Fragments.

It's cold and windy.
And I don't really mind.
Sure, there are outdoor chores to be done. I still have the backyard to awaken from it's long winter's nap. There are plants that need to find their homes in the earth in that little corner of the backyard I lovingly refer to as "what the hell, we had the space."

Some painting.

But it's cold and windy, and that adds up to laundry, dishes, and whatever sporting event that the Gods of cable deem to show me today.

But my mind is rolling back again to the days when the sun shined, humidity was a thing you didn't care about, and grass stains on the knees of your jeans were a badge of honor.

Within these fragments, perfection.

Where a reasonable sized space between the hedges and the treeline became Wrigley Field, and we had all day to "play two." And we never counted the innings, and we barely kept the score, and if we didn't have enough players, the pitcher's hand was out at first. And if we didn't have enough space, we used the wiffle, and it was just as good.

There's nothing like the sound of a bat hitting a ball. A wooden bat.
And there's nothing like the sound of Ernie Harwell, calling a Tiger's game on the transistor radio.
In my dreams, I was Al Kaline.

Summers were longer in our youth. I'm sure of this. The sun rose early, and set late. The smell of freshly cut grass and charcoal smoke was perpetually in the air. When you could be reasonably sure that if you rode that Schwinn fast enough, you really could fly. And where, if you were lucky, you lived in a place where you could actually see the fireflies, and the stars from your front porch.

My memories sound like an episode of THE WALTONS.

So, sue me.