captainsblog | Past Times and Passed Balls

Labor Day passed quietly. We both had the day off and did virtually nothing leading into the usual chaos of First Week of Fall. Eleanor spent the weekend somewhat concerned because they'd cut her hours back prematurely- she told them to reduce them but didn't make clear not to do so until after October 1st to keep her insurance eligibility assured- but fortunately they were so busy this week she got called in early two out of the four days and they adjusted her schedule for the last two weeks of September so she should be okay. Meanwhile, I had a long Tuesday out of town with a dental cleaning, a phone court appearance and a will execution. There was some down time in between, so I did some visiting in our old home town.

Over the weekend, a post here from conuly reminded me of our old neighborhood. She posted about some literary anachronisms she'd run across recently, among them stories depicting homes with hallways in eras long before they had such things. I don't know when they became particularly common, but in our former town, I remembered one spot where they clearly didn't have them back in the early 19th century.

The first house-house Eleanor and I bought, in the Rochester suburb of Brighton, was a standard 1950s ranch, but it backed up to a 19th century farmhouse fronting on one of the few roads in the town that existed pre-WWII. For most of our time there, it was owned by two aged sisters in nursing homes who refused to agree on what to do with it. Finally, through death or court order I forget which, it was put on the market more-or-less as is. We went to an open house out of curiosity.

I remember three things about it. The giant coal stove in the kitchen; the obvious refitted indoor plumbing; and, apropos of the post I just read, the floor plan, or rather, the lack of one. You walked from room to room and up short flights of stairs that led from a room on one level directly to the next one above it. Some of the retrofitted plumbing was in those tiny stairwells.

It eventually sold and was still being restored when we moved in 1994. A professional engineer bought it and runs her practice from it. It's on the town's list of historic landmarks, number 7 on this tour of that section, and here's how it looks after the latest owner finished restoring it:

I finished my cleaning and phone appearance in time to stay in my dentist's general area to check out how the old farmhouse now looked. First, though, I paid a visit to friends who also live near there. They've had a BLM sign in their yard for months, but this one was new to me:

(I speculated that the New Testament equivalent of that would be, Let he who is without sin cast the first pepper ball.)

From there, I turned down Edgewood, saw the farmhouse still looking spiffy, and just for old times' sake rounded the corner to our former home. It's been over 25 years, but it still feels like we'd be welcome there:

The pin oak and black walnut we planted in our final years- Max, closer to the driveway, in honor of Emily's birth, and Minnie, rescued as a sapling from behind the front yard- are still going strong, too:)

----

The following day, I returned to an actual courtroom in (and for) an actual suit for only the second time since March. It went okay, I think, but it was still a rough reacquaintance to how things used to be. I just found it slow and time-consuming, waiting around for people to be seated, and exhibits to be marked and offered. I've gotten spoiled by court appearances by phone and Zoom conferences, and uploading my documents from the comfort of my own desk and unseen clothes. I'm sure it will come back to a sense of normalcy in time, but I'm not quite there yet.

That night, we Zoomed again for the biweekly poetry reading. We had nothing preplanned to offer, but when the host offered a prompt for the second half, I found it inspiring: recreate a poem, or other short piece of literature, from the point of view of a character other than the more famed one in the snippet.

Can you give me an example? Why, yes- retell a passage, but not from the POV of Holden but of Phoebe.

I went with one who doesn't get to say a word at all in the original text, but who is frequently quoted about, and misquoted about. It riffs on this text:

Alas, poor Yorick! I knew him, Horatio; a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy; he hath borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! My gorge rises at it. Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not how oft. Where be your gibes now? Your gambols? Your songs? Your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table on a roar?

And from that, came this, titled simply "Alas." Credit to Christopher Moore's novel "Fool," for some general inspiration and the hospice reference at the end.

Put. Me. The Fuck. DOWN.

I’m resting in pieces here.

You have any idea what it’s like
To have your life defined in 76 words
With no chance to talk back?

You did NOT know me well, you brooding Dane-
But everybody misquoting YOU says you did.
You only knew what every other king and prince and duke and lover
Was meant to know by THEIR fool.

“Infinite jest,” you said.
Gee, thanks for THAT, for passing that trope on to David Foster Wallace,
Who turned it into 1,000 pages crammed into about three sentences of unintelligible bullshit.

I was a jester, if a finite one, in life,
And like all fools, I made lives better.
Without his fool Falstaff, Hal would’ve been all, “I’m sorry, England and Saint George, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Lear is just a cranky old man with therapy issues for his kids without his fool keeping it real.
And don’t get me started on that Mother Pucker in the Midsummer.
Without them, your kings would all just be twits,
Your lovers just full of pheromones,
And your brooding Danish ass not digging up MY FUCKING GARDEN.

You got here too late.
I’ve got nothing to say.
No bells or whistles.
I can’t juggle, sing, dance or tell jokes.

No, you had to bring along those wacky gravediggers for THAT.
Cracking wise as they bury your girlfriend,
Who you drove to madness and suicide through your annnticcc dispositttionnnn…
(What’s the matter, H-man? Couldn’t cop an Ophelia?)

And that was without her getting to hear you spout the most depressing soliloquy of all time.
Any wonder why all the living people in this thing are more depressed than the dead ones?
Here’s a spoiler- in just about four scenes, you’ll be joining her- and me-
And just about the entire cast in feeding the maggots.
Alas, poor Hamlet, for the next 400 years, students and scholars are headed to therapy themselves trying to figure YOU out.

Another spoiler, dude: in Stratford, where you got partially plagiarized?
There’s a Shakespeare Hospice- for those who, like you, chose Not To Be.
Come join them- and us.
There’ll be worms.
Two dishes, but to one table. That's the end.

----

Speaking of inspiration: a friend posted a picture of one of these, so I just hayyyyd to have one:

Unfortunately, the seller does not follow Amazon Prime shipping requirements, so it won't be sent to me at Ludicrous Speed.

----

Our film choices since last posting have included another Chadwick Boseman starring role, this one as the titular Thurgood Marshall. It was mostly filmed in and around Buffalo, and seeing the courthouse scenes and knowing their provenance was pretty cool. Eleanor then heard of an indy film titled Thunder Road by comedian Jim Cummings, a tough but well done tale of difficult family relationships and portable CD players that don't work when you need them to. I then chose King of Staten Island for our 9/11 evening watch, not at all knowing that the star, among others in the film, had direct connections to the events of that day in 2001. It was beautifully done and evoked the moments of that day without a single direct reference to them

As did the Mets last night, from much closer to home.

----

After finishing a mixed-bag of games at home against the Yankees and then a mini-split of two in Queens with the Orioles, the Mets headed on the road- a road that ended very close to right here. As I finished my Friday workday, I wrote these words:

In a little over two hours, Brandon Nimmo (most likely) will step to the plate and the Mets will begin play in a Major League Baseball game played in my home town for the first time in my life.

Despite the utter impracticality of getting even a glimpse of a single player, I feel a pull to be outside Sahlen Field for just a moment.

If karma is more contagious than COVID, maybe Jacob deGrom can catch some from me. Or maybe Polar Bear will hit a ball out to Swan Street.

It's silly. But so is having followed this team for 54 years.

Eleanor was still working for two hours, so my head and tires followed my heart to the Swan Street entrance. Closed, of course, and my parking-ramp vantage point from a few weeks ago was now being guarded, but I did get these pictures from the glass elevator before I got chased:

Real Mets on my closest-to-home field. After getting kicked out, I walked around the tarped-up walls to the street behind the outfield fence; there would be no views of the field, but perhaps a batting practice home run might reach.

One of the extra light towers in the left field corner, brought in from the fictional Field of Dreams film site that had been scheduled to host a real MLB game this season.

Also towering over the field, the tallest upstate building, former home to Marine Midland Bank, now being redeveloped. I've heard a local restaurant offers a dinner package from a mid-height floor with a view of the field, but they are not taking reservations for two:(

Joining me behind the fence were a couple of ballhawks, armed with gloves and with comfy chairs to recline in. Not sure if these are these guys, but they are of a group that have reached an acceptable peace with the teams and the police to shag home run balls as long as they stay out of traffic and off the 190 ramps. They were joined this afternoon by me and one other fan in Mets-1962 blue, who'd come all the way from NYC to stand as close as he could to the Sahlen Sacred Ground.

Karma from me or not, the Mets seemed to enjoy their new digs. They usually starve deGrom, their best pitcher, for run support, but this time they gave him 18 runs to work with- despite Pete Alonso going 0-for-5 with three strikeouts on the night.

Or maybe his inspiration came from the day of the game:

This was the first time in years that MLB allowed the Mets (and the at-home Yankees) to wear first-responder caps as they did on their first night back after the 9/11 tragedy. It was all corporate bullshit about contractual obligations to their Official Cap Producer. Well, we know all about them- New Era is headquartered about five blocks from the ballpark, in a repurposed former Federal Reserve vault building, and in the post-COVID months they've sacked most of their local workforce and taken their name off the Bills' home field. So, good on the Mets for respecting those who gave their lives ahead of some meaningless profits.

----

Back now where we started with a probably quiet weekend. May yours be as well.