A Visit to The Sandlot

The Sandlot has been one of my favorite movies since I first watched it back in 1993. The movie, about a group of young teen baseball-playing boys and their summer exploits, was set in 1962. It may have been eight years before I was born, but much of what took place was so familiar to my own childhood. Like them, we had our neighborhood team (but much more gender diverse) and daily baseball ‘games’. And also like the players in the movies, the fun went beyond just the games. We hung together, wandered the town together, and sometimes made questionable choices together.

Those stories are for another day. This post is about the movie. Rather, my family's love for the movie. The Sandlot may have been set in Southern California, but last year I discovered that it was actually filmed in Salt Lake City, Utah. Unbelievable at first, but a drive through some neighborhoods and a look at the surrounding mountains, show that Salt Lake City can pass for LA without much effort.

Since we were to go to Salt Lake City this past summer, my wife and I thought it would be fun to see the filming sites of some of our favorite scenes from The Sandlot.

Twenty-five years have passed and things change. That I can accept. What was more difficult to accept was what wasn’t even real to begin with. The actual sandlot, for one. We played ball on the field from Field of Dreams in Iowa and hoped we could do the same with The Sandlot. Not possible.

Not only was the field created for the movie. The site of the field was overgrown with Utah flora. All we could think was that it may be infested with some of Utah’s native creatures. Google told us that Utah has an abundance of snakes, from venomous pit vipers like copperheads or rattlers to the less harmless like rat and garter snakes. Then there were the spiders and other rodents to contend with along with cutting through people’s yards to get there. So THE sandlot was off the table. 

The home of Mr. Myrtle and Hercules was a facade built for the movie. Even the oak tree that housed the tree house was temporarily installed. The magic of Hollywood, I guess. 
But we still managed to find some iconic spots. 

I’ll start with the kid’s houses. We found the ‘homes’ of Scotty Smalls and Benny Rodriguez. Cruising this residential neighborhood in the south of Salt Lake City was kind of a hoot. The movie was done here 25 years ago and obviously things change. The biggest change was the trees. Everything looks so open in the movie, but as we scanned the homes for house numbers we were surprised by all the growth and some places overgrowth. Besides the trees, there was all the ‘clutter’ and stuff that occupies the real world but isn’t so obvious in cinema. 

Smalls Residence - 2019

The Smalls Residence - 1962

Benny going home in 1962

Benny's house in 2019

 In our search, we almost misidentified one of the homes. A prominent “No Trespassing” sign threw us off, thinking that maybe other Sandlot pilgrims may have been overly enthusiastic. Ultimately, we decided that the homeowner was just a crank.

Maddie & my own Wendy Peffercorn
at Vincent's Drug Store

My favorite site was Vincent’s Drug store. This is where the boys gathered to purchase pop and this is where we first learn of Squint’s love of Wendy Peffercorn. 



The name wasn’t just for the movie. It really was Vincent’s. The sign hangs over the store to this day. 

Vincent's Drug wasn’t as large as in the movie and SEE!  More trees!

I would have loved to have gone in and bought a baseball or maybe even some Big Chief Chewing Tobacco. 😉  But sadly, Vincent's was no longer in business. 

All that really seems familiar from this shot is the sign that juts from the store

Sticking with Squints and Wendy Peffercorn and on to the site of perhaps the non-field scene most identified with the The Sandlot. The pool. And it was right in Ogden where we were staying. 

No, we didn’t go in. That was a consideration, but time was an issue. So I had to take my chances as an old white guy standing outside the fence taking pictures of a pool full of children. No, I didn’t feel creepy at all. Thanks for asking. 

The façade of the building had changed quite a bit, but the pool area itself, minus the diving board, looked pretty much the same.

Wendy's Perch

The Pool Hunnies waiting for the Hammonball

Trivia Note: If you watch the movie, you may notice shivering. They were filming during the summer, but the temperature on day they were scheduled to film the pool scene was 58°. The shivering was real. We did not have that problem. Our visit saw 93°, so the pool was packed and we were standing in the blacktop parking lot baking like toasted cheesers. 

2019 - Lots of kids. No Pool Hunnies. And no diving board!

So we may have missed out on THE field, but we couldn’t do a baseball movie stop without finding A field. The sandlot was inaccessible. The field used in the opening scene was at a school that had been torn down and rebuilt, so that field no longer existed. But there was one we could see. Rose Park Field in Salt Lake City. This was the field on which our Sandlot team ‘beat the crap’ out of the bully little leaguers who cruised the town on their bikes, suited in their team uniforms. I regretted not bringing gloves, bats, and balls, but still, we made the most of it, throwing off the same mound, miming liners to left center, and running the bases.

1962 - Celebration!

2019 - Same Dugouts!

2019 - Thomas as Ham
jawing it up with the batter

1962 - Do you think your sister will go out with me? 

2019 - Giving them my Heater

I've liked a lot of movies, but there are only a few with which I feel connected.  A connection with a film can be through its plot, setting, dialogue, or characters. But with The Sandlot it was all of the above. That movie was my childhood. 

And while the point of this tour was to experience a beloved movie on another level, I found the tour churning up my own childhood memories and I was sharing with my family stories of my neighborhood friends and tales of our adventures and misadventures. We've all hit 50 now, but it was therapeutic in a way to relive our own battles with killer dogs and scary neighbors and talk of a time when our world was so small but seemed so huge.

That was a fun and successful day and we knew just how to celebrate!

Chewing tobacco and spinny rides!

Big Chief! The best!

Heaven on Earth

I'm not much of a Jesus guy. I have made no secret of the fact that I'm not the ideal Catholic. Yes, I go to mass most Sundays. I'm a lector and my kids are alter servers. But I also have my own thoughts when it comes to some of the church's teachings - and by this I don't just mean the Catholic church. I'm pretty much suspicious of all religions where dogma, rules, and finger wagging are concerned.

So, although I go, I am definitely lacking a deep belief and serious commitment to God. My attendance might be called equal parts faith, tradition, and socialization.  There is a meditative quality to church attendance that I find valuable. A big hour each week where I am away from my phone and distractions and have to think about what kind of person I am and strive to be. It ain't Catholic guilt. Everyone should take time to evaluate their soul and compare their ideals to the life they actually live.  Jesus is good for that. He's got the message, but being God as well as a man is too big of a concept for this mere mortal. How can I identify with that? Therefore, I'm more likely to be drawn to people like St. Francis, St. Anthony, and St. Thomas. They lived here. They were human and fought the real fight. They lived Jesus' message and made the world a better place. Jesus was a good guy. But he came down for the original version of Undercover Boss. In the TV show the boss comes around, does the crappy job, but he gets to leave, heading back to his mansion after dropping some financial aid and opportunity on the underlings on his way out the door. Life is hard, but Jesus knew what was waiting for him after he died. Everyone else works on faith.

I see it like Pedro Cerrano in the movie, Major League. "Jesus. I like him very much. But he no help me hit curve ball." Who helps me? Those people who lived here and saw misery and suffering in their world and thought, this isn't right and I will do something about it.

With that in mind, looking around my living space, one would always be more likely to see reference to saints. Prayer cards with Saint Anthony tucked in my mirror. A statue of Saint Francis in the flower bed. That's why this framed 8 x 10 portrait of Jesus sitting in my kitchen seems out of place.

I was at a thrift store in Ithaca. No trip to a thrift store is complete without looking to see if there are good frames available. The Jesus portrait caught my eye as I could tell it had some age. It was the standard white guy, long haired hippie Jesus, and in the bottom corner was the date, 1941. Interesting enough to investigate further. I flipped it over to check the back and that is when I was sold.

There was a long handwritten message. You could call it a letter, even. The portrait was a gift from a couple to friends who had come to help them when they needed it most.


June 10, 1944

Goodlettsville, Tenn
You came to help take care of me when I had typhoid fever, "Our first mouse"remember?!!

Dearest Lola, Sim, and Laverne,
I can never thank you enough for the ready way in which you came when we needed and called you. I'm sorry we'd just moved and everything was out of place also my being sick made you have so much to do - Come again sometime and maybe it will be differently.
For All you've done to help us, for the grand long talks we've had and even for all the "baby food" you've fed me - well, thanks for it all. To me it's another fine expression of the grand - Big Sister, you've always been to me. For the three of you - good luck and God's Blessings.
This is only a picture - but the Christ whom it represents is the One whom will try to love and serve. My One prayer is that we all may have the courage and go forwardness found in His life and the expression of His face.

Love,
Thomas and Fannie

I love this letter. I love the age. I love the handwriting. But what I love most is that this moment and kindness and gratitude that may or may not be known by any currently living person was captured on the back of this yellowed musty portrait, and lives on here in my house.

Recall that I said I am Catholic, so naturally, I am by no means a biblical scholar or for that matter, even a reader. I may have made a stab at the gospels at some point, but I can't say that any sort of lasting detailed analysis ever took place. But in some class I once listened to someone describe the gospels in a way that really stuck with me. He said that Matthew, Mark, & Luke are all pretty much the same, while the Gospel of John is different. In John, Heaven isn't some far off place. Heaven is here and now and it is our job to make our place and time on Earth as heavenly as we can. I have no verses to back this up. Nonetheless, the concept has stayed with me over the years and seems more appealing because the need is right here, right now, on this planet. The power to help and to heal is in our hands. There is no shortage of people who need help. Lend you time, your voice, and your heart. They are there in your family, school, community, town, city, state, or all over the world. You can go as big or as small as you wish. That is not the Christian thing to do. It's the human thing to do. And when someone really needs it, the helping hand of a friend or even a stranger sure feels like it came from Heaven.

The Jesus portrait stays out. The picture and the letter are not just reminders of what I need to do, but also a reminder that how I live my life can change someone else's. I can have the power of a saint and I have the power to make Heaven right here on Earth. 

And so do you.

Won't Somebody Tell Me What the Women's March Was All About?!

A week has passed since the Women's March and I still see people saying they didn't know what it was about. I also see those seeking to misrepresent what it was, cherry picking photos and video clips seeking to define the protest in their own, less flattering, terms.


This is what the March wasn't. It was not about Hillary Clinton. Or the election. It wasn't about man bashing. It wasn't specifically about Donald Trump's misogyny or even necessarily about just women. Sure, with a million plus people around the world marching, chanting, giving speeches, & holding signs, one could find examples of each of those things. There is a lot of emotion out there. But none of those were the point and none of those themes were the specific reason I went. 

To me, the Women's March was about moving forward. 

Like I said, it wasn't just about women. It is an undisputed fact that historically in the United States, and in the world, that women, minorities, and non-heterosexuals have gotten the short end of the civil rights stick. There have been or are laws that legalize discrimination based on gender, race, and sexual orientation. Sometimes it isn't law, but just some good down home double standards that'll do. I find this to be unacceptable here in the 21st Century. 




I marched because Congress' majority party and the new president have in their actions and/or words, shown that they are at worst, hostile toward the rights of women, minorities, and the LGBT community, or at best apathetic toward them.

I marched because we cannot stagnate and we cannot move backward. There are those who will try to take us back and we will not just accept it. We will not give it a chance. Morally, we cannot just go along. We will unapologetically protest, march, yell, and post annoying political rants on Facebook to fight it every step of the way. 


Because until everyone is afforded the same rights and until every citizen gets to live the dream of life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness that Thomas Jefferson put forth in the Declaration of Independence, then America isn't living up to its promise and we won't be the ideal nation that we've set out to be.

That's what the Women's March was about, Charlie Brown.

The Higgins Family & HRC

There are history people and non-history people. The non-history people just don't get it the way we do. They might know some history, and they might acknowledge the relevance of some events and people, and maybe some are able to feel a connection between what happened then and what it means to our lives today.

But real history people feel it all. All human history is relevant and history people want to feel it and know it and witness it whenever possible.

We are those kind of people. Jennie and I are and we seem to have infected our children with the same virus. We do travel from time to time and when we do, not a day will go by without some sort of stop, some observation, or history lesson. Throw a helping of patriotism and political science in there and you can understand our attraction to things presidential.

Burial sites are a thing. Driving across Iowa, we were so excited to see that Herbert Hoover was buried along the way. In addition to Hoover, we've hit Washington, Adams (John AND John Quincy), Filmore, Lincoln, & Kennedy, not to mention two time presidential candidate Adlai Stevenson in Bloomington, Illinois. In Quincy, Mass, Jennie draped herself across First Lady Abigail Adams' burial vault just so she could be that much closer to history. We did however pass on seeing Richard Nixon lying in state after his death in 1994. It was a closed casket and unless we could see him, we couldn't do the three hours of driving. 

We saw Bill Clinton jogging on a beach in San Diego, met 1984 Democratic VP candidate Geraldine Ferraro, and volunteered to work an event so we could see 2008 Republican VP candidate, Sarah Palin. But we were most successful the day we tried to meet Hillary Clinton.

I couldn't tell you the date. It had to be summer of 2003. A senator then, we knew that Hillary would be speaking at an event at Welch-Allyn, a local company that makes medical devices. So we thought, we'd try to see her. We assumed there'd be a lot of people there to see her so we made up a sign to get noticed, packed up the kids (just Zach & Thomas. Sorry Maddie, you weren't around yet), and headed out. Of course we felt like we were running late. There'd be all these people and Secret Service so we parked at the Mottville post office and walked. Having always driven this route, we never took notice of the steepness of the hill. The hike, our fitness levels, our anxiety, and the heat made for an uncomfortable walk. Still we persevered. We crested the hill and.....there was not a single person there. 

Welch-Allyn at the time, had two plants. An older one back in a built up area, and this newer plant, like all newer plants, was built on the edge of town in a wide open area. And there we were, just us, at the end of a long driveway, with two small children, and a sign, in what felt like the middle of nowhere. At this point I was feeling very conspicuous and a little stupid. We had no idea what to expect, so as cars came by we sort of halfheartedly held up the sign wondering in what kind of vehicle Senator Clinton would arrive. She was supposed to be there at top of the hour and it was a little after. Maybe we missed her?  But when it happened, we knew. 

A team of dark SUVs approached. We perked up. Jennie held up the sign. I waved. And then.... they stopped.

It all happened so fast. Doors opened and as Jennie describes it, it was like a clown car. People kept pouring out. Security, aides, people in suits all came walking toward us. Then they seemed to part and from the middle of this mess steps out a woman who was at least a head shorter than the next shortest person in the group.

I tell my kids, when you go in to a situation, know what you're going to say. At least have an idea, because when the moment is upon you, it happens fast and if you aren't ready, you'll miss it. That is experience talking, because at that moment, I felt like Ralphie in A Christmas Story when he finally got to sit on Santa's lap. He was supposed to ask for the BB gun, but he went blank. What the hell do you say? How about a nice....football? I think Hillary pretty much led the whole session. She introduced herself and asked our names. She spoke to the boys. Where are you from? Teachers and veterans and all that. It seemed like a long visit. Who knows? Maybe it was only two minutes.

So Hillary sees me holding a camera and says, "Why don't we get a picture?" We line up and I give my camera to an aide. We're standing there and the aide, the now controversial Huma Abedin, can't figure out my camera. While I show her the button, Jennie doesn't move. She and Hillary have arms around each other, Jennie's so tight that she swears the Secret Service detail is ready to pounce. Jennie tells Hillary, "I could go and help them with the camera, but I just want to stay here and hold on to you." Hillary told her, "I'm going to hold you right back."  Huma masters the camera. We get the picture. We say good-byes and thanks. The clown car filled up and left as quickly as it came.

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” - Maya Angelou

She didn't have to stop. She wasn't campaigning and wouldn't have to for another 3 years. Hillary was already running late. There was probably a speech to give and some would say, more important people than us waiting on her. There are those who are not fans of Secretary Clinton who insist that she is some sort of conniving, narcissistic, elitist.  But that would be a pretty hard sell to Jennie and I. You either like people or you don't. I guess it is possible to fake it, but she felt like a very sincere and warm person in the very brief time we met her. I will not hesitate to vote for this woman and I will always treasure our short brush with history and hope to see a President Hillary Clinton.

Side Note: This is the days of film. Going to Wal-Mart to pick up the pictures the girl working the photo center tells the guy in front of us that the machine malfunctioned and destroyed his film and all pictures. We thought we'd never get this picture, another failure under our belts.  Through the fog of disappointment, as we stepped up to the counter, the Fates had shown sympathy and granted our film a safe travel through the developing machine. 

Little Things

I write. And write. Think and think. Then write some more. 

The writing is an urge to spew all of my thoughts out somewhere, sometimes like the baby space fetus coming out of John Hurt's chest in Alien. A fraction of those thoughts end up on Facebook or in a blog. The rest, one would find, stuffed around my house, under my bed, in boxes, and on bookshelves in the form of a series of journals and books where I record everything that comes into my mind. I wonder if after I die, someone going through my things will actually read though these journals. And if they do, I wonder what they'll think. I'm curious because what I think tends to fluctuate.

The journaling can be blessing and a curse. A wonderful outlet to be sure, but there is a tendency to be overly critical of myself, of my efforts, of my goals, of my performance, of my progress, my lack of progress, and of just about everything I do. Very critical. And this very tone,  from time to time will turn me against writing anything at all because the author tends to be such a drag. And who wants to hang around with THAT guy all the time. 

Randomly choosing from one of my randomly stuffed books this week I came across an undated entry from late 2012 or early 2013. That day, Thom seemed to have grown tired of the criticism and self flagellation. To combat Debbie Downer Syndrome he made a list of everyday things that popped into his head that made him happy. 

And believe it or not, that list made me happy, too.  So I blogged it, with some editing, to keep the list a little more handy for those days when the negatives seem to be weighing me down and I need a lift. This list is by no means all encompassing. Just pop up thoughts from an unknown date.

So what makes me happy? 

I love sitting in our living room. Jennie put it together. I love the sky blue and chocolate brown colors. The stained glass window and the view of the street. It feels like comfort, color, & family.

I like the view out my backdoor. It isn't a great looking yard. Spotty grass in desperate need of manicure by way of mower and whacker. Two old stumps, a tired old clothesline and an even older shed. But the beauty is that the back door sits higher than the yard. So approaching the door and looking out at this open green space, is like going through a stadium concourse as it opens to the green outfield of a baseball park. 

I like touching my wife's hair and I love hearing her laugh.

I like making eye contact with Madeline in the rear view mirror and seeing her smile.

I like finding 10,000 pages of whatever Thomas is compulsively drawing and leaving around the house. Currently his subject is Audrey II - the man eating plant from Little Shop of Horrors. (Four years later and he still does this. But these days he draws a character named Link from the game Zelda). 

I like being amazed that everyday Zachary is more and more like an adult. 

I like the quiet and solitude of running. 

I like the chaos of watching too many kids at once. 

I like making kids laugh.

I love seeing wild life while going about my day. Birds, deer, turtles, turkeys, heron, and an occasional pheasant. Once we saw a friggin' bear! Very cool. (And this weekend - a field full of snow geese milling around. Some taking off and other gliding in to land)

I like happy dogs of any size on my lap with their big ol' dog paws and happy panting faces.

I love driving and roads that reach to the horizon.

I like exploring and seeing someplace new. 

I love the bridge, wooded area, and cemetery on Bonta Bridge Road. Especially in autumn.

I love cemeteries in general. The older the better.

I like perfume and ponytails. On women. Neither works on me very well.

I like creating. 

I live to come up with the perfect words.

I like making myself better. Even if I am not successful or even moving forward, I like that I want to make things better. 

I like the feel of hitting a baseball and that of running down a fly ball. And if you think I've never tried to do both at the same time, you're wrong. A kid who loves baseball will be on that field whether or not he has found anyone else to play.

I love music.

I love jogging the rolling hills on Shepherd Road.

There is nothing like the sound and feel of a brick road under the tires of my car. 

I love Main Street in any 100+ year old town. 

I love brick buildings. Old ornate buildings. Sleek new buildings with symmetrical lines. City people say they get used to buildings and stop looking up. I can't comprehend that.

I love arches in architecture.

I love sitting on front porches and watching traffic and people pass by.

I spend too much time watching the sky, finding a planet, and an occasional shooting star . It is addicting. 

I love wind in my face, be it from a fan, a car window, or a summer breeze off a Great Lake. 

I like good morning or good night texts from my friends. 

I love flying dreams.

I love walking through Weedsport as much as I love walking though New York City. Two completely different places, but each with their own feel, sights, and sounds. 

And these are the pop up thoughts. Imagine how much more there can be if I really tried. 

Your world is full of things, little things that don't cost a cent, that you stumble on or look forward to, that make you happy. Don't forget to take the time to notice those moments, people, and things and enjoy them while you can. 

And if any come to mind right now, feel free to comment and share. 

Resolve to Evolve

It is New Year's Day and it feels like the morning after. The party was kid friendly, so aside from alcohol, I partook in all the trappings and traditions that the holiday has to offer. 

I stayed up way too late. I ate way too much food. I played games, watched the ball drop, and made lots of noise. And, with nary a bit of shame, I wore a funny hat. I did it all. Right down to the New Year's Resolutions.

The resolution seems to have become much maligned these days. Certainly, America has always had its share of cynics, cranks, and just plain grouchy bastards, ready to mock change in any form. They are the ones who certainly don't need to change anything about themselves. Throw social media in the mix and the doubters are allowed to broadcast their snarls like some cantankerous old man shouting at the neighborhood from his porch.   

But to me, any aversion to a New Year's Resolution seems almost unnatural. The Theory of Evolution is premised on the idea that an organism adapts to its environment. In order to survive and thrive it has to change. It has to make itself better. And in general, nothing in evolution happens quickly. It doesn't take a year. Or two. 

Well, sure, maybe if you're an adorable little bacteria, you might be able to whip off some changes fairly quickly. It is easy if you can crank out a few generations in an hour. For for some of us larger organisms, who might wish to become slightly smaller organisms, say about 30 to 50 pounds smaller, who really only have one generation to work with, it can take a little longer. And against all reason, motivation might require something more than a natural urge to survive.

So that is where hope comes in to play. We want things to be better. Most people feel hope in a thousand ways over the course of a year. They want the bad guys to get caught. They want that person to beat cancer. Some people actually think the Cubs will finally do ANYTHING in the playoffs. And others want Rick to escape the clutches of the zombie hordes. If you can feel so much hope outwardly, no matter if we admit it or not, imagine what we feel for ourselves. So no matter how cynical people can be, I just don't believe it.

I certainly can't feel that way. So, I put together my list. The exercise goals, the weight goals, the writing goals, and the lifestyle goals. The kitchen sink. Some of them have been with me for years like old friends. But I have hope. Hope that I can let them go. Hope that the resolve can stay with me all the year. Hope that I can show those cocky little bacteria a thing or two and make 2016 the year for an evolutionary breakthrough.

And then you'll hear this cantankerous old man shouting from his porch, "In your face, bacteria!"

She Left Me

She left me. It's over. She said that I don't listen. That talking to me is like taking to a blank screen and there's no user interface between us. She said that I'm a grown man and I can do what I want, but she's not going to sit back and watch while I make self destructive choices.

One little slip. That's all. And I couldn't even enjoy it because I was thinking of her the entire time. But did that matter to her?

All it was, was one little trip to McDonald's. Ok, sure, I had a large Coke. But I only got one refill. I had small fries instead of large and a McDouble. That's like 23 grams of protein!

And did that matter to her? No! Does she listen to me? Never. My Fitness Pal thinks she knows everything, but does she ever consider what I'm going through? Or what it is like living my life?

She can't or won't. But what does it matter now? She packed up her nutritional charts, uninstalled herself and just left.

So, here I am on the couch with a bag of Cheetos thinking of better days. How we used to do food and exercise logs together. How she'd leave inspirational notes on my timeline. I think I want her back, but maybe this is for the best. Because I sit here and my mind wanders to her beautiful pie charts and I just know this thing between us was destined to fail.