(As my regular followers know, some Saturdays, because there just isn’t enough I want to muse about, I post a “Thought for the day” instead. I’ve been doing this blog for almost ten years now and have hundreds more followers than I did during its early life. So for the next while, when the Muses take the week off I’m going to repeat the most popular early blogs. I’ve chosen this one as the first because it leads all others in “likes” by a country mile.)
It was the early 80s, and as usual we were spending the summer at our cottage at Lakeside, about five miles from the village of Morell, P.E.I.
Morell had a great minor baseball program, in which our sons Alan and Matthew, then about nine and eleven years old, were enrolled. Their teams played games all over eastern and southern Kings County.
We had a station wagon in those days, and with seat belt regulations much less stringent than they now are we often ferried seven or eight kids to and from the games. This, of course, was no burden because we would be going to the games anyway. And as many of the other parents weren’t able to take their kids because they were at work, we were happy to take along as many boys as we could squeeze in.
We thoroughly enjoyed the baseball and equally enjoyed the banter of the kids during the road trips.
We never knew who would be travelling with us, but one young fellow, Frankie Roach, who lived in the village very near to where we picked up and dropped off the players, was a regular. Frankie was a thoroughly delightful, polite, well-behaved young lad. He was also a very good ball player.
After road games we would stop somewhere on the way back to Morell so the boys could have a chocolate bar or chips and a soft drink, or perhaps an ice cream cone or chocolate dip. Each kid always had a dollar or so to spend.
One day in late August, as we were heading to a game in Lower Montague, we informed the boys that because we were going back to Toronto in a couple of days this would be our last baseball trip this year.
When we made our customary refreshment stop after the game, I noticed that Frankie didn’t buy anything. I asked him if he had money and he said that he did but just didn’t particularly want anything.
We dropped the kids off in front of the Co-op store in Morell and said our good-byes. Frankie hung around until all the others had left. Then he came over to me, holding out a two-dollar bill which he clearly wanted me to take.
“What’s this for, Frankie?” I asked.
“To help pay for your gas, Lyman,” he said
Hoping that he wouldn’t see the tears welling up in my eyes, I quickly shooed him into the Co-op, telling him to go get his after-game snack.
Every time I tell this story two things happen: the tears well up again, and I wonder where Frankie is and what he’s doing now. To-day was no exception.
(And neither was this time.)