Along the Way: That one trusty old fielder's mitt

The old ball glove was pressed between boxes in the garage, containers that desperately need rearranging and, well, one of these days …

It’s a fielder’s glove, five fingers and a nice web. It was a Marty Marion model; Marty was the great shortstop of old for the St. Louis Cardinals.

The leather of the glove sort of gave up years ago, cracked and dried in the desert heat.

It’s of no use now.

But where do you go to throw a ball glove away?

A glove you wore in another century …. back when all of the big league teams you dreamed of playing on were east of the Mississippi … and there was no such thing as domed stadiums or artificial turf or designated hitters.

How can you put an old friend like that in the trash?

You can’t.

You wonder about all the ground balls that trusty old mitt caught — and bobbled — the line drives that stuck in the pocket, maybe one or two in that webbing … ah, the memories.

The glove will be there when all those boxes in the garage are unpacked and the stuff inside put away.

In other words, long after the guy who wore it is gone.

•  •  •

The extraordinary beauty of ordinary lives was captured in a back-home obituary the other day, the record of a beautiful lady known for all her 97 years as Sis. That’s what everyone called her.

After many long years as a farmer’s wife, she and her husband moved to town. She couldn’t sit still, the obit said, so she merely took on three jobs at the same time. Her favorite was keeping scores at the local bowling alley — until she was replaced by an automatic scorekeeper.

Sis loved baseball, watching the town team play when she could, as well as the professionals on TV.

They said she’d sit in the easy chair and cheer reruns of old classic ballgames even when she was too old to realize they’d already been played.

Now that’s a fan.

Now that was a life.

•  •  •

One of the doodads hanging in display along the grocery aisle was a hi-tech marvel completely new to me: A talking bag clip.

Even standard bag clips can be very handy, closing up a sack of potato chips and the like, but I didn’t realize potato chips needed talking to.

It wasn’t mentioned on the display or the label just what the talking bag clip says, but I suppose it’s along the lines of “Shut Up.”

•  •  •

Far off in the early morning came the sound of a beautiful singing voice. I couldn’t make out the tune but pretty soon it was headed my way, there on the sidewalk.

The young lady walker wore earplugs piping music into her noggin from some sort of recording device. I couldn’t hear the accompaniment, of course, but the voice — in Spanish — was as sparkling as it was free-spirited and lively.

She waved as we passed but she kept on singing.

One more reason a morning walk is beneficial, both for singers and listeners.

•  •  •

Equally beautiful was the young Rosalind Russell, starring in an old movie recently on TV, “No Time For Comedy.” But it was laughingly old-fashioned in one respect.

Ros was smoking up a storm.

In the long closeup with Charlie Ruggles, Ms. Russell was holding a cigarette, unfiltered by the way, and it was a veritable smoke-bomb.

I’m not one who believes movies are better than ever, but they are (cough cough) healthier.

Corky Simpson is a veteran journalist who writes a column for the Green Valley News.

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