It was an overcast, cool May afternoon. Intermittent showers and a persistent wind made any outdoor activities uncomfortable. The May flowers that dared to show up after an April of similar circumstances shivered on their stems as overnight temperatures dropped into the freeze warning zone. Enough already. Simply stated, it wasn’t much fun.
In a familiar metaphor dating back to 1907, the advice “if life hands you a lemon, why just make the lemonade” was presented. With the gloomy day on the outside, this day’s lemonade was about to come from a household task that had been put off for many months, or perhaps years, in the ‘let’s do this’ stage.
The project: attack the attic. After six decades of marriage, with college and military service preceding, keepsakes had been piling up, somewhat organized in cardboard boxes by each of the various life experiences we had encountered. That task itself was monumental, made much more challenging by the small half-attic with a sloping ceiling that prevented one from standing up, especially someone of my height.
A few years ago, Jean had double knee replacement surgery, eliminating her from crawling through the cramped quarters. So, in I went, like a miner descending the shaft with hopes of retrieving buried treasure and returning it to the surface.
With flashlight in hand and crawling on my stomach, the expedition to retrieve the first few boxes was accomplished in short order. Like an early gold miner panning through the soil for glitter, the ‘retrieving stage’ slowed the task to a snail’s speed.
The treasures found were equal to a bonanza. There were college textbooks, grade reports, commencement announcements, congratulatory notes, and the scorebook I kept from the season in which I broadcast the University of Houston baseball team’s games on the radio. U.S. Air Force military findings included citations earned, uniform stripes, base assignment orders, and discharge papers.
Celebrating the birth of daughter Denise and son Doug, there were dozens of photos, baby books reliving first words and milestones, greeting cards sent to the kids observing markers, and one unopened envelope addressed to Douglas Lowery. Once opened, the contents revealed a card celebrating his arrival and a five-dollar bill! That money has since been given to Doug, but minus the 57 years of interest it could have accrued.
After reading seven paragraphs of reminiscence, the question may be asked — I thought this was a sports column! It is heading in that direction, with a personal twist.
In those early softball-playing days, I was fortunate to play on two state championship teams. One was a slow-pitch team in Houston, Texas, the other a fast-pitch team at Loring Air Force Base, Maine. Describing Loring’s run to the championship was a newspaper account detailing how I had hit a triple and scored the game’s only run, scampering home on a passed ball in a 1-0 win. That brought back great memories, although the “scampering” days have long since vanished.
Loring AFB was located at the very northern tip of Maine, seven hours driving time from Boston and my beloved Red Sox. A few trips were made south to Beantown, but the entire state seemed to be comprised of Red Sox rooters. It was the 1967 season, known as “the impossible dream,” when the franchise made a significant turnaround, winning the American League championship and a trip to the World Series.
The goldmine inside one of those cardboard boxes contained the October 2 through October 13, 1967 issues of The Boston Globe detailing in all its glory the Red Sox’s remarkable run. Holding those newspapers in my hand almost seemed like I was back in northern Maine again.
Among other gems found in that box were The Globe’s issues describing the days surrounding the June 1968 assassination of Robert F. Kennedy. Also discovered were copies of the Champaign-Urbana Courier, July 21, 1969, Illinois newspaper with the banner headline ‘One Giant Leap puts two men on moon!” – as astronauts Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin made history.
One of the wonderful things sports can provide is a bond between parents and children over the love of the game. In our household, baseball has been one of those things. For Doug, it was the Atlanta Braves’ Hank Aaron’s pursuit of Babe Ruth’s home run record that provided lasting memories.
As I continued to uncover the cardboard boxes’ treasures, it seemed like 1974 all over again. Inside was an April 9, 1974, copy of the Williamsport Sun-Gazette with the sports page headline “Aaron (715) New Sultan of Swat”. Accompanying that was an April 20, 1974, commemorative issue of The Sporting News, with Aaron and Ruth gracing its cover, detailing that baseball’s historic feat.
Since that gray May day discovery, only those two boxes have been opened; seven remain, probably safe from unearthing until cooler days prevail. It was a task all too long put off, but one that produced a cascade of memories so very much worth the effort.
