I was soaked to the bone by a cold, wet rain this morning, despite some waterproof outerwear. It was day 3,315 of my running streak, according to www.runeveryday.com. I was relieved to get it over with and into a hot shower and warm clothes. Despite all the rain in the Northwest, in most cases I’m facing just a mist or somehow able to dodge the raindrops, but this morning there was a lot of puddling. If it were easy, anyone could do it. Instead, somehow I manage to get through another day, fortunate to avoid injury, sickness, and laziness. As they say, “one day at a time.”

The cleaners have now arrived, so I’m prepared for a day of annoying background sounds, as they distribute water and cleaning agents through hoses to their truck parked in front of our house. The dogs are cowering, and the cat is locked in the bedroom. The neighbors have to be covering their ears from the obnoxious humming noises, as well. In its wake, at least it leaves behind a pleasant clean smell.  Like a new car smell, I wonder how long it will last?

It will probably take some time for my “second family” to absorb the impact of my recent certified letter, documenting my undoubtedly secretive existence all these years. I’m sure that the son of my birth mother will need to evaluate my intentions, and discuss what to do with close friends and/or family. I can almost hear the conversations in my imagination. I will be relieved once the shock wears off and reality sets in. At that point, perhaps further communication can take place. I remain apologetic in dropping the initial bombshell, but I want to know the truth about my existence.

Yesterday’s trip to the mailbox yielded a 1957 The Saturday Evening Post magazine that I bought on EBay, with an article comparing the Yankee’s Yogi Berra with White Sox catcher Sherman Lollar, a favorite of mine. (See Post #5). It was probably more fascinating for me to look at all the ads from that era that included a lot of automobile and appliance lay-outs. It was not a Norman Rockwell illustration on the coverThe original cost was fifteen cents, originally delivered to a subscriber in nearby Cresswell, Oregon. Slightly off the subject, I happen to know a woman who was also named after John Cresswell, the 23rd United States Postmaster General. He was appointed by President Ulysses S. Grant, and mentioned in his biography that I’m currently reading by Ron Chernow. The focus of the magazine was on integration – The Deep South Says Never! I paid a little more that fifteen cents for this little piece of history; in fact shipping was $5.00 alone. I think it’s interesting that Grant fought for integration and a hundred years later the South was still fighting against it, not to mention for the next sixty years up until today. An article on baseball seemed unusual for a publication of this nature, but The Post continues to exist even today, although as a not-for-profit.

I’m not sure why I’m so fascinated with history and collecting memorabilia. At first, I thought it was a safe, round-about way of finding my roots. I still find it odd that a grown man like me has such a strong fascination with athletes, and collects pictures, autographs, articles, and clothing relating to them. It’s not as if I expect them to be worth something to anyone but me. It’s like I’ve adopted Sherm Lollar into my family, and his album of photographs and cards sit right next to the pictures of my parents. I didn’t even know him or have met him, yet I feel like he had some kind of influence on my life. His #10 became my #10, and all the result of simply watching him play in the 1959 World Series. It was only 8 years old and somehow he made an impression on me.  I guess that’s why they say that young children are extremely impressionable. It’s still not a sane justification for paying big bucks for a dirty, sweaty jersey worn by him 63 years ago. Would it make it better if he was in the  Hall of Fame, and I had paid even more? At the very least, it’s exactly my size! I must must still fantasize that my birth father was an athlete, yet I was perfectly happy with being the adopted son of an accountant. What would Freud say?