Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington - clear and warm.
Wind`s Tea morning - the 7th day of the 7th month - 2011
WHAT I LEARNED AGAIN YESTERDAY
Here comes a winsome young woman wearing white sandals and a frilly flower-print summer dress. On her blond hair, a yellow straw hat with a sky-blue ribbon round the crown.
Her red lipstick matches her toe and fingernail polish.
"Girly" would be a compendious summary description. Very.
Maybe on her way to a ladies` brunch?
But her figure is confusing - because she`s carrying two baseball bats and pull a little rolling shopping cart full of softballs.
Age? Mid-thirties, I`d guess, because she`s followed by five boys who are maybe nine days old and one of them calls her "Mom."
The lads are dressed in uniforms. Not the baseball kind. The nine-year-old kind: sports shoes, cargo shorts, sports` team T-shirts, and baseball hats - with the brim on backwards, as is required of their tribe.
And each kid carries a softball glove.
Apparently the new men are survivors of an overnight sleepover in the Mom`s back yard. An assumption I do because one of them says, "Next time I`m bringing an air mattress and a pillow." Another chimes in, "Yeah, and some bug spray."
Me, I`m sitting on a bench taking a check from a morning walk on this fine, fine, fine summer morning. The juke box in the support of my judgment is performing a dull version of "Blue Skies" with Johnny Hodges on sax. I sit content.
My bench overlooks a park.
In the green is a baseball diamond - the circumstances of the dame and her lads.
"I wish to be the pitcher."
"No, me, me."
"I`ll be the catcher."
"First base! First base!"
The Mom cuts off the chatter.
"We won`t require a mound or a catcher or anybody on base.
Just outfielders.
We`re only passing to do some striking and catching."
"Who`s going to be the hitter?"
"I am," she replies.
"Oh, well . . ."
The new men exchange glances, reflecting disappointment and disbelief.
"Right . . . sure . . . whatever . . ."
The Mom sets up at home plate, holding a bat and a softball.
The five boys string out across the infield.
"Get back," she instructs.
So they run out to the border of the smoke marking the outfield.
"Further back," she shouts.
They move, but not much.
They don`t think she can hit.
But she can.
Young Mrs. Frilly Dress tosses a softball lightly in the air and pounds it.
Way, way out over the heads of the boys standing staring stupefied.
They struggle to track down the ball.
The Mom shouts, "Incoming!"
And bangs one ball after another into the air, scattering her hits and the new men all over the outfield.
"Holy shit!" shouts one kid.
I don`t recognize how long the fielding exercise went on because I touched on. Looking back as I walked away, I could see the Mom still running her fielders ragged, hitting balls so far they couldn`t throw them all the way backwards to her.
There`s a back-story on this new woman - brothers, high school sports, who knows? But today`s story is adequate for me.
And the lesson of the tale is in the lessons being conditioned by the boys.
Don`t pronounce a report by its book.
Never underestimate the king of a woman.
And never imagine you love all there is to bed about somebody`s mother.
It will hold them a long, long time to finally understand these basic truths.
I don`t love what the boys were thinking.
Me? I thinking about these truths I had learned several times before.
And learned again this morning.
Because I didn`t think she could hit, either.
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