My Encounters with Strangers

I was worried that as I have gotten older that my approachability was diminishing. Throughout my adult life, people who I do not know have sought me out to ask me questions. Often these inquiries are regarding directions of recommendations. But with great regularity I attract interesting people with questions that border on the bizarre. For example, one time while at a festival, my friends and I watched as a street person weaved through a crowd to single me out and ask if I were carrying any alcohol he might have. (I did not.)

Any concerns I might have appear to be unfounded. I was sitting in Chipotle, enjoying a couple of tacos and jotting some notes and observations in my journal after a walk. A man and his wife, who I had noticed when I sat down and judged to be about my age, approached me as I was studiously recording the afternoon’s event. “Excuse me,” he said, “do you mind if I ask you a question?” Such an inquiry is usually a prelude to a request for money but, as he had just finished eating and there was no other signs that he might need money, I was intrigued. I indicated my willingness to be engaged. “Does the type of music they play here bother you?” he asked. I chuckled that he had navigated his way through a maze of people and chairs in a half full restaurant to solicit my opinion of the music played over the speakers. He seemed rather disappointed when I said that it did not, in fact, bother me. He excused himself noting that he found the music very irritating. We both went our own ways, me thinking about what make people think I would be interested in these conversations. 

Paradise Meeting House

Located near Route 11, the meeting house was built in 1861 in Franklin County, Pennsylvania just a few mile north of the Maryland state line.

Walking in Grand Forks (in January)

Grand Forks at sunrise. Temperature: -2 F

Winter in North Dakota means that it is cold. But when local complain about how ridiculously cold it is, then you know that it is really cold. I arrived for my first visit to the state, late one Thursday night in mid-January. Upon landing, I turned on my smartphone and anxiously waited to see the current temperature: -22˚F, with a wind chill of -38˚. Yet, the impulse to walk and explore remains. After a number of substantial snowstorms in Grand Forks, meant that walking was a process of navigating a maze of paths cut through piles of snow and drifts. The sun does not get very high in the sky creating long shadows, even around lunchtime. Melting is not a significant factor. Thus, while it is cold, you do not get wet. Dressed appropriately, I was comfortable most of the time. But the wind did make for some cold moments. The sun shone for much of the long weekend, thus the walker has a choice of walking in the sun, which provides a limited source of warmth, or walking in the shadows of buildings, which provides a break against the wind.  

The Red River,: The border between North Dakota and
Minnesota

The snow piles, sometimes fifteen to twenty feet high, are a concern for a pedestrian. It is doubtful local drivers are accustomed to seeing walkers out during the winter. Additionally, the size of the snow piles and drifts can obscure many walkers. That being said, I found the local drivers to be very polite and considerate. Still, it could be hard for drivers to see the rare walker who braves sub-zero weather by choice, or necessity. Several drivers kindly waved me across the road, allowing plenty of distance while I crossed. Many were seemingly sympathetic to anyone who has to be out in these temperatures. Nevertheless, sidewalks and paths are not always clear and the walker must occasionally choose a path in the road or knee-deep snow on the sidewalks.

Of course, the extreme cold, and walks on mildly treacherous sidewalks, gave me a voracious appetite. Yet, the local cuisine is largely built upon a meat and starch culture. When I mentioned that to Andrew, he replied, jokingly, “What gives you that idea?” I told him that there was, literally, specks of carrots in my chicken fried rice, which I am pretty sure was there for decoration rather than subsistence.

The Hazards of Walking

While I was walking on West Gorrie Drive, there was a car approaching straddling the yellow line in the middle of the road. It is customary on the island to acknowledge one another, whether on foot, bike, or motorized vehicle, but since the car was more than a block away this seemed a bit over the top. People in automobiles are seemingly more sensitive to pedestrians because it is a resort area and there is a noticeable lack of sidewalks. I have observed that most drivers take care to give walkers (and joggers) plenty of room and overtly signal that there are aware of the pedestrian’s presence. The standard procedure is for walkers to acknowledge drivers for their consideration. I usually provide a polite wave and, in return, the driver provides a similar response. Most drivers return the wave, but some just raise an index finger while they grip the steering wheel.

The car in question was giving me a great deal of leeway as it approached. As it approached I raised my hand as a gesture of gratitude; however, the driver did not even look at me. It soon became apparent what was going on. The driver was completely oblivious to my acknowledgement of thanks because she was preoccupied with other things. Her forearms were resting on the steering wheel as she typed out a message on her pink smartphone. What I thought was a kind gesture had nothing to do with me. As far as I could tell, she did not even know I existed. 

Reading A Christmas Carol in the Twenty-First Century

The mirror, in the Parker House Hotel, Boston, 

where Dickens practiced A Christmas Carol

before giving public readings

Although published nearly 175 years ago, A Christmas Carol remains essential reading. While it may not immediately seem to be a book about travel, Charles Dickens, a prodigious traveler himself, has his protagonist travel through time and space to review the consequences of his action. Because the Christmas season is both a time of charity and reflection, Dickens takes this opportunity to remind his reader about the necessity of both. The book is a critique of Victorian England, but the genius of the book is how it transcends time and place to think about our lives and others.

The opening paragraph of the novella set the scene: There is a broad discussion of how mean and cruel Scrooge is to his fellow man. His general disposition is so unkind that even the blind man’s dog finds no favor with him. When confronted by his nephew with his unpleasant nature, especially given it is the Christmas season, Scrooge asks how can he not be? He considers himself surrounded by fools and people who do not understand the driving force of the economy. The holiday season marks a time at which people spend lavishly money they do not have; engage in celebration, while they have nothing to celebrate. In short, they foolishly spend their money to make others happy. His nephew retorts, on the contrary, the season is one in which people open their hearts and treat their neighbors charitably. He implores Scrooge to think of people, those less fortunate, as “fellow-passengers to the grave;” we all share the same mortality and the existential plight of this reality. We may not have profited from those less fortunate, but the Christmas spirit instructs us to treat them charitably nonetheless.

A few pages later, Scrooge is visited by two men who are seeking subscriptions for the poor: “Many thousands are in want of common necessaries; hundreds of thousands are in want of common comforts, sir.” His reply is telling: he queries about whether prisons and workhouses still exist. When he is told how horrible the places are, that many would prefer to die than be sent to those institutions, his response that those unfortunates should die, it would have the benefit of reducing the surplus population. The words written by Dicken, throughout his career, helped to highlight the plight of the poor, the tragedy of child labor, and the degradation of poor houses. It would be easy to tell ourselves that this was in the past, part of nineteenth century Dickensian Britain; however, these problems continue still shape our world, economies and lives.

Scrooge claims not to know of the dismal nature of the poorhouses. It is a willful neglect. It was not his business to concern himself with such things; his business kept him occupied to the extent that he could not, nor did he want to, take a concern in the plight of the poor. When his dead former business partner, Marley, appears to him, Scrooge doubts the apparition, instead choosing to believe the facts (as relayed by his senses) cannot be trusted. It might be a case of indigestion caused by mustard, cheese, or an undercooked piece of potato. His rationalization of what it could be, rather than what the facts lead us is all too familiar with the current fascination of fake news. All too often we choose to believe what fits our heuristic of how the world works and reject out of hand data contrary to our beliefs.

Scrooge compliments his former partner on his business acumen; however, the ghost of Marley counters that his actual business should have been the welfare of humans, benevolence, and charity. Instead he, and Scrooge, chose to focus on the trade by which they accumulated wealth. Yet, “The dealings of my trade were but a drop of water in the comprehensive ocean of my business,” Marley laments. It is a recurring theme in the works of Dickens, telling his readers repeatedly that a person’s worth is not predicated on their ability to make money. When confronted with the probable death of Tiny Tim, the Ghost of Christmas Present reminds Scrooge of his comment that such deaths would reduce the “surplus population.” It is a funny thing that, in modern society, we place rhetorical emphasis on those who forego remuneration in order to help other humans or the world in general. Yet, we privilege and celebrate those who make a great deal of money as being wise or insightful. Where is our concern for those less fortunate?

The pursuit of money, while forgetting the humanity around him, leads to the end of Scrooge’s morals, kindness, and happiness. We can even see this as an enlightened self-interest: karma, or what goes around, comes around. It is a point not lost on the traveler either: a generosity of spirit yields an abundance in return. In the opening chapter (stave), Scrooge is clearly unhappy: he offers no charity and receives none in return. Dickens points to his avarice as the source of his difficulties. His pursuit of money means that he loses his chance at love. The Ghost of Christmas Past shows him how a young woman, Belle, puts an end to their relationship because he places more emphasis on the idol money than her. She Admonishes him, “I have seen your nobler aspirations fall off one by one, until the master-passion, Gain, engrosses you. Have I not?” Clearly disturbed by this vision of the past, Scrooge is forced to endure the vision of her as a grown woman, basking in the love of her daughter and the adoration of her husband. The path not traveled, martial contentment with Belle, is the price Scrooge pays for his avarice.

Dickens uses the voice of the Ghost of Christmas Present to remind is readers of the hypocrisy of Victorian England. There was a bill introduced in parliament to close bakeries and other entertainment venues on Christmas and Sundays, which would have deprived poor people of a hot roast and a day of leisure. Proposed by Sir Andrew Agnew, the Sunday Observance Bill was designed to enforce a certain amount of piety for religious holidays; however, the burden would have fallen particularly hard on the working class. Since bakeries were forbidden to use their ovens to bake bread on Sundays, many allowed their ovens to be used to cook roasts for those who did not have the means to so in their own homes. Sundays were the only day off for most of the working poor, thus the law would deprive them of their recreation opportunities. Scrooge asks the apparition if these moves were not done in the name of Christmas spirit. But the ghost explains that those who were attempting to do so were using bigotry and hatred in the name of piety to further their interests and do not speak for the spirit of the holiday itself. Dickens was particularly keen to advocate on behalf of the working class and their leisure time. In a tract against the Sunday Observance Bill, he wrote: “The idea of making a man truly moral through the ministry of constables and sincerely religious under the influence of penalties, is worthy of the mind which could form such a mass of monstrous absurdity.” Dickens goes on to argue that the minister who buys sports equipment for children was doing more to make people happy, religious and moral than any legislation could ever hope to achieve.

The use of Christmas as a setting implies a certain religious dogma. But to think that the lessons from Dickens applies solely to Christians would be a mistake. The lessons of kindness and charity, of treating others well, of being patience and kind, transcends a single religion and a specific holiday. The traveler knows that acts of kindness while on a journey is repaid several times over.

Dying pastime of baseball

Baseball as a pastime is dying; however, the business of baseball is, of course, thriving. When I was a kid growing up in Louisville, there were many and afternoon that several of us would gather the field of Jacob Elementary School. Situated between two giant sycamore trees, which served as a makeshift dugout, home plate faced the back of the school. A monumental blast would hit the school; however, we did not consider this a home run. On rare occasions, when somebody pulled the ball slightly to the left, one could hit a window on the second or third floor and still be a fair ball.  That would be considered a home run. The problem would be that we would lose a valuable ball with which to play the game. In the aftermath of such an event there would always be recriminations; usually, a warning filtered through the neighborhood that the school longer wanted us to play baseball in the schoolyard. Yet, within a week or two, we always wandered back and the games continued. It was on this field, more than any other, that what skills I did have as a baseball player, were developed (this and the backyard games of catch with my father). Sure I played little league baseball; however, the once a week practice and once a week game only provided instruction. It took these pick-up games to further my skills.

It is my observation the kids today don't often play pickup games of baseball. All games (and practices) are organized events. Spontaneous pick-up games are a thing of the past. The places were kids could have a game, consequently, are beginning to disappear as well. I have watched over the past few years as Schan Field in Shippensburg has been gradually dismantled. Slowly, but surely, different components of the field have disappeared: the scoreboard and the benches have vanished; the base paths have grown weeds. I had a warm spot in my heart for this field because, although it was mediocre ball diamond, it reminded me of one of the places I played little league baseball as a kid. That field was on Wathen Lane, which is what we called the ball field. Like the field in Louisville, Schan field has brick warehouses as its backdrop; however, Wathen did not have an outfield fence. In Shippensburg, the warehouses appear to be underutilized, in Louisville they are filled with aging whiskey, which produced a strong, sweet aroma on hot summer evenings. The infield was more cinder than grass. Playing third base one game, a hard routine grounder was hit directly at me. The ball took an odd hop on the uneven field and caught me right in the throat. It is the most memorable injury that I received on the baseball field as I recall. (Unless you count the time I broke my thumb catching a softball barehanded at an end-of-the-year picnic in seventh grade.)

Don’t get me wrong, baseball is still a thriving enterprise – it makes more money today, than at any point in its history. Yet, the game seems to be more about money than as a hobby or pastime. Of course, I do not begrudge people from making money, but if something is a national treasure, an indicator of what it means to be American, then baseball has to be more. It must be protected from the impulses that rob it of its soul. 

The Ghost of the Cubs

Marker noting the location of West Side
Grounds (1893-1915)

Early October 2016 found me in the Chicago area. With my commitments finished at a conference, I put on my 1914 Cubs logo t-shirt and went in search of the location of West Side Grounds, the last (and, thus far, only) stadium to host a World Series championship for the Cubs. In the process I toured the city from the perspective of a Cubs fan and relived many of my own nostalgic memories.

Only a small sign indicates where a stadium once stood over a century ago. I sat down for a few minutes in the beautiful courtyard of the UIC medical campus. It was a peaceful place; there were very few people around that late-morning Saturday. It was a perfect blue sky, untouched by clouds, and there was a cool breeze with the temperature in the upper fifties. I imagined a time, almost 108 years to the day, when the Cubs last won the World Series. The 1908 Series between the Cubs and the Detroit Tigers featured five future hall of famers. With an absence of motion pictures, and a Cubs team that is favored to make it deep into the 2016 playoffs, it is tempting to think about what that championship would have looked like. I spent some time trying to recreate in my mind and imagining those October days at West Side Grounds. While sitting there, I jotted a few notes and had a quiet reflection. Three people walked by during the twenty minutes or so that I was there. Each moved from one building to another, and smiled an acknowledgment. Did they know the real reason for my visit, or were they simply engaging in what they thought was a professional courtesy?

Where center field once was...

The Cubs won the series four games to one, splitting the two games played at West Side Grounds on October 11 and 12. During the October 11 game (game 2 of the series), the Cubs broke a scoreless tie on the bottom of the eighth when Joe Tinker hit a two-run homer. The Cubs would go one to score four more runs in the inning and won the game in an hour and a half. The next day, Detroit beat the Cubs by a score 8-3. During the game, future Detroit hall of famer, Ty Cobb hit three singles and a double. He had two stolen bases, and was thrown out trying to steal home in the ninth inning.

I sat on a bench, which I estimated to be somewhere in left-center field based on where the sign indicating the centerfield entrance was located. If my guess was correct, it would have been near where Jimmy Sheckard would have played. Across the field, at first base, player/manager and future Hall of Famer, Frank Chance would play for several seasons. He would go on to coach and play for the Chicago Whales of the Federal League, the first occupants of Weeghman Field, later known as Wrigley Field. But Chance is more famous for anchoring the double play combination with Evers and Tinker. The combination of Tinkers, Ever and Chance was the bedevilment of early twentieth century National League teams. Famously, in 1910 as the Cubs approached yet another World Series appearance, New York columnist Franklin Pierce Adams penned the poem, “Baseball’s Sad Lexicon.” The poem would be published in the New York Evening Mail, 12 July 1910.

“Three Finger” Mordecai Brown did not appear at West Side Grounds during the 1908 World Series. Brown, who had been injured in a farm accident as an adolescent, was the star pitcher of the team. He would go on to play for the Chicago Whales, with Frank Chance during the 1915 season at Weeghman Field.  

We often forget how much baseball has shaped our language. “Hitting a home run,” or to do really well, is not an idiom known outside of North America. It is also used as a euphemism for sexual intercourse as well. The idiom, “out in left field,” a term which means “crazy” or completely unexpected and one that was often used by my father, originated at West Side Grounds. By today’s standards, the West Side was oddly shaped with an exaggerated outfield wall. Beyond the left field wall, a home for the mentally ill patients once stood. One account noted that the patients would often yell at the fans causing much consternation.

Ron Santo outside Wrigley

I am increasingly ambivalent about my feelings toward major league baseball. Much of the joy of the game has given way to marketing and hype. The changes in the Cubs, the organization and even beloved Wrigley have contributed to my ambivalence. Some of these changes are and were unavoidable. The death of Ron Santo, famous third baseman and later beloved radio announcer, was difficult. His life-long battle with diabetes was an inspiration to many and hits close to my family. It is difficult to replace him for loyal listeners like myself. His enthusiasm, optimism and exasperation are sorely missed. As the Cubs continue to do well, I think how he would have been in the booth and on the field with the guys. There is my own sense of nostalgia as well. When I see a game these days I note that Kris Bryant is wearing Mark Grace’s number; Jon Lester is wearing Kerry Wood’s. As the Cubs creep inevitably closer to ending the long drought of World Series Championships, after all “anyone can have a bad century,” I remember many of the players I wish had had an opportunity to play for the team in the World Series.

Harry outside the bleacher entrance at
Sheffield and Waveland

I think back to the death of Harry Caray and his closing words on his final broadcast on WGN: “Next year maybe will be the year we all have been waiting for forever.” Caray was a primary reason for becoming a Cubs fan. I would often tune into Cubs broadcast in the afternoon after coming home from school, just to hear what he had to say. Harry was famous for leading the Wrigley Field faithful in his rendition of “Take Me Out to the Ballpark,” seemingly inevitably, followed up with him shouting: “Let’s get some runs!” Even today, every once in a while, I find a clip of Harry singing just to give myself a lift. One of the most memorable renditions did not occur at Wrigley, but across town when Harry was announcing for the White Sox in 1979. He tried to calm a rowdy crowd who had stormed the field in the aftermath of the Disco Demolition Night promotion. In vain, Harry sang while the crowd started fires and began to tear the stadium apart. Watching replays of the event, Harry’s effort never fails to make me laugh, albeit with a little embarrassment for him.

After all these years, it is still a thrill to see Wrigley from the Addison L station, even as the area becomes increasingly gentrified. One of the great things about Wrigley was that it was in the midst of a neighborhood. I remember watching Cubs games in high school and college wishing I could stand out on Waveland Avenue to shag home run balls as they left the park. Yes, I too would have thrown balls from opposing players back. Many of the buildings on Addison, across the street from the stadium, have been demolished to make way for luxury apartments. The changes seem too much. I wanted the Cubs to win the World Series based on the city that prided itself on hard work. Increasingly baseball seems more willing to sell anything to make a buck. History and identity is lost. Yet, my love of the game’s history and the social impact of the game remains. While there is a temptation to look away, I just can’t.

Two weeks to the day after my visit to West Side Grounds (and Wrigley), the Cubs met the Los Angeles Dodgers in the decisive game 6 of the National League Championship Series. The game was never in doubt, but watching there was a worry that the Cubs could implode at any minute. They did not. As the game moved to the ninth inning, it became increasingly clear that North Siders would appear in the first World Series in seventy-one years.

As the game ended, I received texts and phone calls from friends. I pictured myself with a rueful smile on my face as I watched the celebration, thankful that no one was pointlessly talking over the traditional playing of Steve Goodwin’s, “Go, Cubs, Go.” I held my composure, thinking about Goodwin who died in 1984, sitting alone surveying the stadium and its fans. Then, Joe Buck noted that there were probably a lot of Cubs fans who were thinking about their parents, grandparents, and loved ones who were no longer here to witness this. I broke down and cried.

For me there is a great irony to this season: 2016 was the first summer in thirty years that I did not attend a major league game. As I was contemplating this, what little superstition I do have surfaced: If that was all it took for the Cubs to make it to the World Series…