Philo

Old Philo always appeared content with his life and the world around him. Although his 80-plus years must have dealt him the normal share of aches, pains, and misfortune, he never seemed to feel any need or obligation to burden others with his problems. And, as I listened to him talk, I appreciated the fact that I did not have to sort fact from fiction. He never boasted of all of the wonderful things he had accomplished in his life, or listed all of the even more wonderful things he could have done if only he had received a few good breaks along the way.

This older neighbor and I often sat and in the shade of a large maple tree. As we talked, he taught me a lot of the history of our area. Was I familiar with the Wyalusing State Park? He remembered when it was known as “Glen Park,” because all of that high woodland above the confluence of the Wisconsin River and the mighty Mississippi was once owned by Sheriff Glen. He told of a time when that property was the home of hundreds and hundreds of goats that had been shipped in by rail from Texas. The tough, wiry little animals slept in large open sheds at night, and then at sunup would move out, single file, to feed. Their primary purpose was to eat and thus destroy the tangled mass of wild brush and weeds that flourished among the thick stand of tall trees that covered those hills.

Philo talked of people who had lived in the area before my time. Once he mentioned a lady who had resided in the North Andover area, and wondered whether I had ever known her. I told him I had only heard of her but knew the location of a farm she once owned. And that some of the older neighbors referred to the place by one name, while others used another, depending on whether they were best acquainted with her first or with her second husband.

The old man smiled. “When she was a young girl she lived in our neighborhood. One evening my sister and I were going to drive to Cassville to attend a dance, and she asked to ride along. When I pulled my horse and buggy up to her parents’ house she came out carrying a neatly-wrapped package, but when we asked, she wouldn’t tell us what it contained. Later in the evening she informed us that she would not be leaving with us. She and the young man of her choice eloped that night. My sister and I decided that her small package must have held a homemade wedding dress.”

When asked what his boyhood life was like he answered, “Well, my friends and I were all farm boys, so there was almost always work to do. But we still found time to play. In the summer we played baseball and swam in the Grant River. In the winter there was sleigh riding and skating. Most farm boys built at least one homemade sled. There was no TV or radio. Unlike today’s young fellows, we didn’t dream of the day when we would be getting a driver’s license and a car. But each of us looked forward to the time when he would have his own shiny black buggy and at least one fancy high-stepping horse.

“My best friend’s family owned the next farm down the road. Tommy and I were together whenever we could find the time. Sometimes in the summer we would do up our Sunday morning chores early and walk up to the Pleasant Ridge community. We would attend church with the folks there, and could always count on one of the families to invite us to their home for the noon meal. Then after dinner, we would play baseball.”

My old neighbor’s memory was amazing. After all of those years he could still remember the names of all the Grimes lads, and the Greenes, and the Shepards, and which ones could really hit or field a ball or throw a sharp-breaking curve.

He went on to tell me the history of Pleasant Ridge. “Back in 1848 a white Southern plantation owner purchased some farm land west of Lancaster, the county seat here in Grant County, Wisconsin. He divided the property and sold parcels to some of his slaves. Later they were joined by others who had been freed or had escaped from their owners in various parts of the South. “That’s in the ‘Slabtown’ area,“ he continued, “but I don’t think you’ll find that name on many maps. There isn’t really a town there anymore. The official name for that area is ‘Flora Fountain.’

“Right from the start, the Pleasant Ridge folks got along well with their neighbors. In fact, in many cases the local white farmers helped the newcomers get their small farming operations set up and started. Back then almost everyone was poor and worked hard, and farmers exchanged work and helped each other out whenever they could. At harvest time, at least a dozen men or more were required to keep the threshing machine busy and get the job done. A number of adjoining farms would make up a ‘threshing ring’ or ‘threshing run.’ When the job was finished on one farm, the big steam engine and grain separator would move on to the next, until everyone’s grain was threshed. When people are busy and working that hard, the color of a man’s skin is unimportant.

“There were some mighty good cooks back then,” he continued, with a smile. “Dick Lewis, one of the farmers up on Pleasant Ridge, had a small farm and his threshing job didn’t take long, but somehow things always got timed so the crew was there for a noon meal. The fellow who operated the big threshing equipment was an excellent manager, in that respect. Everyone on the crew looked forward to that meal because Dick’s wife Ollie was the best cook on the whole threshing ring.”

In one of our conversations, Philo told me that The United Brethren Methodist Church was built in 1870 and it served not only the 20 families who then made up the Pleasant Ridge community, but also quite a number of their white neighbors. Also that the Pleasant Ridge School was built about the same time, and was generally believed to be the first integrated public school in the entire United States. And that the community continued to grow until the early nineteen hundreds, when it reached a population of more than 200 ex-slaves and their descendants.

On another occasion, Philo recalled, “The children and young people got along just fine. In grade school, there were close friendships regardless of color. As the youngsters grew older, the friendships remained but there was almost no consorting romantically or anything like that. Such behavior was frowned on by all of the older folks. And two sad events, the only real racial trouble that ever occurred there, continually reminded everyone of potential problems that could arise.

“In 1883, one of the men from ‘The Ridge’ was accused of getting a white girl pregnant. He was arrested, and four members of the girl’s family set out to spring him from jail and lynch him. They wound up shooting and killing him. They were apprehended, tried, and three were found guilty of fourth-degree manslaughter, the other, of assault with intent to murder.

“Then, almost 40 years later, Jack Green warned a white Lancaster man three times to stay away from his young daughter. Ignoring Green’s words, the man continued seeing the girl and he took her for one ride too many. When they returned, the angry father was waiting with a loaded gun. He not only terminated the fellow, but shot his car several times for good measure. At his trial, an all-white jury considered the ‘extenuating circumstances,’ determined it was a ‘justifiable homicide,’ and declared Jack innocent.”

With a hint of sadness, Philo recalled, “At the time of World War I, good jobs in the big cities began to beckon, and the Pleasant Ridge folks started to drift away. At first, only a few moved out, but then more and more, until the only remaining member of the community was Charlie Green. He loved the beautiful, quiet farming country and refused to trade it for the bustling city life chosen by all of his friends and relatives. Charlie died in 1977, the last person to be interred in the Pleasant Ridge Cemetery.”

Time continues to move on, and just as the community of Pleasant Ridge faded away into the past, so did my old neighbor and good friend, Philo. I miss him and our conversations. And as I near my middle-eighties, I can only hope that my memory-generated tales prove to be half as interesting and informative as were his

A FUTURE PRESIDENT ???

This article was written in January of 1999.

As usual, “Lige” Craig opened the day’s discussion: “What do you guys think about those folks up in Minnesota electing a professional wrestler as their governor? Do you think one of those grunt and groan guys can really run a state?”

“Sprout” Brussel, the historian of the group, scratched his head. “Well, a number of successful leaders, even presidents, built their political careers on military, sports, or acting experience. I don’t know whether or not our first president, George Washington, was much of an athlete, but books say he once threw a dollar clean across the Potomac River.”

“And a lot of later presidents broke that record by throwing billions of dollars across the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans,” commented Phillip “Pill” Dougherty, the designated pessimist of the group.

“Some books say good old Honest Abe Lincoln was every bit as well known for his wrestling skill as he was for his story telling and debating ability when he was young. And he turned out to be about as good a president as we’re ever going to get,” Sprout commented.

“President Reagan was said to be a fairly good athlete,” Ed Austin added. “And he announced the Cub’s games on the radio. He was real convincing as George Gipp in the Knute Rockne movie. When Rockne asked them to, the Notre Dame team went right out there and ‘won one for the Gipper.’”

“They say Ex-President Gerald Ford played a lot of college football,” remarked Ed’s brother Jake.

“Some of his worst critics always maintained that he’d played a few too many games without wearing his helmet,” Pill grumbled.

“I don’t know about that, but I once saw him on TV showing some interviewers a big scar he’d received on the gridiron when he made solid contact with a great football player named Jay Berwanger,” Jake replied.

“Maybe he just got the scar from bumping into something. Ford was always known to be kind of clumsy,” was Pill’s observation.

Grandpa Lowther rubbed his chin. “I recall a Dubuque boy named Jay Berwanger. He played a lot of football. Wouldn’t that be something, to always be able to say you’d put a scar on a president? Think of that: A US president carrying around your own personal scar that you’d put on him!”

Sprout grinned. “But getting back to this Jesse “The Body” Ventura guy, he just might have the ideal background for politics. He has military, athletic, and show business experience to spare.”

“Well, pro wrestling alone could fit a man for politics,” Lige opined. “We’ve all watched those pre-match interviews where the contestants boast about what they are going to do to their opponents when they get them in the ring. And what they are going to do for the sport once they’ve won the title. A lot of bluff and brag and quite a few ‘half-truths, at best.’ Pretty much the same as your average run-of-the-mill political campaign speech.”

“I remember the matches out at the old Melody Mill,” said Grandpa. “Ken Fenelon was a great wrestler and a big name in the sport at one time. And he was a Dubuque boy, too.”

“I went to see the pro matches in a high school gymnasium on a Sunday afternoon once,” Jake recalled. “Some of those wrestlers were so mean and bitter at each other that they entered from opposite ends of the gym. But they must have gotten their differences settled in the ring. I noticed that when they left, they all rode back to Des Moines in the same van.”

“In the political arena, that’s generally referred to as ‘eating out of the same trough,’” Sprout explained.

“Politics makes strange bedfellows,” Pill reasoned.

THE BIG SHOW

I’m a tried-and-true wrestling fan –
And have been for many years.
I’ve studied all the holds and moves,
Seen the action, sweat, and tears,

I’ve watched the pre-match interviews
With bluff and bluster to spare
Like so many campaign speeches –
Made up mostly of hot air.

I’ve heard those giants grunt and groan
And pull and tug and strain;
I’ve seen many a grimace, when
They could scarcely stand the pain.

I’ve seen them raised, then body-slammed
On hard gymnasium floors.
Some got beat up with folding chairs
And thrown right through hardwood doors.

I watched a “Texas Death Match” once –
Most came through without a scar –
Later those mortal enemies
All rode home in the same car.

Some say a wrestler must depend
Quite a bit on acting skill,
‘Cause he must please us gullible
Paying folks who foot the bill.

But Jesse has me wondering
All about this wrestling game.
I once halfway believed, but now
It will never be the same:

I’ll wonder, as each wrestler goes
Through his bag of dirty tricks:
Is he only preparing for
A career in politics?

TAKING STOCK

At times, it is easy to get “all wrapped up in ourselves.” Especially as we grow older. We begin to worry about all of the things that are wrong with us, as well as with the world around us.

Too often we old geezers arise in the morning and begin checking ourselves out for any possible new aches and pains or other ailments. Instead of looking for the sunrise we turn on the TV and watch the world news, where we too often find more things that steer our thoughts toward the negative.

Get a group of us together, and you’ll likely get the whole load. About the only way for an individual to get attention early at such a meeting is to be the one who is in the poorest health. Or the one who takes the most and costliest medication. Or the one who has had the most complicated and/or life-threatening surgery. Lacking any of these qualifications, one can only hope to find willing listeners by being able to inform the gathering of a good universal home remedy for a common ailment.

After all of the prevalent medical conditions have been addressed, and only then, the talk may turn to the financial. Any rise in taxes makes a popular subject. Any increase in rent, or the costs of electricity, water, sewer, or garbage pickup are popular subjects. Any cheerfulness arising from a boost in Social Security payments is usually doused quickly by talk of an increase in Medicare costs. Without going into a lot of detail, some will admit that the low interest rates currently earned by their retirement investments have not exactly brightened up their Golden Years.

And nothing gets the attention of the entire assembly more quickly than does a hint from a trouble making prankster, indicating that there is a rumor making the rounds that there will soon be a sizable increase in the cost of TV cable service.

TAKING STOCK

I watched the old man

As he trudged down the road

With his thin shoulders stooped,

His aged back badly bowed.

The clothes on his back,

Shabby and far from new,

And the soles of his cheap

Shoes were badly worn through.

I wondered about

Just what places he’d been,

What joys has he’d known, and

What great sights had he seen.

What problems faced him

As he traveled life’s trail?

Was he hounded by fears

That he would always fail?

Was he nagged by thoughts,

Doubting he’d ever cope?

Did each sunrise fail to

Give him new rays of hope?

What had prevented

Him from gaining great wealth?

Had he been hampered by

A lifetime of poor health?

Was it just bad luck

That, day after long day,

Good breaks eluded him,

And never came his way?

Did he ever know

The love of a good spouse,

Or the comforting sound

Of children ‘round the house?

His face left no doubt

How the old man did feel.

He looked hungry, so I

Staked him to a warm meal.

He thanked me as we

Ate and talked for awhile.

Finally, I saw at

Least the hint of a smile.

The clouds parted. The

Sun brightened my own day.

Suddenly my own aches

And pains melted away.

My own troubles seemed

Trivial, now, and small,

Almost as if I had

No real problems at all.

I counted up all

The blessings sent my way,

Said a short prayer of thanks

For the gifts of that day.

We never know quite

What the future will bring,

But that one day made me feel

Wealthy as any king.

COUNTRY CONCERT

Lige Craig waited until all his friends had been served their first cup of coffee, then gave his favorite foil, Grandpa Lowther a sly wink and said, “Grandpa, we’ve often discussed all the changes we’ve seen in our time. Tell me, is there any special change that has surprised or impressed you? Something we haven’t mentioned before?”

As usual, the old fellow had a ready answer. “Yes, I’d have to say I find it hard to understand today’s propensity for constant sound and lack of silence. When we were young if we saw someone walking alone on a country lane we just assumed that person was enjoying the solitude, the quiet sounds of nature, and being alone with his or her thoughts. But today you can bet your bibs that solitary stroller is wearing headphones and is listening to music or a self-improvement speech recorded on a CD. Or else talking on a cell phone.

“Some folks don’t seem happy unless they are listening to something. Events such as celebrity court trials will cause them to glue themselves to the TV all day and half of the night, when usually 15 or 20 minutes of national and world news will cover everything of importance that can happen in 24 hours. These viewer-listeners will hear the same news and the same commercials repeated time and again. You can’t help but wonder when they find time to do any thinking of their own.

“In the old days, most of the noise wasn’t as loud as it is now. Any rooster worth his salt would make himself heard each morning, but it wasn’t a disagreeable sound. He would crow and crow until the sun, ready or not, would come up over the horizon. And until his owner would get up out of bed and start a new day’s work.
“When a farmer walked into his barn in the morning, it was not uncommon for a few of the cows to greet him with a “Moo,” and let him know they were ready to be relieved of their milk and fed some hay. Horses, too, would often neigh or nicker a “Good Morning.” A farmer with strong hands could sit down to a good milk cow and make the bottom of an empty milk pail ring out a merry tune with those first squirts of milk. And the farm cats, smelling the fresh milk, would mew pleasantly to let their master know they were ready to be fed.

“Horse-drawn farm machines were not nearly as noisy as those motorized monsters used today. A blacksmith’s hammer and anvil would often ring out a merry tune. And the loose-plank floors of some bridges would rumble out a pleasant song when crossed by a Model T Ford.

“A lot of conditions back then weren’t as pleasant or convenient as things are now. But I’m sure a lot of folks these days are missing out on a lot of precious silence and on a lot of the soft, enjoyable, musical notes of nature.”

COUNTRY CONCERT

Time moves swiftly when you’re busy,

I rush to get each job done.

I like having my work finished

By the setting of the sun.

Sunset sometimes puts on a show

With a splash of colors grand

As daylight slips past the mountains,

And darkness drifts ‘cross the land

My good wife fixes our supper,

Plain and simple country fare.

We always have plenty good food

With a little bit to spare.

Then we sit on the old log bench

Right outside our cabin door.

Content and wondering how could

Wealthy folks have any more?

From our valley’s small lake we can

Hear the cry of a sad loon

And we watch a wispy dark cloud

Drift across the rising moon.

Soon we enjoy the lament of

One lonely, sad whip-poor-will,

Then an old great horned owl’s hooting

From ‘way up on the east hill.

We hear the howl of a gray wolf

Up by the high mountain pass,

And the sounds of coyotes hunting

In the south prairie’s tall grass.

While we thrill to nature’s concert,

The evening ends all too soon,

Twilight surrenders to darkness

As thick, dark clouds hide the moon.

Our valley road’s soon deserted,

Unlit by any car’s light,

A sign our neighbors must all be

Safely at home for the night.

One more day, for us, has ended

As so many have before,

Content here in our small cabin,

We hope there’ll be many more.

We count up the many blessings the

Good Lord has sent our way,

Then it’s “early to bed” because

Tomorrow’s another day.

CHANGES

This article was written in September of 1997

We old-timers like to boast about all the changes we've seen. And in my seventy-plus years there have been a-plenty. From gravel roads and Model T Fords we've gone to interstate highways and gas-guzzling monsters. Then back to compact and sub-compact cars, and now the large, bulky models are beginning to sell again. We've seen gasoline and diesel tractors, small at first and now the $100,000-plus models, replace horses on the farms. Large threshing machines powered by giant wood-burning steam powered engines were replaced by 40 and 60 inch-wide tractor-drawn combines, which were in time replaced by self-propelled models that cost almost the price of a small farm. The airplane has gone from being just a novelty to the major means of long distance travel. And humans have traveled in space, lived in space, and walked around on the moon.

Television and the Internet can now keep us informed about everything and anything that tweaks our interest. They can tell us about almost anything that happens in the universe, as soon as it happens, sometimes even before. Some change has been for the good, some not. Improvements and discoveries in the health care field insure us of a lot longer life expectancy, provided we are not wasted at a young age in a drive-by shooting.

People have changed. They are no longer as dependent on each other, on family, friends, or on neighborhood. Many values have changed. A few of us still remember a well-respected doctor over at the county seat who was sentenced to a long stretch in the state penitentiary for performing an abortion.

Some changes don't require a century or a millennium. Several years ago, when a new casino boat opened its doors (or whatever it is that a boat opens to admit passengers), a commonly heard remark was, "These corn fed girls sure don't do much for those cocktail waitress costumes." After time for a more thorough study, the general consensus among local self-proclaimed experts was that there was indeed nothing wrong with the dimensions of the lovely young ladies, but that the problem was with the packaging. New Vegas-type costumes soon remedied the problem. Now the girls in the showroom have made another change. They wear black T-shirts and have snappy red suspenders to support their short skirts. They smile and move nimbly around the crowded tables, doing a great job, and are apparently comfortable in the new tops. And perhaps even a bit less susceptible to the common cold.

So the years still go by and time moves on. And brings with it changes. Some good, some bad. Some happy, some sad. But how dull life would be without change!

CHANGE

A good old friend once grinned at me;
He said, "As near as I can see,
We old-timers can get too set in our ways.
It's time we come out of our shell
Forget our old-school Show-and-Tell,
And upgrade our thinking to new, modern days."

Whether or not my friend was right,
There's no need to argue or fight,
And I half-assume he maybe was correct.
This world is no longer the same,
We find new rules for every game,
And quite often we don't know what to expect.

We stood and watched as our world changed,
Familiar things got rearranged;
Sometimes now we don't quite know which way to turn.
Should we hang on to what we know,
Or turn our backs and just let go,
Keep our values or just let old bridges burn?

We were no Einstein types in school,
But no one called either a fool,
Teachers shook our hands when finally we were through,
But today's standards we can't meet,
Truths we were taught are obsolete;
Things we learned "for Gospel fact" now just ain't true.

Today's world beckons, "Come and see
This New Age of technology.
Those ancient horse-and-buggy things all have to go!
Follow my new siren cry,
Forget those old times long-gone-by!"
But when it comes to faith and morals..., I don't know.

AFTER THE STORM

River keeps flowing: Rubbish sifts through backwaters


Late June brought a lot of wild and unsettled weather to our part of the Midwest, as well as to many other parts of the country. Who knows whether or not El Nino was the culprit? We had a few cool days, but several that were almost unbearably hot and humid – the kind of weather that had some of us old-timers recalling some especially torrid July and August days of years long gone by, and re-telling old tales of days spent shocking oats and threshing.

Severe wind storms did a lot of damage on both sides of the Mississippi. We're assured that these were not "twisters," but straight-on winds. Much damage was done to surrounding farms and in the neighboring towns. Many trees were uprooted, others broken off, and a surprisingly large number had much of their upper growth torn off and
slivered and shredded. Considering all of the property damage done, everyone felt fortunate there was no loss of life in our immediate area.

Our small town was spared any damage, straddled by the storms as they hop scotched around the area. We did get caught in a driving rainstorm one evening as we crossed the river on our way to having dinner at White Springs. For a while, as we threaded our way around fallen trees, I wished we had stayed in our native Wisconsin. But things were no calmer in Prairie du Chien. Maybe even worse. We've met a few people who now have a lot more fear of, and respect for, storms than they did two weeks ago.

A day after one of the storms, I watched the big old Mississippi from the Iowa shore (OK, from the observation deck of the Miss Marquette Riverboat Casino), and was amazed at the continuous stream of rubbish that drifted by. Judging by the amount of green water plants, algae, and pond scum that floated by, I decided that the fast-moving water must have thoroughly cleaned out all of the backwaters and sloughs.

The dead trees (and many still sporting green leaves), branches, twigs, stumps, and even chunks of firewood hinted that many of the woodlands must look a lot neater now after nature's spring (or early summer) cleaning. Now and then I would spot an enterprising blackbird calmly riding one of the sticks or small tree trunks as it floated downstream, much like a tourist on a cruise ship, finding ample cuisine to its liking.

AFTER THE STORM

River, near the shore your ripples
Look as brown as chocolate milk,
But, at midstream, your face appears
Youthful, and. as smooth as silk,

Smiling upward at the heavens,
Reflecting the bright blue sky,
Appearing so still and peaceful,
Silently you move on by.

Restless, tireless, you keep moving
On your journey past our town
With a load of baggage that would
Wear 'most any trav'ler down.

Mud that's slid down from the hillside
Out of fields of beans and corn,
Where the soil was unprotected
New gullies were ripped and torn.

From quiet, peaceful backwaters,
Water plants, weeds, and pond scum
Keep floating by, and I wonder
Just which sloughs they’re coming from.

Dead trees from many a woodland
And the bluffs along your shore,
Green-leafed, storm-torn trees pass by, then
Are followed by many more.

Flotsam, maybe jetsam, almost
Any object that will float,
There's a faded life preserver
From somebody's fishing boat.

Next an old Styrofoam cooler
That escaped its owner's grasp,
And an aged upside-down rowboat
Kind of gasping its last gasp.

Then a varnished paddle – I hope
Some canoers had a spare –
And that rushing, storm whipped waters
Gave them no more than a scare.

Now a happy, hungry blackbird,
Unafraid – to say the least
Rides along as it enjoys a
Storm-provided tasty feast.

Evening settles in the valley
And I hear a distant bell.
Our old river keeps on flowing.
The moon rises, all is well.

Cow Pasture Baseball

In mid-June we were invited to the 2002 Potosi Baseball Hall of Fame Banquet at Sunset Lanes at Dickeyville. Our son-in-law, Jeff Buttikofer, was one of the first thirteen inductees. Jeff had an outstanding career as a pitcher while attending Potosi High School, also UW La Crosse. He, his wife Pam, and family now live in California. As Jeff had other commitments and was unable to attend the event, he invited Gloria and I to represent him. Potosi High School’s popular and highly successful baseball coach Ron Kading presided over a very interesting and enjoyable evening.

After a delicious dinner, the inductees were introduced. The group included the great pitcher, Jack Cardey, who had a long professional baseball career. All in all, the inductees were a fine looking group of men. Jack and I have about an equal amount of silver in our hair. But most of the rest of them made me feel old. Very old. They looked so young. Even most of their parents looked young.

We met a few old friends there. And made a few new friends. We met Bill Leeser, one of the inductees. He let us know that he works for the Telegraph Herald. Bill was kind enough to circulate one of the programs through the group of inductees, obtaining the autographs of most, so we could send it to Jeff as a memento. (Thanks again, Bill).

It kind of topped off my evening when Dennis Leibfried dropped by our table to say hello. And too let us know that he reads and enjoys this column on a regular basis. His son Gary was one of the inductees. Denny was once one of the premier fast-pitch softball pitchers in the area. And is, himself, a double hall-of-famer, having been inducted into both the Dubuque Fast-Pitch Softball Hall of Fame and the Dubuque Kiwanis Club Softball Hall of Fame.

I was never a baseball player, but did play several seasons of league softball. And, as a boy, I played a far different type of ball game. For that game there was no official book of rules. How the game was played depended on whatever players, facilities, and equipment were available. If a baseball or softball got its horsehide cover knocked off, we knew how to protect the ball’s cord windings with black friction tape to prevent it from raveling. We also learned how to tape up a cracked bat so we could continue to use it. And if our baseball got lost in the weeds, we were not above using an old tennis ball, sponge rubber ball, or whatever other kind of ball we could get our hands on.

That great game was called

COW PASTURE BASEBALL

I’ve had lots of baseball heroes.
Starting in my younger days
There were Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig,
Then, much later, Willie Mays.

Gabby Hartnett and Carl Hubbell,
Dizzy Dean, yes “Me and Paul,”
Mel Ott, and now Sammy Sosa.
There’s no room to list them all.


Out here in the farming country
And in most villages small
We played our own Big League ball game,
One called “Cow Pasture Baseball.”

Much like most Chicago Cubs games,
But not exactly the same,
Kind of a downsized version of
The Great American Game.

Our play was not organized like
League games played at today’s schools.
We furnished our own equipment.
And made up most of the rules.

With no set sizes or limits
For the diamond or the teams,
A vacant lot or cow pasture
Could become our “Field of Dreams.”

For home plate we’d use a short board
Or any small slab of wood,
Sometimes a player’s old sweatshirt,
Folded up, worked out real good.

With a burlap sack for third base,
Tall weeds for second and first.
Or even old dried-up cow pies,
When conditions were the worst.


If our baseball lost its horsehide,
Friction tape took care of that.
We’d give it a new black cover,
And taped up each broken bat.

When no baseball could be found we
Would use an old tennis ball,
Or one of solid sponge rubber.
Hey, I’m sure we tried them all.

Most games didn’t go nine innings
At our rustic baseball park.
We played until called home for meals,
Or until it got too dark.

Back then, grownups were not needed
To coach or umpire our game,
We all played as well as we could
And enjoyed it, all the same.

We tried our best to play just like
Our Major League heroes great,
Hoping one day we’d join them, but
Such success was not our fate.

Though none of us made the Big Leagues,
I don’t regret that at all.
I cherish my memories of
Times we played Cow Pasture Ball.