I recently came across two interesting notices, one in an annual report and the other on a milk carton. Beginning with the latter, take a look at the photo below.
On the front of its milk carton, Glenview Farms wants you to know that their reduced fat milk comes “from cows not treated with the hormone rBST.” But on the back, Glenview Farms concedes that “no significant difference has been shown between milk derived from rBST treated and non-rBST treated cows.” . . . The hand of pomposity is quicker than the eye of common sense.
Nevertheless, the winner in the Most Pompous Corporate Notice for 2023 is Wesley Theological Seminary’s statement on the inside cover of its 2023 Annual Report. (It is also entered in the Most Convoluted Sentence of 2023.) It reads, “Printed with zero VOC ink on paper containing postconsumer content, and/or manufactured with hydroelectric power, acid free/alkaline, elemental chlorine free, mixed credit or certified sourcing.” I have no idea what that means, but can you assure me that no whales were harmed during the printing of this annual report?
Books always make great gifts for Christmas! Please peruse my book pages (see banner above), as there is bound to be something of interest to everyone on your gift list. Several of these volumes are slim and easily read in a single sitting, perfect for when you need take a little me-time during the Holidays. So rest in front of the fire with a hot chocolate in one hand and Time Is A Pool or any volume from the Swing Time series in the other.
If you haven’t done so already, please like my author page on Facebook. You can find it here.
I recently attended a meeting at which several candidates for our local school board here in Frederick County, VA spoke. All decried the “overcrowded conditions” in our schools. I decry the use of the term “overcrowded.” People use this term without thought and have done so for some time (since 1725 according to one source) but I’m asking YOU to think about it.
Even the dictionary has trouble defining this absurd word. Merriam-Webster’s online dictionary defines the word as “crowded or filled to excess: having too many people or things.” In other words, overcrowded has no meaning beyond the word crowded. And, if something is “filled to excess,” then it is not crowded, it is spilling. It is impossible to “fill to excess” because once a thing is filled, it is filled. If the “excess” is coffee, it has spilled into your saucer; if the excess is people, they have spilled out the door. In fact, I believe the word would be overflowing.
Far more precise—and a word that actually makes sense—would be the phrase over capacity. That could actually be measured and a school board candidate could tell us that, for example, the Samuel Johnson Elementary School is 10% over capacity.
As it is, the intelligent use of language is increasingly decreasing. Words are precious things. Words have meaning. When they cease to, chaos will ensue. Let us not be lax in the use of our language even if that language has a long-standing history.
The difference between the right word and the almost right word is a large difference indeed; it is the difference between the lightning and the lightning bug.~~Mark Twain
The video below illustrates how a room can go from crowded to overflowing:
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Speaking of words, could we as a society quit shortening words? In an article in this month’s Progressive Farmer I recently came across the word preg in reference to cross-breeding in cattle. As in “preg rates stayed pretty good.” Abominable.
And what kind of lazy word-bastard do you have to be that you say or write merch instead of merchandise? It’s a horrible-sounding word; like the nickname of that annoying kid who laughed at in appropriate times back in 9th grade. I’m surprised some ad agency hasn’t devised the slogan, Purch our merch.
People who do that are ridic. Unstand what I mean?
I have dreaded this day since I was old enough to truly appreciate the perspective that mortality brings. I just heard that Brooks Robinson has died. It must be true because something is gone inside of me. Maybe the last vestiges of childhood innocence that have hung around for these 66 years. Maybe the ultimate rejection of that fantasy that somehow Life will go back to the way it was, and once again we’ll be in the early morning of our hopes and dreams. Yes, this baseball player meant that much to a generation of Baltimoreans; a ballplayer about whom as Gordon Beard, a former AP sports writer once remarked, “Brooks never asked anyone to name a candy bar after him. In Baltimore, people named their children after him.”
I once wrote Scholastic Magazine a scathing letter when they dared run an article proclaiming that Ron Santo was the best third baseman in baseball. I was personally affronted. I have gained perspective over the years, however, and I can acknowledge that George Brett was a much better hitter, Eddie Mathews and Mike Schmidt had more power, and yeah, Ron Santo was pretty good, too, and should have been in the Hall of Fame a long time ago. But those guys weren’t Brooks. They weren’t Brooks.
It would not have been that hard to find somebody in Timonium or Dundalk or Fells Point or any other Baltimore neighborhood who had a better arm than Brooksie. It would have been downright easy to find someone faster than he was. It would have been impossible to find anybody nicer. I think this was Brooks’ appeal. He was that nice guy who you wanted as a neighbor, who actually looked more or less like your neighbor until someone hit a hot smash down the third base line or dropped a bunt up the third base line and suddenly! The flash of lightning leather, the ball seemingly on its way to first before you could blink. Everyone who frequented old Memorial Stadium saw that kind of thing routinely and we still wonder, how did the neighbor guy do that? The 1966 World Series ranks as the biggest thrill for us old Oriole fans, but that 1970 World Series was personally joyous. What? You didn’t know our buddy could do that? We’ve been cheering that for years. That’s just Brooks. Our Brooks.
I first “met” Brooks Robinson in 1965 when he came to the Carroll Manor recreation baseball program as the honored guest for the Opening Day ceremonies. My father took some shaky, silent home movies of this star with the host of little planets swirling around him. He signed everything thrust in front of him and I remember him joking “I think some of these kids are coming back for seconds!” I know I got my glove AND my 1965 Official Orioles Yearbook signed that day. My parents took me to Brooks Robinson Night that year, when he was honored for winning the 1964 American League MVP. My fiancé and I attended Thanks Brooks Day when he retired in 1977. That same girl, now my wife, went to Brooks Robinson Hall of Fame Night in 1983, as well as to the induction ceremony in Cooperstown. Fifteen years later or thereabouts, we took photos of our two daughters flanking the #5 statue at Camden Yards. Tonight, we’re sitting here in tears.
That first time I met Brooks I was eight and he was 28. Now I’m 66 and he’s gone. How could that happen? I understand the biology of it, I just can’t comprehend it.
Our younger daughter Sarah called us with the news. She didn’t want me to “just hear it,” but thought she should be the one to break the news. Our older daughter commiserated with me on the phone. Had either turned out to be a boy, she would have been named, “Brooks.”
The friends from my youth and I all agree that we were lucky to have Brooks as a hero while we were growing up. As of today I guess, we’re all grown up.
Wow! I can’t believe that my last post was way back on July 20th!
Part of that failure to post stems from the notion that if you have nothing to say, then you shouldn’t speak. Or write in this case. Actually, getting old has been a big topic in my circles of friends lately, but that topic gets old.
Part of not posting for so long IS related to getting older, because getting older has completely affected my relationship with Time. It just goes by too fast, (which, by the way, is a much more comforting explanation than the notion that I am now processing it too slowly.)
Did that thing happen yesterday? Last week? Last year?
It’s September? What happened to August?
Part of not posting for so long is also because I have been working on a lengthy short story titled, “The Men Who Saved Baseball.” This is a tale set in the future, when one man from Iowa comes into a fortune large enough to begin his own professional baseball league. By involving the right people and signing the right players, and with a little luck and fortunate timing, the All-American League becomes a giant success, a success made possible by Major League Baseball continuing to shoot itself in the foot.
To that end, I have some advice for MLB, not that they’re going to listen. Here’s my tip, Commissioner Rob Manfred on how to stop shooting yourself in the foot, assuming that you have any toes left: You have too many weak franchises; it’s time to implement a salary floor.
Establish a policy that every Major League baseball team must spend a minimum on player salaries. Make sure that every franchise maintains a minimum standard of quality. You know, like the McDonald’s franchises do.
That salary floor should be set at $100 million. According to a 2022 article in Baseball Prospectus (cited here in a Los Angeles Dodger blog) the most recent national television deal results in $60 million going to each team. Couple that with local TV deals worth at least $40 million and there’s your floor. That means, MLB owners that your profit will come from how many tickets, hot dogs, and parking spaces you sell. You’ll become like a regular business, the kind that needs to please its customers in order to make money.
According to USA Today, eight teams are currently under that proposed floor: Baltimore, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Kansas City, Miami, Oakland, Pittsburgh, and Tampa Bay. That’s 25% of all major league teams, and payrolls range from Oakland’s $56,895,000 to Kansas City’s $92,468,100. (The Nationals rank ninth, by the way with player salaries totaling $101,190,153.) The Orioles are 29th in player salaries with a total of $60,722,300, but keep in mind, Chris Davis, who was injured and no longer playing—is still collecting a paycheck on a long-term contract. In fact, Davis receives $9.16 million for the next three years, which is 15% of Baltimore’s total payroll. (Click here for the entire list of team salaries.)
A salary floor would not just force these small market teams to hire better employees as it were, it also means that the big money franchises would have less talent on which to lavish their money.
Of course, there are details to work out and nuances to be un-nuanced with this idea, but the basic principle can’t be denied. Major League Baseball, as a corporate entity, should hold its franchisees to a minimum standard. That would produce a more satisfying customer experience, attracting more fans, which increases profit.
Unless of course, the goal for the owners and their lawyers and henchmen (is that redundant?) is to milk this cow for all its worth and then get out of the dairy business, hanging us fans and the cow out to dry. I wonder anymore.
Here’s a little tidbit that appeared in the July 17th, 2023 edition of the Winchester Star’s “Out of the Past” column:
July 12, 1923
HAYFIELD — There has been a noticeable deficiency of precipitation in the past two years, particularly during the last twelve months, which is having a telling effect on those subterranean reservoirs that feed wells and springs, causing many intermittent springs and streams to cease flowing.
The shortage of rain has been attributed to the extraction of electricity from the atmosphere by the flight of airplanes and Zeppelins.
If this theory is correct and the air becomes the national highway of travel, rain will ultimately cease to fall and famine prevail.
The temperature last month was the hottest experienced in June for more than thirty years and the driest since 1918. [STOP]
What a bunch of gullible goofs!
Wonder what they’ll think of us 100 years from now?
I am always interested in the back stories of songs, movies, people’s careers, and well, anything that may have a back story, and I thought my readers would be interested in the back story of Swing Time III: Blame it on the Boogie.
I always wanted to write the sequel to the movie, Saturday Night Fever, or I should say the good sequel. Stayin’ Alive was terrible and if you’re sitting there saying to yourself, “What’s Stayin’ Alive?” my point is demonstrated: Few people remember that WAS the sequel to its famous predecessor. I wanted to jump ahead 30 or 40 years to examine what might have become of Tony Manero and his buddies. I could have told that story, but Robert Stigwood didn’t ask me to and since he owns the rights to those characters, I abandoned that idea.
The notion of writing a Saturday Night Fever sequel has been floating around in my head for some time and after creating the Swing Time series, I had a natural vehicle to write, not about the movie characters, but about the people who would have attended that movie and been mesmerized by it. Did they still feel the beat? And if they did, how did it affect them? I didn’t care what they did, I cared about what they felt.
Still, something has to happen or the characters’—and the readers’—feelings would never get provoked otherwise. I needed a plot for Swing Time III: Blame it on the Boogie and I relied on the guidance of Woody Allen who said, “If you’re going to steal, steal from the very best,” which brings me to Thornton Wilder’s play Our Town, one of the greatest works of literature. Ever. In it, the main character Emily dies at a young age, but her spirit is shown all the little things in life that she failed to appreciate and thus, she—and we—learn a valuable lesson.
What if my main character whom I named “Emily Wilder” (see what I did there?) failed to learn the key part of the lesson learned in Our Town? Moments must be appreciated, not because they are wonderful or beautiful or fun, but because they will pass no matter how tightly you try to hold on to them.
As for the songs that I referenced in the story, I tried to use them at points when the title or the lyrics highlighted a character’s feelings at any given moment. After all, it would be really cool if we could go through life with a sound track so that everyone would know what we were all about at that moment. Kind of like Tony Manero when he carries that paint can down the street during the opening of Saturday Night Fever. The paint can shows that he’s just a schlub working in a hardware store, but the attitude lets us know that he’s the King of the Disco. And he is, but Kings of such Realms can never reign for long. Could he make the transition and become King of the Hardware Store? District Manager for Home Depot? Could he relinquish his throne, as sooner or later he must? What happens when you refuse and held onto that throne—or your youth—so tightly that your hands are cramped, making it impossible to let go without some help? Ask Emily Wilder.
Her story, Swing Time III: Blame it on the Boogie is available through Amazon in both Kindle and paperback formats. (Click on the link to order.) Songs mentioned in the former are linked to YouTube videos so you’ll hear Emily’s soundtrack. Here’s one of those songs, whose existence I had forgotten all about, but as soon as I hit play, the memories came alive. Hope you enjoy Emily’s story.
Last night LSU capped, what for me, was the greatest college baseball season ever as they defeated the Florida Gators 18-4 in the deciding game of the 2023 College World Series. So many great players, great games, and great plays every weekend from March to May, and the Series itself was filled with many great—even historic—moments. But, it was a play that occurred after last night’s game ended that will stay with me always.
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In the 4th inning of last night’s contest, with LSU leading 9-2, Tiger catcher Alex Milazzo singled. The next batter, Cade Beloso, ran the count full and Milazzo took off with the next pitch. Beloso singled into right center and Milazzo never stopped running, hitting third and heading home to the surprise of Karl Ravetch, the television play-by-play man, as well as the Florida defense. The tardy throw to the plate pulled Florida catcher B. T. Riopelle up the third base line and he dove in a vain attempt to catch it. Milazzo, arriving at almost the same time as the ball, had to leap over the sprawling Riopelle, and he came down somewhat awkwardly but safely on home plate. Milazzo immediately fell to the ground in pain, however. In landing, he had fractured his left shin.
Later in the game, he showed up on the LSU bench, his pants leg cut almost to the knee, revealing a large air cast. A pair of crutches leaned against the bench.
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It is the custom of College World Series champions to dog pile in the middle of the field upon recording the game’s final out. LSU pitcher Paul Skenes, who was named the CWS player of the tournament and is soon to be the first pick in this year’s draft, made sure his buddy and battery mate wouldn’t miss the celebration. Skenes carried Milazzo on his back out to the celebration.
In the greatest of seasons, that was the greatest play I saw all year.
CHARACTER DEFINING MOMENTS
Paul Skenes carrying LSU catcher Alex Milazzo (who suffered a leg injury avoiding a tag in the 4th) to the dog pile after beating Florida to win the national championship is EVERYTHING
Looking for a quick (91 pages), entertaining, summer-time read? Look no further than Swing Time III Blame it on the Boogie, now available through Amazon.
The Swing Time series follows two dance instructors, Chance Bryant and Faith Eisen, a couple who have some rather peculiar experiences with Time. They are not time travelers; rather Time happens to them. In this case, the recently retired Emily Wilder seeks out Chance to begin hustle lessons. This is the only dance she desires to learn, as she seeks to reconnect with her youth. Emily’s problem, however, is that she is already so tightly connected to her past that she can’t quite appreciate the present. For whatever reason–certainly Chance and Faith have never discovered why–the Universe has selected them to help Emily learn what to let go and what to savor. It would appear that some people are just “saved” through dance.
Swing Time III Blame it on the Boogie is available for your Kindle ($0.99) and in paperback ($5.00). If you do plan to read it at the beach, I recommend the paperback, which will not fail to function should you splash it with sea water, fill it with sand, or drip sunscreen on it. I can’t say the same for the Kindle version, ALTHOUGH, the Kindle version contains links to every song mentioned in the story. Come to think of it, I’d get both. In fact, if you haven’t read the first two novelas in the series, A Swing Dancing, Time Warping Story and Stardust in the Shenandoah, I’d buy them, as well. If it’s sunny and you get to spend a great deal of time on the beach, you’ll need plenty to read. If it rains and you’re stuck inside, you’ll need plenty to read. And each Kindle is linked to the songs mentioned, so you’ll have a soundtrack of the Time that happens to Chance and Faith.
I had no idea that a bare-butted, cast-iron statue of the Roman god, Vulcan, stood watch over the city of Birmingham, Alabama. But, he does. Standing at 56’ tall (not counting his pedestal) and weighing in at over 100,000 pounds, makes him the largest cast-iron statue in the world. How he got there is an interesting story.
The mighty Vulcan. Modesty forbids me to show a view from the reverse side. Modesty and the fact that I forgot to take a photo featuring that view. Too cheeky.
The statue was commissioned in October, 1903 by Birmingham’s Commercial Club for the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair as a fitting representation of Birmingham’s iron and steel industry. The sculptor, Giuseppe Moretti, began work in November and miraculously had the Armorer of the Gods ready to ship to St. Louis by the end of April, 1904. Ole Vulc’ was a hit, and his creator won a medal. The only problem seemed to be that no one had considered what to do with him once the fair was over. The cities of St. Louis and San Francisco offered to buy the big guy from Birmingham, but the city fathers decided to keep him. So, he was duly shipped home by rail, unloaded, and left by the railroad tracks for 18 months. He finally made it to the Alabama State Fairgrounds where he was improperly assembled, but by 1935, it was decided to properly assemble him atop Red Mountain, a most appropriate spot considering that Red Mountain is essentially a huge pile of iron ore with trees growing on the collected topsoil.
Poor Vulcan suffered the indignity of serving as a giant advertising piece. Originally, he held a spear or arrow in his right hand, but as that was lost on the return trip from St. Louis, he ended up holding ice cream cones, a Coca-Cola bottle, and even a jar of Heinz pickles. The fall from Armorer of the Gods to Mad Man must have been traumatic.
He finally made it to the top of Red Mountain in 1939 setting off a nine-day celebration. Eventually, it was decided he needed some bucking up, but the decision to pour concrete inside the hollow structure proved unwise. Concrete and iron expand and contract at different rates and ultimately his innards began cracking his outtards. He and his surrounding park were remodeled around 1970 in a style that didn’t even last as long as the ’70s. Between 2002 and 2004, the city fathers—and mothers, by this time—tore down the ’70s park and restored the 1939 look. They cleaned up Vulcan and had some kind of statue-orthopedist check out all his joints, and he now stands proudly on his sandstone pedestal beaming down on the Birminghamians below.
The suburb of Homewood, has the reverse view, however. It was apparently the custom of blacksmiths back in the day to wear a leather apron, but to forego pants. One would think that pants would be a given what with all those sparks flying hither and yon, but I am neither a blacksmith nor a Roman god, so I’m in no position to question. I would bet, however, that this would not meet OSHA standards for a safe work environment. In any case, the point is that all over Alabama, the full moon shines down every 28 days except in Homewood, where Vulcan moons Homewoodians 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Fully.
The official Vulcan Park and Museum website provides all the particulars regarding hours, admission, directions, etc, and the museum is well worth the time to visit. The gift shop even offers a Vulcan bobble head, only Vulcan’s head is not the only thing that bobbles. A very gentile Southern lady was only too eager to turn the little guy around to show me that his bare butt bobbles as well. Vulcan’s little park is well-worth the visit and offers a majestic view of Birmingham and environs.
Downtown Birmingham from Vulcan Park on Red Mountain.
Al and I discovered a real treasure in the form of the Negro Southern League Museum (NSLM) on our recent trip to Birmingham for the SEC Baseball Tournament. The museum not only houses the “largest collection of original Negro League baseball artifacts in the country,” it also functions as a research center. The artifacts are from the collection of one man, Dr. Layton Revel, and include an enormous number of autographed balls, uniforms (including a Satchel Paige game-worn uniform), bats, gloves, and even some old stadium seats.
Birmingham was (and still is) the home of the AA Barons of the Southern League, and was also the home of the Birmingham Black Barons of the Negro Southern League. Both teams played at Rickwood Field, which is the oldest ballpark in the country, having been built in 1910. That makes it two years older than either Wrigley or Fenway and three years older than Bosse Field in Evansville, Indiana. You can still visit Rickwood Field and we were fortunate enough to see it being used as there was a U17 game going on at the time. (If you are interested in visiting that ballpark, however, you should go sooner rather than later, because if three fans all sneezed at the same time, it looks as if the whole place would fall over.)
Many major leaguers including three generations of Hairstons (Sam, Jerry, and Jerry, Jr.), former Oriole and Red Lee May, Cleon Jones, and several others hail from Birmingham. The museum also includes exhibits on the industrial leagues that were prevalent in the city with Birmingham’s iron and steel industry contributing their share of teams. The NSLM ably fulfills its stated mission of telling the story of “African-American baseball in America through the eyes of Birmingham, Alabama.”
We were warmly greeted by the Deputy Director of the Museum, Mr. Frank Adams, a very knowledgeable gentleman and also a real baseball guy. I highly recommend a visit to this wonderful museum.
Ambitious Enterprises
Ally Peltier is an excellent editor/consultant for your writers looking for professional guidance.
Baseball Panoramic
Rob Noel’s great site takes you on virtual tours of MLB and historic ballparks
David Stinson's author blog
Please visit my buddy and fellow author David Stinson’s site. He has a real eye for baseball’s past; in fact, he sees it!
Deadball Baseball
Based on David Stinson’s novel, Deadball: A Metaphysical Baseball Novel
History: Preserved
This is a wonderful blog that often covers the home front during World War II, especially the recipes that were used to compensate for rationing. i had the privilege of meeting the author, Sarah Lee, at the 2017 WIlliamsport World War II Weekend.
Off the Beaten Basepaths & other videos
OTBB takes you to baseball treasures that are little known, underappreciated, or simply off the beaten basepaths! Subscribe now through Youtube so you don’t miss an episode.
Places We Have Played Album
My non-genetic twin, Al Smith, and I like to play in as many interesting ballparks, big and small, as we can find. Here’s our “collection.”
Sarah Sundin
Sarah is a World War II romance novelist who gets her history correct! Lots of good information on her blog.
Winchester Book Gallery
A wonderful independent book store that is a fun place to shop in the Old Town Mall in Winchester. Christine and her staff are just plain nice people!
Your Little Windmill
My younger daughter, Sarah, has started a blog about her journey through love and Life. Well-written and insightful, and I’m saying that as a writer and not as her dad.
Austin Gisriel 