On a Cool Sunday Morning
Atlanta, GA
October 24, 2021
The sky’s clear and the air is crisp. Morning dew covers the earth as leaves begin to ripen, relinquish their bough, and drift gently to the ground.
Twenty yards away, a family of deer rustle the fresh autumn carpet. The writer looks up from his screen, and admires the quartet…till they nibble his azaleas and he shoos them away.
With their retreat into the woods, the correspondent returns to his seat, and his thoughts. At his feet, after growling perfunctorily at the deer, his dog curls, resuming a rest the intruders interrupted.
As if thru a prism, rays of light pierce the trees, dawn’s rosy fingers softly tapping a day slow to respond to Aurora’s alarm. But that’s fine. There’s no rush. It’s early on a Sunday. And Saturday ran late.
Rita and I enjoyed an evening at East Lake, where assorted buffets and open bars filled the clubhouse and covered the grass. The “Party on the Green” honored three local ladies whose extensive efforts helped transform this city, thru revitalization of dilapidated housing and the transformation of dysfunctional neighborhoods.
We sat in the midst of one such success. All around the course where Bobby Jones learned his golf, new homes are rising and old ones are being refurbished. Families fill warm residential complexes on land recently scarred by crime-ridden slums. Property values rise as coffee shops replace crack dens, and white chalk delineates the boundaries of little league ballfields rather than the pervasive poses of dead bodies.
With us were a couple friends who live nearby. After the festivities they thought nothing of walking home in the dark thru an area where recently they’d not have been caught dead during the day. Not many years ago, that’s probably how they would’ve been found.
As the evening wore on, the honorees came in humility to the podium, told their story, and received their awards. Attention then turned from stage to screen. Over the bars, on the patio, and beside the putting green, televisions transmitted a simultaneous event in this same city.
The Atlanta Braves were playing the Los Angeles Dodgers, and were only one win from taking the pennant. They were this close last year too, but saw the prize slip from their grasp. For teams in this town, that is not an uncommon occurrence.
Distraction built as the night wore on. During many conversations, at least one eye would periodically drift, glancing around ears and over shoulders, and toward beckoning screens…resuming fragile focus only in the brief interlude between important pitches.
Last call preceded the final out. We scurried home, listening on the car radio, and arrived in time to watch the last pitch with our second son. Our first was with us in spirit, texting from Auburn as the innings dwindled, all of us elated as the last one ended.
Not long before Alexander was born, the World Series was routine in Atlanta. The Braves regularly went, tho’ rarely won. When I had sons, I eagerly anticipated gathering each October, and watching it with them.
The opportunity never came. The closest was David and me playing golf with the man who pitched them to their only title. But two decades later, starting Tuesday night, we’ll have our chance.
Meanwhile, here on the deck, the cool air accentuates steady steam from my hot coffee. From a distance, one might think a new pope had been elected (would that t’were!). Alas, we’re stuck with the current one. Our late night prompted me to skip early Mass, so I must now depart for the later one.
But I’ll go alone. David usually attends Sunday evening Mass, preferring communion with his Life Teen friends to eucharist with his middle aged parents. And this week, he has another reason.
As I type, he and his mother are at a different cathedral. She brought him this morning where she took me last night. Only today, they had a tee time. For the second time this year, Rita and David are playing East Lake. And, once again, my frozen left shoulder precluded me from joining.
That’s OK. While they’re on the course, I’ll be in Church. As they tally their strokes, I’ll be counting beads…and my blessings. And there are many, notwithstanding the occasional disappointments and modest setbacks that serve mostly to bring my easy life into sharper relief.
I have terrific parents, a loving wife, two wonderful sons, and have never lived in a place requiring “civic revitalization” or “urban renewal”. I don’t need much, and have plenty. Infrequently as I may recognize it, most of my prayers have already been answered.
If only the Braves can win this World Series.
JD
