Let's Start at the Beginning

    There is a line from The Sound of Music:

      "Let's start at the very beginning,

       A very good place to start."

   

   207 Tunnel Blvd. Chattanooga, Tennessee

   Telephone 2-3348, then MAdison2-3348 or MA2-3348 or 622-3348, a party line for a little bit, then a straight line. A two-party line I think, and an adventure in itself.

   This house was built in 1931. Nana and Papa were married in 1931, and bought the house in 1934. Just for comparison's sake, the down payment was $1200 and the monthly payments on the loan were $24 a month. 

   I have my parent's budgets for the years 1932 through 1945, meticulously kept by Nana down the the last penny. 

   Nana's expenditures for 1932 totaled $1868.40. Her grocery bill was $245.50 which would be about 2 weeks for Carolyn and I right now.

   The above shot showed my Mom on the front porch with the dog, which I don't remember at all.

   In May of 1936, their first child was born.

   My Dad holding yours truly at 9 weeks.

   My brother David would be born in 1939 and my youngest brother Bill in 1946.

   But this blog will feature my memories about life and growing up, from my 84 year old memory, which can be suspect at times. These particular memories will not be in any particular order chronologically, just as they fall out of my brain.

   As I was looking at old photos, most taken by my Mom, one particular memory jumped out at me. 

   These concrete steps, leading up to the front door, were the focus of many hours of play by a youngster who loved all kinds of sports. Like many others, baseball, became a major fascination, and, lacking a field nearby, and neighbor's kids who were, for the most part female, these steps became my playing field for many games of solo participation.

   The needed accessories were few. An old tennis ball and a baseball glove were all it took to make the game come alive. 

   It unfolded like this:

   The human player took the roles of the defensive team in the field and the steps became the batters. The field of play included the sidewalk to the street in front of the house and all the surrounding territory that a ball thrown against the steps might venture into.

   The pitch was the key. The pitcher, standing on the sidewalk, threw the ball against the steps. Where the ball collided against the concrete determined how the batter hit the pitch. Sometimes it would be fouled back onto the front porch, sometimes a line drive, or a pop up or a ground ball. The pitcher then became a fielder and had to make a play on the ball, either to catch it in the air, or to field it on the ground then throw (again against the steps) to a baseman to get the out. There were no strikeouts or walks. Every batter hit the ball somewhere. 

   The action:

      The pitcher throws.

      The batter hits.

      The fielder catches.

      The fielder throws to a base to get a runner.

      Next batter.....

   Innings were played, score was kept, and a game completed by the one-man team on the sidewalk.

   The field was always ready for play, anytime, and, as long as the pitcher's arm held out, the games could go on, and on, and on.......

   Refreshments were ready in the fridge when hunger or thirst called.

   There is no telling how many hours were spent in play right there.

   And, when at last darkness obscured the flight of the ball, the glove was hung up, a chair pulled up to the edge of the porch, the radio turned on, and the play-by-play of a Chattanooga Lookout's game filled the air with the exploits of real players.

   It was a great time to be alive.