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.

Comments

Most Popular of All Time

A B+ Kind of Life

Welcome back to this week's On the Fly . Retirement has taught me something unexpected: life gets a lot more enjoyable when you stop chasing perfection. Lately, I've been having an absolute blast playing executive par-3 courses like Rancho Carlsbad . A short iron, a sunny morning, and nowhere to be except the next tee—that's my kind of day. This Thursday, though, I'm raising the stakes. I'm heading to The Links at Lakehouse in San Marcos, a full-size par-71 course with enough water hazards to keep the local fish well-stocked with my golf balls. After shooting a 64 on a par-3 course, I've set myself a new goal: shoot an 89 before my birthday next August. Why 89? Because on a par-71 course, that's bogey golf—one extra stroke per hole. For non-golfers, think of it this way: par is like earning 100% on a final exam. Bogey golf is a solid B+. You got the job done, learned something, and probably had a lot more fun getting there. The older I get, the more I appre...

Resurrecting the '90s Graphite

Let’s face it, there’s a certain danger in reading John Gierach's Trout Bum . His wit, self-deprecation, and sharp, effortless satire are entirely infectious. If you aren't careful, his words will inspire you to drop everything, wade into a freezing river, and try to outsmart a creature with a brain the size of a lentil. In my case, re-reading Gierach recently didn't send me straight to the river. It sent me digging through the dusty, spider-guarded corners of my garage. In the early 1990s, seeking a natural escape from Manhattan's concrete canyons, I decided to learn to cast a fly rod. I bought an Orvis Rocky Mountain —eight-and-a-half feet, three ounces, built for a five-weight line—and had absolutely no idea how to use it. To avoid aimlessly whipping the water like scrambling eggs, I took fly-fishing lessons from Al Cucci, co-author of Hatches , on the Delaware River. With his guidance, I fished renowned waters: the AuSable in New York and Michigan, and New Jersey...

Morning Coffee

In this episode, Morning Coffee . . . Now, I’m not saying everyone needs coffee. Some folks get by just fine on, I don’t know, sunlight and positive thinking. Me? I’m pretty sure I started drinking the stuff sometime around the Reagan administration. Reading John Gierach’s "Ode to Campfire Coffee" in Trout Bum (a book that should be required reading for anyone who sees sleeping on the ground as recreation) got me thinking about how we’ve managed to complicate something as fundamentally simple as boiling water and adding grounds. Taste, you say? Look, black coffee is an acquired taste, like tequila or cilantro. I just don’t get it. Gierach, bless his heart, mostly drinks his java streamside, probably while wearing wool socks and waders and contemplating the mysteries of the universe. As for me? My outdoor coffee experience is a bit different. Picture this: the High Sierra, where campfires are banned (to avoid agitating Smoky Bear), and I’m huddled over a Whisperlite , coax...

Morning Coffee–Update

In this episode, Morning Coffee–Update . . . Now, I’m not saying coffee is a biological necessity. I hear there are people who wake up naturally, fueled entirely by optimism, morning yoga, and the sheer thrill of being alive. I’ve never actually met one, but I assume they exist. As for me, at 4:30 a.m., my brain (with a caffeine boost) is a finely tuned analytical engine, ready to tackle the day. But, dear readers, I come before you today as a humbled man. I owe you an apology. Not one of those carefully worded "I'm sorry if anyone was offended" apologies. A real one. For years, I stood on my digital soapbox, defending the utilitarian brew button on my electric drip coffee maker. I praised convenience. I extolled efficiency. I dispensed coffee advice with confidence, despite knowing only slightly more about brewing than the average vending machine. I wasn't merely mistaken—I was enthusiastically, publicly mistaken. The revelation came last week. I was in Tucson, enjo...