My dad died when I was nineteen, and though it's been almost 27 years, there are things, and people, I vividly remember about that time. I remember the cars lining the street of our neighborhood that afternoon; I remember Amy Lott's mom pulling up in her little blue minivan with a big tray of food; I remember Cathy from the church, stationed at the kitchen phone, fielding calls from folks as the news made its way around town. I remember standing in the receiving line for almost two hours at visitation, meeting and greeting and accepting words of sympathy and condolence from folks I knew and some I didn't. I remember a lot about that week and that day. One thing I won't forget is the blond, sun-glassed lady rushing in at the last minute of visitation, apologizing profusely for being late and for being dressed in Khaki shorts and tennis shoes. I can still see Nancy Trimm, explaining how she had just seen the obituary in the newspaper and knew if she hurried she might just make it. We couldn't believe she was there, and I had no idea at the time what an impression it made on me on what it means to be a friend. I remember that flustered entrance, her words, and the face that hadn't changed in the many years since we had last seen her at the ball park.
Mom and I spent many summer evenings on warped, wooden bleachers, Nancy taking her spot beside us as we watched little boys take grounders and throw errant pitches. I wasn't very old, but I was allowed to be part of the girl conversation that went on between the moms and relished my time there. Her son and my younger brother had somehow managed to be teammates from T-ball to buddy ball and on into little league, so without really knowing it, there on the splintered second row, she became a part of our past, a part of my childhood, and a reminder that people come into your life for reasons; sometimes, we just don't know the reason until we're standing in the visitation room of a funeral home and someone goes out of her way to show you that she cares.
Yesterday, we spent 12 hours at the ball park. Yesterday, there were tents and canvas chairs and coolers iced down with waters, Gatorades, and Frog Togs. There weren't any rickety, wooden bleachers, but there were a lot of Nancy's, moms (and dads) who love my first baseman and look out for him as if they shared a last name. They cheer when my boys do well, check on them when they get hurt, share snacks when one is hungry, and grab a phone to catch pictures of your kid coming across the plate after a Home run! So when folks look at us like we are crazy because our schedule is dictated by year-round youth sports, I just smile and keep on packing my cooler. I know one day, one of those parents might just show up unexpectedly when I, or my kids, need a Nancy the most.
