Those gathered around the dinner table held hands with heads bowed as the elderly man began his prayer with song, “Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the crowd….” The crackled voice broke causing a wave of emotion to wash over us. I lifted my eyes but dared not look around to see the expressions of the others. I couldn’t have seen if they had tears in their eyes for my own that threatened to spill over. Just that simple tune was one of the greatest proclamations of thanks and blessings.
The tune transported me back more than 50 years ago. The pitcher stood on the mound. “Batter’s up!” He started his wind-up, his arm spinning like rotors on a helicopter about to take off. “Swing batter batter,” was heard from the field. Crack! The ball flew through the air as the batter ran at full speed. As he turned first base and headed to second, dried cow manure was flung from the soles of his shoes.
That’s how we played ball when our families got together. We’d grab our gloves and crawl through the barbed wire fence and into the pasture. Dried cow patties served as the bases. Some of the boys stripped off their shirts and others put on their caps. A ball game was serious business! I always wanted to be on the team that had the most Clark boys. Those boys knew how to play ball and I wanted to be on the winning team. The Clarks, Hambys, Spallers, Wards and all the other cousins, young and old, picked teams. Guy, pipe in mouth, was the pitcher. When the little kids got up to bat, he shortened the distance from the pitcher’s mound to home plate. The little ones were just as much part of the team as the big ones. And if a little one hit the ball there was more cheering than if one of those big guys hit the ball over the fence and into the neighbor’s field.
When the big game was over, the teams grazed from the leftovers stretched out on makeshift tables under the shade trees. My granddad, having thumped his watermelon to prove it was ripe, cut the watermelon into pieces. Kids lined up to get their slice. Juice ran down their chins and dripped down their bellies. The old timers told the same stories they had told for years but we listened as if it was the very first time we heard them. They talked about their days living on the prairies of Montana. It seemed their hearty laughter could be heard for miles away as it bubbled up from the tips of their toes, their booming voices drowning out the chatter of the others. We were given predictions of the baseball teams that were bound to be going to the championship games. Women exchanged recipes and swapped cotton yarn for knitted dishcloths. Though our bellies were full, the soothing aromas of my Aunt’s kitchen still enticed us to get another cinnamon roll (if there were any left) or a piece of pie. With those cooks, there were very little leftovers to take home. By the time we left for home, we were completely satisfied. Nothing beat a day spent with cousins and other relatives with plenty of food, fun and loads of laughter. The stories and laughter still echoes in my memories.
Though many have slipped away, we continue to pass the stories down. That is our heritage and well worth the remembrance. What great blessings we have been given! Family, food, stories, laughter, memories!
Prayers don’t always come in pious or fancy words. Nor are they merely petitions for intervention. Often the prayers that reach the heights of heaven are simple remembrances and thanksgiving of God’s blessings. It might even be a silly tune that speaks volumes.
The elderly man continued his prayer, “….One, two, three strikes you’re out at the old ball game.” “Thank you Lord for those gathered around the table…”