Last week was yet another adventure for the Baileys. This one involved coordinating the travel of seven of us from Des Moine and one from Kansas City to Columbia, SC for a quasi family reunion. The event was Evan's graduation from basic training. The logistics of getting eight people to a single destination is a challenge, but not insurmountable.
In planning the trip we considered driving (eighteen hours each way plus a few side trips along the way), trains (40 hours each way assuming no delays) and flying (expensive but, ultimately, the most cost effective alternative.)
We ended up flying six of us out of Des Moines to Raleigh-Durham on Tuesday, July 10. That included Lorraine, the two little girls and the two youngest boys. We then rented a mini van and drove down to Columbia. Dani flew out of Des Moines later that day headed for Charlotte. She met Rachel, who flew out of K.C. to Charlotte, later that evening. Those two drove down to Columbia together getting there pretty late in the evening. Due to a lack of coordination, Rachel and Dani ended up at a different motel than the rest of us.
The following morning we were up bright and early to get breakfast and head over to Fort Jackson for family day for Delta, Echo and Foxtrot Companies of the 2-13th. In spite of missing our exit, twice and half, followed by wondering aimlessly through Fort Jackson due to flawed maps, we eventually made it to Hilton Field, the location for family day and graduation. And, in spite of my near complete lack of an internal compass, we made it there early enough to check out the vendors (not surpisingly the local marketplace has managed to insert itself into this fifty weeks a year event.
Tuesday, June 23, 2020
21-0
My mom's cousin, Richard "Sparky" Watts, died on 8/1/13. He was living in FL with his wife at the time. But his roots, and mine, are in Marseilles, IL, a small, rural, river town about 90 miles southwest of Chicago. Sparky was my grandfather's nephew and a close friend of my mother's as they grew up. But to me, and many of my friends in school, he was one of our baseball coaches. I had long thought I was alone in my fond memories of those years in Pee Wee League, Little League, Pony League and Legion Ball. Turns out I was not alone in my feelings. Not even close.
I'd returned to Marseilles to visit my parents, along with my wife and most of my children. My father's health has been declining for months. I'd returned the weekend before, a couple of days after a surgical procedure, and he didn't look well. I left for home that weekend wondering if I'd see him again. But, we'd already planned the current weekend's tip to Marseilles a few weeks earlier so we went ahead and followed through with the trip with our kids, their significant others and a grandchild in tow.
On my visit the prior weekend I'd learned that Sparky's memorial service would be held the following weekend. I was conflicted about attending the memorial or spending time with my dad, knowing that each visit might be the last. I decided to attend the visitation but skip the memorial service and the dinner that followed that. Little did I know how much an affect attending the visitation would have on me.
As my wife, Lorraine, and I pulled up to the funeral home, we found a packed parking lot. We found a spot to park on a side road and headed into the funeral home. I'd told Lorraine I was concerned about running into old friends and not recognizing them. There are a lot of old high school class mates that I haven't seen in twenty or thirty years. I wasn't disappointed about my prediction.
I immediately was greeted by John Reynolds and Dave Sergenti, both a year ahead of me in high school. I recognized Dave but John would have stumped me if he hadn't introduced himself. I had played many a summer of baseball games against, and with, Dave. We chatted for a while, asking each other the usual questions, "How are you?", "Where do you live now?", "What do you do?" And then we moved on and joined the line waiting to visit with Sparky's family.
First in line was Sparky's son, Steve, and his wife. We were chatting with them when I felt a tug on my arm. The guy says, "Hey Scott, I'm John Teele." I hadn't seen John in probably thirty years and he had probably changed as much as I had. But there was something very familiar other than how he looked. I later realized that he sounded just like his father, Bill. He handed me a picture of our Little League team from 1971. I was eleven then. He was 10.
I'd returned to Marseilles to visit my parents, along with my wife and most of my children. My father's health has been declining for months. I'd returned the weekend before, a couple of days after a surgical procedure, and he didn't look well. I left for home that weekend wondering if I'd see him again. But, we'd already planned the current weekend's tip to Marseilles a few weeks earlier so we went ahead and followed through with the trip with our kids, their significant others and a grandchild in tow.
On my visit the prior weekend I'd learned that Sparky's memorial service would be held the following weekend. I was conflicted about attending the memorial or spending time with my dad, knowing that each visit might be the last. I decided to attend the visitation but skip the memorial service and the dinner that followed that. Little did I know how much an affect attending the visitation would have on me.
As my wife, Lorraine, and I pulled up to the funeral home, we found a packed parking lot. We found a spot to park on a side road and headed into the funeral home. I'd told Lorraine I was concerned about running into old friends and not recognizing them. There are a lot of old high school class mates that I haven't seen in twenty or thirty years. I wasn't disappointed about my prediction.
I immediately was greeted by John Reynolds and Dave Sergenti, both a year ahead of me in high school. I recognized Dave but John would have stumped me if he hadn't introduced himself. I had played many a summer of baseball games against, and with, Dave. We chatted for a while, asking each other the usual questions, "How are you?", "Where do you live now?", "What do you do?" And then we moved on and joined the line waiting to visit with Sparky's family.
First in line was Sparky's son, Steve, and his wife. We were chatting with them when I felt a tug on my arm. The guy says, "Hey Scott, I'm John Teele." I hadn't seen John in probably thirty years and he had probably changed as much as I had. But there was something very familiar other than how he looked. I later realized that he sounded just like his father, Bill. He handed me a picture of our Little League team from 1971. I was eleven then. He was 10.
The Book of Emmanations
Emma is now six years old as I write this. My intent here is to collect some of her insightful wisdom and occasional humorous comments or, as I refer to them, Emmanations. Emma is precocious, but not in the sense that she's a genious at math, or science or anything like that. But, she is quite observant and comes up with comments that one would expect from someone older and more mature. I'll publish this with a few initial comments that she's made and update it periodically and republish with the newest comments on top. The comments won't be in any order in terms of chronology or on a scale of 1-10. Rather, I'll note them as I recall them or, in the case of new comments, as I hear them.
9/1/11
Emma (4 years old) to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if everybody died?"
Mom - "I don't know."
Emma to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if I died?!"
Mom - "RACHEL! HELP!"
In the summer of 2009 Lorraine and I took Emma and Hannah to the Des Moines Art Festival in downtown Des Moines. The got to do fun kid stuff at a variety of booths. I think I also got them a smoothie or lemonade something like that. Inevitably Emma, little miss peanut bladder, had to go to the bathroom. We led her to the bank of portable potties. She'd never had the pleasure of using one of Jim's Johns. I held the door for her. She went in and immediately came out and said, "I won't do that." And she didn't. She was willing to wet her pants before she's suffer through the indignity and smell of that KYBO. That meant we were done for the day. We walked to the car, got in and drove to a nearby gas station.
A couple of years ago my grandmother died back in rural Illinois. We took the family back to my hometown for the funeral. Although that was a sad occasion, my grandmother was 102 when she died and we also got to see my parents and my sister's family. A few months later a very nice lady from our church died and Lorraine planned to go to her funeral Mass. That meant getting Emma and Hannah bathed and ready to go. But, it was Thursday morning and Thursdays are story hour at our local library which Emma thoroughly enjoyed attending. Emma said, "I don't want to go to a stupid funeral. I want to go to story hour." Lorraine empathized but explained that Emma needed to get ready for her bath and she was going to the funeral Mass. A few minutes later Emma appears in front of Lorraine in her birthday suit and says, "OK, I tell you what. I'll go to the funeral, but only if it's Grandma and Grandpa's." Lorraine and I came to the conclusion that Emma enjoyed her last visit to Illinois for Grandma Fanny's funeral so much that all funerals are now measured against that visit. So, Grandma and Grandpa, you don't need to worry that Emma wants to go to your funeral.
At four and five years old it was a common occurrence for Emma to start a sentence with, "I remember when I was three I would..."
Recently one evening, Hannah, eight, was in the living room talking to me and Lorraine. As is often the case Hannah has a tendency to go on and on. Emma, sitting on the floor amusing herself and appearing not at all interested in Hannah's monologue, inserted herself into the conversation matter of factly, with "blah, blah, blah."
Emma - 6 - "If it hurts so much, why do they call it a funny bone?"
9/1/11
Emma (4 years old) to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if everybody died?"
Mom - "I don't know."
Emma to Mom - "Would it ruin the future if I died?!"
Mom - "RACHEL! HELP!"
In the summer of 2009 Lorraine and I took Emma and Hannah to the Des Moines Art Festival in downtown Des Moines. The got to do fun kid stuff at a variety of booths. I think I also got them a smoothie or lemonade something like that. Inevitably Emma, little miss peanut bladder, had to go to the bathroom. We led her to the bank of portable potties. She'd never had the pleasure of using one of Jim's Johns. I held the door for her. She went in and immediately came out and said, "I won't do that." And she didn't. She was willing to wet her pants before she's suffer through the indignity and smell of that KYBO. That meant we were done for the day. We walked to the car, got in and drove to a nearby gas station.
A couple of years ago my grandmother died back in rural Illinois. We took the family back to my hometown for the funeral. Although that was a sad occasion, my grandmother was 102 when she died and we also got to see my parents and my sister's family. A few months later a very nice lady from our church died and Lorraine planned to go to her funeral Mass. That meant getting Emma and Hannah bathed and ready to go. But, it was Thursday morning and Thursdays are story hour at our local library which Emma thoroughly enjoyed attending. Emma said, "I don't want to go to a stupid funeral. I want to go to story hour." Lorraine empathized but explained that Emma needed to get ready for her bath and she was going to the funeral Mass. A few minutes later Emma appears in front of Lorraine in her birthday suit and says, "OK, I tell you what. I'll go to the funeral, but only if it's Grandma and Grandpa's." Lorraine and I came to the conclusion that Emma enjoyed her last visit to Illinois for Grandma Fanny's funeral so much that all funerals are now measured against that visit. So, Grandma and Grandpa, you don't need to worry that Emma wants to go to your funeral.
At four and five years old it was a common occurrence for Emma to start a sentence with, "I remember when I was three I would..."
Recently one evening, Hannah, eight, was in the living room talking to me and Lorraine. As is often the case Hannah has a tendency to go on and on. Emma, sitting on the floor amusing herself and appearing not at all interested in Hannah's monologue, inserted herself into the conversation matter of factly, with "blah, blah, blah."
Emma - 6 - "If it hurts so much, why do they call it a funny bone?"
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