In June of 2002 I posted a piece about some of the houses we lived in while I was growing up, including our house at 500 Walter Street. It was a modest little two-bedroom across the street from the high school. A few months ago I started getting email describing unusual “modifications” by the current owners. The photos speak for themselves. I hope they enjoy the house as much as we did.
It is 1958. July. About dusk. I’m standing in deep centerfield of the baseball diamond at Jones Memorial Park. I can hear music coming from the ice cream place across the street, behind me. I’m not really daydreaming but I’m not completely focused on the game, either. I might be closer to the ice cream place than to home plate.
A sharp “crack” yanks me back to the game. The crowd is yelling and looking in my direction. But up. A high, fly ball is coming my way. I frantically search the sky. If I don’t get a visual lock on the fly ball, it could land at my feet. It could smash into my face and kill me. I spot it. Coming straight down. It seems almost motionless, just getting larger and larger. There’s no time to raise my glove hand but I manage to get it open at my waist. Two thousand miles to the west, another Mays is standing in centerfield, Candlestick Park, executing a far more relaxed version of this same maneuver.
Back at Jones Memorial Park, the ball ricochets off my bony, ten-year-old chest and into my glove. Because of the distance and the angle, the crowd sees only Mays, in deep centerfield, making a perfect “basket catch.” But we’re not related.
I think Frank Proctor made me memorize the state capitols and all of the U. S. presidents (I no longer know either). One summer he started his “Merry Mobile” business. He drove up and down the streets of Kennett selling frozen treats. He was also the junior high basketball coach and one of my greatest achievments was “making” the team. I loved playing basketball in the back yard but was terrible at the real thing. I warmed benches through the 10th grade before hanging up my Chuck Taylors and rediscovered the joy of the game at the city park. The Web cannot be complete without this photo of the Kennett Junior High Basketball Team.
Back Row: Terry Hunter, Mike Shipman, Robert Taylor, Phil Ayers, Buddy Shivley, Jerry Bird, Otis Mitchell, Randy Carter, Brett Baker. Front Row: Tommy LaTurno, Ben Pickard, Larry Hale, Bruce Baker, Steve Mays, John Robison, Tommy Saunches, Darrell Jackson, Tony Stewart.
The Shilo was a honky-tonk. Like a dozen other in Kennett at the time. But when Don Akers brought his band (Scandal?) back to Kennett and became the “house band,” The Shilo was something more. It was Hot & Nasty and The Disco King. It was Foosball. And when Don and Suzy and the band took the stage… it just rocked.
We’re blogging this Christmas Eve from Terry and Nancy’s home in Kennett. Everyone but Ripley and I are packed in at the First Presbyterian Church for the annual choral extravaganza.
A few minutes ago I had some delicious chicken salad that Nancy made. She said it was quite likely that Lance Armstrong enjoyed some of this very same chicken salad earlier today. He and Sheryl Crow were in for an early Christmas and Nancy sent over some sandwiches. We are but two ships, knoshing in the night.
I think the best part of publishing (?) a website is connecting with others. I get the most amazing email from strangers who google their way to my sites. Got a couple tonight. Maybe it’s the holidays. People are wondering about old friends:
“By chance I typed into Google the name Norman Shainberg as part of the research I’m helping my father with. Mr. Shainberg and my father were in the same room together at Stalag IX C known as Meiningen, during the WWII. IX C was a camp for Krieges who were recovering from wounds prior to being shipped out to more permanent locations. Dad’s note book indicates that Mr. Shainberg was the pilot of a Boston, and that he had lost his leg to the propellor upon bailing out over Pas de Calais, France in July 1944. Is Mr. Shainberg still alive? My father is well and lives in Montreal. I’ll have to direct Dad to your web site, he’ll be very interested.”
Unfortunately Mr. Shainberg died about 20 years ago. But it sounds like he lived an amazing life.
Larry Thomason died today. He was having some kind of routine surgery and his heart stopped. I’ve known Larry Joe since high school and he was a big part of The Basement Diaries. Great poker player. Good photographer. Loved politics.
The incoming rounds are getting closer.
“The new man in Sheryl Crow’s life is Tour de France champ Lance Armstrong, 32. The pair have been quietly seeing each other for the past few weeks, and sources say the rocker, 41, is smitten.”
I’d been hearing/reading that for a few weeks but didn’t think much about until getting some on-the-ground confirmation this week in Kennett. My sources tell me Lance spent Thanksgiving with Sheryl and her family in Kennett. Okay, that’s surreal enough. But the five time Tour de France winner is reported to have gone cycling while in town. Don’t know the full route but he apparently biked down HW 25 to Senath. I just don’t have the words to express how bizarre that strikes me.
He was at home with friends and family nearby. He was 83 and –until very recently– worked his morning shift at a local radio station. I won’t attempt to sum up such a full, rich life. I had the good sense to sit down with him a few years ago and record some of his memories from the early days at KBOA. Mr. Rudy was a radio personality at a time when that really meant something and it was the perfect medium for him. Radio –and those of us that knew Mr. Rudy– are poorer for his passing.
“The first time we drove by your old house we saw some very strange looking construction – boxes on poles in the back yard. The next time we drove by there were about 12 – 15 birds in the street. At first we thought they were small chickens they looked more like chickens that pigeons but later deduced they must have been pigeons and must reside in those strange looking constructions in the back yard.” — Buddy Shively on recent visit to Kenentt
