastern Arizona, March 10, and will be lost to the team for the balance of the year. Matt started the game on the mound and pitched into the third inning in spite of his injury. Brother Justin, I am happy to report, has impressed his coaches with two strong relief pitching performances and picked up a couple of hits for the Falcons in a recent 9-2 drubbing of Longview Community College. Justin (p, 3b) and Matt (p, 1b) are in their freshman year at Indian Hills and have taken a giant leap into highly competitive American college baseball. We'll continue to monitor their progress. Meantime, it goes without saying that his untimely injury has been extremely disappointing for Matt, but in the long run it will only be a blip on his baseball radar. Heal well and come back next season Matt, healthy and strong, with an even more determined attitude. Dresden guys are tough!

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...Rosanne was singing the praises of a Canadian figure skater she had seen on television. "She has such fluent movement," Rosanne raved. Meaning, of course, that the skater had "fluid" movement. Just the latest in a growing list of Rosanneisms.

DON'T BE SILLY, IT'S GONNA BE OKAY

"If you can start the day without caffeine, live without complaining, eat the same food every day and be grateful, relax without a cocktail, and sleep without the aid of a sedative, you are probably the family dog."

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It seems like some subject matter comes to me in batches. I launched this site with a series on failure, then it was boyhood memories. More recently I wrote several items on turning oysters into pearls, followed by a three-part feature on feathers and last week I was on a baseball kick. This week dogs have been on my mind.

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What can I say? I love dogs with the same intensity as my affection for children. Whoever originated the saying "man's best friend", really nailed it. My constant companion is a Miniature Rat Terrier named Lucy who is sleeping at my feet as I write this item. My wife Rosanne is sleeping too, but she is in her recliner chair watching television.

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I was taken the other day by a story related by Phil Callaway, a noted speaker and best-selling Canadian author. When Phil's father passed away a few years ago, he left the care of his Maltese-Shih Tzu lap dog to his son. Mojo (named after Moses and Jonah) has never taken to Phil with the same affection he had for his dad.

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As Phil tells it, when his father was alive, Mojo was his biggest fan, following him around their suite, grinning up at him past crooked teeth and pouncing on his lap. "The two sat by the window happily munching bananas, lost in a one-sided conversation," he recalls. When Alzheimer's reared its ugly head for her master, Mojo remained a constant source of comfort.

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One June evening the Callaway family was lounging on their covered deck, watching the sky change color in the west. Mojo was slumped on Mr. Callaway's lap as usual, but once the clouds rattled with thunder, she began to shake.

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I'll let Phil take the story from here:

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"It'll be okay," Dad whispered, patting her head reassuringly. But she wouldn't be comforted. "I've got you don't worry," he murmured, massaging her shoulders. But she wouldn't listen. An irrational fear had gripped her tiny body. She trembled. She shook. She panted. And as the clouds tumbled closer and the rain touched down, she leaped from his lap, darted under a wheelbarrow, and refused to come out.

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Dad leaned forward. "Don't be silly," he said, shaking his head. "It's gonna be okay.".

"So do you think God feels a little like we do right now, dad?" I suggested. "Trying to comfort frightened creatures who can't understand what's going on? Do you think He's trying to tell us to trust him? That it's gonna be okay?"

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I think it was the only time I ever preached to my dad. He looked my way, and a smile pulled at the corners of his eyes. I know for a fact that doubts lingered and the questions remained unanswered. But when the storm ended and the dog hopped back on his lap, the doubts seemed to fade into insignificance.

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As he held the dog close, I thought of our Heavenly Father who holds us in His arms amid life's storms, whispering, "Don't be silly, my child. It's gonna be okay!"

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Thank you for that Phil.

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With acknowledgement to the Presbyterian Record and illustrator Jonny Mendelson