Skip to main content

A New Era


Today a New Era dawns for the Ball family.

Not because it’s a new decade but today, January 31, 2020, we closed the back door for the last time at 531 North 6th Street, Cuba, IL. 61427, my childhood home for over 50 years, since March 1966.

That address (P.O. Box 606) has been emblazoned in the minds of my brothers and me for so many years we will never forget it. So many cherished memories, lessons learned, family meals, gatherings, special pets, hospital visits, holidays celebrated and friendships nurtured. In short - our Home. Funny, we always called it Mom’s house. Dad lived there to of course. They were married for over 55 years.

It was always home - where Mom lovingly raised her family. “Make sure you’re home in time for dinner.” 

Where Dad taught us to play ball. Fix old cars. The skills of an outdoorsman. Where my siblings and I practiced archery, raised flying squirrels, summer fish fries in the yard, watch the leaves blossom in spring, raking those same leaves in the fall. Shoveling snow for the neighbors.

Echos of Mom’s voice every morning on my way to school, “Quit jumping over the hedge!”

“Ok, Mom,” As I went sailing over the hedge to practice hurdles for the Jr. High Track Team.

And late one afternoon, “Dad help me!”

 “What happened to you?”

“Fell out of a tree, broke my arm.”

“Surprised you didn’t break your neck, Mom’s in Canton with the car. Let’s hope this Ole’ Willies Jeep starts so we can get you the hospital.”

“But Dad, who’s going to finish my paper route?”

It was laughter (on my part) when the training wheels came off my brothers' and sisters' bicycles. They could not ride them.

“Told you, should have never let Dad put them on. You guys are babies, I never had training wheels.”

“How did you stop?”

“Used to ride into Mom’s Lilac bush and climb off, or just fall over.”

So many firsts:
  • A new Kodak Instamatic camera, remember the one with the flashcube.
  • My first BB gun. No, it wasn’t a Red Ryder. Daisy.
  • Remember the Sting Ray Bicycle - mine came from the local Gambles Store. But secretly we all wanted a Schwinn.
  • Polly my pet parakeet.
  • Then there was Pixy, the cute little Red Beagle.
  • My Mercier a 10-speed French Racing Bicycle - we actually went to Peoria the bike shop ordered it special from France.
  • A real record player - played a lot of Mom’s favorites. Elvis, Tom Jones, and Englebert Humperdink.
  • Wow! A Pioneer 8-Track Stereo system.
  • A 1965 Rambler with a straight-six. Bought it for $50.00 sold it four years later for a $100.00.
The list goes on-and-on. And I’m sure my brothers could contribute a few themselves.

Today truly is a melancholy day for me. Tears of sadness, joy, loss, and most of all hope.

I hope that the young family now moving into Moms' house will build a wonderful life and a comforting home just as my mother and father did at 531 North 6th Street, Cuba, IL.

Truly a New Era.
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Most Popular of All Time

When Fear Becomes the Default

In this special episode, When Fear Becomes the Default. Early Sunday morning, I was cycling past a small veterans’ pocket park in San Marcos. The air was still, the streets nearly empty. On one corner stood a young woman, alone, holding a hand-painted sign that read: “Be ANGRY. ICE agents are murdering people.” I pedaled past, but the words stayed with me. I knew the context—the footage and headlines from Minneapolis the day before, already ricocheting through the country and hardening opinions. Even in the quiet of the ride, the noise followed. Two miles later, I stopped at a red light. A black car with dark windows pulled up inches from my bike. My heart jumped. My first instinct wasn’t neighbor —it was threat . I found myself bracing, scanning, and wondering if the person inside was angry, armed, or looking for trouble. Then the door opened. A well-dressed young woman stepped out, walked to the trunk, and pulled out a sign that read “Open House.” She turned, smiled brightly, and sa...
2 comments
Read more

The Language of Home: Building a Sanctuary

This episode is  for anyone trying to find their footing in a new place—whether it’s a new city, a new job, or a new country. The light in Florence, Italy, has a way of making everything feel like a Renaissance painting—the golden hue on the stone, the steady rhythm of the Arno River, and the feeling that you are walking through a history much larger than yourself. I was there to give a presentation to a class of Gemology students. I was prepared to discuss color grading and refractive indices, but not to be outed as a language tutor . Feeling very much like a guest in a storied land, a hand shot up enthusiastically. "You’re the guy on the podcasts," the young woman said, her eyes bright with recognition. "You’re the one teaching us English." I laughed nervously. If you know my flat Midwestern accent, you know the irony here. I am hardly an Oxford professor. But later, as I wandered the cobblestone streets beneath the shadow of the Duomo, the humor faded into a powe...
Post a Comment
Read more

Sweden Called . . . They Said No.

Have you ever wondered about  the Nobel Prize? Let's look at Where Genius Meets “Wait—Where’s My Medal?” Every October, the Nobel Prizes are announced, and humanity pauses to celebrate the "greatest benefit to mankind." And every year, like clockwork, a specific type of person appears online to complain—at length—that they were robbed. (Well, maybe this year more than most.) The Origin: A Legacy of Guilt The prize exists because Alfred Nobel, a Swedish inventor, had a crisis of conscience. Nobel held 355 patents, but he was most famous for inventing dynamite. When a French newspaper mistakenly published his obituary, calling him the " Merchant of Death, " he decided to buy a better legacy. In his 1895 will, he left the bulk of his massive fortune to establish five prizes (Physics, Chemistry, Medicine, Literature, and Peace). Because he was Swedish, he entrusted the selection to Swedish institutions, such as the Royal Swedish Academy of Sciences. The only outlier...
1 comment
Read more

On the Fly–Taking Flight

In this special 500th episode,  On the Fly  is moving to a new home. Here’s why—and what’s staying the same. For a very long time (since April 2012),  On the Fly  has lived on  Blogger . Blogger has been a reliable host—dependable, quiet, and never complaining when I arrived late with another half-baked idea, a guitar riff, or a story that needed a little air. It faithfully archived my thoughts, my music, and more than a decade of curiosity. But the internet has changed. It’s louder now. Flashier. More insistent. Every thought is nudged to perform. Every sentence wants to be optimized, monetized, or interrupted by something that really wants your attention right this second. I’ve been craving the opposite. So today, On the Fly is moving to Substack . If you’ve been with me for a while, you know my quiet obsession: the A rt of Seeing . I’m interested in the moments we rush past—the Aversion Trap, the discipline hidden inside a guitarist’s daily practice, t...
Post a Comment
Read more