Some of the most vivid dreams I remember as a child were the ones when I would be digging in the side of a hill and suddenly I was digging out coins…lots and lots of coins. At the time it probably seemed like a lot of money, nickels and dimes and quarters. The dreams probably grew out of stories of pirates and buried treasure. I also remember reading stories of lost mines full of gold still there for the person to find them.
I don’t believe that I will someday come across a lost gold mine or walking along the beach I will still the corner of chest filled with Spanish doubloons but I think buried deep in my imagination I still think it could happen.
Right now in my life I think searching the thrift store and the occasion
all garage sale or auction is fed by the imagination that I will find a treasure….and too some extent I have. Of course this just feeds the obsession and that of course is the worrisome part…I don’t like being obsessed but I can feel it sometimes drawing me in. It is what keeps me going to Goodwill over my lunch hour several days a week and what made me want to walk the streets of the nearby neighborhood garage sale last Saturday when I had lots of yard work. I didn’t go to the garage sale but I wanted to.
So what treasures have I found that keep me going back. Well there were the five brand new law school text books that I paid 75 cents each for and resold for around $300 on Amazon. There was the CD set of hair cutting instruction that went for over $100 on eBay. I have a lot more books that have sold for less but all for a profit. Of course there are books that haven’t sold yet (or probably won’t ever – I have about 300 of those). I also have a lot of clothing items that haven’t sold on ebay…many of which I just need the time to list. (Ebay takes a lot longer than Amazon).
I also need to get rid of some things…the downside of being an obsessed dreamer is that it tends to reinforce that part of me which is a “hoarder – a person who has a hard time throwing anything out…but maybe that is best saved for another post).
Meanwhile check out my eBay postings…right now I have some things listed that will only reinforce the dream and a few things that are listed (as cheaply as possible and still make money or at least break even…that is reinforcing the dream too I guess.)
http://www.ebay.com/sch/dchs1974/m.html?item=111060073004&ssPageName=STRK%3AMESELX%3AIT&rt=nc&_trksid=p2047675.l2562
I put a link to my listing above but not sure if it is going to show up.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
Monday, April 1, 2013
My Summer of Baseball at Age 13
Despite the cool weather I was reminded the other day that it is indeed spring. I looked out the car window while driving into a field of green and saw a baseball practice and I was suddenly 13 again. I had never played organized baseball but the announcement was made at school that Babe Ruth baseball teams were forming and that we could sign up.
I had never played organized baseball because when a similar sign up was announced in 3rd grade I forgot about it until after the deadline. My mother (correctly now I know) assured me that I could still join but rules are rules and I had missed the deadline. Little League was not to be. So while many of my friends played Little League baseball I didn't and because I had missed the entry into Level One I couldn't just start in the middle (although now I know I could have.)
But Babe Ruth was a fresh start, another level and I was ready. Babe Ruth was for boys 13 to 15 and I was assigned to a team sponsored by a local clothing store named Anderson s and that was the name of our team. I don’t know how I was picked for Anderson’s and when the first practices came around I didn't know anyone on my team. I am sure it was pretty obvious to the coaches that I didn't know much about baseball and they probably had found out I had never played before. I don’t remember a lot of practices but I remember the one in which a high fly ball hit off of the tip of my glove and turned my nose into a bloody mess. I believe that is when the tip of the cartilage of my nose was split, a facial defect that I still bare today. But it was another fly ball that left an even bigger scar.
Everyone had to play in the game with at least one at bat and one inning, I think that was the rule set by the league….at least I know on our team everyone got to play. It was usually in the during the last innings that I made my appearance. Looking back that makes no sense but there is that “honor” of starting the game but I think now that it would better to put your worst players on the field in the early innings…but that isn't how it happened. I would make one appearance in the field and at the plate. I never got a hit all year but I would dream of hitting a home run and of someday even being a pitcher. One day while throwing the ball against the side of our house I broke the kitchen window. I felt really bad and had no money to pay for it but my mom said if I got a hit that I wouldn't have to pay. One game I actually made contact and drove it deep into center field where it was caught. I guess I hit it far and hard enough that the next game I got put in the game a bit sooner. I never got a hit but I did get on base several times. I was left handed, and fairly big and definitely slow. I think all characteristics that led opposing pitchers to manage to hit me. I didn't mean to get hit and it usually hurt but it was better than what usually happened which was strike out. My mom never did make me pay for the window (which probably was because I had no money but she said that I had hit the ball really hard and it was almost as good).
Anderson’s was one of the better teams in the league but not the best but we were always competitive. One warm clear summer evening nearing the end of the season it was late in the evening and Anderson’s was leading I think by two and it was in the last inning. I found myself in right field hoping that no one would hit the ball to me. Bases loaded and two outs suddenly a smack of the bat and the ball is rising and coming in my direction. I think one has time to think of a lot of things in that split second and I should probably have been thinking about using two hands or squeezing the mitt tight but my memories are a mix of feeling the sheer terror of the moment and the anticipation of being the hero. The ball hit my glove and fell to the ground. Do I grab it and throw it in? I don’t remember. Did someone else run and get it? I don’t remember? I do remember that the bases were loaded and everyone scored and that our second baseman Don was yelling at me. I don’t remember what he yelled but I felt bad, real bad. Was the game over or did we had one more chance? Did I come up and strike out? I don’t remember. I do remember not going to anymore games that year. I couldn't, it hurt too much. I don’t think anyone missed me.
I had never played organized baseball because when a similar sign up was announced in 3rd grade I forgot about it until after the deadline. My mother (correctly now I know) assured me that I could still join but rules are rules and I had missed the deadline. Little League was not to be. So while many of my friends played Little League baseball I didn't and because I had missed the entry into Level One I couldn't just start in the middle (although now I know I could have.)
But Babe Ruth was a fresh start, another level and I was ready. Babe Ruth was for boys 13 to 15 and I was assigned to a team sponsored by a local clothing store named Anderson s and that was the name of our team. I don’t know how I was picked for Anderson’s and when the first practices came around I didn't know anyone on my team. I am sure it was pretty obvious to the coaches that I didn't know much about baseball and they probably had found out I had never played before. I don’t remember a lot of practices but I remember the one in which a high fly ball hit off of the tip of my glove and turned my nose into a bloody mess. I believe that is when the tip of the cartilage of my nose was split, a facial defect that I still bare today. But it was another fly ball that left an even bigger scar.
Everyone had to play in the game with at least one at bat and one inning, I think that was the rule set by the league….at least I know on our team everyone got to play. It was usually in the during the last innings that I made my appearance. Looking back that makes no sense but there is that “honor” of starting the game but I think now that it would better to put your worst players on the field in the early innings…but that isn't how it happened. I would make one appearance in the field and at the plate. I never got a hit all year but I would dream of hitting a home run and of someday even being a pitcher. One day while throwing the ball against the side of our house I broke the kitchen window. I felt really bad and had no money to pay for it but my mom said if I got a hit that I wouldn't have to pay. One game I actually made contact and drove it deep into center field where it was caught. I guess I hit it far and hard enough that the next game I got put in the game a bit sooner. I never got a hit but I did get on base several times. I was left handed, and fairly big and definitely slow. I think all characteristics that led opposing pitchers to manage to hit me. I didn't mean to get hit and it usually hurt but it was better than what usually happened which was strike out. My mom never did make me pay for the window (which probably was because I had no money but she said that I had hit the ball really hard and it was almost as good).
Anderson’s was one of the better teams in the league but not the best but we were always competitive. One warm clear summer evening nearing the end of the season it was late in the evening and Anderson’s was leading I think by two and it was in the last inning. I found myself in right field hoping that no one would hit the ball to me. Bases loaded and two outs suddenly a smack of the bat and the ball is rising and coming in my direction. I think one has time to think of a lot of things in that split second and I should probably have been thinking about using two hands or squeezing the mitt tight but my memories are a mix of feeling the sheer terror of the moment and the anticipation of being the hero. The ball hit my glove and fell to the ground. Do I grab it and throw it in? I don’t remember. Did someone else run and get it? I don’t remember? I do remember that the bases were loaded and everyone scored and that our second baseman Don was yelling at me. I don’t remember what he yelled but I felt bad, real bad. Was the game over or did we had one more chance? Did I come up and strike out? I don’t remember. I do remember not going to anymore games that year. I couldn't, it hurt too much. I don’t think anyone missed me.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Do You Know the Muffin Man?
Last weekend I decided to make some blueberry muffins for our Sunday potluck at church. I have 20 blueberry bushes and this past summer during the peak of the season I know I baked over 500 muffins just by the number of muffin containers I went through. (By containers I mean that thing piece of paper that fits into the pan and the uncooked batter is poured into.) The point being is, I have baked muffins before. Not all of the blueberries I picked last summer found their way into muffins and others were frozen to be sprinkled on cereal, made into pies and mmmm – muffins.
Last summer, after a couple attempts trying several recipes I had settled on my new favorite and with the book open to the page “blueberry muffins” I began following the recipe. Oil, Eggs, Sugar, Flour, etc.
Hmm, “etc”…I will return to that.
I always double the recipe and depending how much batter I put into the liners I can usually get somewhere between 20 and 24 muffins into the two muffin tins that hold 12 each. On this evening I made 23. It usually takes a little over 20 minutes for them to bake but I check in a little before that and it was the first indication that something was wrong. They hadn’t begun to brown like they usually do. I chalked this up the oven not being preheated and my being anxious to get going popping them in before it was. Time’s up…still not browned…3 more minutes then 3 more and 2 more for good measure. I finally turned the oven off, opened the door and let them cool as I went off to watch TV.
Twenty minutes later it seemed like time to check the muffins. Hmm, not quite as big as they sometimes were, first bite and I knew something was wrong. I looked at the muffin, though a little more and suddenly realized that I had forgotten to add the baking powder. Baking powder which helps them to rise and be fluffy and not thick and chewy. The sweetness was there…the extra blueberries that I always add helped but just a little baking powder missing and they were a muffin disaster.
Had then been any kind of muffin other than made with my lovingly grown, hand-picked blueberries I might have tossed them. Instead, I made the decision to not take them to church on Sunday but to wait to take them to work on Monday. Meanwhile we ate a few of them and then a few more. Monday came and I forgot to take them to work (subconscious – perhaps). Tuesday, forgot again. Tuesday evening and I am looking at them thinking maybe they are getting a bit too old and too tired looking to take to work on Wednesday and there were only about 6 of them left anyway. What I am going to eat for supper? Muffins –mmm – no. Eggs, an omelet…yes….mmm- NO. Blender, eggs, muffins,,,,grind away (oh add a little baking powder)…turn on the fry pan. Muffin pancakes….not bad, as long as you add the appropriate amount of syrup.
Last summer, after a couple attempts trying several recipes I had settled on my new favorite and with the book open to the page “blueberry muffins” I began following the recipe. Oil, Eggs, Sugar, Flour, etc.
Hmm, “etc”…I will return to that.
I always double the recipe and depending how much batter I put into the liners I can usually get somewhere between 20 and 24 muffins into the two muffin tins that hold 12 each. On this evening I made 23. It usually takes a little over 20 minutes for them to bake but I check in a little before that and it was the first indication that something was wrong. They hadn’t begun to brown like they usually do. I chalked this up the oven not being preheated and my being anxious to get going popping them in before it was. Time’s up…still not browned…3 more minutes then 3 more and 2 more for good measure. I finally turned the oven off, opened the door and let them cool as I went off to watch TV.
Twenty minutes later it seemed like time to check the muffins. Hmm, not quite as big as they sometimes were, first bite and I knew something was wrong. I looked at the muffin, though a little more and suddenly realized that I had forgotten to add the baking powder. Baking powder which helps them to rise and be fluffy and not thick and chewy. The sweetness was there…the extra blueberries that I always add helped but just a little baking powder missing and they were a muffin disaster.
Had then been any kind of muffin other than made with my lovingly grown, hand-picked blueberries I might have tossed them. Instead, I made the decision to not take them to church on Sunday but to wait to take them to work on Monday. Meanwhile we ate a few of them and then a few more. Monday came and I forgot to take them to work (subconscious – perhaps). Tuesday, forgot again. Tuesday evening and I am looking at them thinking maybe they are getting a bit too old and too tired looking to take to work on Wednesday and there were only about 6 of them left anyway. What I am going to eat for supper? Muffins –mmm – no. Eggs, an omelet…yes….mmm- NO. Blender, eggs, muffins,,,,grind away (oh add a little baking powder)…turn on the fry pan. Muffin pancakes….not bad, as long as you add the appropriate amount of syrup.
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