Baseball and Heroes

     In Florida, it seems one is never far away from a baseball field. I grew up on Jacana Way in North Palm Beach. Within walking distance of my home was Osborne Park. Baseball fields, cement block dugouts, steel and wood bleachers and a little cement block snack bar together made our field of dreams. When we were around eleven or twelve, we were allowed to walk to the park on late summer evenings to watch our friends play Little League. We’d buy a soda and a hot dog and climb the bleachers to sit on wooden planks. After the hotdog was devoured, we cheered and screamed as our friends took their turns at bat.  There was often the smell of freshly mowed grass and despite the heat of the day, the nights always seemed to cool off just a little in time for the game. We could see flying insects as flashes in the beams from the tall field lights. The crack of the bat hitting the ball would resound off of the apartment buildings to the south.

       At the front of Osborne Park was a curved cement block wall painted white. A flag pole behind it was illuminated at night and the entire crowd assembled for the game would stand, hands over hearts, and sing the national anthem before the umpire yelled, “Play ball!”

     When games weren’t being played, the fields behind the perfectly manicured ball field were excellent spots to kick a ball or throw a Frisbee. Dugouts were great spots for long talks over a Coca cola and moon pie.

        As many times as I walked by that curved cement wall, it never occurred to me why the wall was there and what the bronze plaque on it said. I decided it was time I knew and as my readers know, when I find out something about Palm Beach County history, I love nothing more than to pass it on to you.

       I end up driving through North Palm Beach a lot, usually to meet friends who live in the area. One Saturday morning, I took the time to stop at Osborne Park. The formal baseball field closest to Prosperity Farms Road looked like it hadn’t changed much. The dugouts were still the same ones I had walked past as a child. Built out of concrete cinder blocks, they’re now painted dark green.

       On this visit, though, I walked to the curved wall at the front and read. The little park we loved wasn’t named after some random politician or early founder of the area, but the former Prosperity Park was dedicated to the memory of Lt. Ronald Osborne in 1967. Born in 1941, he was only twenty-five when he left his home on Robin Way for war. He never came back. While serving as a Second Lieutenant in the United States Army, he died on December 4, 1966 of of wounds suffered in battle after serving only one year.  If you travel to Washington, DC, his name is among those on the wall at the Vietnam Veterans Memorial.  Lt. Osborne was buried at Arlington Cemetery.

     We often hurry through our lives and don’t often make time to slow down and look at the bits of history around us. I know all the years I’ve been walking and driving by that monument at the front of Osborne Park, I never slowed down to read it. I’m glad I finally did. As I stood under the flag on a beautiful, clear spring morning, I said a little prayer for the brave, young soldier who probably spent time swinging a bat at this park.

                

Election Days

I remember going with my mother to the North Palm Beach Elementary School cafetorium (yes, that’s what it was called) in the 1960s so that she could cast her vote. I had to stand right outside the curtains of the voting booth while she did whatever mysterious things were involved in voting. I looked forward to the day when I, too, could disappear behind the curtain and, like the Wizard of Oz, flip and pull levers and switches and magically tell the world who I thought would do a better job in an elected office.

I turned 18 right after the presidential election when Jimmy Carter defeated Gerald Ford. I didn’t get the chance to vote in a presidential election until 1980 when Reagan defeated Carter. I was disappointed that the curtained booths had disappeared somewhere between the 60s and the 80s. Plastic dividers lined three sides of a high table and one leaned in and punched holes in the paper opposite the candidate of our choice. Twenty years later, the hole punching and the infamous butterfly ballot became an issue during the Bush/Gore election when the hanging chads threw vote counts off.

These days, we take a black pen and connect the end of an arrow with the beginning of an arrow. It doesn’t feel mysterious or impressive to me—feels more like a kindergarten coloring class. But the decisions made are far more important than who to sit next to at lunch or play with at recess.

I suppose at some time in the future, voting will involve a touch video screen and candidate’s faces. As for me, I’ll head to the polls this year, same as every year since I was eligible. Regardless of your party affiliation or who you support, I hope you do, too.

Wonder if they’ll let us bring our own curtains?

A Haunted Tale for Halloween

I wrote this little tale for a critique group meeting. After searching for something to write, my eyes fell on my old typewriter. Ah ha! I could write a haunted typewriter tale. But, no. It's been done and done well by masters of horror. I could, however, write one with my own spin. So what follows is my take on the haunted typewriter story. Hope you enjoy this tale of a typewriter inhabited by a dead soul with a sense of humor...

The Perils of an Antique Typewriter

Tuesday (Mac Journal)

Tomorrow’s the day I get to pick up the old typewriter from the repair shop! It was a bargain on e-bay. I paid fifty bucks for a beat-up beauty from 1888. At least, that’s the date on the metal plate barely hanging on the front of it. The repairman’s been working on it for a couple of weeks and it’s finally finished! Tomorrow, I’m going to start working on my next horror novel. It’s the sixth one based in merry old England of Jack the Ripper days and I’ve been getting e-mails from fans for months asking when the next one’s coming out. Life is good!

Wednesday morning (Mac Journal)

My newly restored Bar-Lock is sitting on my desk with my computer. It looks like a black mechanical spider next to my sleek Mac. I know it’s crazy to write a novel on a typewriter, especially an antique one, but I think I can really immerse myself in the period this way. Can’t wait to start writing about the evil lurking in the dark alleys of London!

First paragraph (Bar Lock)

He watched from the shadow, lamplight a dull flicker on the cobblestone street as the carriage picked up the young woman he had been following. The disappointment at losing his prey at the last minute…

Oh, how I love the meadow in the morning!

The delicate filigree of yellow and white arrayed in splendor

above and through the towering green grasses that part

as I wander through golden bolts of sunlight.

(What the hell? I’ll just keep going…)

The echo of his boots resounded on the stone walls of the damp, narrow alley as…

The cherry lips of my love smile as she rises from slumber

her golden hair a nimbus of curls that slip through my fingers

Ah love, I doth live to see you awaken in

the cool chill of morning.

Thou art my world.

Wednesday afternoon (Mac Journal)

I’m not quite sure what the problem is with typing my novel on this typewriter. I keep trying to type the novel and when I look up, it’s spouting poetry. POETRY! I DON’T WRITE POETRY! I write gritty horror novels. I just don’t understand. I’m taking a break. I called Jessie and I’m heading out for a beer. Maybe tomorrow my fingers, or this typewriter, will cooperate.

Thursday morning (Mac Journal)

I’ve been sitting here studying the Bar Lock while sipping my steaming coffee. The smell rising from the mug makes everything seem normal. Even the Bar Lock. It sits there on my desk, ivory keys gleaming, metal framework reflecting the bright morning sun pouring through the office window. Next to it, paper sits in a neat stack and my newly sharpened pencils fill the lopsided pot from my niece’s last art class. I’ve had three cups as I debate whether to try again. I just can’t figure out what’s going on.

Tuesday morning (Bar lock)

The fiend towered above his victim, her tattered, dirty blue skirt spread on the pavement crushed beneath his knees. He wished she were still conscious. It was so much more interesting when they were….

There once was a fine lady from Paris

Whose mirror claimed she was the fairest

Her hair in curls rose above

with two sparrows and a dove

‘til the cat leapt and she fell off a terrace.

 (Oh my god!)

…aware of what they were about to experience.  The

There once was a man from London

who tried to eat a whole hot cross bun

but it broke in two

and fell on his shoe

and the poor, hungry man left a’grumblin’.

Thursday morning (Mac Journal):

I can’t do it. I can’t write on that damn machine! Now it’s limericks. LIMERICKS! There are NO limericks in horror stories. NONE. It’s NOT DONE! I know I’ve got a prescription for valium in the kitchen. Where the hell is it??

Thursday afternoon (Mac Journal)

Ok. Much calmer now. I must have been dreaming or something. Did I write that stuff myself? Did the Bar Lock do it? Am I going nuts? Is it me or the machine? I’m going to try the Bar Lock one more time. If it does it again, it’s going to just sit there or maybe I’ll put some flowers in it or maybe I’ll just take it down to the pawn shop before it infects the Mac with whatever’s going on.

Thursday afternoon (Bar Lock)

His hands covered with blood, he stood up from his evil handiwork and…

There once was a man from Nantucket..

-The End-

Have I Got a Deal for You!

Part of the fun of being a relatively new author is finding out just how much fun stuff there is to do! For example, I've been on Goodreads for quite some time. I first joined to get information on books I'd heard about. Then I discovered the "History is Not Boring" group. Conversations about all aspects of history and discussions about history books. Ahhh! History geek heaven!

I listed my first book on Goodreads and thought that was pretty much all there was to do. When my new book was published, I listed that, too. But, wait! Not so fast, little one...

This week, I stepped up and offered my new book, "Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County: Boomer Memories from Diary Belle to Doubleroads" as a giveaway. Yes, YOU can join Goodreads and enter giveaways to your heart's delight - for my book as well as several other offerings! FREE!

So, come on over. Sign up and start entering--for my book as well as the others. The life of a book addict just got better! Pass the word!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Growing Up in Northern Palm Beach County

by Ruth Hartman Berge

Giveaway ends November 01, 2014.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win