2010 reflections

Today, I simply wish to reflect on my journey of re-discovering my grandparents, Guy and Ann (Botts) Daines. It has been a couple of weeks since I veered off the track and paused to describe a bit of family history. They grew up very close to each other in what Newportonians refer to as the "West Side"--He lived on West 10th Street and she lived at the Corner of 11th and Brighten Street. At the bottom of 10th Street there still stands a monolith of an ancient granary, and it remains as imposing today as it was then.
My grandmother was the youngest of five, and there were 16 years between her and Sarah her sister. She had three brothers, Arthur, Glenn and Ed. Sarah Botts Herman had two young sons, Charles and Jerry around this same time and they may have been living at 10th and Brighten as well. It was at any given time a full house, very diverse and busy, and for Ann, my grandmother, who was the youngest daughter, overflowing with many bosses telling her what to do and when.
I never really read my grandfathers scrapbook, or really listened to his stories about baseball closely. I always knew he was an exceptional athlete, but only enjoyed the satisfaction that came when he would demonstrate a curve ball, spit ball, or fast ball to the neighborhood kids, who could never believe it as well as never even see some these pitches--- and that was the best satisfaction placing me temporarily on a neighborhood pedestal for a fleeting moment in kid time. I relished the look on every single one of their faces when he threw those pitches! Growing up, I took my grandparents for granted, as most young children do, and lived every day as if they would always be there for me, and I was lucky, because for most of my life they were.
If someone were to ask my today to describe my grandfather, my Pop, I would say steadfast, reliable, my very foundation that my life was built on ... you know the type, he would always be on time, always be home for dinner, always be there when I went to bed and when I woke up in the morning. He rescued me many times from rain, snow and utter boredom, never missed a game I cheered in, a recital I danced in, the measles or the chickenpox, or Sunday in church. He was kinda quiet, and he never raised his voice at me, and if he did, you can place a bet on the very fact that I certainly most readily deserved it. I did not know anyone who could make me laugh louder, smile wider, or cry longer, wallowing in self-pity because I disappointed him,and he was beyond a doubt my biggest supporter.
Reading these letters and articles now, makes me see him from a different angle, it slows down the curve ball, so to speak, adding velocity and spin to his life. I imagine him young, so full of love for adventure and the game. He loved the game, he would watch the Cincinnati Reds on television, when he wasn't at the stadium, but he always listened to the radio. The volume on the TV remained turned way down, and almost off. As I read some of the old articles, I can hear the game, smell the game, and I can see those pitches. I can imagine those young men, bases loaded, playing their best game. Wow, that is amazing. I can see him on third base and my Uncle Glenn in the outfield. I want to run out on that field and hold on to them both.
When I read the letters that Ange writes to Guy in 1934, I imagine her as that young girl so in love with life, her friendships, her family, her very world. She was having a "grand" time herself, going to movies, visiting with friends. She was really something in 1934, wasn't she!
She used to wait up for me on the week-end nights when I was in high school. If I close my eyes I still can see her there, she would be putting her hair up in pin-curls with two bobbie pins, in her night gown and robe, patiently urging me to talk about anything. She was interested in me. She used to always end these conversations with the old analogy of "not paying for the cow if they can get the milk for free--if you know what I mean." She bought my school clothes, my new shoes and then complained about how I chose to wear them and my hair. She struggled with me, being my grandmother and not my mother, and yet she remains there beside me in many ways as I make my daily way through life. She was there when all three of my babies were born, and she was always there for them, just like she was for me, when I was sick she and my Pop would be over with ice-cream, and they did the same for my children.
Once again, reading their conversations, I feel as if I am watching them as they become who they will be, ultimately shaped by 1934 events. This is a rare gift given to me, and ...
I am beginning to see depth where once I saw only form and function.