Cathy's Creative Corner: Nice Day to Fly a Kite (Part 2)
*If you missed Nice Day to Fly a Kite (Part 1), click here.
“Watch out for that second step. It was rather loose the last time I ventured out into the yard,” cautioned Ms. Crabfield.
“Sure thing,” I responded. “But can you tell me more about that wildlife you mentioned?” Before I finished my sentence, I heard the door slam behind me. Dang! I wanted to ask about her concern with the overgrown fruit trees, too. Is that wildlife bigger and badder than the tall grass wildlife? Oh well, guess I’ll find out.
Once down the steps, it’s like walking on a mattress. The grass is thick and cushiony. I head in the direction of this big bush to see if my kite may have landed on the other side of it. There are pods growing on the bush. I break off one and put it in my pocket so I can ask about it. I see four towering trees with a lot of overgrown brush almost connecting them. I guess these are the fruit trees Ms. Crabfield referenced. I hope my kite didn’t come down in the middle of all that! If it did, that’ll be its final resting place. Just as I near this thicket of trees and bushes, I see my delta blue diamond off to the side! The kite gods are with me today! I run over, snatch it up and sprint back to the house.
The backdoor swings open as soon as my feet hit the deck. It was as though Ms. Crabfield wanted me in the house before something reached up through the openings on the deck and grabbed me. I obliged her by not stopping until I heard the door close behind me. Then we both looked at each other and smiled.
“I made it,“ I giggled.
“Yes, you did!” She smiled back. “You weren’t scared, were you?”
“Of course not,” I said bashfully. Right now, my earlier questions don’t seem important but I do want to know what this pod is that I picked from the bush. “Ms. Crabfield, what is this?” I asked as I extracted the pod from my pocket.
“Oh, honey, that’s a fig. You’ve heard of Fig Newtons, haven’t you? That’s what the brown center is,” she explained. “I used to make jam and jelly with them. It’s about harvest time.” She inspected the fruit.
“Fig Newtons, wow. Learn something new every day. And thank you for letting me get my kite. I’ll try not to bother you again,” I assured apologetically.
“Thank you for asking and not just jumping over the fence. You showed a lot of respect for an old lady you never met before,” Ms. Crabfield praised. “And tell your friend with the kite that keeps crashing that it needs a tail. A tail makes the kite more stable by adding weight to the lower end.”
“You saw that?”
“Yes. I love watching kids play in the field. Reminds me of days gone by. Before old age and arthritis set in on these old bones. Times when I could run and play, plant gardens, can fruit, do hair for my sisters and friends. Now I can hardly comb my own hair with these crippling fingers,” she remarked as she stretched them in and out.
“We’ve seen you watching before but we thought you were waiting on a ball to land in your yard so you could keep it,” I confessed.
“Heavens, no! Speaking of balls, I’ve got a basket filled to the rim that you can have if you want them. For some reason, the kids don’t come after them anymore. I guess I ran off too many kids out of spite when the balls landed in my flower beds.” She laughed.
“Sure! I’ll gladly take them off your hands.” I accompanied Ms. Crabfield to a room to look for the balls. We found the basket with an array of baseballs, footballs and even a soccer ball. Some looked pretty old and dusty and there was one in a plastic bag. She said her husband had bagged the ball after it crashed through a window of their home. No one ever came to acknowledge the accident but neighbors said the boy’s name on the bag had done it. “Ms. Crabfield, this says Sidney Parker. I’m Sidney Parker, Jr.”
“Well, isn’t this a small world.” The old woman cackled. “Tell your father he can have his ball back. And let him know my husband was more upset that he was playing with a baseball signed by a player in the Negro League than he was about the broken window. Said he wouldn’t have been playing with a ball signed by Babe Ruth or Mickey Mantle.” She seemed to glow after this conversation. These were undoubtedly fond memories.
“I’ll tell him what you said, Ms. Crabfield. And would you mind if I came by from time to time just to check on you?” I asked.
“Anytime, dear, anytime!”
I could see she was touched.
“Don’t forget your kite.”
As I exit the house with my basket of goodies, all the guys are sitting across the street. I fill them in on Ms. Crabfield, not Crabby, and the story of my dad’s ball. Dad laughs about the situation when I tell him what she said. He remembers the incident all too well. I ask him if we can clean up her yard, fix her steps and, maybe, build a garden box like Mom’s for Ms. Crabfield on her deck. I’ve already asked Suzy if she’ll go back with me to braid her hair. He likes my ideas. Later, he excitedly calls me into the den to see if anything else can be done for Ms. Crabfield. He says no expense is too much. On his computer screen there are pictures of signed baseballs. Dad’s ball autographed by Willard Brown goes for almost $25K! Thank you, Ms. Crabfield!
