Kevin Kling's Holiday Inn (14 page)

She got a job at Munsingwear Apparel in one of the only non-manufacturing areas open to women, design. She worked long hours. To save money, she brought home factory seconds for us to wear. This meant there was a flaw somewhere in the stitching or construction. Sometimes a shirt had differing sleeve lengths, or a long stitch across the side or front. We called these “Frankenstein shirts,” because the sections were clearly meant for different bodies. Sometimes we would take a prototype, try out a new line, and tell her how it felt or looked. We received underwear designed by a woman in the department who had neither a husband nor a boyfriend. Mom asked, “What do you think?” I said, “Tell her there really needs to be a ‘front’ and a ‘back’ in men’s underwear.”

We found our own courses, lived under the same roof, met each morning at breakfast. I went away to college, graduating just ahead of my mom.

A year after college I was touring Europe. I had six hundred dollars, forged documents and passes from some friends, and all kinds of great ideas on how to live in Europe on no sense a day. I was in Hamburg, Germany. One of Mom’s bohemian friends told me if things got tough, I should just stop and have a cookie. It’s good advice. I bought my cookie and was walking downtown along the shops when I saw, in a department store window, one of my mom’s designs. Inside I found a whole line of her clothing. Shirts, dresses, designs I knew well. I’d seen drawings of them all over the kitchen table, and the dye was in the refrigerator.

The clothes looked beautiful. The key to Mom’s success was her innovation. In the seventies women like my mom found themselves competing with men for the same jobs. Business attire for career women had been available for some time, but women who were pregnant were still showing up to board meetings in duckies and huge bows. Mom designed a line of business maternity wear, and it took off.

When I was in Scotland, I sought out the village from which Mom’s family took its name. Intensely proud of her lineage, she reminds all of my nieces time and again that they are members of the DAR, Daughters of the American Revolution, and before that, of Scotland. We are of a line. A line that runs clear back to this soil. I see that now. I had an incredible connection to the land when visiting Scotland. It felt vertical, as if from above, and shot through me and into the earth. I had never before experienced such recognition of place. This was my clay.

Throughout the village I met people who have my grandfather’s eyes. At first, this was disconcerting. He had a stare: crystal-blue eyes that could freeze your knees and make you tell the truth. They could also twinkle at the end of a joke, usually as the only clue the joke had ended. Our family is known for our inability to get a joke right. I went to the post office. There they were, grandfather’s eyes. The pharmacy, grandfather’s eyes. At first these eyes made me miss him, then they began to somehow bring him back to me. I found myself speaking openly and personally to people I had never met. They went right along with me. When I said that my people were from this town, one man promptly bought me a pint of ale and told me to go ahead and hit him in the stomach, “Hard as you like.” A high honor, I was informed later. Then they brought forth a jug that had dust on the top. They poured a glass. A beautiful burn. I was told the recipe was as old as my ancestors and this particular batch was old enough to vote.

I needed to tell my mom. I found a red phone box and called home. I told Mom I was in Dysart, Scotland, and everywhere I looked, I saw Granddad’s eyes. She was silent for a long time and then thought I heard her cry.

I didn’t say anything, then, “You would love it here, Mom.”

“I know I would.”

That was it.

I bought a cookie, sat in the park, and thought about Mom. The Scots are frugal, kind of nuts. Look at the land, sparse, unpredictable … these truly are my people. This is also clearly the clay of my mother.

I thought of my mom’s designs, a true reflection of her inner landscape, of her journey, the reclamation of her self, a beauty born of necessity.

MEMORIAL DAY  

When I was a kid, I played baseball for a team called Weaver Lake. Our win-loss record was zero and two. Zero wins and two years. Other teams had uniforms with names like Giants and Yankees, but our shirts always said Weaver Lake, proclaiming allegiance to the nearest body of water as if they didn’t want to bring down the credibility of a perfectly good mascot.

We weren’t really to blame. Granted, you could see with one look we were a team of future accountants and thespians. But our coach was Mr. Haynes. Mr. Haynes had never coached or played baseball in his life, and he figured we needed leadership. So he bought a book called
How to Play Baseball
and taught from there. The dotted line in the diagram of the throwing man didn’t show clearly which leg was forward, so he had us throwing and stepping from the same side. You can throw a ball ten feet that way with a pretty good tailwind. Even our pitchers did it. We got creamed every game.

Mr. Haynes’s undoing came one afternoon when we were losing to the Cardinals.

Now, from my years of organized sports, I know coaches know only three types of first aid. If you’re hurt, a coach will say “Tape it up,” or “Run it off,” or “Rub it hard.” No matter what happens: tape it up, run it off, rub it hard. Mr. Haynes was a “Rub it hard” man. If you took a grounder off the shin, he’d yell, “Rub it hard, that’s it, you’re all right, rub it hard.” If you didn’t rub it hard, he called a time out and came out and rubbed it hard for you.

This particular afternoon our third baseman, Mark Paddock, misjudged a ground ball. It was sharply hit and took a bad bounce and …
whack
… right between the legs. Ooo, the
worst
place to rub hard. But Mark wasn’t hurt. The ball rolled harmlessly away, leaving Mark unscathed. Mark had bought a cup, an athletic protective cup. We’d never seen a cup. The kid on the other team got a home run because nobody went for the ball and Mark was basking in glory and the rest of us cheered and fell down in convulsive laughter. Mr. Haynes was livid. I said in a trained voice, “’Tis some form of majestic protective codpiece,” and the next day we all got majestic codpieces. Hit it to me … whack … hit it to me … whack. Mr. Haynes never again achieved full control of the team.

A few summers ago my brother calls me up and says, “Can you play softball this summer?”

I say, “Yeah, I probably could.”

He says, “Great, I got the old team together, our Little League team, I got all the guys.”

I say, “Steve, no, we were terrible.”

He says, “You have to play. I got Dick’s Bar to sponsor us.”

Dick’s Bar and Grill. The Medicis of softball. At the Osseo High School reunion, you can tell someone you discovered a cure for cancer, and they say, “That’s nice.” But if you say, “And I play for Dick’s Bar,” they say, “What, you’re kidding! Hey, what are you drinking? Want another one? This is my sister. Let me praise you, for you are a god.”

“Yeah,” I say to my brother, “yeah, I’m in.”

Our first game is a Memorial Day tournament, with seven teams competing for the trophy. I look at our team: they look the same as when we were little, a bit grayer and heavier, but it’s the team. One thespian and nine accountants. The other team hasn’t shown up yet, so we take infield practice. My brother hits a ground ball. Pocket protectors and reading glasses go flying.

I say, “Maybe we should have rehearsed.”

“Too late,” says my brother. “Look.”

The other team arrives, strapping young bucks in uniforms, uniforms stretched tight over muscle and sinew. Our guys look shaken, but from years of playing softball I know young guys can be beat. They have the passion but not the craft.

And there are other subtle clues to consider. Watch out for church teams. Lot of aggression comes out on softball night for church teams. Also beware any team with “dog” in the title. Teams with goofy names, Jerry’s Atrics or Foul Balls, are usually just … goofy. Teams with initials followed by the words
Construction
or
Refrigeration
or
Tool & Die …
look out.

Our team, Dick’s Bar, takes the field first. The game stays close. And then around the third inning, the sun sets. Now this is May in Minnesota, so it’s cold. It’s thirty degrees. Freezing. We’re all in jackets and stocking hats. My brother is in his duck-hunting outfit. Camouflage, boots, Gore-Tex hat. The score remains tied in the last inning. We take our positions in the field.

Before I pitch, I look around to make sure everyone is in place. My brother is in the outfield, lying flat on his stomach. All camouflaged. Like he’s duck hunting in a blind. All he needs is a bunch of other softballs around him for decoys. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I pitch, and the batter hits it to center field. My brother jumps up, mimes aiming a gun at the ball, yells, “Boom, boom,” and catches it.

Our team is now excited. We could win this thing. It took thirty years for this day.

The bottom of the last inning was spectacular. This is how I remember it.

I’m up first. And before I know it, I am cursed by Fate.

Two early strikes threaten to end my night. The other team is yelling, “Swing, batter batter, swing!” and I have been.

“Wait,” says I. “Time out. For the gods’ sake, time.”

Then, grabbing another weapon that suits my grip, I say, “Quickly, men. Bring me tape, lash me to the bat, and stuff my ears with Bazooka Joe, so I may not hear their taunts.”

My crew does as I bid, and stepping forward, amid taunts falling harmless now, I am … rewarded by three straight balls and an easy sailing to first base.

Cheers from my Friends in Arms.

But wait. This new island is guarded by a half-man, half-god. I know him to have but one eye, for when he does bat, his comrades shout, “Good eye! Good eye!”

The giant asks my name.

“Nobody,” I reply.

“Well, Nobody, this is the last land you shall see.”

But I catch the eye of the batsman, and we employ the hit and run.

“Watch Nobody!” shouts the giant. “He’s running! Get Nobody!”

Ha ha, they are confused.

My comrade is out, but I stand safe on the next island, occupied by one who plies me with sweet words. Seductive words.

“You should stay right here,” says he. “You’re safe. You should be on our team. Your other guys are pigs. But not you. Stay, don’t go.”

His words of honey tempt, yet when our next batter flies out to right field, I tag up and run to third with all my might.

Safe now, I shed hot tears for the one who had sacrificed to move me forward. All of a sudden, I feel old.

The third baseman, would-be suitor of Victory, taunts me.

“You old man in rags, body old and weak, you’re obviously from the island of Thesbos.” And he laughs, making sport of me. “Victory is ours. You’ll never make it home.”

How dare he court the one I love. Young suitor.

Now my brother steps to the plate, standing like an oak, truly the son of our father.

Third-base coach, old trusted sage, speaks in good counsel: “Two outs—run on anything.”

As my brother with mighty force swings his bat, I run, the path well-worn by past armies, warriors greater than myself. I run toward home, Athena, daughter of Zeus, at my side, bidding me on, until a warrior, ruddy of complexion, blocks home plate. I, smashing into him, send man and orb flying.

As I lie outstretched, bat still lashed to my wrist, Zeus himself, disguised in mask and armor, Lord of this Flat World, proclaims me safe at home.

Oh, how the heady wine does flow! The sweet lute plays!

The young warriors stand stunned, their wives and children groaning in grief and tears. Rending garments. Tearing hair. Shrieking like birds of prey.

We convene at Dick’s Bar. High-backed chairs. Mellow wine in golden cups. And when we have put aside desire for drink and food (extra cheese on mine), and bathed in burnished tubs, and warmed in soft fleece, I recount the victory again and again, ’til Athena closes my eyes with the welcome gift of sleep.

When young dawn with her rose-red fingers colors the sky, I awake in my bones, old again.