T-Ball

The first night, I thought nobody would show up to play.

The second night, I thought nobody would show up to help coach the score of kids who came the first night!

Parents are watching from the bleachers. A few grandparents, some siblings.

Muttering amongst themselves.  Critiquing?

Or just hoping that their child will hit the ball, be praised with a high five and run in the right direction?

Some are smiling, some are not. 

It's hot.  Really hot.  The wind will not quit. 

Somebody has to go potty.

Do I have an extra glove?

Somebody else has sand in their eyes. 

I hear somebody crying in the outfield.

Can I play 3rd base? 

Somebody's thirsty, can we get a drink? 

(Thank God their was a hose on the spigot)

I decide quickly that if I just pretend the adults aren't there and play ball with the kids, everything will be fine. 

And it is.

The third and fourth nights came and went. Different help came and went.  I was chasing a toddler in one direction and baseballs in the other, taking three-year-olds by the hand and running from home plate to first base, then waiting for the next ball to be hit and repeating the process over and over and over until everybody had a turn. 

Don't forget to go from second to third...no no no...over here, follow my voice!!

And the parents were still watching.

Some were smiling, some were not.... 

Somebody that I recognized stopped me in the post office after week #2 and told me quite exuberantly, "The kids are having so much fun learning T-Ball with you as coach, you've taught them so much!"

It caught me completely by surprise and I thought they were just being nice. 

I hope I said thank you.

I kept it to myself until now.  I had to watch and see for myself if they were really having fun. Or learning anything.  Tonight, when a Kindergartener caught a pop fly, stepping on the base to force an out, and a gleaming smile crossed his face, I thought maybe so....

And you know what?  I'm having fun, too.

We have one game left and our little red team has grown about 3 sizes. To my knowledge, nobody has a hit out on me yet.  At least not professionally.  I even got a compliment from an old hat in the game of coaching T-ball and that made my day.  Probably even more. 

As Yogi Berra once said, "If people don't want to come out to the ball park, nobody's gonna stop 'em." 

And I'm saying, if you do come out, put a smile on your face and let's hear some cheer for the little ones.  With a ball and a glove slung over their shoulder on a bat, they are the happiest creatures around.

And that makes it all worth it!  Heat and all.

Life in the West

I was privileged enough to be asked to take photos at a family branding over the weekend, as I did for them a few years ago.  Just getting to the location was adventure enough for me, as is usually the case.  Even though I grew up "out in the country" in mid-Michigan, I was only a few miles from town and could walk if need be. I was an hour and a half from downtown Detroit and 30 minutes away from two malls and more restaurants and businesses than was able to list in a 50 page book.  What I thought was a small town growing up has proven to be a Metropolitan compared to where I've been the past 10 years in Nebraska.   I've gotten accustomed now to living with manicured lawns, next door neighbors, block parties and paved streets, with sidewalks to contend with in the way of winter snow shoveling and summer grass edging. A street light constantly shines in my bedroom window all night long.  My vegetable garden is a swath along the back side of the fence in the alley between the two garbage dumpsters and I consider myself blessed to have such a space in town to grow them. If only the underground water sprinklers would reach them...

Driving out to the ranch yesterday, I found myself daydreaming on the 5 mile driveway about life in a covered wagon with an ox and what a shock that must have been to the early settlers.  A white poppy here and there with only a few wild flowers thrown in for color, it's no wonder so many people died or gave up along the way.  And now with all the modern marvels, it's still the same untouched space it was 200 years ago.  

I parked my car at the main house and caught a ride in a big, old beat up pick-up truck to an open space way out in the middle of the ranch.  The young driver explained to me that "grandpa fixed a road up to it early this morning, and if we use 4 wheel drive, we'll be fine."  Wide open spaces don't explain the ranches out here. You can see for miles and miles and miles, and the cattle just wander around aimlessly, never worried about running out of space.  

Walking around the prairie grass alone with a camera was freeing.  I confess, I did wear my Mp3 player to drown out the mooing of the cows.  If asked, I would tell anybody else it was for photographer inspiration, but I really just don't like the angry mooing mamas and bawling calf sounds! 

Watching the generations of people working together to get the branding done was what made me smile the most this time.  Parents and grandparents in their snap up long sleeve shirts and cowboy hats and knee high cowboy boots with chaps, teenagers with their jeans and T-shirts and ball caps, little ones still dressing like their parents in their snap up long sleeve shirts and cowboy hats and knee high cowboy boots with chaps, and the few others who come back home to help out but still favor their tank tops on a typical hot & dry 100 degree Western Nebraska day. 


Early in the morning, kids and adults alike had gone out on horseback and rounded up all the cattle to the corral.  From there, they work in a fluid motion, everybody taking a battle station.  Some stayed on horseback to lasso the calves, others grabbed colored chalk to mark the forehead of the calf once it has a certain vaccination, which was done by a slew of more workers.  Some tended to the branding irons in the flame, others still had the responsibility of holding the calf down on the ground once the horseman drug it over to them and yet still others needed to stand by the big bulls and mama cows and wave their hands to keep them from charging.  And after a quick break with snacks as large and filling as my evening meal, they went at it again, some changing positions in the game, others doing exactly the same thing they've done year after year after year. 

All I did was stand back and snap photos, staying out of the way of the horses and little calves that were still three times my weight, and praying that I could hear the rattle snakes through all the mooing, bawling and good tunes so that I didn't get bit... it's a long way back to town for the emergency room! 

The event was successful all around, and 200 head of branded, medicated and chalked cattle later, they packed up and drove back to the house for a noon meal feast, prepared by the women who brought the snacks out earlier. Many will repeat this process week after week until all their cattle in the land are branded, helping out neighbor after neighbor after neighbor. 

Now, look at these photos and tell me that Nebraska isn't what it claims to be:  The Good Life