The bleachers in the ballpark are old.  Too far from field #4 and installed so eye height is equal to the ballpark fence – inconvenient.

Faded grey paint peels in postage-stamp size pieces from metal supports.  A nod to  Mr. Neil Young, rust never sleeps.

But rust, like everything else in this ballpark, is part of a rich picture.  Summertime nostalgia.  Rust supports the tradition it eats.

At some other time in  life, I might have thought the deterioration a shame.  But change is as constant as tradition and this rust, altering the structure of the place from the inside out while maintaining its congruency,  is beautiful.

In 1966, My Love, by Petula Clark,  was in the radio Top Ten.  A favorite of my mother, and me too.

I have heard that song rarely over the years.   Back then it seemed a song I could understand.  Now it seems a simple message I can appreciate.

Divorce and delay wear on those seeking freedom – yesterday was no different.  Late in the day, unbidden, My Love picked itself out of dusty memory and played itself over and over in my mind.

Even with 20 years of  cold comfort and small likelihood of ever meeting one of my own kind — I love people and good relationship – between friends, successful couples, and couples trying to make it work.  Men and women and what they do best.  Love felt as deep, warm, soft, and bright – humans are capable of such wonder.

Like an old favorite song, the good things in life come around too infrequently.  But when they do – at least for me – a simple song will suit.

Undivided attention – not possible.

Baseball fields figure prominently this time of year.  Timeless Little League experience.  Blue sky.  Five fields in play.  The town is out tonight.

The concession stand is swinging, children playing in the trees.

In the bleachers, life goes on.  Cell phones – retro rings – make believe of days when landlines were the only ticket.

Smack of the bat, slide…safe!

Children become adults, spring becomes summer and what is old, becomes new once again.

A desiccated pea.  One semi-sweet chocolate chip.  One white chocolate chip.  Various sized broken bits of spaghetti.

Whether it is down couch cushions, car seats – or under the microwave – the resulting booty gives pause for thought.  Remains tell stories.

Though dried of  vitality, stale, and forgotten, there is something to  residue – it survives.  Speaks to Christmas treats,  a dish that missed – or comfort food, repeatedly prepared.  Wizened but sometimes startling memory.

We clean for good reasons, keep things moving forward.  But sometimes forget in the name of progress, that  remains still stand – or wait – in out of the way places, or under the microwave .

Manager’s Special – 20 percent off turkey sausage breakfast links.  Good deal.  The label says use or freeze by tomorrow.  These links are quickly maturing out of saleability.

But not if frozen.  There are time limits to the new, the fresh.  Malleability, flexibility, the imperative of now belongs to things in play, things that go stale – or rot – if left too long.

Relationships are a bit like that.  Lose appeal, get tough, freeze after a spell.  Sometimes a thaw adds flavor, sometimes makes an unsavory mess.

But not breakfast links.  They keep well in a freezer, and taste just as good down the line.  I bought two packages.

The other day I caught glimpse of a middle-aged woman twirling with arms stretched high, high as she could.  Space, motion, being – just because she could.

Yes, it was me, in the bathroom mirror.

I clap sometimes too, just for the rhythm of it, see how many times I can clap before I miss a beat.

It was hot last night.  When I turned on the faucet this morning, the physicality of cool water on warm hands struck me.

As generation after generation pours over this earth, I wonder how many people find delight in uncomplicated motion, ability, or texture.  How much water has graced the hands of humanity to wash or soothe.  How many actions undertaken simply for the reverie.

I wonder.