Extending a heart felt thank you to all the men and women serving our country, and their families who sacrifice so much.
This, of course, includes my own son and co-author of Some Clubhouse, shown below with his daughter, Caerdwyn, who is fascinated with headgear, and escorting his son Devon out of the building (and probably to the woodshed!)
If you like these photos, I’ve added a new photo album from Chris’ graduation from NSI in Newport, RI last spring.
My father, Clifford H. Norton, passed on to his son the blessing of being an Irishman and a love for baseball. I suspect he moved to San Francisco, where I grew up, following the Giants, who moved there from New York the year before I was born. He was from New Jersey, and my mother (who has also passed on) told us he played a little professional ball himself. He certainly served his country, a disabled veteran who fought in World War II and Korea, resting in peace in Golden Gate National Cemetery in San Francisco. Happy Fathers Day, Dad. Hope you are in Some Ballyard in the sky.
— Michael Norton
Not too terribly long ago someone who used to be on MLBlogs questioned my credentials as a San Francisco Giants fan. I suppose that is fair enough. I have written on a number of occassions on the subject of transient fandom. It seems to be a consequence of modern society, in which anyone to amount to anything must follow opportunities hither and yon, creating a rootlessness which our forebears could not imagine. We have our Extra Innings and our MLB TV, but what we have lost is of some consequence.
Still, I take exception to the entire idea that somehow flying a Giants banner is beyond my right. You see my father is buried in San Francisco. I cannot know, since both my parents have passed, but I suspect he moved there from Texas, where I was born, in some part because of the Giants, who had moved there the year before from where he grew up. My brother, a year younger, was born in San Francisco–and now lives deep in the heart of Texas. Funny how things work out.
The night my father passed away I wasn’t speaking to him. He didn’t buy me a promised catcher’s mitt, which shows you what kind of baseball fan he was that he was even considering such a thing for a seven year old. I suspect he laughed about it as I now laugh at my grandson’s pouting, but there is some truth that a man like me bothers with something as trivial as baseball at all as a form of penance.
I think I’ve earned the right to be a Giants fan.
And I think my father would be proud of what his son has become, just as I am proud of what my son has become. I think it would especially tickle him that his son is writing a Giants blog, no matter how transient he might be. And I hope that by writing that his life and his service to his country is remembered on this Memorial Day.
— Michael Norton
We’re back after a marvelous vacation in New England. Made my first trip to Fenway Park–well, first to see a game anyway (that didn’t make MLBlogsphere), though. Fenway more than lived up to expectations. You will hear all about it in posts to come, of course, as I dig through my notes and photos to relive the experience.
Also made the trek to Walden Pond. Considering my health issues, the hike to Thoreau’s homestead was quite an accomplishment. Not quite a marathon, but more meaningful to me. There is something about seeing that site that is deeply moving to a writer and philosopher.
Speaking of running and accomplishments, the reason for the trip was my son and co-author here on Some Ballyard, who, as I’ve noted before is also a runner (you won’t find that out on MLBlogsphere), was graduating from the Naval Science Institute, where he excelled. That evening we went to the O-club (that’s Officer’s Club) to celebrate and watch the first game of the Yankees-Red Sox series. It is special to see a Boston game in New England, but even more special to see the future leaders who will bear the burden of defending this country graduate–and I’m not just talking about my son. All of those young men and women parading that day made me proud.
Then we took the kiddies to see the witches in Salem and to the Children’s Museum in Boston. Those of you who viewed The Easter Egg hunt photo album (which somehow got omitted from the list on MLBlogsphere) can imagine how much fun that was! Except for the wailing when we left the Children’s Museum, of course. It occurred to me that must be the standard response exiting the Children’s Museum. The little darlings must think they’ve been to heaven, only to be cast back down to earth.
Realizing how close Cooperstown was, I took an extra day and visited the National Baseball Hall of Fame. Renewed my love of the game. For the first time in a long time, baseball people treated me right. If you’ve never been, the people who work there are absolutely wonderful. One gentleman even ventured through the exhibits, seeking out me and everyone else who was there when the doors opened to inform us the theatrical presentation was starting–then led us all with a rousing chorus of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” when it was through. These people aren’t jaded and cynical; they seem to genuinely love baseball and baseball fans. Indeed, the best part of being at the Hall of Fame was looking around and realizing every person there was a real baseball fan.
I’ll post some photos soon. For now, just wanted to tip my cap and say hello…
— Michael Norton
I’ve created a new album with photos of my grandchildrens’ easter egg hunt this afternoon. I think they are adorable, but then, I am a ‘Papaw’…
Erin Go Bragh and Happy belated St. Patty’s day to all. Didn’t do much except for drink a Guinness at the bowling alley. Saving money for the upcoming Boston trip where we’ll be catching the Red Sox vs. the Blue Jays. This was perhaps an unnecessary measure, as I hear that no one in their blues paid for their own drink last night!! cmn
Dia Duit. Hope you are enjoying your St. Patrick’s Day. I’m blessed to be Irish, although I don’t look it. The quarter Injun got the better of the half Irish in that respect. My son looks more Irish than I do, despite the fact that I’m more Irish: my father was the son of Irish immigrants and had that wonderful Gaelic accent. My grandson looks very Irish, like a little leprechaun, as a matter of fact, which is inexplicable considering he is less Irish than either his father or his father, and Devon, with his good Irish name, is half Indian (the real kind, from India). My granddaughter, Caerdwean-does it get anymore Irish?-has the dark hair and olive skin. Quare.
Methinks I’ll jar meself some green beoier…
Slán go fóill.
— Michael Norton