Another Country Saturday Night

Perry & Vester Glasgow


Bob Glasgow (lower)

The sun had started a slow descent in the western sky, a sign of another hot humid Hoosier summer afternoon had come to an end. The sweet smell of fresh cut hay hung over the valley a signal the work week was over. It was Saturday night, a time for family and relaxation.

Dad grabbed the Pabst Blue Ribbon out of the refrigerator, and gave call for us to go with him to grandpa’s house. Dad grabbed the cold beer from the refrigerator, my brother and I like two faithful pups on his heels started down the old country road to grandpa’s house.

We lived next door, if you could call it that in the country. There was a field large enough to fit a baseball field, a barn, corn crib, and a stand trees stood on one side of the road, the other side was an open field which ascended into a large hill. There was an old gravel road that ran parallel to the hill.

We walked up our drive made a right to walk to grandpa’s place. A car drove toward us on the gravel road, and it stirred up a large cloud of dust in its wake. When the driver came to the stop, he leaned out the window saying: “Hey, Perry Dale.” Dad responded with an offer of a cold beer, which the fellow was happy to accept. Dad gave him a nod of the head as he pulled out of the drive heading down the same road where we just

came.

As we got close I could hear the family troubadour, uncle Bob sitting behind the house strumming his old guitar singing an old honkytonk tune.

Dad opened a can of PBR, offering hisbrother and dad a cold one as he pulled up a chair. The empty cans next to their chairs indicated that the beer drinking had already started. I put the balance of the beers in the refrigerator. Our true purpose was evident as the beer fetchers and can collectors on this summer evening, as I put the beer in

the refrigerator, my brother was putting the empty cans in the trash.

Bob strummed his guitar while singing a Hank Williams song. A dispute over who was to fetch the round of beers developed between me and my brother. We rolled on the ground throwing punch at one another. Dad cussed us both for fighting, and grandpa told him to let us fight. I connected with a wild right hook which knocked my brother out. He landed at the base of a tree; I thought he was just trying fake me out. Grandpa

retrieved a bucket of water, and emptied most of the bucket of water on my brother. I got the balance of the bucket tossed on me as he passed by to cool me off.

Order was restored until just before dark when a small snake slithered under my chair. Nobody saw the serpent in the twilight, but a quick rap from a stick by dad indicated it had been found, its days came to  an end, and uncle Bob didn’t miss a note, playing a

sad country song on his  guitar through the all the commotion that surrounded him.

Darkness descended over the valley, and inthe full moon grandpa’s face seemed to glow as he told stories of the Johnson boys, haunted graveyards, good whiskey, and others folks that were long gone. The last round of beers were  opened, and Bob picked at his guitar, a cigarette dangled from his lips. The hoot owl’s cry signaled the end of the night. We started back down the road in the light of the full moon just another

country Saturday night.

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

The Best Job I Ever Had

The photo is from a newspaper clipping. My grandfather, Joe Glasgow is setting off a dynamite charge. He was working on the Mississinewa Reservoir dam site in northern Indiana.

I like to drive past the places of my youth, where the ghosts in the mist of times past reach out to greet me. The drive down the state highway near my home echoes the sounds of construction equipment, dust so thick you couldn’t see through. Back through a time when mom through caution to the wind, and let me spend a couple of hours with my dad on the job.

An older man shuffled out from the cloud of dust stirred by the construction equipment. His skin was of worn leather, and hands testified to a lifetime of hard labor. The little of puffs of white hair stood at attention over his ears. His smile revealing a mouth void of teeth welcomed me to the job site.

He turned back towards the cloud of dust, and yelled “Perry Dale, your boy is here.”

My dad emerged from the cloud of dust with a smile on his face, and instructed me to follow him. I could feel all eyes were on me as I trailed behind my dad. The mid-July humidity had left their t-shirts saturated with sweat and dirt. 

One fellow stepped towards me with a blank expression “Boy if you are going to be part of this crew you have to have a hard hat.” The hat was adjusted for me so that it wouldn’t fall over my eyes. Now, it was official; I was a part of a construction crew.

I didn’t know about OSHA, or how many laws we were violating by my mere presence. Dad instructed me what to do if the boss came to the job site. I asked, “How will I know him?”

A younger fellow interjected, “A small man with a large nose, and looks like a rat.” The description prompted the rest of the graduates from the school of hard knocks to laugh in unison.

Mom wasn’t crazy about the idea of me going to work with dad. What mother would want to send their 9 year-old to a construction site? She caved in as dad insisted it would be for just a short time. I was game for the adventure of a lifetime.

My dad, he was the dynamite man, and he took pride in his work. I grew up with various newspaper clippings of my dad and grandfather working on projects around the state. I thought it was a grand profession to be able to blow things up for a living.

The men went about the business drilling the hole to put the shot together. This job was to widen a dangerous curve on an old state highway. As they concluded their work, and the shot was ready to blast. 

Dad grinned and asked “do you want to throw the plunger?” I could just grin and nod my head. When the men had all cleared the area, dad told me we were ready and I threw the plunger. I knew by this move there would an epic explosion with dirt flying high into the air. My expectations were of a violent explosion like the explosions in the war movies.

A stream of sweat trickled down my back as I prepared for dad to give me the word. I pushed the plunger down on the signal from my dad.  I hit the plunger, but to my disappointment there was just a rumble deep in the ground, and puff of dust. A beehive of activity followed with dirt being removed, and the next hole being drilled.

One of the younger guys gave me a cup of water, and a Twinkie telling me “You need to take a break, kid.” An effort to keep me out of their way, I suppose.

Dad let me push the plunger down again. I still found it fascinating despite not causing the blast I had expected.

Mom had returned. No doubt a shopping trip cut short. Dad walked me to the car, when the younger man gave me a quarter telling me “every man gets paid for his labor.” I crammed the quarter into my pocket with a hearty “thank you.”

When he came home from work his talk wasn’t about following in his footsteps, but to get an education, so as he put it “I don’t want to see you dig ditches for a living.”  I knew I would never be a dynamite man like my father, or his father. He always desired a better life for his children.

It was the best job I ever had: blowing something up, a sweet snack… I worked less than two hours, earned twenty-five American cents, and got to work with my pops.

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

The Old Ballpark

In the eternal green pastures of my youth there is an old ballpark. Where all games were competitive, every day was Sunday, and there were no rain outs.

My dad had just finished cutting the grass when I noticed he was painting “Cubs Park” on the front of the corn crib. I ask dad what he was doing, and he replied that he was building a ballpark. I was only ten, but knew we lived out in the boondocks. Long before “The Field of Dreams” my dad believed that if you built a diamond, people would show up to play.

It was the park where at ten years old I was jerked out of the lineup for booting three balls in an inning. With my tear-stained face humiliated by having been jerked out of the lineup, I spent the afternoon glaring at the second baseman.

There was a backstop made of saplings and chicken wire about eight feet wide. It protected the ball from rolling into the dry creek bed that ran parallel to the field. The huge sycamore tree marked the leftfield foul pole. In the leftfield power alley a second dry creek bed marked the home run boundary. On the fly into the creek there was a home run (watch out for the snakes when retrieving the ball). Our ground rules were a little odd when it came to the centerfield to rightfield foul line. The boundary was marked by buried ceramic blocks. Outfielders were allowed to run beyond the boundary but anything that landed or dropped was considered home runs.  Dad made bases out of feed sacks filled with dirt: The field was ready for the games to begin.

It wasn’t long before the field was noticed, and we started playing both slow and fast pitch softball on Sundays. Family, friends, and strangers now stopped to play the game.

When I pass the field today, I often think of those times. I can hear the cheering, cussing, and the sound of the crack of the bat. Nature has reclaimed her field: It is now overgrown with weeds, saplings; the bases are occupied with field mice, rabbits, and snakes. The backstop is gone, no signs of any games ever being played. Now my dad is gone as are most of the older men who played those games.

The summer before my father’s passing we stood where the backstop once had its place, and looked over the field. Neither of us said a word. We just looked at each other and smiled.

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Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h

A Game of Catch

In the mystic mists of my mind, baseball diamonds of summers past echo the sounds of long ago. A place where the baseball splits the humid Hoosier air, and voices of young men revel in the heat of summer. The pop of cowhide into leather is an announcement that a game of catch is underway.

Boys tend to remember a game of catch with their fathers, but for me it conjures memories of countless hours tossing a ball back and forth with my brother. Despite our sibling rivalry that exists to this day, I look upon those days with fondness. We were once told that if one of us caught a cold the other would catch it too.

I came to bat against him once with the bases loaded and nobody out. I dug into the batter’s box like the Mighty Casey, and awaited his first pitch. A high heater under my chin sent my backside into the dirt. As I dusted myself off I looked out at the mound – at my brother standing with a huge grin on his face.

In 1980, my brother was shot during an attempted robbery. I rushed home from my base in Germany to the naval hospital in Orlando, Florida where he was stationed. He was in poor shape when I arrived. I didn’t know what to say. I was stunned by his condition. I told him: “Don’t worry - only the good die young.” He started laughing despite the pain and then proceeded to get the nurse to kick me out of the ward.

A couple of weeks later he was out of the hospital recovering at home. My leave was almost up, and he stepped into the living room with both of our gloves, and a ball. We could not toss it far because of his injuries, but I knew everything was going to be fine.

It has been thirty years since our last game of catch. I sometimes close my eyes and hear our barbs at one another as we toss the baseball. As brothers we’re very competitive, but I wouldn’t trade those hours of tossing a baseball that built a bond lasting a lifetime.

Joe Glasgow is a former senior staff writer at Fanstop.com, and is the author of the book Play Ball! Growing Up With Baseball https://amzn.to/2o4M62h