But They're Family

There are some people for whom pets are just that; pets. They are loved, but for the most part they are viewed as a bit of a nuisance and are generally tolerated but not celebrated.

Diane is, largely, one of those people.

I, on the other hand, am of a slightly different mindset. For me, pets are part of the family - special members of the family that bring great joy to our lives. I just need to have pets around.

I suppose part of it is how we were raised. We always seemed to have a veritable zoo in our house; with dogs, cats, chickens, a peacock, snakes, lizards, turtles, a rabbit and even a baby squirrel for a while. Life at the Brader house always included pets; and the pets were always more than just animals there for our entertainment. They were family.

That attitude carried over into my adult life, as well.

Take Tiffany, for example. I got Tiffany in the summer before my senior year in college. She was just a kitten. Tiffany was with me through some of the darkest days of my life. She was always waiting at the door for me when I came home from work; eager for me to sit down so she could jump up on my lap. It was good therapy for both of us.

Diane and I got Tasha, a German Shepherd Dog, from the Humane Society shortly after we got married. Tiffany and Tasha used to race through the house; first the dog chasing the cat and then reversed through the house with the cat chasing the dog. They had great fun together.

Though we had several dogs through the years, Tiffany remained our only cat. Diane tried to bring another cat into our home but Tiffany got sick over it so the new kitten went to her parents' house. Tiffany used to board in the dog room at the vet's boarding kennels when we traveled because she hated other cats but was fine with dogs. Tiffany never really figured out that she was a cat.

After all, she was family.

Tiffany had a stroke that affected her ability to see, hear and walk early one Spring morning just a few months shy of her 20th birthday. She had been with me her whole life, and a very large percentage of mine. My heart was broken as I carried her to the vet for what I knew had to be done, but was painful nonetheless. I sobbed as my precious Tiffany took her last breaths. I wrapped her in a towel and took her home where we buried her in a box below the bird feeders that she had intently watched for years. A large rock rests over her grave and I am reminded of her every time I see it.

Tiffany wasn't just a cat. She was my therapist, my friend, my companion and the touchstone to my sanity, at times. Tiffany was family.

It took me a full year after Tiffany died to be ready for another cat. Diane and the boys and I went down to the Wisconsin Humane Society to rescue a cat. Any cat determined to be one year old or older was free. Absolutely free. We didn't have much money, so we stayed in the adult cat room. As fate would have it, I fell in love with one cat and Diane and the boys fell in love with another.

We, of course, came home with both.

Hannah quickly settled into her role as my cat. (We still haven't quite figured out Haley's role.) While Hannah is certainly not a replacement for Tiffany; she is just as loved. She has filled a special spot in my heart (and on my lap) for nearly a decade.

She's not a cat, though. She is family.

Sadie joined us about a year and a half ago. As I have written before, she is my beloved puppy. She's not a dog, though. She is family.

Yes, I am hopelessly attached to our "pets." They are so much more than just animals around the house - they are family.

The Visit...

Today is a big day for the Brader household.

Shelley is coming to visit.

Shelley is Matthew's girlfriend. Diane and I have met her several times but this is her first visit to Wisconsin. She lives about an hour outside of Philadelphia. She is not a Flyers or Phillies fan, so she passes muster with me.

Shelley is a very sweet young lady and we are all looking forward to her visit.

Matthew has grown increasingly more annoying over the last week. The countdown to her visit started well before that, of course, but it wasn't until the last week that he started driving the rest of the family nuts.

Really nuts.

It's refreshing to see Matthew so excited about Shelley's visit; to watch his growing anticipation of being with her again.

I suppose I will have to at least make it look like I'm making an effort to be on good behavior!

What If It's Only One?

I imagine we've all heard about the supposed six degrees of separation; where there are never more than six hops between us and anyone else in the world. Six hops is actually a long way.

What if it's only one?

Things hit home a little harder when it's that close.

The horrific bus crash in Indianapolis was a major news event this weekend. Four people from Colonial Hills Baptist Church tragically lost their lives, including their Youth Pastor, Chad Phelps, his wife Courtney and their unborn daughter. 

Chad was only one hop away. Joseph and Matthew both knew Chad at Bob Jones University. 

That one hop somehow makes the tragedy even more personal.

People die in tragic accidents every day. 

Some of them even make the news.

I have to admit that I have largely grown calloused to hearing bad news. After all, the people involved are typically at least four, five or even six degrees of separation away.

This time it's only one.

This time it ended the life of a godly young couple; leaving behind a young son who can't understand why Mommy and Daddy aren't there to comfort him in his fear. 

We can sit around and wonder why God allowed this tragedy, but there is no point in wondering. We merely rest in the comfort that Chad, Courtney and their daughter are now safe in the embrace of their loving Savior. 

Hello, my name is Scott...

Hello. My name is Scott and I am a hockey addict.

There. I said it; as if that's supposed to do anything.

The fact of the matter is I really don't want to find a cure. I only want to find other addicts who eat, breathe, sleep and talk hockey!

We've only been without hockey for a month and I'm chomping at the bit to drop the puck on next season already! This is terrible!!! I don't recall it being this bad in previous years. Maybe it's because we had a shortened season and I had to compact my hockey fix into six months instead of nine months. Maybe it's because I'm just so bummed about the Blues' early exit from the playoffs that I can't wait to get the new season started with all of its promise.

Maybe it's just because I'm a hockey addict.

I am suffering from NHL withdrawal.

I get the NHL Center Ice package on DirecTV each year so I can watch my beloved Blues. Of course, having the Center Ice package means I also occasionally watch a few other games.

Okay, more than occasionally and more than a few - all in glorious HD, the television format invented solely for hockey.

I already told you; I am a hockey addict!

I look at the schedule each day and determine which game or games I plan to watch. Games in the Eastern Time Zone generally start at either 6:00 or 6:30 Central Time, so I start with that. I may watch the entire game or I may just watch the first part of the game until another game that I want to watch starts. Blues games trump everything else. In any case, I can easily find myself watching hockey from 6:00 until I go to bed some nights.

Okay, most nights.

Well, maybe seven nights a week - but only during the season.

And the post-season.

Saturday nights are the best. I get to watch Hockey Night in Canada's pregame show at 5:30 on NHL Network, followed by the HNIC featured game. Don Cherry and Ron McLain do the always entertaining  Coach's Corner between the first and second period of the early game. That segment usually ends right at 7:00 so I can switch to a Blues game, or some other game I really want to see.

This is a very difficult time of the year for me. The Stanley Cup has already been awarded (to the vile, disgusting Blackhawks), the Draft is over and training camp won't start for weeks. Hockey coverage is very limited in US markets (which is why I keep TSN and CBCSPORTS bookmarked on my computer) and there is no hope of getting my fix anytime soon.

I need hockey.

Live games that count in the standings.

Because I am an addict.

I sure hope they never find a cure for hockey addiction.

Sadie Mae

I have the best dog in the world. She is never going to win any awards at a fancy dog show or be a champion hunting dog or win an agility contest, but she is still the best.

We're not really sure what kind of dog Sadie is. She obviously has some Lab in her and the vet is convinced she has some sort of hound in her as well. (Sadie can "AROOOOO: with the best of the Beagles in the world, so maye that's what's in there.) There's something else mixed in there, too, but we have no clue what.

Sadie had a rough start to her life, and it shows. We met Sadie one Thursday afternoon in February, 2012 at the Humane Society next to my office. Sadie had been found as a stray somewhere in Ohio and had ultimately been sent to Wisconsin in hopes of finding her a home. They figured she was around three years old.

Sadie didn't last long at the Humane Society before someone adopted her. She is, after all, a beautiful and very loving dog. Unfortunately, her new owner returned her to the Humane Society after only a couple of months; unable or unwilling to deal with the issues of a rescued dog. The notes from her owner indicated that she was left alone all day and was only taken outside to take care of her business. She had never been taken for a walk or just allowed to run. Why the person ever adopted a dog in the first place is beyond me.

Diane had finally succumbed to my constant pressure to get a dog when we met Sadie. She lay quivering in her cage at the Humane Society. She craved love and attention when they brought her into a private room for us to meet her and spend time with her. She was a dog who desperately needed to be loved and I was a man who desperately needed a dog to love.

Sadie came home with us that evening, and brought with her all of the hauntings of her past. She was very anxious and afraid.

We slept on the floor beside her crate that first night because she was so anxious. We gave up on the crate the second night and decided to see what she would do if we just let her out. She immediately jumped onto our bed and curled up between our feet; completely content to just be close to us.

It took several weeks, perhaps even months, before Sadie seemed to understand that she was home for good now; before she lifted her tail from between her legs as we walked through the neighborhood.

We had several visits with the vet and a canine behavior specialist (Diane calls her the Dog Shrink) to help Sadie settle in to her new life. She was the star pupil in her Basic Manners 1 and 2 classes! (Diane claims that I am biased in my opinion of her class ranking, but Diane would be wrong!)

Sadie has become a beloved member of our family. She loves to go for walks, run around in the yard (protecting us from the ever-present scourge known as chipmunks), and collect whatever petting and belly rubbing she can get. She races out to greet me as I get out of the car each day after work; her joy at having me home plainly visible on her face.

She is not allowed on the sofa or love seat in our family room; instead relegated to my old recliner. She has claimed it as her own despite the fact that one of the cats regularly jumps onto the chair in an attempt to keep Sadie from her spot. Sadie just stands in front of the chair looking at us for help. We move the cat off her chair since the cat is allowed on the other furniture (just try keeping a cat off the other furniture) and Sadie quickly jumps up and settles in.

Sadie continues to have some separation issues. Fortunately, we have found a wonderful, family owned kennel who will take her in when we have to board her for any reason. She doesn't do well in the kennel, so they just take her into their home and let her live with them during her stays there. Sadie loves to follow Dale around as he cares for their chickens and goats, and she sleeps between Dale and Sarah on the bed each night. We are comforted in knowing Sadie will just be part of the family when we leave her with them.

Diane and I have talked about what likely would have happened to Sadie if we had not fallen in love with her that day at the Humane Society. We realize that she probably would have been euthanized; prematurely ending the life of a wonderful dog who just needed people to love her. Instead, Sadie has found a loving home where she has blossomed and thrived. She brings me much joy and I am so thrilled to have her in our family.

Sadie may very well be the poster puppy for that saying, "Saving the life of one dog may not change the world, but the world will surely change for that one dog."

It's Our Own Fault

There has always been cheating in baseball. It is part of the game itself. Who can forget Joe Niekro being suspended in 1987 when he was caught with a nail file in his pocket, or Gaylord Perry who wrote in his autobiography Me and the Spitter that he used to hide Vaseline on his zipper because he knew the umpires would never check there.

As long as there has been competition; there have been men seeking an advantage.

Unfortunately, the money has gotten so large, and the competition so intense that players have gone beyond the simple tricks of old to employ science in looking for "the edge" that will put them on top.

The world winked and turned a blind eye to the obvious use of performance enhancing drugs during the homerun era in baseball; preferring to root for their choice in the McGwire/Sosa/Bonds race to beat Roger Maris or Hammering Hank Aaron rather than honoring the records and memory of players who limited themselves to their God-given abilities.

Everyone always knew in their heart of hearts that some sports were "dirty," but were somehow willing to ignore reality because it made for more exciting sport.

But we can ignore it no more.

The latest scandal to hit the world of baseball really shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone. Oh there are people who truly wanted to believe that Braun, Rodriguez, Cabrerra and the rest didn't really do what they were accused of doing. Deep down, though, they all knew it was true. It became harder and harder for people to continue believing as each new puzzle piece dropped into place; making the picture ever clearer.

The real shame is that most of these athletes never really even needed the added boost of performance enhancing substances. They do things on their chosen field of play that mere mortals like me could never dream of doing. Even the routine play is beyond the abilities of most fans; the spectacular something we did only in our fantasies as a child.

They really don't need to cheat.

Yet they choose to.

While each person is responsible for their own choices and must face the consequences that result from those choices, the fans bear great responsibility in this, as well. After all, it was the fans who went wild and bought lots of tickets and merchandise and adored the players who were putting up big numbers. It was the fans who made the conscious decision to ignore the reality that was before them; to put aside the desire for fair play in the hype of the moment. It was the fans who put athletes on pedestals; making them somehow bigger than life and expecting results that matched those lofty positions.

The sad reality is that no one wins in this whole mess.

Certainly not the players caught cheating; whose reputations are tarnished forever.

Certainly not the clean players whose own statistics and records are somehow tainted because people will always wonder if they cheated, too, but were just lucky enough not to get caught.

And most certainly not the fans. We had a part in creating this mess and now we must suffer through it being carried through to its conclusion. We can only hope that the next generation of fans - those raised on video games and energy drinks - will come to realize that competition isn't about the big numbers and breaking records as much as it is about athletes using their God-given abilities in a spirit of fair play.

The Campfire

It has become a tradition among the small group I deer hunt with to gather at the farm the night before the season opens for a cookout. We take turns buying steaks and we feast as we talk about our lives, reminisce about previous hunts and talk about the coming hunt. Our conversation is peppered with good-natured ribbing; each of us convinced that this is the year one of us will take a trophy even though none of us hunt for a trophy, merely to put venison in the freezer.

We build a campfire as darkness settles over the land and the wind turns cold. Marshmallows become the featured food of the evening as our time of fellowship continues; the flickering flames providing the only light around save for the meager light of the moon and the stars. The coyotes provide the only sounds other than the sounds of our voices and the crackling of the logs in the fire.

Our conversations are not really about what we have harvested in the past as much as about the times we have spent together in previous seasons and around previous campfires. We tell and retell the same stories year after year.

Periodically, one of us has to head behind the barn to "check the water levels" in the field. The sounds of critters scampering to get away fill the quiet as we leave the fire's dim circle of light and walk into the surrounding darkness.

The conversation slowly grows more scarce as we sit looking into the dying fire; each of us contemplating the weekend ahead. Eventually, the fire burns down and we make our way to our trucks to head back to the hotel in town where we will spend the night; another campfire now part of our deer hunting tradition. One that will become part of future years' stories.

I look forward to this annual tradition; the anticipation for the next campfire beginning even before the coals have cooled from this one. Matthew has missed the last four seasons while in college.

This year he will be back; sitting beside me, staring into the dancing flames, contemplating the coming hunt and building memories that will be the foundation for stories around future campfires.

It Didn't Seem To Matter

I have become a wimp. I admit it. I'm not even ashamed of it.

I simply can no longer handle the heat. Anything over 80 degrees is bad. Over 90 is unbearable.

I grew up in St. Louis. St. Louis is well known for its oppressive heat and humidity and we didn't have air conditioning.

Not at home.

Not in the car.

Not at school.

I couldn't take that today, but it didn't seem to matter to us back then.

The Liberty supermarket had air conditioning and it was always a lot of fun to walk into the store through the wall of cold air they created at the entrance to separate the store from the oppressive outdoors. Many of the other large stores had air conditioning, too, but we rarely went to any of them.

Today, I largely move from my air conditioned home to my air conditioned car and then from the car into my air conditioned office. The course is reversed at the end of the day; my time away from air conditioning kept to an absolute minimum.

We also used to play outside all summer long. Granted, we had a pool for a number of years and access to a pool for years after that, but our lives didn't revolve around staying cool. We just played outside in the heat.

I avoid being outside for any significant amount of time on hot summer days now, but it didn't seem to matter back then.

We even used to go camping in the heat. Vacation normally consisted of spending a week at a campground; often Meramec State Park. We camped whenever Dad's vacation week arrived. If it was hot, then we camped in the heat. We even built campfires each night; somehow oblivious to the oppressive heat.

We had a massive canvas tent that Dad sprayed with a water repellent each season, or so. The water repellent served several purposes, both intended and not so intended. It did, as the name implies, repel water to keep the tent's occupants from getting soaked during a summer storm. In fact, it was very good at that job; maybe too good. Water didn't come in and water didn't go out. The inside of the tent would be damp with the condensation of our breath each morning.

As a side effect of creating that water repellent barrier on the canvas,the spray pretty much completely blocked air from moving through the canvas, too. The interior of the tent would grow hot and stale, even with the windows open, once the six of us were tucked into our sleeping bags for the night. A breeze may provide a bit of relief, but there was typically no relief during a Missouri summer night.

I could never survive in a tent in conditions like we have had over the last week, but it didn't seem to matter back then.

Maybe part of the problem is that I am no longer acclimated to the heat since I have lived in Wisconsin for nearly three decades. The cold doesn't bother me a bit, but the heat has become intolerable.  While being acclimated might account for part of the problem, it certainly doesn't explain everything.

I know too many people who grew up in Missouri, stayed in Missouri and still live in Missouri who would trade their firstborn child instead of giving up their air conditioning. They should still be acclimated, but they're not.

Maybe it's just because we have wimped out. A temperature controlled life is just too easy to have now, so we have forgotten how to deal with the heat.

Whatever happened and however it happened is, ultimately, irrelevant.

I have become a wimp.

The Worst

There are many ways to die; some fast and some slow. I doubt anyone actually looks forward to the process of dying, but historically it has been a pretty universal end to our lives on this Earth. There are probably pros and cons to both the fast and slow options; like whether there's time to say our goodbyes or grant us relief from the seeming marathon of suffering; both by the one who is dying and the loved ones who suffer alongside.

I know this post seems quite macabre and, perhaps, out of place, and for that I'm sorry. I won't be offended if you just choose to stop reading now. Lately, though, I have been feeling a burden for those who die what seems to me to be the worst death; the one that kills the mind while the body still lives.

While certain diseases; like Cancer or COPD, slowly attack the body, perhaps the worst is that which kills the mind while leaving the body relatively intact.

We are all, ultimately, shaped by all of the events in our lives from birth through death. The thread that runs through our lives shapes our attitudes; our memories of the past forming the foundation of our present.

Somewhere along the line, though, in those people afflicted by diseases like Alzheimer's, the carefully intertwined fibers that make up that thread slowly fray and fracture; leaving gaping holes in the story of their life.

For most of us, much of our conversation ties back to, "Remember when..." Gatherings of old friends are filled with laughter, and sometimes tears, as stories are told and retold; as lives are relived. That joy is gone for those whose memories are broken and lost.

I remember Nana being near tears when she told me of her dear friend from childhood who, stricken with Alzheimer's would forget their visit only a day later.

I remember the blank, lost stare of Diane's Grandma when we visited her in the nursing home even though she no longer knew who Diane was. I remember her eyes lighting up for the briefest of moments when Diane showed her her engagement ring; only to return to the blank stare, likely wondering who we were as we stood before her.

I'm sure, for a while, those suffering from the disease feel the agony of the gnawing sense of some neuron somewhere in the brain firing to tell the them that they should know the person who stands before them, yet the thought never really forming; the memories used to build the recognition of a loved one wiped clean by the ravages of the disease. Eventually, the remaining frayed and broken thread of their memories becomes so unraveled that all memories are stolen from them.

The pain of the disease then rests solely on the loved ones left behind.

It has been almost ten years since President Reagan died; finally succumbing to the ravages of Alzheimer's Disease. Mrs. Reagan remained staunchly by his side as his companion, caregiver and protector until the very end. No matter what you thought of his politics, you couldn't help but choke back tears as the cameras captured the last moments Mrs. Reagan had at his casket; bathing it in tears as she said her final goodbye with the words, "I love you, Ronnie." Her love still strong; even after several years of him not knowing who she was.

For those; death must come as a welcome respite amidst the sorrow.

I'm not really sure why this has become important to me lately. I haven't been diagnosed with Alzheimer's, nor has anyone I know.

Perhaps it is because writing this blog has brought me so much joy as I reflect on the people, places and things that have woven together to form the thread that courses through my life. It is built on my memories.

Perhaps it is because my memories are a constant companion; they remain - as fibers woven into the thread - inextricably intertwined in my life.

Perhaps it is because that thread, at times, is what I cling to; the only connection I have left to people I love and I am afraid to let it go.

Lightning Bugs

I stood, mesmerized, in the door leading to our back yard as I waited for the dog to finish her nightly duties and return to the house for bed. My eyes were drawn to the glow of lightning bugs seemingly floating among the trees in our yard; my mind transported back to the hot summer nights of my youth.

It's amazing how something as simple as seeing lightning bugs in the yard can stir up so many wonderful memories. Throughout the yard their flashing glow reminding me of those days when we ran through the yard, or around the campground, catching the fireflies to put them into a jar for a while just to watch them light up.

Sadie was seemingly oblivious to their flashing. They have no special significance to her. But for me, they were special.

Dusk was always a special time in the summer. Sure, it brought a small, but welcome, relief from the summer's oppressive heat; but it also brought opportunities for totally different games and fun than those we played during the day.

Dusk brought out the lightning bugs.

I remember our unofficial contests while camping at Meramec State Park with the Kleins; seeing who could catch the most lightning bugs. The contests weren't completely fair, so the older kids always won. It didn't seem to matter at the time, though, because the joy was in catching lightning bugs; not in winning.

We didn't know, nor would we have cared, that the lightning bugs' flashing was part of their elaborate mating ritual. To us, they were flashing their lights as a means for us to locate them in the waning light. A means of guiding us to them; our goal to gently catch them in cupped hands and put them into the jar where we could watch their flashing lights.

Eventually, the jar would be opened and the bugs released again; their cluster of flashing lights slowly spreading as they returned to their nightly task.

So as I stood in the doorway waiting for Sadie I was surprised by the desire to grab a jar and run through the yard again - not so much to be catching lightning bugs as to be reliving memories.

Beauty Is Only Skin Deep

I'm sure we've all heard the phrase, "Beauty is only skin deep." I have no idea where this phrase got started - and there are multiple ways it can be interpreted - but as a whole I think it is a total lie.

Although I didn't understand it as a young man; I have come to understand that beauty has nothing to do with what we see with our eyes. Oh, we certainly see some level of physical attractiveness or lack thereof, but true beauty is not something we can behold with our eyes.

True beauty can only be seen with our hearts.

I'm sure you can remember instances of seeing a beautiful woman with a rather frumpy guy, or a handsome man with a rather plain girl and wondering, "How in the world did he/she end up with her/him???" That thought can only come about when we succumb to the world's constant attempt to define beauty for us.

In reality, he/she ended up with her/him because they understand that we don't see true beauty with our eyes. I can recall multiple times when I met someone who initially seemed rather plain but somehow became better looking once I got to know them. The opposite has also been true; where a seemingly attractive person somehow became less attractive as I got to know them.

Their beauty ultimately had nothing to do with their outward appearance.

I'm as guilty as the next person of falling into the world's "beautiful people" trap, but then I look at my own life experiences and remember that true beauty is so much more than can be seen with our eyes.

When I was in my twenties I could not imagine finding a woman in her fifties to be beautiful and desirable. I kind of assumed that men loved their wives enough that they would overlook the signs of aging; and women did the same for their husbands. I figured that the physical desire would wear off when looking at the same face day after day and year after year.

I was wrong.

Diane is even more beautiful and desirable today than she was in her twenties.

Would the world at large say so? Maybe not; but the world no longer determines my standard for beauty.

Maybe nothing drove this point home more than the day I realized how beautiful she was sitting there with no hair and a pale complexion as her body showed the ravaging effects of chemotherapy.

But there she was - beautiful.

Even more beautiful than the day I proposed to her.

Even more beautiful than the day her father walked her up the aisle to give me her hand in marriage.

Diane's hair grew back and complexion was restored to its healthy hue as the effects of the chemotherapy slowly wore off. Merely having hair and a healthy complexion did not make her more beautiful, though.

She just is.

I have not deceived myself into somehow believing she is more beautiful than she is, or was. Instead, Diane grew - and continues to grow - more beautiful because I have come to see her through the lens of our wonderfully blessed life together instead of merely with my eyes.

That life - with all of its ups and downs, laughter and tears, successes and failures - is what matters.

That life is what makes her even more beautiful and desirable today than she was over a quarter century ago.

I don't care if no one else in the world recognizes her physical beauty.

She is beautiful to me.

And her skin has nothing to do with it.

Happy Birthday, Mom!

Today's special.

It's Mom's birthday.

That special marker on the calendar that signifies the passing of another year.

There's really nothing special about any one day as opposed to another. We attach special significance to it.

A special remembrance.

I always called Mom on her birthday; each birthday growing more precious because we never knew when the cancer would make it her last.

It's been four birthdays without that call.

Four birthdays.

Oh how I wish I could call her this evening just to say, Happy Birthday, Mom!

Addicted to Smokin'

Mention BBQ in much of the of the country and people think of throwing meat on the grill and cooking it over either charcoal or a gas-fired flame. Mention BBQ in the South, though, and the hearer immediately is reminded of the smell of smoke and the long, slow process of properly preparing a piece of meat.

There's a big difference between grilling and BBQ'ing.

Yes, a very big difference.

Now I love to grill and my family loves to gather at the table to feast on the fruits of my labors in front of the grill, but it's not the same as the low and slow process of smoking a cut of meat to tender BBQ perfection. I wanted to tackle true BBQ like the folks on BBQ Pitmasters on Destination HD channel.

I decided to build an Ugly Drum Smoker, or UDS for short. It proved to be a very simple process.

I bought a 55 gallon steel drum from one of our suppliers at work, a grate from the local Menard's store, some miscellaneous parts, paint and a bit of hardware.

With minimal investment and effort over a very short period of time I had constructed my very own UDS.

The name is appropriate.

It's ugly.

Really ugly.

I built a very hot fire in the drum and kept stoking it so it burned for several hours in order to burn off any possible contaminants that remained inside.

Once that was finished it was time to become a BBQ Pitmaster!

The moment of truth came when I decided to tackle a pork butt for my first attempt at using the UDS. I'm still not exactly sure why they call that particular cut of meat a butt, because it is a cut that comes from the shoulder. In any case, Diane and I found a two-pack of pork butt at Sam's Club. I decided to make one of the pork butts and freeze the other because I didn't want to ruin 13 pounds of meat when I could, instead, ruin only 6-1/2 pounds of meat if my first attempt at smoking failed to live up to expectation.

I came up with a starting point for a rub and prepped the butt, wrapped it and allowed the rub flavors to penetrate the meat. A bag of charcoal and a bunch of apple wood chunks made for a wonderfully smoky backyard as I put the meat on for the start of what turned into a nine and a half hour smoke at 250 degrees.

I don't want to brag, but dinner that night was about the finest pulled pork I have ever eaten. I will freely admit that at least part of my enjoyment was that I had succeeded at smoking on my first try. Diane and the boys dutifully praised it as well; probably as much from the shock of knowing that I had done it as the quality of the dinner itself.

While I'm a far cry from the folks on BBQ Pitmasters; I'm well on my way to being addicted to smoking - smoking meat, that is!

What's Wrong Today

We're all tempted at times to use whatever forum is available to us to jump up on our soapbox and blabber on long and loud about what's wrong with the world. It's easy to fall into such a temptation when we own the soapbox. Any one of us could come up with a litany of What's Wrong Today topics on a daily basis.

The problem isn't a shortage of material so much as a shortage of receptive readers. Each one of us has our own thoughts about what is wrong in the world.

I consciously seek to avoid such topics as I write my blog entries. Not because I can't think of numerous topics, but because I would prefer that my forum not become a host for contentious bickering in the comments people leave. 

So, What's Wrong Today?

Plenty; and I'd be glad to chat with you about it face to face, but I'm not going to write about it here.

The Paint Job

Mom decorated my room in a clown theme when I was young. I had several paintings of clowns in the room and a small, circular throw rug with a clown face on it on the floor beside my bed. She had painted one wall of the room white and had used plates of various sizes to trace circles on the wall that she then painted in different colors to look like balloons.

I eventually outgrew the theme and Mom decided it was time to repaint the room. She took me to the paint department at Sears and told me I could pick out any color I wanted for my room! There was a massive rack filled with paint color chips and I could pick whatever caught my fancy.

Now, before any of my sisters jump in and start pontificating on my color selection; it is probably a good time for me to remind them and everyone else in the world that we were not aware that I was colorblind until I was in the seventh grade. Up until that point, everyone just assumed that I had terrible taste or was just too stupid to learn my colors.

This marvelous wall of colors proved to be rather confusing. You see, I never really believed (and still don't) that the 64 crayon box contained 64 unique colors. There are really only the eight colors they gave you in your kindergarten box of crayons and all of the rest of the colors were merely determined by how hard you pressed on one of the original eight colors. For example, pink is just taking the red crayon and very lightly pressing on it while true red is made by pressing really hard on the same crayon.

What most people don't realize (except for those of us who are truly enlightened "colorblind" people) is that they are ripping you off and giving you a giant box of the same colors repeated over and over again!

I quickly narrowed the options from this veritable wall of virtually identical colors to just a few options. It was while studying those options that my eye was drawn to the most beautiful color I had ever seen...

AZTEC GOLD!!!!!!!

It was stunning.

It was beautiful.

It was my choice!

I was thrilled as the clerk mixed my paint and gave it to me to take home to paint my room. Each glance at the little dab of paint on the lid to show the mixed color heightened my excitement for Mom and Dad to paint my room.

The whole room!

AZTEC GOLD!!!!!!

Mom and Dad painted over the three pale blue walls and the white wall with the circles of color painted on it with my beautiful new paint. My room was beautiful; and it was uniquely mine because I had chosen the color all by myself!

I still remember the smell of the fresh paint and the thrill of going to bed that night knowing that I would awaken to my Aztec Gold room in the morning. The morning just further validated my selection as I woke up to the warm embrace of its rich, golden hues.

The protests started almost immediately. All three of the girls claimed to hate it, but what did they know; they were just jealous that I had picked out my own paint color and it was so beautiful. I loved that color so much that I selected it again when it came time to pick a color for my room at our new house on Marie in Manchester. Unfortunately, Dad died before he had the chance to paint that room.

I still remember that paint and I still love it.

It was beautiful.

The First Game

I remember going to my first ever St. Louis Blues game. The experience was magical; going to the old Arena with Dad to watch my heroes play hockey.

Dad made the whole experience special. We arrived early to get a parking spot on the street a couple of blocks south of the Arena. We walked in through what was in my mind a grand foyer on the north side of the building and made our way through the crowds of people milling in the concourse. Dad walked me through the concourse toward center ice so we could enter the seating bowl right at the center ice line. It was beautiful! The Blues logo looked so bold and shiny on the freshly resurfaced ice.

I stood watching in amazement as the Blues and the Minnesota North Stars took to the ice for warm ups.

One of the memories that stands out most clearly in my mind was the sounds of hockey.

The distinct crack of the puck hitting the stick as the players passed the puck around as they skated.

The sharp smacking sound of the stick propelling the puck toward the net as they shot.

The harsh, cutting sound of their skates on the ice as they accelerated, turned and stopped.

These were all new sounds to me. As a mini-squirt on the St. Louis Bruins Amateur Hockey Club our passes were silent; as they rarely made it all the way to the person we were passing it to without being slowed to a stop by the snow built up on the ice surface. Our shots mere taps of the puck toward the goal. Our skate blades making no sound as we shuffled our way around on the ice.

I was amazed at the sounds of St. Louis Blues Hockey and the game had not even started! I stared; mesmerized by the players seemingly effortless skating, stickhandling, passing and shooting. This was so much better than I had ever imagined after previously only seeing Blues Hockey on our old black and white television or from my vantage point as a small boy in mostly second hand hockey equipment on the ice at Steinberg Rink in Forest Park.

We stood and watched the entire warm up from our vantage point at center ice; my feet refusing to move until the last player had left the ice, my anticipation for the real game to begin growing with each passing moment. We watched the Zamboni begin its task of resurfacing the ice before leaving the seating bowl.

Dad stopped at the concession stand to buy a pretzel and soda for us to share as we headed to our seats on the end of the upper bowl. The crowd slowly filled the Old Barn in anticipation of the puck drop. I could hardly contain myself as the Blues entered the ice from the tunnel in the corner just to our left.

The Blues were ready to play hockey and I was there!!!

I can't say that I remember much of anything specific about that particular game; the hockey action memories  lumped in and blurred with many of the later games I attended, but I do remember the most important part - I was there.

My Short Baseball Career

I love baseball. Like most boys growing up in the St. Louis area in the 1960's, I was pretty sure that I would one day wear a Cardinals uniform and get the winning hit in game seven of the World Series. I was well on my way to such a future when two immovable forces seemed to intersect in a path to kill my dreams; Mom and the weather.

I was playing baseball the summer I turned eight in a youth baseball league. Our team was sponsored by Hoffmeister Mortuaries and we proudly wore their logo on our jerseys. We had wonderful uniforms; complete with pants, stirrup socks and Hoffmeister jerseys. The uniforms were just like the ones the pros wore; meaning they were very hot! It was summer in St. Louis so it was very hot even without wearing a hot uniform.

Heat and I have never gotten along very well...

Mom was certain that I would die of heat stroke on the diamond and insisted that I keep taking salt tablets and drinking lots of fluids.

Mom was certain of many things, and when Dr. Peggy got on a roll it was best to just go along for the ride. No amount of science or real life experience could trump her word. When Dr. Peggy dictated that I must follow her strict regimen for dealing with the heat that is exactly what I did.

The problem with Mom's plan was twofold. First, constantly drinking fluids - very cold fluids because the thermos had to be filled to the brim with ice before pouring the fluid in - caused me to have to run to the restroom frequently. Also, I tended to get sick to my stomach with the constant barrage of fluids.

I remember one game in particular. It was a brutally hot Saturday afternoon and we were playing in Forest Park. The sun beat down mercilessly on the field and benches. I was on the bench for the beginning of the game, but that didn't stop Dr. Peggy from coming to the bench regularly to force more ice cold water down my throat. I was sufficiently over-hydrated by the time the coach put me into the infield. Standing out there at second base was brutal. Not only was the heat oppressive, my bladder was constantly reminding me of how much water I had consumed and my stomach was stretched beyond its maximum capacity; tormented by the sloshing liquids it contained.

I survived the half inning in the field, but that was about the limit. Upon returning to the bench I released the liquid contents of my stomach into the garbage can. Dr. Peggy, of course, saw this and immediately diagnosed that I was suffering from heat stroke and informed the coach that I must be pulled from the game immediately.

No at bat.

No chance to touch the ball in the field.

The situation rapidly went from bad to worse when Dr. Peggy insisted that I should not be allowed to play baseball on hot days.

It was summer.

It was St. Louis.

Every day is a hot day.

This effectively ruined my chances of ever wearing the Cardinals uniform and getting the World Series winning hit in game seven.

My budding baseball career ended before it could even take wing.

The Bucket List

It has somehow become a big deal in recent years for people to come up with a Bucket List; a list of those things they want to see or do before they die. I suppose it's some sort of checklist intended to make staying alive more inviting than merely contemplating a boring future existence.

Some people fill their Bucket List with places they want to visit or people they want to meet; others create a list of activities they want to participate in.

I don't have a Bucket List.

It's not that there are not things I would like to see or accomplish before I die; it's just that it seems like I'm too busy trying to get through each day to worry about the things I want to do before I die. There is an ever-growing list of people and things demanding chunks of my time and money. Some of them; like my family and my boss, are certainly entitled to at least some of the demanded time. Other things; like yard work and the need for new tires, sneak in to steal the time and money that I should be spending on Bucket List sorts of things.

I imagine Diane is glad I don't have a Bucket List because, in my case, it would probably end up being a list of things involving a significant risk of causing me to kick said Bucket.

I've often told the boys - only half in jest - that they should go rappelling, skydiving, bungee jumping, cliff diving, motorcycle riding, wing walking, running with the bulls in Spain or SCUBA diving before they get married because, in all likelihood, their future wives will be quite unhappy when they suggest such activities after marriage.

I couldn't afford to do any of my preferred Bucket List things before Diane and I got married. I didn't really worry about it too much at the time because I figured there would be plenty of time for me to do some slightly adventurous things later in life. Diane was certainly never an overly adventurous sort, but I didn't think she would be too opposed to me participating in a few ever-so-slightly adventurous activities.

I was wrong.

After many years of discussing Bucket List activities with Diane I came to the conclusion that there must be some secret, magical ingredient in wedding cake that causes women to become focused on the future and child rearing and being responsible to the exclusion of the those things that would end up on my Bucket List!

I mean, really, what's the worst thing that could happen?

Okay, so I suppose I could die...

Isn't that what I have life insurance for?

As the years have gone by I have pretty much given up on creating a Bucket List. Instead, I have focused on other lists; like keeping track of the decreasing number of teeth I have in my mouth, ordering my joints by the degree of arthritis pain or tracking decibels of hearing loss.

While not nearly as exciting as those things that would end up on my Bucket List; I suppose they do give me things to check off before I die.

But I Lived It...

I am amazed at how much the world has changed when I look back over the relatively few years of my life. Granted; I never knew a world without airplanes, cars, electricity or any of the thousands of other things we take for granted every day. I did, though, grow up in a world vastly different than the one I live in today.

We only had a few channels on our television and we had to get up and walk to the television to change the channel whenever we wanted to watch something else. Of course, a remote would not have been much help, anyway, since we always had to adjust the antenna or tweak the horizontal and vertical hold settings slightly when changing channels.

Even the thought of cable television - much less the satellite television we enjoy today - was so totally foreign to us that we could never have dreamed of hundreds of channels with on-demand programming.

My boys consider broadcast television to be ancient history, but I lived it.

We had one telephone in our house. It hung on the wall in the kitchen and it had a long coiled cord between the handset and the wall. You had to either find or know the number you wanted to call and patiently put your fingertip into the proper hole on the dial while rotating it to the stop. Then you waited for the dial to return to the start position so you could dial the next number. There was no call waiting, caller id, call blocking, cordless phones or cell phones. There was just the one phone on the kitchen wall.

Even the thought that we would someday carry a telephone in our pocket that is more powerful than the computers that ran the Apollo spacecraft was totally foreign to us.

My boys consider plain old telephone service to be ancient history, but I lived it.

I typed all of my papers in high school and college on an old typewriter. I was thrilled to get an electric typewriter from Sears as my high school graduation gift so I could type faster. Mistakes required us to either use a correction tape and backspace over to the incorrect character and retype over it once to cover the mistake with white followed by another backspace and retyping the correct character, or rotate the platen to raise the incorrect letter above the type carriage so we could paint over it with White-Out, blow on it to dry it and then get the spot back under the type carriage to retype the correct letter. Spell check consisted of a dictionary always kept close at hand. It was far easier to look up a word before typing it than to correct it after. One of my college professors used to collect our writings and hold them up to the light. The papers were merely handed back to us to be retyped if there were more than three corrections on any page.

Even the thought of a word processor; much less a high-powered computer with auto-correct and formatting was totally foreign to us.

My boys consider typewriters to be ancient history, but I lived it.

I think of all of the things we take for granted ;that were totally foreign to our parents and grandparents, and the new technologies we embraced that will be ancient history to the next generation. The steam locomotive was high technology to one generation and ancient history to those of us living just a couple of generations down the line. What will our grandchildren think of the "new inventions" from our lifetime? It will be just ancient history to them; stories told by old people trying to relive the good old days, or questions on a history quiz.

My life, too, will someday be just ancient history to my descendants.

But I lived it.

Independence Day!

Celebrating these words today:

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Just Hanging Around With Ken

Today is another special day in the Brader clan; for today marks another birthday for Beth - the baby. I won't share her age, but I will share that she is hitting one of the big decades and it's not twenty and it's not thirty and it's not...

Nevermind.

I think Mom had a special love for Beth that started the moment she laid eyes on her as an infant and joyously noticed that she had been spared the stress of having another boy. As far back as I can remember I was admonished that I had to, "be nice to Beth; she's the baby," or, "watch out for Beth; she's the baby," or "take care of Beth; she's the baby."

You get the point.

Beth, of course, played into the role of being "the baby" perfectly.  Like all babies; she started off life small but in her case, she never grew up. I used to call her shrimp because she was so short. I used to call her other things, too, but she usually reported those things to Mom and I got in trouble.

Having Beth around was fine most of the time because she, for whatever reason, looked up to me - the big brother.

But occasionally having Beth around was more than I could handle. Mom forced me to play with Beth. Of course, she never forced Beth to go in the yard and shoot cans with my BB Gun. No, our forced play together always centered on some girly thing that Beth wanted to do. I distinctly remember one time that Mom made me play dolls with Beth.

Seriously?????

Dolls????

Fine! I'll play dolls with Beth.

Beth gleefully got out her Barbie and Ken dolls and all of their associated "stuff." Playing dolls with Beth had to be a very structured thing. Barbie was the Mom. Ken was the Dad. They loved each other dearly and did things like go shopping together.

Yippee!!!

Beth normally had an entire script worked out for how our play time had to proceed. Variation from the script led to tears. Of course, pretty much everything led to tears when it came to Beth.

Well I had finally had enough. This playing with dolls thing was ridiculous so I decided to go "off script" just a bit. Somewhere along the line, Ken assaulted Barbie. GI Joe showed up and beat Ken up in the process of arresting him. There was a trial and Ken was sentenced to death by hanging.

I proceeded to fashion a noose from a shoelace that I then attached to the doorknob and - I'm embarrassed to admit it even after all these years - I hung Ken.

Beth ran crying to Mom. To say that Mom was furious would be putting it a bit mildly. This was certainly not her intention when she had forced me to play dolls with Beth.

Although I admit that it wasn't a very nice thing to do, it did serve a very important purpose.

I never had to play dolls with Beth again...

Happy Birthday, Beth!

All Star Game

The NHL's annual All Star Game came to the old St. Louis Arena in 1970. Although the divisions were technically called the East and the West, it was really still just the Original Six versus the six 1967 expansion teams. It didn't matter, though, because it was the All Star Game and it was in St. Louis!

Mom and Dad were going with our season tickets. I'm not exactly sure how he swung it, but Dad came up with two additional tickets so Debbie and I could go along. Mom and Dad sat in the season ticket seats and let Debbie and me sit by ourselves in the extra seats.

Our seats were probably the worst seats in sports history, but that didn't matter, either, because it was the All Star Game and it was in St. Louis! They were in the front row of the yellow seat level; the second of the three seating tiers in the old barn. The problem with the front row of the yellow seat level was that the seats sat right on the main aisle circling the building. They were not a step up from the aisle nor did they have a railing of any sort between the seats and the aisle. It was our knees sticking out into the aisle.

The roster was a who's who of hockey greats; along with a few not necessarily so great players, I suppose. Debbie and I had a great time despite the fact that we constantly had people walking in front of us.

The East (Original Six) won the game 4 - 1. My favorite player, Red Berenson, assisted on the West's only goal.

Jacques Plante, in his final All Star Game appearance, shut out the East for his entire stint in the second half of the game. Who knows, we might have won 1 - 0 if Bernie Parent hadn't let in four goals during his turn in goal!

Debbie and I sat in the extra seats together and had a wonderful time. I can't imagine letting an eight year old and a twelve year old sit alone today, but things were a lot simpler back then.

The All Star Game was still an exhibition for the fans in 1970 -  NHL greats gathering to show us a great time. There was no skills competition or massive corporate sponsorship deal to taint the fans' experience. I probably couldn't afford to go to an All Star Game any more. With all of the seats held out for corporate sponsors and media personalities there are virtually no seats left for the common fans; and you wouldn't let a twelve year old and eight year old sit off by themselves even if you could get the tickets.

Yeah, things were a lot simpler in 1970 when Debbie and I were there. I know we both look back on that experience with great fondness.

Because it was the All Star Game and we were there!

Street Ball

We played street ball long before the term street ball was linked to the rowdy, no-holds barred brand of basketball that has made its way from the playground to the NBA. For us, street ball was merely a group of kids playing a game of rundown; or maybe a game of 500, out on the street in our Manchester neighborhood.

The area residents all knew that the streets would be filled with kids and they watched out for us. The cry of, "Car!" was the sign for us to rapidly grab whatever we had in the street and run to the side; waiting for the car to pass. We all raced back into the middle of the street to resume our game as soon as the car passed from our field of play.

It didn't matter whether the day was hot and humid or cool and cloudy; we were playing in the street. We didn't have video games or cable television, so we just made our own fun; a group of kids out having a good time.

I think 500 was my favorite game. The rules were simple; one person was the batter and everyone else positioned themselves down the street wherever they thought they had the best chance of getting the ball. The batter's job was to throw a baseball into the air and hit it on its way down. The hit had to stay within the boundaries of the street. The batter tried to hit the ball past the fielders in order to extend their time at bat. The fielders each tried to be the first person to reach 500 points; with 100 points awarded for catching a fly ball, 50 for catching a grounder after only one bounce, 25 points for catching a grounder after two bounces and 10 points for catching a grounder after three bounces. The ball was dead if it hit the ground four times.

The game could be brutal at times; with fielders jostling for position to catch a fly or try to get in front of the other fielders trying to get to a ground ball. The reward for reaching 500 points was the chance to be the batter.

Rundown, or pickle, became the game of choice when only three or four people were available to play. Two players were basemen with the other one or two players serving as runners. Two bases were set up about sixty or seventy feet apart in the middle of the street. The basemen would throw the ball back and forth in a game of catch. The runner(s) tried to time the throws in such as way that they could take off from one base and safely reach the other base without being tagged out by the basemen. The real fun started when they runner got caught in a rundown.

Just like in the pros; the basemen would start chasing the runner toward the opposite bag, throwing the ball at the last possible moment to avoid them having a chance to spin around and get behind the baseman with the ball. Being tagged out meant you had to become one of the basemen and whomever had tagged the runner out got to become the new runner.

The games didn't require any special equipment; just a baseball, a bat and a glove - equipment every kid had. But, oh, did we have fun! The streets were filled with the sounds of a wooden bat hitting the baseball, or of the baseball slapping against the leather mitt. Most of all, though, the streets were filled with the sounds of kids laughing and being kids.

The games typically ended only when too many players had been called home for dinner or it simply became too dark to see the ball any more. I suppose the games never really ended, though; they were merely recessed until dinner was over or a new day was upon us.

I wonder where all the kids have gone as I spend time outside now.  I suppose it isn't safe for kids to play in the street any more. Most cars in our neighborhood ignore the 25 mph speed limit and often consider stop signs to be mere suggestions; making it far too dangerous to allow the kids to play ball out there.

The park about one-half block from home is virtually always empty, too; save for an occasional person walking a dog or a rec league game on the baseball diamond. The only sounds in the neighborhood are the putter of a lawn mower or the bark of a dog.

The kids have moved inside; street ball - as we knew it - seemingly gone forever.