It's A Gas

I have found out rather recently, it's the little things that make a marriage what it is.  A bond that is intimate and unique, no matter what the circumstances, no matter who is right or wrong, no matter how embarrassing a situation is, no matter who is stinkier.  As mere newlyweds by some standards (4.5 years), bonding can be a prolonged and exasperating experience.  In our case, one such challenge was confronted quite quickly.  Odoriferousness .  Before I was married, I recognized all my personal aromas and accepted them.  Hey, that was me.  Now, living in a house with other living bodies, I've realized that I had to accept and breathe and live with various funk.  I have had to develop a strong tolerance to the peculiar nuances infiltrating our household and beyond.  The following is a list I've compiled of some of the more rank and foul smells I have encountered and their accompanying guilty parties.

One Teenage Boy
Socks.  Lacrosse, soccer, basketball, skateboarding, snowboarding,camping, etc.  How many pair does he really need?  They lay everywhere that you happen to be.  And most often only one.  These singular socks left in our living room has turned it into a "I Smell Dead People" room.  Our cat usually conducts a lick-bite-roll-fling session with one of these babies before going outside for some fresh air.  Probably to cough up a cotton/hair ball.  Recently, for about a week, I had a weird, unsettling smell in my truck.  I checked out the obvious places : under the seats, in the seats, around the seats, under the floor mats.  Nothing.  I had thought maybe a skunk crawled up into my engine and was slow-baking.  Finally, I took it in to a mechanic to see if he could find the source.  I needed to get something out of the glove box and, lo and behold, out of it escaped the most putrid, disgusting, primordial cloud.  One greenish-gray, solo sock, which had completely morphed into a hardened, fibrous pancake.  I need to order a new glovey.  Reminds me of the Seinfeld show about the funk in his car that wouldn't go away.

One Teenage Girl
I am more in-tune with boy/man ju-ju.  I have no idea why she smells the way she does.  You'll have to ask Mom.

One 10 year-old Girl
See above.

One 10 year-old Dog
A combo of interesting and nauseating stenches.  A little canned beef (ya, right) chunks in some liquified/gelatinous goop or a chicken (ya, right)  treat that smells and/or probably tastes like week-old tuna that was left out in the sun.  Even the flies stay away.  Though not a garbage eater, she will lap-chew-crush-chomp anything that is nearly edible or looks even remotely edible.  Maybe a little trip to the cat litter buffet.  Rolling around outside in whatever they roll around on is another hit on the nasal passages.  Can we get a hose over here?

One 5 year-old Cat
Open a can of gizzards and liver pate and watch her twitch in euphoria.  And that cat box.  I can't put enough absorbent crystals or odor-crushing substance down.  It's enough to curl my eyebrows.  And of course, the forgotten, opened can of food underneath a credenza that is now maggotized.  Yummy.

That brings us to The Wife and myself.  I have to say, right off the bat, she can bring the tang.  The girl's got game.  And she admits it.  Just ask her.  The term "gassy lassie" doesn't refer lovingly to the TV Lassie when she saved Billy down in that gas tanker.  Oh no.  When The Wife says : "I'm a gassy lassie tonight", the translation is : one of us had better sleep elsewhere.  Just the other night, I remember coming in from a cooling, refreshing, light rain where my nostrils have expanded, sucking in as much freshness as possible, when I ran into a wall of gross proportions.  I looked at the soles of my shoes.  I looked at the dog.  I looked at the boy.  I didn't even consider the girls.  There is no way that could come from them.  I looked at The Wife.  Her sour smile, a slight twinkle in her eyes through a vaporous haze and that innocent look told me the story.  I rushed around looking for every book of matches and candles I could muster.  Oh yes, she brought her 'A' wind that time.  Epic.

Another womanly story is in order here.  This one's about my Mom.  Yes, little old Mom has pulled off some stinkers in her time.  Though she never admits it.  We were in a grocery store and she was reaching for a can of fruit cocktail.  Toot.  Toot.  She then turns around and scowls at a lady next to her and shakes her head as if to say "I heard that and it wasn't me.  You should be ashamed of yourself for letting it rip in public."  Toot.

So that leaves me.  Not much to say.  By all accounts (including the pets), it seems as if I was of no particular essence at all.  Completely neutral aroma.  Is this possible?  Am I the only one that can't have odor?  Even after eating a smothered, Chicken Pollo Burrito at Sam's #3, drinking a couple cups of coffee and taking the dog on a brisk walk, my emanations were pitiful compared to the rest of our house.  Oh, you can't blame that on me.  Really, that wasn't me.  No, trust me.   I was the only one in the room?  Where did that dog go?  Where are all those socks?  This bonding experience is really working.  But, can we go outside and enjoy it more?  I feel a little disturbance is coming on.

Say What ?

Tinnitus  (Latin for "ringing") - perception of sound within the human ear in the absence of corresponding external sound

Back on June 7, 2010, I published a story. "This All Makes Perfect Sense".  It was quite silly.  However, during my research (yes, I do research), I learned a thing or two about our senses. Like, simple terms for the traditional senses.  Gustation is taste.  Tactition is touch.  But the ringing, pinging or roaring in the ears is not known by a simple term, just tinnitus.  How about hear gong?  Or ear buzz?  Lame, I know.  This is not a disease but a symptom of one or more auditory abuses.  More about that later.  I originally had a story idea concerning my own affliction of ear buzz (catchy?) in one ear but I veered off, as I normally do, and ended up with the senses story.  I wasn't going to do humor because it is serious, sometimes annoying and always a pain in the buttowski.  Until recently.

  No fewer than three items graced my vision and my funny bone got yanked.  One was an ad showing an older gentleman with graying hair, bandana, bracelets, flip-flops and an electric guitar suggesting either a past hippie, a present Viagra user or a futuristic cloned version of Keith Richards.  The headline was : "Hearing a constant BUZZING in your ears?"  Well, that sounded loud.  I didn't know if it was for the ears or eyes.  The ad goes on to tell us "it effects (they need a better editor, it's really Affects) 60 million Americans, just like you."  Kinda weird.  How did they know I played guitar?  And I'm American.  Big Bro is watching.  I guess the rest of the world is safe from hear gong.  The ad is for Ring No More and its creator "used his background in the health and wellness industry ....... to formulate a safe and effective (got it right) homeopathic solution".  Sounds like a simple wax remover.  It also lists the high risk careers.  School Teacher: (constant screaming at and from kids) Check.  Truck Driver: (get that muffler fixed) Check.  Construction Worker: (all use jackhammers) Check.  Musician/Guitarist: ( the guitar is so special) Check.  That last one hit home.  Just because I play a 2003 Fender Strat percolating through a Marshall half-stack with 1000 watts of paralyzing power in a small living room with other HOH (hard of hearing) elderlies, does that mean I damaged one ear?  I mean, why is Lefty OK?  Maybe it was the time Deep Purple's 'Smoke on the Water' tour ('73) when Ian Gillan screamed through 20' tall speakers when I just happened to be 2' away.  Or perhaps when I had that tiny Toyota pick-me-up, with no king-cab, and a Rocker-Fosgate power amp with 100+ watt box bass/tweeter combo speakers that were 2' from both ears.  Poor Righty couldn't take it.

The first article was titled "Americans Forced to Quiet Down".  This was about laws in certain states that give tickets for excessive noise.  Outside.  Once again, US of A.  I'm beginning to think that we're the only noisemakers.  In Richmond,Virginia, an ordinance makes it illegal to "cause a disturbance" that can be heard 50' away.  So much for the tobacco-pickers singing.  In New York City, dog owners can be fined if their pets bark for more than 10 minutes.  So much for that in-heat seal.  And in Sarasota, Florida, cars are impounded for blasting their radios.  So much for listening to Howard Stern when Grandma is riding shotgun.  A website, NoiseOFF  (once again, sight-impaired) has been created for people who want quieter communities (they're called cemeteries).  Come on.  If I want to yell for a taxi while walking my seal with a ghetto blaster, I will.  This is still MY COUNTRY.  Note the loud texture I gave it.

And the second article comes from the April 2010 issue of Scientific American.  Yup, another American subversive, stuffy exploitation of our country's brainiacs telling us how smart they are and we are America and we are loud 'n proud and pithy and we're not going to take it anymore and you just listen to me, bub, and I'll scream and holler all I want.  Whew, that felt good.  That wasn't too loud, was it?  Titled "Making Scents of Sounds", it claims that noises alter our scents (sense) of smell.  It says " information received through the nose can also be altered by noise".  This new research suggests "the discovery of a possible smell-sound sense, or smound."  It sounds wacky and I wish I had made it up.

Daniel Wesson, he of psychiatric research in New York (where else?) had implicated odor detection in the base of the brain by way of the olfactory (hearing, remember?) tubercle.  How fascinating.  Please, do tell more.  "No one knew if tubercle cells could discriminate odors ......"  But they can.  Now, here (hear?) is where it gets really interesting.  There have been reported perceptual interplay between smells and sounds in the mid-1800s.  In France.  And wait, there's more.  A disorder, synesthesia, is when a patient tastes colors and sees flavors.  Yikes.  Of course the applications are immense.  To "patent a device that emits a tone...." so that a dog can smell explosives.  Or, based on background noise, food smells and tastes differently, so you can see if "your saffron risotto pairs better with Beyonce or Beethoven".  Yes Muffy, pass me that Electric Prunes CD.  It goes oh so well with my Merlot.  And here (hear) I thought my story was silly.

It's Enough To Drive You Batty

At first, I thought it was a good plan.  Block the trembling and bulging and shaking door with my body and 'it' won't get out.  Amid all the cacophony, I couldn't even hear myself think.  Jane had a different plan.  She came barreling through the brown, vinyl accordion door, taking with it the door frame and running over two 11-year-old scared-out-of-their-wits boys.  She left a trail of high-pitched, hair-curling screams as she zoomed up the basement stairs.  We leapt to our feet, ready for a different high-pitched wail.  That coming from an angry and distressed vampire bat.  No sound of anything.  Only my Dad coming through the carnage with a smile on his face.  'Well guys, we're all safe.  The bat flew out the window.'  He scanned the destroyed door, pieces of door frame and scattered hardware on the floor.  He looked at us.  Another smile.  'What happened to you guys?'  My Viking helmet was sideways (I felt like Fran Tarkenton took a sack) and Kim J. (the other hit-and-run victim) looked like his forehead had a growing knot on it.  In his hand was a partial hockey stick.

Let's back the story up a bit.  About ten minutes prior to this, my Mom came zooming up from our laundry room.  Her high-pitched, hair-curling screams (sound familiar?) could've awakened the comatose.  That's where Kim J. and myself come in.  Comatose.  Bored out of our minds.  Nothing to do.  The shrieks shook us out of this funk.  All right, maybe some action.  My Dad, who was mowing the lawn (not the powered- by- gas kind) came flying in as if somebody was dying.  Or had died.  Kim J. and Alto thought that that would be cool.  'A bat.  Big and yucky.  Flying at me.  In the laundry room', Mom said , catching her breath.  Cool.  A bat.  Maybe a vampire bat.  We looked at each other.  But it's broad daylight.  Ok, it could happen.

'Did you open the windows down there?', Dad asked.  'No, I didn't open the windows down there.  I didn't have time to think of that, Lenny.'  Her scowl told us, as males, to shut up and act like males.  My sister Jane (you remember her, right?) heard this and came over to the group.  'What's all the hubbub, bub?'  Clever she is.

Jane followed Dad down the stairs, with the two other males taking up the rear.  Just in case a stake or two were needed.  Down we went into the basement that led to the laundry room.  Nary a sound.  Jane grabbed a nearby tennis racket and I grabbed my Viking helmet.  You know, bats landing in hair.  Laying eggs.  Vampire eggs.  Though my hair was barely one inch long, I still took precautions.  Kim J. looked a little uneasy.  I gave him a hockey stick and baseball cap.  We advanced toward the doorway (you remember that, too?) to the laundry room.  'Stay out of the laundry room', said Dad, looking at the dorks in sports gear.  'Close this door.  And keep it closed.  We want to keep it in the laundry room.'  Smart move, Dad.  I bet Jane wouldn't have thought of that.  She gave us this weird look.  Kinda like: a couple of losers.

So we stood guard on the outside of the door.  My Viking helmet.  Strapped firmly.  Hockey stick.  Ready.  Vampire bat.  On the other side of this door.  Probably waiting.  To suck blood.  To lay eggs.  It must be huge.  Suddenly, we hear a blood-curdling shriek, then some muffled sounds.  Our eyes were now as big as saucers, flying saucers.  And the references to blood everywhere.  Our blood.  And then it happened.  The start of this story.

I really had thought a vampire bat was this huge thing and was trying to knock the door down.  Really.  Jane didn't buy it.  Mom didn't buy it.  Dad didn't buy it.  Heck, Kim J. didn't buy it.  Hey, we'll all probably laugh about this tomorrow.  No one was laughing.  Of course, after we cleaned up the mess, Kim J. and myself laughed till our sides hurt.  We'll be ready next time, though.  Just scream really loud.  And Dad will take care of it. 

College Experiment

If you've ever gone to college, you would know that, other than getting an education, there are some essential "activities" one could indulge in.  One is supporting the school's athletic teams.  If your school sucked, you would move onto other (in)appropriate "activities".  Living in a dorm away from the parents lent itself to being completely and utterly a pig.  Cleaning up was an "activity" best ignored.  Until you had to move out after a year and a dumpster was moved into place under your dorm window.  Not a pretty sight.

Another far more uplifting "activity" was going to the bars (music, beverages, companionship) or sticking around campus and going to events (boring).  Living in near-arctic conditions 7 months of the year meant one had to think, really think, of "activities" to do inside the dorm (sterile), in a bar (somewhat restrictive) or apartment/house (party).  Seeing that this is not the appropriate forum to divulge any references to anything digested, absorbed or otherwise consumed, I will leave it to the imaginations or memories of yourself or others to fill in the blanks.

One "activity", whilst living in a house, concerned myself and two roomies, Kevin K. and Brad W.  It was actually an experiment called fasting.  We've all heard about the self-imposed, solid food deprivation designed to clean out your toxins that have built up from other "activities".  Cooking (an "activity" best ignored) was minimal.  Warmed-up Cheetos (dairy), stale beer (protein), milk, cold cereal and bread, lots of bread, was pretty much it.  So, it seemed safe to do a three-dayer.  No, not binge drinking.  But three glorious days of just liquids.  Water and juices, but no booze.  Healthy?  Kinda.  Well-planned?  Nope.

This was all suggested by the healthiest one, Kevin K.  He would always pop vitamins (I assumed they were vitamins), crunch granola and wheat germ on a consistent basis.  He thought up the idea and wanted all of us to participate in this starvation exercise.  Misery loves company.  We absurdly agreed but there had to be some reward.  The reward would be: improved health.  Ya, right.

The first day was easy.  Already skinny, I didn't need a lot of calories.  So, juices and water wasn't a big deal, unless someone would offer pizza.  Big weakness.  After a day of educational absorption (a little filling), I got back to the house to find our guru, our health-nut, our inspiration, on the couch with a smile on his face, tomato sauce on his shirt and an almost finished pizza on his lap.  That was soon to be also on his face.  'Sorry' was all he could say (was that spicy Italian sausage and mushrooms in his jowls?) after a loud obnoxious belch and a swig of PBR.  'You can do another two days, Alto.  I have faith in you.'  My nose and taste buds consumed the vapors (subconsciously filling).  'Thanks, leader of the health nuts'.  That night I dreamed of peanuts, cashews, walnuts as toppings on a pizza.  Strangely I felt satisfied.

The next day, full of orange juice and water and sloshing home after another filling day of education, I walked in on my other roomie, Brad W., all 6'3 of him, with a smile on his face, tomato sauce on his shirt and an almost finished pizza on his lap.  Deja vu.  'What's with you guys and pizza'.

The third day seemed to be a dream (or nightmare), all foggy and light, translucent and weightless.  This is what it feels like to be healthy?  Truly amazing feeling.  Floating.  Balloon-like.  I almost passed out a few times, but my will (stubbornness) to succeed and become healthy was overwhelming.  I made it till midnight, when I euphorically and metaphorically jumped up (didn't have to 'cause I floated up) and proudly declared I was the wiener, er, winner.  Nobody was around (they were probably stuffing their faces with 'zza) and nobody cared.  Except my mouth, tongue and stomach.  They sure as hell cared.  I then found myself (beginning to fade away) in a pizza joint.  Was this a dream?  I was consuming a large spicy Italian sausage and mushroom pizza.  Alone.  Was this a dream?  How satisfying.  How succulent.  How greasy.  How stupid.  At roughly 3 AM, I was woken by my body swathed in sweat and in the fetal position.  The rest of the morning and the rest of the day, I was headfirst in the porcelain.  Wishing I would just die.  My healthy, nutty friend stuck his head into the bathroom.  You should have had something like Cream of Wheat or toast, he said.  Thanks for letting me in on that one, I spit.  He congratulated me.  I am now the healthiest in the house.

The Pool - Present and Past

The first visit to the pool this summer with my 10-year-old stepdaughter, Ren, was quite the splash.  From all the zeppelin-like creatures floating (or sinking) around us, that is.  This indoor pool that we frequent is not fancy but very popular among families because of the Olympic-size kiddie pool.  And a fat-laden food stand.  Kind of fits the clientele.  I'll try not to be so cruel, but what the hell are these kids eating?  This one kid (I presumed he was still a kid, he had a goatee, so maybe he was just a young-looking teen fatty)  tended to cry every time someone splashed him in the face.  Like Ren repeatedly did because he refused to move out of the way, thereby, blocking her from recovering a pool thingy-shaped-like-a-rocket ship-that-sinks-to-the-bottom-so-you-can-dive-to-retrieve-it toy.  As he was rubbing his eyes, blinking, crying and more rubbing, Ren, who stands just over four-foot even with Fee Waybill's platforms on, is hidden from view, literally, because of his sack of potatoes for a belly.  Kind of makes you look at yourself and say, wow, I feel like Pee-Wee Herman on a hunger strike.    NOTE: the reference is a little creepy, but hey, that was the first thing that popped into my head.  Please, no adult pun intended.  Remember, I am Polyanna.   Finally, this big lug gets moved by the sheer willpower of Ren.  And a group of four others.  She finally gets the toy and flings it at me.  This lime-green rocket is screaming at me (what an arm on that kid) as I sat on the side of the pool.  My first reaction, duck.  I then hear a sploorf, or some such wet, squishy sound.  I glanced over my shoulder.  Sitting directly behind me, asleep in a pool chair, was a large (come on, hasn't anybody heard of Jenny Craig or lipo or eating less than a car's weight in calories every day?) woman.  Is that a goatee?  With the missile lodged or impaled or sequestered or just plain embedded into her belly.  She didn't wake nor budge.  We then left, sans rocket ship.  We didn't run, though.  Never run around a pool.

That lesson was ingrained into my cerebellum back in high school.  Mr. A. was the school's swimming coach and also the swim class teacher.  Disciplinarian.  Flat-top haircut.  Sargent-like.  A small guy with a booming voice (at least it echoed quite well) and the most piercing whistle (I blame him for my hearing loss) hanging around his neck.  His big deal was: the wooden paddle.  He would lay down the law the first day of the swim year.  Mr. A. had us all lined up at the edge of the pool, facing it.  He walks along behind us explaining his rules of the pool.  Did I mention that one of the school policies was to swim nude?  Just a little tidbit to envision.  The Great White North swim class looking like pasty full moons.  A little disturbing?  A little creepy?  We knew no better and that was probably a good thing.  His method of discipline was simple: If you roughhouse, push, run, swear,etc., you will be punished.  By his two-foot long wooden paddle.  With small holes drilled into it.  He made sure every one of us got to see this beauty of shellacked oak (?) and contoured handle   I think he even a had a name burned into it.  Was it Butty?  He was oh so proud of this baby.  Here was the deal.  If you were out of line, you got a whack on the butt.  Did I mention we were n-e-k-e-d?  He would then put a mark by your name.  If you screwed up again, the whack would be harder.  And so on.  Those holes?  They are there to suck your tender flesh out and make a welt.  Of course, he had to dip it into the pool for some added effect.  So, here we are, all lined up, with this scary, little man with a Napoleon-complex walking behind us with a piece of wood telling us what might happen.  To give us a preview, everybody will be whacked to know what it feels like.  How quaint, don't you think?  Now, in alphabetical order, Altobelli, first.  I felt like diving into the pool but realized that  a) I wasn't a very good swimmer and  b) he was the damn swim coach so he could easily catch me and paddle me into mush. 

Ah, the good old days.  What would happen today if a paddle was around?  Maybe more respect?  What about swimming nude?  More respect for anatomy?  I have to slip this into conversations every now and again with my stepson, Forrest.  Just to see the look on his face.  He was appalled.  Was it coed?, he asked.  No.  You mean, with you're winky hanging?  Yes, but when the paddle came around that first time, I turtled up.  I don't know if he believes me or not.  I kinda look back, oh, the horror, and think, if I had eaten more, that whack on my bony butt wouldn't have stung so bad.

Comment To Comment

As a writer, I do take some liberties.  However, most of my writings are very true.  I can't explain every story, I wish I could interject FACT or FICTION, but that would muddle up the writing.  Take it for what it's worth.  These are my recollections from some dusty places, but really, some of this stuff I could never make up.  For example.  My first visit to The Rocks.  I, in no way, made up the acoustic guitar strapped onto the VW.  I wish I could have.  And actually, that whole scenario was very true.  Some of the scenes (of other stories) are made up, but based on facts.  The mystique of my writing, any writing, leaves it up to the reader to decide.  My Off-The-Wall story is factual.  I wish Oatman, Pete S. and Gary S. could weigh in and verify the details.  Some of my memories are so vivid, they could have actually happened yesterday.  I try not to bore my much appreciated readers, so I pump up the volume a bit.  I love any feedback and I would love to be set straight on events, dates, people, etc.  I am not impervious to missing some details, no matter how hard I try.  I will not overtly deceive or lie just to get a story down.  We writers do have some kind of code of unwritten ethics.  Just don't ask me what they are.  Once again, keep the comments coming.  That's what I look forward to after I post.

Off - The - Wall

'What do ya wanna do?'  'I dunno.'
Sitting on Gary S.'s front steps, looking across a healthy lawn, vivacious evergreens, bugs, bugs everywhere flirting with golden rays of sunshine, embracing their smallness.  I could've sat there, on the bottom step, concrete, for a lifetime.  Sometimes in summer it felt that long.  Trying to pace oneself at age 13 doesn't come easy.  By the first month of this three-month summer vacation, you had pretty much done everything you had in mind.  A little camping, biking around and through and beyond the town, fishing, hanging around Dupont Lake (and beach), hitching rides to McCarthy State Park ( and beach), picking crab apples (stealing?), picking rhubarb (stealing?), trying to avoid going on vacation with the parents (not at all successful), more biking, hanging at our local park, Saturdays at the Hibbing International Speedway, maybe, just maybe talking to Patty P., checking out the new Marvel Comics at Rexall, eating, always eating, more biking, trying like hell to stay out of trouble.  And there was always baseball.

'America's Pastime.'  Some dolt made that up for no good reason.  Unless he got paid for it.  To me, baseball meant getting a number of buddies together, figure out who had a ball or two, who had the bats and then find a place to play.  In our small town, there were only a few primo places to do this.  If you didn't get up early enough, no field.  And if you did find a field, maybe Mike J. had to go home.  And he had to take his brother with him.  Now we don't have enough to play.  Ah, who needs baseball anyway?  All those rules.  Too restrictive.  What would've happened if you bent the rules a bit?  Like mixing paints together to create an unknown color.  If you wanted to be a little creative.  Like painting your Mummy model not just grey but a completely different color.  I mean, grey?  Boring.  How about candy apple red or canary yellow?  I didn't have the ball to try it but what if?  Being creative meant you had to bend the rules.  Think outside the house.  And sitting on that concrete wasn't giving me any creative juices.  Just a sore, numb butt.  Ya, I was a numb-ass.  Summer days can do that to ya if you weren't careful.  These sultry days could numb your brain (numb-skull) or even numb your balls (numb-nuts).  This day, I would have none of that.  'Wanna go get some ice cream?'  'Ya, sure.'

We jumped on our bikes.  Mine was a gold-flecked Schwinn Stingray, banana seat, slick rear tire and raised handlebars.  Neat-o.  Gary S. had a brand new, red, Schwinn Corvette.  He always had the Super Neat-o things.  Damn you, Gary.  Right across the street was the town's largest structure, The Memorial Building.  This housed our hockey rink and several sheets of ice for curling.  This was also the home for the circus when in town.  If it was now, we would have smelt the animals from where we sat.  As we approached the backside of the arena, where the elephants would be washed and scrubbed, there was a scene shift.  Something magical.  Something odd.  We slowed down.  There were two guys, probably 17 or 18 years old.  One had a softball and bat.  He was standing on the sidewalk and faced the building.  The other one had a baseball glove and was in a fielding position, crouched down, ready.  His back was to the building and looking intently at the guy with the bat and ball.  From the batter to the wall was about 40' and the fielder was 10' from the wall. The fielder was standing on close-cut grass with patches of dirt.  The batter tossed the softball in the air and smacked it.  The ball screamed over the fielder's head and hit the wall with a thud.  But before the ball hit the ground, the glove had it nestled in its webbing.
'One out.'
'Good catch, man.'

The ball was thrown back to the batter.  Another toss, another smack.  This time it was a grounder played cleanly by the fielder.
'Two gone.'
'Ah shit.  Almost had a hit.'
The ball, now slightly lopsided, was thrown back.  Gary S. looked at me.  I looked at him.  Puzzled looks we both had.  What are these guys playing?  This was the moment, this hot, muggy everyday.  This was that moment out of the mind.  Out of ordinary everyday in every way. 
Crack.  Grass and dirt spinning in damp air as the fielder lunges but misses the line drive.  Barely.  Smok.  The ball hits the wall and falls harmlessly to the ground. 
'Now that's a hit.  One on.  Two out.'
'Ya, ya.  C'mon.  Try that again.'

They were playing baseball but in such a strange and foreign manner, as if we were transported to an alternative world where this game was played by two people and a wall.  Absurd.  Preposterous.  Crazy.  We liked it.  By this time, Gary S. and myself had stopped biking and watched with mouths open so wide, a few mosquitos bit my tongue.  I didn't even notice.  We were witness to some new, original creation
Crack.  Smack.
'Three outs.  And I'm up.'

And that's when Off-The-Wall was born.  Our game.  Not those rum-dums with the softball.  As fast as we could pedal, we cruised over to Oatman's digs and on to Pete S.  Or the other way around.  I can't recall because we were both yelling and swerving with excitement that I think we levitated to every friend's house we knew.  We tried explaining it.  Just as I have tried.  Probably not very well.  They all needed to be there, at the wall.  Our new game was screaming for us.  Just us. 

Roughly five or six of us raced to the back of the Memorial Building.  The two guys were still playing.  'Hey, look.  We got some fans.'  They looked at us as we looked at them.  By now, the softball was a mess and it barely flew.  Maybe one or two more swings and the cover shredded.  'It's all yours, boys.'  And it was.  All ours.  We quickly asked them some of the rules or what exactly were they doing.  'It's baseball, guys.  Play it like baseball.'

Officially, yes it was baseball.  Imaginary.  Virtual.  Nobody ran the bases.  There were none.  No pitchers, no balls and strikes.  It was taken down to the essence of the game.  Batting.  Fielding.  Scoring.  Winning or losing.  We kept track of baserunners and scores in our heads.  Gasp, what a concept.  The wall was the key.  With certain foul lines identified, the batter could get a hit these ways : 1) the ball gets to the wall untouched   2) an error on the fielder   3) if the ball hit off the wall is not caught, then it's either a single, double triple or home run, designated by a certain height on the wall.  An out is made these ways : 1) the ball is caught in the air   2) the ball is fielded cleanly on the ground before it hits the wall   3) the ball is caught after it is hit off the wall.  There were a number of sweet touches we made to make it more interesting.  There was a cooling fan cage in the center of our "playing field", up near the top of the building, about 40' feet up.  Hit that on the fly - home run.  And count anybody on base.  Rimming the sloping roof was a one foot metal rim.  Grand slam.  And count anybody on base.  If you hit the ball over the sloping roof, automatic out.  And you had to fetch it.  No double plays, but an auto triple play - hitting a utility door on the fly.  And the most brilliant brainstorm we had was : no softball.  We used various rubber balls.  Tried 'em all.  One was too dead, no fun.  One was too bouncy, everybody could hit it off the wall and back into the opposite block.  We had to find the right kind of bounce, one that was catchable and hittable.  When we found that particular make, we bought every one we could.  We used our normal Louisville Sluggers.  We used our normal Wilson or Rawlings gloves.

And that was it.  Off-The-Wall.  Oh ya, another twist.  A minimum of two could play and a max of four.  Our field had somewhat small dimensions, probably 30' wide.  We also could play individual teams meaning, if three played, we all had our own score.  Typically, two against two was the number.  We played morning, afternoons and early evening.  Religiously.  For a solid two years or so, until we could rocket the ball off the wall into the house across the street.  We also honed our baseball skills for the real games.  Our reaction times to the batted ball were quicker and when a pitched ball came in, we could hit it where we aimed at.  Like a huge open wall.

That was our imagination and invention and creativity, unbound.  And we all had a say in the development of this unique game.  The last time I was there, I walked over to the backside of the Memorial Building Arena, with a boyish nervousness, wanting to see it as it once was.  To relive those moments of emotion, of exhilaration, of fun.  I was indeed let down.  An addition covered up the playing area and even the old sidewalk wasn't around anymore.  Surely, the air vent had to be there.  Nope.  I paused and looked around.  I didn't recognize much of it.  And I had to wonder.  Does this building remember me?  Or had I changed so much as to not even be noticed?  Once again, memories.  Keep those with you and you will never feel old.