Building Blocks

While struggling over what to write it occurred to me that since I have lived in the country for about twenty–five years, I no longer think in terms of city blocks for walking or riding, but last Saturday it all came back to me when I went to Belle Plaine, my hometown. Guessing that I couldn’t get much closer, I parked at the end of a street and walked the remaining blocks to the park.

During the third weekend of July, Barbecue Days is celebrated in Belle Plaine, with the center of the activity in the South Park (I suspect a new name has been given to the park by now, but for me it’s still the South Park). The whole town becomes quite busy as people for the first or the fiftieth time come to town. The three day celebration has a parade, music, fireworks, games, rides, food and drink.

I park across the street from a house once owned by my high school principal. I notice that the toilet paper no longer hangs in the trees. As I walk further, I see the warming house for the ice skating rink and I imagine the odor of wet socks still lingers inside.

I cross the street where the high school is on one side and the elementary on the other. For a moment I am back in Mr. Peterson’s 6^th grade class and my first “classroom party”. It’s Halloween and music is played on a portable record player. The high school I attended is hidden behind an addition that was added many years after I graduated. Still, in my mind, I can see the halls and hear the sound of slamming lockers.

Once inside the park, I check in at the barbeque stand; one of the best spots to volunteer during the weekend is behind that counter. As I gaze across the park I see the other food stands, the games, the folks milling about, and I listen to the “Church of Cash,” a Johnny Cash tribute band. People come by and give me their tickets in exchange for a sandwich, pop or water. Plus, I give them a little conversation – no extra charge.

I get to talk to a lot of people – some I know, some I don’t. The time passes quickly, as I enjoy the company of Shirley, who is also working the counter. Shirley, along with her husband and five young children, lived in the neighborhood where I grew up. My younger brother and I played with her boys and her daughter graduated with my younger sister.

When I got home from the park Saturday I sat down and read from the “Letters of E.B. White.” It’s a collection of hundreds of letters White wrote over the years. In 1956 he wrote to a woman, “I tend to write about events or circumstances that raise the level of my perception.” I liked it so much I reread it out loud to my wife.

Today, as I write about the events of yesterday, I think of something my friend, Pat, told me he had heard somewhere, “The most unordinary thing in the world is two ordinary people, a husband and wife, working hard to support their family and raise their children to be good people.”

Talking with Shirley made me realize that she and I had the same goal: to raise our children to be good people. I wish that were as ordinary as writer’s block.