Opening Day memories with my Dad

By Susan Green

It’s that time of year again when the air is starting to warm up, the sun is starting to set a little later, and I spend time thinking of my Dad.

That’s because this is the time of year when my father and I used to talk baseball. This is the time of year when we bonded, over opening day.

I remember many opening days watching the game with my dad, talking mess, and talking about the old days when we thought we could play! We talked about when my father coached me as a little girl, and was extra tough on me so no one would think he was showing any favoritism. We talked about his days as a pitcher, and we talked about life and our dreams.

Opening day always reminds me of the first game he ever took me to at Dodger Stadium. I was like 11 years old. I remember walking into that stadium for that game with my glove on. We didn’t have a lot of money, so our seats were a buck each, which meant they were in the nosebleed.

There was no way a ball was going to ever reach us, but I kept that glove on my hand just in case. The only time I took it off was when he bought me a dodger dog! But I kept that glove close by just in case I had to make a quick grab!

I lost my father 16 years ago, it was way to early. So, this time of year I get a little misty eyed, because the start of baseball season and my Dad go hand in hand.

So Dad, this weekend, I will go dig my glove out of the garage again, sit it down near my seat, grab a beer, watch the game and think of you, nearby, talking mess, and talking about life!

Lets play Ball!

My mom was cool

Summertime, originally uploaded by RobinJP.

Actually, my mom still is cool. And stylish, too.

But this photo shows her at a time when she was really cool - and in her stride.

And she looks so happy. I was pretty small then. And I remember just glimpses of that life.. or more likely my memories are probably based on stories this happy lady told me about what happened back then.

Lovely, huh?

Robin, Tempe

I read a newspaper the other day ... yep, that's it

I got to work on Thursday with a breakfast sandwich and cup of coffee.
Turned on my computer and was getting ready to settle in with a quick run through email, iGoogle, rss feed updates while I enjoyed breakfast.

But what? Windows is updating No. 3 of 18. 18 updates were taking for-ever. So I snuck into the next office and picked up .. wait for it ... The New York Times.

Yes. I read the newspaper and ate my breakfast while I waited for Windows to get its act together.

I had glanced through a paper in September at a hotel in Montreal. And I check out the headlines when I go to Whole Foods every few weeks. But my news reading is all online on the Web or my phone these days.

It was fun. I may have read some stories I wouldn't have stumbled upon online. I'll probably do it again sometime ... when Windows needs to hijack my computer.

Robin, Tempe

Walter Cronkite, the 2nd most important man in my life

Today I mourned the passing of the second most important man in my life, Walter Cronkite. Now, let me make it clear, the most important man was my father, Raymond Green. My father taught me about right and wrong, he taught me about respect, and he taught me that it was OK for a young, African American woman to question the establishment, to ask for answers if I felt something was wrong. He taught me to not be afraid to go against the tide as long as I got the answers I was searching for.
Walter Cronkite reinforced these lessons. He became the second most important man in my life.
He became the man who helped shape my life into the extraordinary journey that it's been.
Getting back to my father, he was old school. He got a newspaper everyday, and watched the news every night. I mean every night. We sat down in front of the TV and watched Walter Cronkite, and nothing disturbed this. We ate dinner at 4pm so we could be ready to watch the news.

That's just how it was in our house. For that half hour every day we were in Walter's house, as he took us on a journey around the world.

Both these men gave me a passion for journalism. I got my first paper route when I was just nine, and I remember my mother Iris getting up on rainy mornings before the sunrise and driving me from house to house so I could deliver the papers. The real perk was I got my own paper every day from the supplier, it was my own paper. I was the first one to open the pages,and bend them back. It was my paper. I didn't make much money from that paper route, but gained so much more. It reinforced this passion I had for information. I wanted to know everything that was happening.

This passion led me to get my journalism degree from Arizona State University, and begin working for the NBC station in Phoenix. My career in TV news led me to stations in Washington DC, Los Angeles and New York City. For more than two decades, every day I went into a newsroom I carried Mr. Cronkite on my shoulders, trying to ask the questions he would ask, wanting to make sure I was being a good journalist, wanting to make sure he was proud of the job I was doing.Thinking that some day he might actually see one of my shows. I wanted to make sure it was one he would approve of, and since I never knew when he might happen to catch a show, I had to make sure I gave it my all every day.

Walter Cronkite didn't know me, but I sure felt like I knew him.You can only imagine what I felt when I accepted a job teaching as a Professor of Practice at the Walter Cronkite school of Journalism and Mass Communication three years ago. As of that wasn't exciting enough, I then got a letter in the mail, it was from Walter Cronkite himself, welcoming me to the school. I was literally shaking as I read it.

Then, the unthinkable. Just a couple of months after accepting the position, I actually got a chance to meet Mr. Cronkite in person when he came to Arizona State University to speak with the students. There I was, sitting down next to Mr. Cronkite, the chance to meet the second most important man in my life, and I was tongue tied.

I just sat there looking at this man who for the majority of my life I had watched most days on TV, and here he was right next to me. I finally took a deep breath, introduced myself and told him I was honored to be teaching in his school. He said he had heard about me joining the staff, and was excited that I would be able to share my knowledge with the students. He said just teach them well, and I have taken that to heart.

The entire time I sat next to him as he spoke about his days at UPI and covering the Apollo Moon landing, all I could think about was I wish my dad was here, he would be so proud of me.

Now, both of the most important men in my life are gone, but never forgotten. I know that somewhere up there my Dad has invited Walter Cronkite to come sit in on his game of Pinochle, and they are sitting there discussing what it was like reporting on the Civil Rights movement, the Vietnam War and the situation in Israel. My Dad will tell him job well done, and Mr Cronkite will say the same back to my father.


For more memories, and pictures about Walter Cronkite, please visit the Cronkite School of Journalism and Mass Communication website at Arizona State University.

Susan Green, Tempe, AZ

Mom, a turntable and jonesing for a little Tom Jones

Talk about Perfect Moments. I had one the other day that involved my mom, a CD and a record turntable. It had been a long day and I was looking forward to just putting my feet up, lounging on my great couch and watching a little American idol.



Earlier in the day I had delivered a mother's day gift to my mother from my sister. She had dropped it off at my house and asked me to make sure mom got it. It was a box set of old Tom Jones songs. Well, let's just say when my mom opened the gift she about blew a gasket. I knew she liked the man, but my goodness!

Anyway, I left her behind to enjoy the music and went home. Just as I sat down on the couch, my cell phone rang and I saw that it was mom.



Wondering why she was calling after I had just left her, I started to think something was wrong. I answered asking her what was wrong. Just as sweetly as she could, she answered "Hi Love. I have a problem. I am trying to play the CD you gave me and I am having trouble with it playing on the turntable. The needle keeps flying off!"

It took me a second to realize what had happened. Mom had been trying to play her CD on the record turntable! She couldn't figure out where the CD slot was so, she tried it on the turntable!

For a second I sat in stunned disbelief! I had never heard anything quite like this! Trying to play a CD on turntable? Are you kidding? Well, I quickly figured out that she wasn't kidding, so I tried to explain to her that there had to be some kind of slot on her stereo system for the CD.

Now, you have to understand, that we got this record/CD combo player for her at Christmas, so she had awhile to figure things out. But apparently she hadn't been using it. I told her to look for an eject button or a load button and that's where she puts the CD.


At this point, I think mom knew I was trying to hold back my giggles. I was trying so hard not to laugh! She couldn't get off the phone fast enough! She wanted to try and figure out where to put Tom Jones on her own, not having to listen to me tell her where to put him!

I checked in with her today, and she sheepishly admitted that she had finally found the load button for the CD, and that Tom Jones sounded as good today as back in the day when she used to listen to him while she was living in Liverpool!

I will never forget this phone conversation with my mom, and never again will I hesitate at answering the phone when she calls, otherwise I might miss out on these perfect moments, moments I will never forget!

Sue, Tempe

Old haunts and rainy days in New York

Four days. And three trips to the ATM. Then it was time to head home ... get a job ... or win the power ball.

We used to live in New York and right over the river in Weekhawken... a little town not only really fun to say but also the closest suburb of Manhattan (even if it is in New Jersey).

Now we go back for short visits, quick trips to do some business, see friends, and get recharged.

Funny how a place so big and not really my own can bring such comfort.

I grew up on the road as an Air Force brat and then in a bedroom suburb of Denver for the really disorienting teenage years.

But I worked in and around New York for 16 years. Perhaps those were the years I really grew up.

Whatever the draw, I love going back to New York.. of course I really mean Manhattan.. to just wander.

We did that last week on a rainy weekend. Food, music, friends. Those were the goals ... and RAIN.

Ok, ok. The perfect moment? Breathing in the dirt-and-rain smells, watching my sweetie's happy eyes when she got to stop at Gray's Papaya for a bite and taking a snap of the place we had our first date.



We giggled as we remembered sitting close, watching 'All the Pretty Horses,' trying not to accidentally touch hands. We stood across the street from the theater laughing about the electric charge that crackled between us even on that first movie date.

... and crackles still eight years on.

Robin, Tempe

Take Connor out to the ballgame

As a father, if you’re worth worth the rock they’ll carve your name into one day, you want your children to have more than you did when you were a kid. No matter what your childhood was like, rich or poor, loving or broken, happily forgotten or cherished, you want more than that for your children.

As a child, I longed for the chance to attend a Major League Baseball Game. Rangers, Royals, Padres, anywhere, I didn’t care. I had an aunt and uncle in Atlanta that we visited during a few summers, yet for some reason, we never made it to a Braves game. Every time that we went to Karen and Tim’s house I would stow away all of my Dave Justice and Chipper Jones cards in my backpack hoping to meet them and get their autographs.

Even when I knew we weren’t going to a game, I took them just in case. I was so worried that I would run into one of them on the street somewhere unprepared.

My aunt’s, Joy and Sharon, have lived in Illinois for as long as I can remember.

To this day, I never made it up there to visit them. As a kid, I would lie in bed at night in New Albany, MS and think about what it would be like to go there and get Frank Thomas’ autograph. I can’t tell you how many times I fell asleep and dreamed of this, holding the “Big Hurt’s” cards in my hands.

Now, as a 28 year old man, I sit on my porch at 4 in the morning writing about the hobby of my youth, realizing that those days are gone forever. No matter how much I wish for it, I can never go back. Phil Plantier, Cal Eldred, and John Kruk are gone. So is the eleven year old lying in his bed, holding Frank Thomas cards.

But here I sit almost 18 years later, lucky enough to be able to give my son those opportunities. As long as he enjoys it, I can live vicariously through him. I can go back in time and do those things I never got to do.

As patiently as possible, Connor tried to understand the game from my explanations. He sat in my lap and screamed everything that I did. “Hit a homer, Quentin!” “We need a Base Hit, K.K.!” And my favorite, “Come on, Ump!! What kind of call is that!?!” Daddy’s little man....


Middle way of the game, Spider Man and the Incredible Hulk made their appearances at the top of the stands. This is what he came for. He chased the Hulk around growling. He posed for pictures and he got both of their autographs. When he met Spider Man, he was literally speechless. My son is NEVER speechless.

Late in the game, when the Braves had taken a 3-0 lead, I held Connor in my arms. He was as exhausted as I was. We stood on the very back row and he waved his “Number #1 Fan” Finger and his Braves “Tomahawk”. All of a sudden, everyone started doing the “Tomahawk Chop”! I was amazed! I could have sworn that they had quit allowing it for fear of offending Native Americans. Apparently, I was wrong.

My eyes almost filled with tears when Connor, still resting comfortably in my arms, began to follow suit with all of the fans at Trustmark Park. He had no idea what he was doing. The 11 year old in me was revived as I stood there teaching him the “chant”. We were both just little boys at a baseball game.

The night dwindled down. The 7th inning stretch rolled around and once again I held Connor in my arms as Lori and I sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” with him. Eventually the game was over. The fireworks display afterwards went as quickly as it came. We slowly made our way to the exits.

Everything worth doing ends too soon.

I revel in the fact that this won’t be our last trip to a ball game. We’ll probably make 1 or 2 more Braves games before the end of the season. We’ll watch MLB and NCAA together on TV and before you know it the World Series will come and go. Hopefully, we’ll end up in a Major League Stadium at some point.

Next spring, our 2nd season of T-Ball will begin. Not long after that, he’ll wave to me from the window of his school bus and then I’ll be teaching him how to drive. Connor will graduate and move off to college and in the blink of an eye I’ll get that phone call saying that he’s found “The One”. Then I’ll hold my first grandson in my arms.

I’ll bury my father and then my friends will all die one by one. I’ll find myself at a coffee shop talking about them. My “old man name” will be, J.L. Voyles. No one will call me Jason except for the beautiful woman with gray hair to whom I made the promise to spend my life with. We’ll dance in the dark to songs we fell in love to 50 years before. I’ll wake up one morning and she’ll be gone and my heart will never again look to the future, only the past. My hips and knees will cease to function correctly and Connor will take my car keys from me for the last time. Ultimately, I’ll lay down and close my eyes and people will cry and hold one another.

And in those last few seconds, when my eyes close for the last time, I’ll find myself forever standing in the bleachers holding Connor, waving our tomahawk, proud that I was his father and that I gave him more than I ever had.

Jason, Treasure Never Buried, Byram, Miss.

Happiness: The ultimate crime?

My dad was on the faculty at the local University, and we lived less than 3 miles away, which during spring and fall made for a lovely walk. I found this great shortcut that was like a hidden secret right in the middle of the city -- there was a little hiking trail running alongside a stream, complete with grasses and wildflowers. There were even a couple of wooden bridges. It made you feel like you were someplace very removed.

I must have had a great day at school, feeling all excited about uncovering some new ideas as I walked along. Just being on that trail was a real lift. The trail let out into the parking lot of a church on Sunnyside Avenue, and just as I stepped out onto the street, this cop car flashes its lights and pulls me over! Calls out to me to stop. I’m thinking, “There’s no way I’m speeding on FOOT. Maybe I was jaywalking. Or worse -- maybe somebody owns that property with the little trail. Crap! He must have seen me coming off that trail and he’s going to ticket me for trespassing.” ...


Hesitantly, I approach the patrol car and brace myself for a citation. Slowly he rolls down his window and motions to me to come closer. Then, completely out of the blue he asks, “Why are you so happy?” [Happy? I just got pulled over for being too happy?!]

I was too floored to give an intelligent response, so I just shrugged and said, “I’m always happy!” and then he drove off. I’ve thought a lot about that experience since, and wished I’d taken the opportunity -- or would be given another -- to really explain the depth and source of my happiness.

I had a similar experience at lunch with my friend Allison a few years ago. We’d been talking and laughing uproariously for an hour straight, and suddenly this lady who was dining alone across the aisle from us leans over and says, “Excuse me, ladies,” interrupting us mid-sentence.

We were sure she was going to Shhhhh us for disturbing her meal with our lively banter, and looked over apprehensively, bracing ourselves for a scolding. But instead, she said how refreshing it was to see and hear two such happy, positive people when all her friends do nothing but complain. She went on and on about how she wanted to be around us, and wanted to know what made us so happy. (We didn't have the heart to tell her that a dear friend had just passed away, and we were joyfully reminiscing about old times.)

Caught off guard once again, we gave her an answer, but it was pretty superficial. What I would have given for one of those pass-along cards right then! I prayed for her for weeks afterward, this nameless woman in search of my brand of happiness.


Jana, Utah

Anna Mae is coming to town

Did you hear? Tina Turner is going to tour this fall ... after a retirement of 8 years. Now that is just about as perfect a reason as any to go stand in line for some tickets.

I have seen some great concerts along the way ... real highlights: Bonnie Raitt, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, even Stevie Wonder opening for The Rolling Stones. But Tina Turner is the performer I've seen more than anyone.

I've kind of lost count. But I certainly remember the first time.

Honolulu, an arena then called H-I-C. Free from Ike, Tina was returning to the stage with the "What's Love Got to Do With It?" tour. She had legs and knew how to use them.

Anticipation and the smell of plumeria in the air. Going to that concert at nearly 30 felt just as thrilling as the first shows I saw in high school.

That woman is awesome. I'm heading out to stand in line.

Robin, Tempe

Hail to the dark and stormy day

A beautiful Friday dawned in Paterson in June of 1976, and I had volunteered to provide music for the visit of Gerald R. Ford, the president of the United States, to the home of Lawrence F. Kramer, the mayor of Paterson. It was a fund-raiser, I guess, but tickets didn't cost much, probably $25 to $50 each, and it was in the era of gentle Republicans, such as Ford and Kramer -- before the broad-sworded hateful, conniving Ronald Reagan and others arrived to employ race- and gay-baiting and mass murder as tools to bring political power to a Republican Party that would have ashamed Herbert Hoover, Dwight Eisenhower, and maybe even Richard Nixon.

The mayor's wife, Mary Ellen Kramer, who was brilliant and effective in a way that many are not, asked if the band could play, "Hail to the Chief," when the president came to deliver his speech. "Sure," I said. There was a lot I did not know. Go to a music store and ask for "Hail to the Chief." No one has it. It's played only for the president, and the president isn't there. I promised sheet music, and I did not deliver....


I went to Schermer's on West 46th Street in New York, the finest music store of its time. I called high schools and universities. No "Hail to the Chief" was to be found, any where.

Friday, I arrived at the hour appointed for me to meet with representatives of the Secret Service and convey the names and social security numbers of the five people chosen to perform in a jazz band that would play the next day, and to entertain the 300 or so guests who would have a chance to meet the president. Though I am a part-time musician myself, I knew that Gerald Ford was out of my class, and I hired real pros.

Also, I wanted diversity, so I chose men whom I knew well, an excellent cornet player, whose name will not be revealed here; Marv Rosenthal on clarinet, Gim Burton on banjo, and Marquis Foster on drums. Though I did not know her well, I engaged Barbara Driewicz to play tuba. The result, three white men, one black man, and one white woman. When asked the name of the group, I hesitantly, and humorously, answered, "Affirmative Action Five." To the Secret Service, it wasn't a joke. It was written down.

All looked well. Until the day of President Ford's arrival, June 6, 1976. What was forecast as a beautiful blue day like the one before was instead one of pouring rain. Ford was soaked head-to-toe, shielded by rain only by an umbrella, by the time he finished his speech at Paterson's Great Falls. When he arrived at 114 East 38th Street, the Paterson mayor's residence, he was still soaked. He asked for privacy and time to change his clothes, The people waited outside, most protected by a huge tent Mrs. Kramer had had the foresight to rent.

My band, meanwhile, entertained with songs that appeared to please the crowd. Champagne flowed as it did in what I consider to be the golden age of my life, the nonjudgmental period preceding Reagan when no one cared too much about who slept with whom, who drank how much or who was 15 minutes late to work. A few people smoked pot and fewer used harder drugs, but it was what kind of person you were and far less what you churned out for your employer that determined the charity with which you would be receive.

Mayor Kramer, a gentle, humorous man of signficant intelligence and leadership ability, had joked that he would require some time to introduce President Ford properly. He had no such oration in mind. There was a pause in music when the sparklingly clad Mayor Kramer, as heavy rain poured relentlessly around him, walked onto the platform and drew the crowd's attention.

"And now, ladies and gentlemen," Mayor Kramer announced, "the president of the United States."

The band, at my direction, began to play "Hail to the Chief," or what was supposed to be "Hail to the Chief." It was unrecognizable as "Hail to the Chief"' or anything else. The president of the United States did not appear; awaiting his familiar cue, he remained in the Kramer house.

The cornet player, perceiving, the deficiency of his initial effort, lifted his mouthpiece away, and said to no one, "Boy, did I blow that." After the first, dismal attempt, the band looked at me for help.

"Again," I said.

Then, the perfect moment occurred. As well as any band ever has, the Affirmative Action Five delivered a flawless rendering of "Hail to the Chief." The dry President Ford appeared and gave his speech to the joy of the throng and to the delight of the Kramers, who had committed much family treasure to his visit. I felt as if I had done my job, Mrs. Kramer felt vindicated in assigning the responsibility to me, and President Ford truly felt welcome in Paterson. The Kramers went on to be happy that night, and so did I. One of the best days of all of our lives.

It was not a dark and stormy night, but a dark and stormy day. Yet for all concerned, it was perfect.

Laird, Paterson, New Jersey

Special delivery on train No. 8

It was January 1945, the last year of World War II. I was waiting on the train platform of the depot in Caliente, Nevada for Union Pacific train No. 8 to pull in from Los Angeles. And I was nervous.

The man I was waiting for was a United States Marine Corps captain and I hadn’t seen him since the spring of 1943. Would I recognize him? Do I want to recognize him? Would he be on the train, or would he find some other way to get home without seeing me?

Of course we had been corresponding all the months, since I had met him on a blind date in the spring of 1943. He was assigned to the South Pacific and left for overseas in the fall of 1943. Now he was back in the states and had been in California for a couple of weeks — I never did understand why it took him so long to meet me....


I had been working for the past year as a telegrapher for the Union Pacific Railroad and had been stationed in all kinds of whistlestops (and I mean that literally). I had received a leave of absence and time was fleeting. Where was that man? Had he found a new love?

They were running two sections of No. 8 that day and the first section pulled in to Caliente. No sign of anyone I knew, so I asked the conductor if I could go through the train, on a search for a reluctant Marine (if that’s what he was).

The search proved futile.

Well, I had one more chance – another section of No. 8 was to arrive shortly. I was really getting nervous and my imagination was running wild. Here came that second section sliding to a stop in front of me. I started walking down the platform, straining to look in all the windows.

And there he was, I was sure of it! I took forever for the conductor to open the doors of that car and then out stepped that Marine Corps captain ... and our life together began.

That was my perfect moment.

Joan, Aurora, Colorado

What's your Perfect Moment?

We want to invite you to participate in the Perfect Moment Project.

We all notice times when everything feels just right. Even if the Perfect Moment isn't a happy one, it is one that brought clarity, one in which we were mindful, focused, clear.

We're here to share them.

The idea for this project started to materialize about a year ago when some friends were sitting around complaining about the state of the world. We were talking about problems at our jobs, problems at home, and problems with the world! We were tired of hearing about the shootings, and drug smugglers.

People were upset about being at war. Others were worried mothers being scared to go to the store, because they thought they might get robbed. Some were angry about downsizing at work, escalating gas prices.

We were just plain frustrated. And a pretty grim group.

It was after much bitching and complaining that Sue started to think about times when the world was right! When we felt good about our lives. When things were perfect, if only for a moment....

Sue completes the story:

"That’s when I decided to ask my friends to break things down. I knew we could all remember a moment in our lives when something was perfect. That’s when I was floored. If you could see the looks on everyone’s faces as they remembered one perfect moment, it was transforming.

"All of a sudden, the stress was gone, the anger was gone, the frustration was gone. They all looked years younger as their memories took them back to their perfect moment. They remembered as if they were reliving those perfect moments.

For me, that moment was in 1987 in Show Low Arizona. It was a perfect day, mid 80’s, perfect blue sky on a softball field in the middle of a stand of pine trees. We were playing in the championship game. This was not any ordinary field, it was a perfect field on a perfect day. Perfect red dirt, green grass, the sound of bats hitting balls, and players yelling out directions. There was no outside world, just this game.

It happened in the sixth inning. I was playing in center field, 270 feet from home plate, looking into the sky and thinking that I had never seen the sky so blue. There were two outs, runners on second and third and we were up by two runs. That’s when I heard it, the sound of the bat slamming into the ball. It was headed directly for me. It was one of those balls that was a bit screwy, it was tailing off to my right. I got a good jump on the ball, and I knew that the only way I could catch it was if I dove, but it had to be perfect, because if it got past me, they would tie up the game, and possibly win.

I took off running, and felt I wasn’t even touching the grass, I was running so fast, I was floating. Then I dove, extending my arm, and my glove. I swear I could see the strings on the ball, it was so clear. That’s when it landed in the webbing of my glove, and I slammed into the ground. I couldn’t believe it, I had done it, I had actually caught the ball. As I lay on the grass in the outfield, I looked up at the sky again, and marveled at how blue it was.

We went on to win the game, and the tournament. I have not played on a field as perfect, or on a day as perfect. But, for that moment, on that particular Sunday, it all came together. A day that still brings a smile to my face, and a warm feeling in my gut."

We know that you also have your Perfect Moments and we would love to hear about them from you and share them with others. This project is about feeling good again ... even if only for a moment.

What's your perfect moment? Send it to Perfect Moment Project We'd love to share your stories.

Susan and Robin, Tempe, Arizona