|
|
|
|
For Whom the Dinner Bell Tolls Journal Entry: July 30, 1979 (age 10) Dan Mollen, age 11, stood at the chalk outline of home plate, staring down pitcher Donny Millham. Dan crouched tensely at the plate, his fierce eyes telegraphing that this was no ordinary at-bat in the paved world of Edgecomb Road stickball. If he homered, he would also drive in the runner at first base and win the game. That runner was Dan’s little brother and fellow redhead - me. I don’t get on base much, so this was a rare opportunity - a kind of stickball eclipse. My poor eyesight is only partly corrected by my glasses, so I have a hard time connecting a sawed-off broom handle with a high-velocity tennis ball. But today I employed a bold new strategy, and it paid off. As I stood in the invisible batter’s box, I made several disparaging remarks about female members of the pitcher’s family. Donny is the only kid in the neighborhood with a quicker temper than me, so it was only a matter of seconds before he beaned me in the kidney with a ferocious fastball. I proudly trotted to first base and watched Dan prepare for the climactic pitch. Just then, a loud, clanging bell rang out in the distance. My heart sank, and the opposing players let out a whoop of joy. Every kid on the street knew that sound. It emanated from our back porch around the block, where Mrs. Mollen stood ringing an old-fashioned hand bell, summoning her children home for dinner. The bell always sounded like it was ringing out from another time and place. Hearing it, newcomers to the neighborhood looked around expectantly, as though dusty cowpokes were about to emerge from the bushes in search of grub and a campfire. Dan didn’t move. “Just pitch it, Donny,” he barked. Donny stood there, tossing the ball up in the air and catching it with an exaggerated snap of his arm. “Sorry, Dan, but your MOMMY wants you two to come home for num-nums.” Donny’s brother Mike chimed in from right field, “Yeah, we’ll have to continue the game tomorrow, or just start over, so you guys can be spoon-fed your Gerber’s!” There wasn’t time to argue. Dan and I had been late for the previous three dinners, and we knew Mom and Dad wouldn’t care who was on base or who had been called babies. We ran home, arriving just steps behind our teenaged brother Bob. Bob understood our situation. He and our other older brothers, Jerry, Jim and John, had often cringed at the tolling of that same bell. Countless basketball games, wrestling matches, and dirt bike jumps from garage roofs had been cut short by that sound. Their friends had even come up with a song about it. “Ringing in the Mollens” was a cherished neighborhood classic. As we sat down to dinner, I tried to cheer myself, thinking “Maybe Mom made spaghetti tonight.” When she set down the dreaded platter of salmon, I knew my luck hadn’t changed. I looked dolefully at the fish and felt a strange sense of comradery with it. It too had swum upstream, only to end up stuck at this dinner table. It too was orange. I couldn’t really find any meaning in that.
©
2006 Binghamton Press & Sun-Bulletin
|
|
|
|
