It’s that time again. Time for you to write the story for one of my photos. This week while walking on the local bike trail, I found what seemed to be a rundown old grandstand. Was it the town baseball field? A school? Well, that is for you to decide. This isn’t my prettiest picture but I think it will stimulate your writing caps. So give it your best shot. I look forward to reading your thoughts.
To get a better view, click on the photo. To purchase a photo calendar with my work, visit the Seth Snap store. To see more of my work, visit my galleries. .
First thing that crossed my mind, “Build it and he will come”, from the film Field of Dreams..
Yes, great movie. Thanks.
Katie will never forget the warmth of the overhead sun on her back. This warmth mixed with the smell of dust lifted by the cleats of a base runner or an infielder digging in to field a ground ball, come to her mind as she reclines into her chair.
Sometimes she is amazed at the effort it takes to sit her tired bones into the recliner positioned in front of her television.
Wasn’t it just yesterday, that she headed down to the field outside of town to watch Adam play? The same park that she would one day watch their son Matthew pitch in.
No, it wasn’t yesterday for those days are long gone both her husband and little Matthew have left this world. Tears fill her eyes recalling the day her baby boy was laid to rest. He wasn’t a boy, but a man of sixty, still too young to leave this world behind, Katie recalls.
She turns her attention back to the Cubs game on the out of date television set. ‘Why do I watch these silly ball games,’ she asks herself? ‘Oh, it’s for those memories of mine,’ she chuckles.
With the pain and loneliness of missing those she loves, Katie also receives the joy of summer nights that are far behind her now. This is why she never misses a Cubs game.
Her thoughts turn to the ball field in their old home town. Closing her eyes she feels the warmth of a summer afternoon on her shoulders. The field is alive in her mind, but it’s different then what she normally recalls. Adam, her husband for fifty years is in his old position just off first base. His hair is the sandy color of his youth, not the gray it later faded to. And on the mound stands their fifteen year old son, cap pulled low covering his eyes. He stares intently into the catchers mitt.
On the television set, the Wrigley faithful rise for the seventh inning stretch of the last Cubies game Katie will see. No one in the stands knows what the game means or of the now abandoned ball field, over grown with weeds in that small Midwest town, where Katie used to watch the boy’s of her dreams, that she is finally with again….
Sorry it’s so long,
Allison, no it’s wonderful! I want to sit down and have a conversation with this woman! Thanks for bringing her to life.
I try… Thanks for the inspiration.
I love when you do these posts
alison, Glad you do 🙂 I love reading what people have to say.
Me must say, your photos is glorious!
My Mommy is besotted.
I forgots to say thanks yous for visiting mes!
Ha. Your welcome.
Why did they desert me and leave me to rot away, was I not their shelter from the storm; did I not enclose them within my walls and share their joys and woes?
Soon my roof will fall, my sides collapse and I will be no more.
Did I not love them well enough?
Nicely said 🙂 Thanks
Loved that 🙂
I enjoy reading the comments so much when you ask your readers for their story of your photograph. I think this was a keen idea.
Thanks 🙂 I am glad you do too.
This photograph brings back memories of road biking along the mountain roads of Western North Carolina. Rural.
The trees lean naked over an abandoned shelter, casting their stick shadows on the yellowed grass. But I can hear them whispering to each other, waiting. I wander to a weathered bench and spy the mounds of dirt that trace the shape of the game. I close my eyes and hear the spit fly, the grip twist, the “slam”, “pop”. The seasons have stolen the leaves, the color and the bases this time. ©cindypalin
Nice words. Thanks cpsoul.
60 is a big number. 60 years are a long time. But not long enough.He walked slowly down the trail… the trail he had walked when he was young and spry. His head was bent against the summer sun, the leaves were just as green as he remembered, He didnt need to see them. They only caused a pang as he remembered walking gaily.. with her by his side. They had come as teenagers here to.. Ah! There it was. The gardening shed that had lain abandoned even then. Where he would take her to be alone. They would sit inside and watch the branches sway outside as they talked and talked. Once he had even danced with her there.When it had rained they would sit entranced. Those things had mattered to them. Nature, beauty. He sighed and sat down on the bench inside. 60 years. A lifetime of memories. And now he was alone. watching the green foliage on swaying branches through a broken window. So long ago…
Wonderful story. Thanks so much for sharing.
They told me they would be back soon to unlock the door, release me and present me with my birthday surprise…little did I know that their car had been involved in an accident. It wasn’t serious, but his two friends had lost their memories so no one knew he was there….
Interesting…. they both lost their memories. Wonder how long he stayed there? Reminds me of the movie Sarah’s Key.
I think he’s still there…!
He didn’t pass this way very often anymore, the old veteran. He knew the old field well from his youth, he’d spend so much of it there. He remembered exactly where the goal posts had been, the scoreboard and every yard line. Every inch fought for was indelibly etched in his memory, every defender that he and his comrades guarded possession of that precious pigskin from, he could recall it all with a clarity unexpected from a man so many decades removed from the experience.
He walked with an even and purposeful stride to the remnants of the grandstand and recalled the sounds of the crowd and the knowledge that at any given game there could be a scout from the big league in among them watching for new talent. He recalled waiting for that moment when that call would come, that call that would change his life and make him part of something bigger.
Meanwhile, a country allied to his had gone to war. His own nation had not yet become involved, but he knew with every news story he read that the day was coming when it would be. He relived the final game he had played on this field before he made the decision to go to England and volunteer for service there; it had seemed so inappropriate in his mind to be playing a game when the sons of a friend were dying.
He remembered the flight training, all the friends lost in the Battle of Britain and many others after it, when his nation finally did become invovled and he could fight under his own flag, every promotion and every reprimand; so many years later, and yet with such clarity.
After the war, he and many others came to this field every year in early November. The raucous crowds that had cheered him on to the goal lines had been replaced by an audience of local dignitaries and citizens engaged in respectful silence. Over time, his town’s ceremony grew smaller and more appropriately sized venues found for it. It was then that this old field began it’s long slide into the derelict state that he now saw it in.
It was not only the war that had taught him how precious life could be. In the years that followed; he had watched his children leave for university and start their own lives far away from this town, he had stood by helplessly as his wife passed on and every year there seemed to be one more friend to have a funeral for.
He had stopped going to the ceremonies many years ago and spent very little time with other seniors. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, but he knew too many, often younger than him, who were simply “Waiting for Death” as the saying went, and he could not bear to watch.
Despite his years, he could still walk tall and without a cane or walker. He could still look at the dawn of every new day as an opportunity in spite of knowing that he was in his twilight years and he much preferred to invest his time in the youth than anything else these days.
For a moment he closed his eyes and let the autumn sun wash over his face. He took one last look and swore to himself that this would be his last visit to the field, he refused to live in the past. At that, he made his way back to the main path and continued on his way with a measured, tall and purposeful walk towards the youth centre where he always agreed to speak at this time of year about the war and veterans.
He was his town’s last remaining veteran. He knew that every new day was an opportunity and that the youth were running out of opportunities to know his generation with every passing year.
So long as time allowed him and someone was willing to listen, he would not relinquish the opportunity to tell or deny others the opportunity to know about him, his generation and their sacrifice.
Lest We Forget
Great story for Veteran’s day! Thanks so much.
Nice idea, unfortunately I don’t have time right now to write a story, but it makes me feel disheartened… it looks so much like the neglect I see around here in places… no all, but enough. A sign of the economic strain down here. Happy Veteran’s Day though, I have several in my family, but my son is the only survivor right now.
Thanks Keli and yes Happy Veteran’s Day.
I see the “low house” on a skeet range.
Thank you! 🙂
This is where we used to meet. My friend and me, on our bikes we would take a ride and park under the tree. Got our small packets of treats, smiling and eating..as if, we got our prize..the company of each other and some small things of the day..we must share..for we are each other’s diary.
Again your words are wonderful. Thanks
I posted my story here: http://thewroughtwriter.wordpress.com/2012/11/10/forgotten/
I used your photo and credited you, of course. I hope you don’t mind.
Thanks for the inspiration!
No, it’s fine. Thanks. Great story by the way.
Someday this will be viewed in much the same way as we today contemplate images of Roman ruins.
Very true! Thanks.
The bleachers creaked as Ann leaned back to watched the show. Wind swirled dust around the arena while the first bull rider bursts from the gate. Ann had waited all summer to watch the rodeo.
A tall man in a cowboy hat had sat in front of her just as the show started. With the bleachers full – a family to either side of her -she was stuck propping herself on her hands just to see.
Cheers rose from the crowd as the bull rider neared his record time from last year. Ann could smell corndogs, and a gurgle climbed her midsection. She wished her family would’ve come.
The rider almost got bucked off. Cowboy-hat-man laughed and sat up straight, cheering louder and louder. Ann jumped up, placing her feet on the topmost bleacher where she’d been setting. She still had to lean a little to see the action. She moved one step to the side and her foot hit something slick.
In moments, it was over. She felt a gust of wind and a dull snap as her neck broke against the hard ground behind the bleachers. No one heard, and it wasn’t until the next act that she was discovered. By then, it was too late.
Years pass, and the grandstand is forgotten.
The bleachers creak and the wind twirls dust around the field. Ann had waited all summer to watch the rodeo. She wishes her family would’ve come with her. But wait, she sees someone coming down the bike path. Funny, they don’t looked dressed for the rodeo.
She wonders if they’ll buy a ticket.
Sorry bout typos!
nicely written. Very depressing! 🙂
Something about this picture reminds of the old water filtration plant that we have close to where I live. It’s been closed since before I was born, and I’ve always thought it looked like some big blue boat that got stuck while headed up river. It’s good for nothing more than weeds and kudzu to grow on now. I’m not sure why your picture reminds me of it, but they both have they forgotten and abandoned feeling. I can just picture a small town little league team playing there. Perhaps the town went bankrupt, the little league field folded and everyone just left. Now some old guy is using it to store his tractors.
I enjoyed looking at your pictures, and I hope you had just as much fun looking through my blog. Thanks for liking it!
Ahh Kudzu, that tells me you are from the deep south like me.
central arksansas. not that deep, but deep enough
Deep enough! 🙂 My roommate at Ole Miss was from Arkansas(Benton). Been many times.
I might have written something too morbid, but here’s the story I thought about:
As I dragged his heavy corpse through the woods I could still smell and taste his body odour. He tried to make me his victim thinking he could own my body, using it to give him pleasure after he drugged me. Now he’s my victim and I have to hide the evidence.
The digging is tough for someone inexperienced like me, especially after carrying his weight, but I know I have to get this job done.
I’m back at home in the shower and his taste and smell won’t go away. How can I put this behind me?
16 years later
I now view the scene of my crime without regret. Nobody came for him or asked about him. Only, I know where he is. Nobody else knows my secret. Just like the grandstand, this sick man is forgotten.
Creepy! Good job though! Thanks
I can’t believe it has been this long.. Sixteen years have passed since the first day I met the person I would forever remember as my best friend.
I was young then, only 17 years old. I was one of the unpopular kids, or maybe you could say that I was always ignored, treated like I didn’t exist. But I didn’t mind, less trouble for me. It was a Thursday when a student transferred to my class. He had blond hair, green eyes, and tan skin. He seemed like he played sports a lot, he introduced himself in a very confident way too. I instantly labeled him as one of ‘them’. The seat beside me was the only empty one, so I sadly had to accept the torture that would come.
“Hi! I’m Thomas Carson. Tom’s the name, football’s the game!” He said with a large grin and an outstretched hand as he sat down. “Kellerman, and mind-your-own-business’s the game.” I answered, almost mumbling, ignoring his hand and kept flipping through the book that held none of my interest either. I saw his grin falter a bit from the corner of my eyes and felt a small feeling of victory. After an (very short) awkward pause he talked again, “Aren’t you going to give me your name?” With a raised eyebrow from me he rephrased it, “I mean your given name!” “No” “What? Why?” He practically whined. What’s wrong with him, why can’t he just leave me alone like the others. “Because I can, so I will.” I answer him, stubborn. He sighed, it seems he accepted defeat. I continue my uninteresting activity of flipping pages.
Long story short, it’s been three months since he transferred, and somehow I’ve come to tolerate him. He turned out as a good guy, definitely different from ‘those people’. One day I was at my little hideout at a forgotten part of the school. I like to go there at lunch time to do whatever I felt like doing at the time. That day I was only laying around enjoying the quiet. Until a loud yell made me jump into a sitting position and ruined the mood. Tom was laughing loudly, holding his stomach. I scowl at him, my eyes as if saying that he was acting like a complete child.. I guess I really did want to tell him that but figured it a waste of energy. He smiled at me (which irked me further) and lie beside me. I look down at him but he closed his eyes. I guess he was going to behave so I lied down again.
“Hey..” His voice cut the silence. “What?” He looked at me and said with a sullen expression, “I still don’t know your name..” We looked at each other and started to laugh. He’s right, how stupid of me. “Hahaha.. Tyler, Tyler Kellerman, nice to meet you.” I say with an outstretched hand and a big smile. In a forgotten area he reminded me of something I should’ve remembered.
IS IT JUST ME OR ARE THE ‘CHAPTERS’ GETTING LONGER?! (WHY AM I YELLING) Ahem! Well, this is a peak into Tyler’s past, when he just met Tom and the beginning of their friendship. Do you remember him? The guy who died? O, and just to make things clear, the setting is in Australia, so by ‘football’ Tom meant rugby-football. I don’t want to make this longer so if there is anything you want to ask, just ask. Sorry for any typo/grammar error. Thanks 🙂
Yes, I remember and wonderful writing. I am impressed. Don’t y’all also have Australian football?
Thanks 🙂 Sorry if it’s too long..
Ya, that’s what I meant! It’s like rugby, but we call it football.. #slaps forehead
It’s so hard with all the different meanings of the word football… D: I hope there’s no misunderstanding… oAoa
I love this idea: you provide the photo and others the story. Very fun. Thanks so much for stopping by my blog!
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Hey Seth.. I gotta catch-up.. Great pic’s as alway!
Your Story: forgotten
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Reblogged this on earthmuther's Blog.
To have forgotten, this place seemed impossible. How long had it been, thirty or fourty years?
Some of the best memories happened right here. Childhood visions of championships were nutured in, by each other right in this very spot. Commradery and fair play ingrained over years of practice and competition.
I can see so clearly Johnny’s impish grin spread across his handsome face as he leaned on my shoulder to coax a stronger action, reaction.
My own sons and brother’s sweet joys and bitter disapointments over a single play. To hone the sharp victory of accomplishment meant everything to us.
The school was gone. Church too. The old road a mere path in the woods grown up so swift. Like us.
Where had the time gone? Swept away, whisked into the wind like the dust from home base. The laughter and the tears can now remain forever in a heart healed simply by the sight of this long forgotten place. To smile and walk away, know it goes with me when i leave.
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