|
|
|
|
PLEASE NOTE: The Reality TV World Message Boards are filled with desperate
attention-seekers pretending to be one big happy PG/PG13-rated family. Don't
be fooled. Trying to get everyone to agree with you is like herding cats,
but intolerance for other viewpoints is NOT welcome and respect for other
posters IS required at all times. Jump in and play, and you'll soon find out
how easy it is to fit in, but save your drama for your mama. All members are
encouraged to read the
complete guidelines.
As entertainment critic Roger
Ebert once said, "If you disagree with something I write, tell me so, argue
with me, correct me--but don't tell me to shut up. That's not the American way."
|
|
|
"SSC5 (NF) Field of Dreams"
J I M B O 6839 desperate attention whore postings
DAW Level: "Playboy Centerfold"
|
07-28-05, 07:14 PM (EST)
 
  |
|
"SSC5 (NF) Field of Dreams" |
Field of dreamsI didn’t have many friends growing up. In the small Midwest town I lived in there were regular city blocks, but those were miles away. Instead, my house lined a country road with no sidewalks, stop signs, or frolicking schoolchildren. The acres of land we lived on merged into the adjoining lots seamlessly. While this made getting to friends quite easy, finding them was not. There was Joey, who lived directly behind me. Three houses down and quarter mile away was Phil. Both were my age and before getting cars we all played together by default. My best friend as a child, however, was Mr. Carlton’s field. Mr. Carlton lived next door to us, and was a puzzling old man. He had more knowledge about our little town than any library could hope for—with a paralyzing knack for sharing it. He lived on a long stretch of land that ended with a tree-lined open patch of grass. There was still plenty of room for his rows of tomatoes, corn, asparagus and other garden experiments. While never very friendly with the youth of the neighborhood, the field way out back was always mowed and never complained about when used. It was the security that made it magical. We could play all day long in that field and never worry about a thing. Occasionally we’d get enough kids from further away to play football, but usually it was just Phil and me playing baseball—one-on-one baseball. He was always the Braves, going against my Dodgers. I can still remember my first and last home runs there, the worn out dirt patch at home plate, the smell of freshly-mowed grass in the fall. The field was a place I went to think. It was always there when no one else was around. I got into trouble at the field, experienced my greatest triumphs, and never for a second doubted I would be safe and welcomed. What more could you ask from a friend?
|
|
Alert |
Edit |
Reply |
Reply With Quote | Top |
| |
|
p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e -
p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e -
p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e -
p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e - p l a c e h o l d e r t e x t g o e s h e r e -
|
|
Email this topic to a friend
Printer-friendly version of this topic
Bookmark this topic (Registered users only)
