On The Fly

In this episode,  How a Mother’s Love Built My Memories– A Holiday Reflection As this holiday season approaches and the world buzzes with shopping, planning, and busy schedules, I find myself embracing something wonderfully simple: taking a moment to pause. Not to check off a list or recharge devices, but to breathe deeply, remember fondly, and honor the person and place that have shaped my sense of home long before I had the words for it. This year, after regaining my strength from a lingering post-travel fog, my mind didn’t wander to exotic destinations or future adventures. It drifted backward—across oceans and time—to Cuba, Illinois, in the early 1960s, and to the woman whose love built the foundation of my world: Mauricette Elaine (Bontemps) Ball. My Mom . We came to Cuba after leaving La Rochelle, France, in 1959—a transition so dramatic I only appreciate its enormity now. My mother, barely in her mid-twenties, stepped off that plane and into the Midwest with a courage that s...

In this episode, Father’s Moonlit Walk . . . by: Patrick Ball The moonlit night, a silent scene, A tranquil hour, serene and keen. I sit alone, a cup held tight, Lost in the past, a fading light. November's chill–crisp, cold air, A gentle breeze, a solemn prayer. I think of Dad, a man of grace, A loving heart, and a smiling face. We’d wander the woods, a father's pride, A loyal hound, by our side— the forest's depths, a mystic sight, A starry sky, a beacon bright. Through fields of gold, we’d make our way, A rustic path, a golden ray. The hound would bay, a mournful sound, A treetop chase, on hallowed ground. A simple joy, a treasured sight, A father's love, a guiding light. A memory's warmth, a gentle hand, A timeless bond across the land. . . . Welcome back to On the Fly. This rambling was triggered by a fleeting thought while driving home from work the other night. The sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean as we drove South on the 5 Freeway, just entering the ...

On January 24, 2015, at 1:08 p.m. Donald Lee Ball, my Dad, made the transition to heaven. He was a devoted husband, father of four, grandfather to seven, and yes, a great-grandfather to four healthy babies. He loved his family and nature’s bounty. He was always active, an athlete, and an outdoorsman. A mans-man who taught his children to work hard, be honest, and treasure family values. His spirit (our gift) lives in all the people he touched.  My best memory of my father was his love of baseball. Not spring training or a visit to a major league ballpark, nor was it meeting a famous ballplayer. For me, it was learning to catch lightning and field line drives with my Dad. My attention was not on major league baseball (see, A Budding Cubs Fan ) as a youngster. The game, at that level, was always background noise from an old transistor radio tuned to WGN Chicago. In Cuba, Illinois baseball fans chewed on one another every season over the battle between the Chicago Cubs and the S...

My fondest baseball memories were not spring training or a visit to a major league ballpark; it was not meeting a famous ballplayer (although you could not pry my treasured official Mickey Mantle bat at that time, from my fingers). For me, it was learning to catch lighting ; and field line drives with my Dad. As a youngster, my attention was not on major league baseball (see, A Budding Cubs Fan ). The game, at that level, was always backgrounded noise from an old transistor radio tuned to 720  WGN Chicago. In Cuba, Illinois fans chewed on one another over the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals. For our family, baseball was always something we participated in, not something we paid to watch. My father (everyone calls him Doc) was an exceptional underhand fastpitch softball hurler for Cuba Merchants, a little-known team in Central Illinois. Back then, every small town had a team, and the local ball-field was where families gathered on the weekends. After he enlisted in ...