lookout for something that inspires me.

During my college days we were studying William Blake[1757-1827] (yeah, the Tyger, tyger, burning bright guy), when I happened upon this rarely quoted gem. It is one of my favorite poems of all time and is simple, yet profound:

Eternity

He who binds to himself a joy,
Doth the wingéd life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sunrise.

Check back frequently, because I’ll be sharing more “smart stuff people say” regularly!

Remember that cooking is supposed to be fun, and should reflect YOUR personal tastes and preferences. All measurements are approximate, and for the record, I use a lot more garlic ’cause that’s what WE like. I’ve given a large leeway in the recipe, since most folks don’t feel the need to discourage vampires so vigorously. This and lots of other yummy stuff will be featured in my upcoming vegetarian cookbook.

“She Makes Her Own Sauce”
Veggie Pasta Sauce

This isn’t a quick fixin’ — but once you have a bunch of jars of the stuff hanging out in your freezer, you’ll be glad you took the time to prepare a big ol’ pot of this sauce!

Prep Time: 20 min
Cook Time: 4-10 hrs
Serves: A LOT

Ingredients

3-4 28-oz cans tomato sauce and/or puree and/or marinara sauce (the less seasoned, the longer the cook time)
1 pkg. fake “meat” crumbles
1/2 pkg. fake tube “sausage” or 2-3 fake Italian sweet “sausages”
1 sweet onion (I like Mayan), finely chopped
1 large red pepper, finely chopped
1-2 pounds shredded zucchini
6-10 cloves minced garlic (or 3-5 tsp. crushed)
1-4 TBS. Italian blend seasoning (start with a little)
1/2 cup wine (red or white)
1/2 cup water
1 tsp. granulated sugar
1-2 cups. grated Parmesan/Romano cheese (vegans can omit)
1-3 TBS. olive oil

Directions

1. Heat skillet; add 1-2 TBS. oil to pan; saute onion for 8-10 minutes on medium/high heat until soft; add red pepper and cook three minutes more.

2. Add a little more oil if necessary and break “sausage” into pan, browning; then add fake meat crumbles and heat through (non-vegetarians can use the real thing, just make sure to drain away the fat before adding the rest of the ingredients).

3. Add shredded zucchini and cook another 3 minutes.

4. Lower heat and add garlic; cook another 3 minutes.

5. Remove skillet from heat and pour all into a large stock pot.

6. Add tomato sauce, wine, water and sugar to pot and mix well; add half of cheese and mix until all is well combined.

7. Cover pot (tip lid slightly to let steam escape) and simmer on medium-low to low heat for 4-10 hours, stirring every 20-30 minutes.

8. After 4 hours, taste test. If you like it, you’re done. If not, let simmer some more and taste every hour until you do.

9. In the last hour or so, add the rest of the cheese, stir and simmer.

10. Serve over pasta and/or mixed veggies and freeze the rest for later.

Tips

• Let sauce cool until pot is easy to touch before spooning into jars for storing.
• Spoon sauce into glass jars that hold about 2 cups each; cover tops with small pieces of waxed paper, then cap and store in refrigerator until cool (several hours) before transferring to freezer, when it can be stored for up to 6 months.
• Can defrost sauce in microwave, but remove metal caps first.
• Best is to defrost in refrigerator overnight.
• All measurements are approximate. Add/delete according to your personal taste. That’s part of the fun!

Whenever you have a long-dreamed-of desire becoming a reality, there are always people to thank — usually a lot of

‘em — so here goes…

• Barry Coffing (Producer), who brought the first song for this project (You Ain’t Too Tough) to me and suggested we go on this ride together. We started this when his first-born was just a babe-in-arms. Don’t ask how old she is now. I’ve never worked with a better producer, or one who understood how to get the best out of the players and vocalists and still keep it fun. During sessions when I’d start thinking I should have become a plumber instead of a musician, Barry would find just the right joke to ease the tension and get everything on an even keel again. His dogged determination and belief in this project has never lagged, and despite all odds, he’s taking the ball into the end zone.

• Ramona Wright, my long-time writing and singing partner, who’s been on this journey with me for decades, and whose friendship has sustained me through the good, bad and the ugly.

• Sam Winans, without whom we would have been recording in somebody’s basement or garage, and whose arrangements, writing and horn wrangling made magic happen.

• All the wonderful musicians – instrumentalists and vocalists – who helped make the tracks come alive, and the arrangers whose talents gave us the foundation on which to build.

• Chris Hufford (Engineer/Mixer), who made the process as easy as it could ever be, and who could punch in mid-word without anyone ever the wiser. Besides… he found the best curry restaurant where many a night was spent after we’d finished our sessions.

• Dale Penner (Mixer) & Woody Woodruff (Mixer), who batted clean-up as we neared the finish line.

• The late Hamilton Williams, whose vocal expertise and training made it possible for me to sing four sets a night, six days a week, without ever losing my voice. You are missed, my friend and mentor. I’m glad you got to hear a lot of the finished product before you bid us adieu.

• Carol Mackintosh Hiller, who is proof that you CAN find amazing people on the Internet. Other than my mum, I think Carol has been my biggest cheerleader, whether it’s my music, my writing or my life in general.

• Celia La Barca, Marilyn Moon, Linda Ramos, Urix Martin, Aixa Maldonado, Michael Lofgren, Rachel Zeskind, Deanna Sorenson, Margaret & Brian Lambert, David Joyce and all the friends who got me through my illness with their tireless, giving ways. Whether it was physical, mental and/or spiritual support, every one of them wrapped me up in loving arms — from near or far — and helped me during the most difficult time of my life. My thanks to them for not only helping me, but helping Mama as I recovered.

• All of my spiritual family at SRF who have helped me learn not to take this drama on earth too seriously (I still need a refresher now and then).

• All my friends in the size acceptance community who have taken me as I am, and could care less how fat or old I get.

• Marta, my first-she-was-just-a-neighbor-but-now-she’s-my-friend. Marta helped this wounded bird back to health and happiness after Mama passed. Our early morning jaunts, gardening, walks and talks gave me a renewed sense of purpose, and I cannot begin to thank her enough for all the big and little things she has brought to my life.
• The Welsh Choir of Southern California, who gave my mother some of the best years of friendship, love and camaraderie she ever knew, and who brought joy to her in her final days. Their kindness and graciousness will be forever in my heart for what they gave to Mama. They also listened dutifully when Mama played my music for them.

And last, but certainly not least…

• My husband, Tom Walsh, for his love, support and help — even when he’s not sure what the heck I’m doing — and for making me laugh when things look the bleakest.

• My step-daughter, Molly Walsh, who has, over the years, given me a delightful perspective on being a step-mom. Her loving, open heart makes it easy. I will be forever grateful and touched that she wanted to make a special trip out to us as we celebrated my mother’s life. Her presence really gave things a “full circle” feel to the event.

• Deb Posner, who wrapped me up like a chick in soft feathers during my mother’s final illness and passing, and who made it possible to give Mum the joyous send-off she deserved.

• And, of course, Mama… How I wish you were here as this all comes to fruition. You were there through every milestone of my life — loving me, believing in me and my talents, and never judging me. No one could have been a better champion during my life — regardless of where the road was taking me. No matter what, I could always count on you for a wise word or a swift kick in the patootie if I needed it. But never did I feel, even for an instant, that I wasn’t loved, and there aren’t too many folks who can say that. So, Mama… hug Daddy and Nanny for me. I know you missed them terribly for many years, and they have the good fortune to have you with them again. I can only hope that when it’s my time, you’ll all be there to greet me. My music is for you — always has been and always will be.

One hard-to-find item always crops up, though, and for those of us across the pond, it can be a very expensive addition: Devonshire (Clotted) Cream.

Rather than shelling out $8-$10 for it at a specialty food store, it’s really easy to make your own for only a couple of bucks. I’ve included a few recipes below, one of which makes the traditional Clotted Cream in the oven, others that are close cousins and take much less time.

Hope that these make your next foray into tea time a stress-free and fun one!

Clotted (Devonshire) Cream

Stove Top Method

Ingredients:

2 cups unpasteurized, high-fat content milk or cream (at least 55% milk fat)

If you can’t find unpasteurized, at least stay away from the ultra-pasteurized.

Directions:

1. Pour milk/cream into stainless steel or glass bowl (or top pot of a double boiler).
2. Cover and refrigerate overnight.
3. Place over a pan of lightly boiling water or use a double boiler.
4. Boil about one hour (cream will start to bubble and rise around the edge of the pan)
5. If necessary, add more boiling water to bottom of double boiler, being careful to not allow any water to get into the top pot/bowl.
6. Remove bowl/top pot from heat and place into bowl of ice water.
7. Cool down the mixture quickly, then refrigerate until the cream rises to the top.
8. Skim cream off top, stir gently and then refrigerate in airtight container for up to three days.
9.

Bring to room temperature before serving.

Mock Devonshire Cream

Ingredients:

3 ounces cream cheese
1 cup heavy (whipping) cream
1 teaspoon powdered sugar
1/2 teaspoon vanilla

Directions:

1. In a food processor, or using an electric mixer, blend all ingredients until mixture is very thick.
2. Refrigerate in an airtight container (up to 3-4 days).
3. Serve at room temperature.

Mascarpone Mock Devonshire Cream

Ingredients:

4 ounces mascarpone
1 cup of heavy whipping cream
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 or 2 tablespoons granulated white sugar

Directions:

1. In a large bowl, beat all of the ingredients until the mixture looks like soft to medium consistency whipped cream.
2. Use immediately, or cover in an airtight container and refrigerate, bringing to room temperature before serving.

Variations:

• Add a little lemon, lime, or orange zest
• Add a dash of cinnamon
• Add a pinch of nutmeg

Clotted Cream

Oven Method

Ingredients:

4 cups heavy cream
(unpasteurized preferable, but NOT ultra-pasteurized)

Directions:

1. Pour the cream into a shallow glass pan which will give a large surface area. Set the oven at it lowest temperature (preferably the “warm” setting). Cover the pan (with foil or parchment paper), then place in the oven for 8 hours (even overnight if not a convection oven). Do not stir!
2. Without disturbing or agitating the cream floating on top, carefully remove the pan from the oven. Skim the thick layer of clotted cream from the surface with a slotted spoon. Leave the thiner milk liquids in the pan. Rather than waste what’s left, you can use the liquid in soups, rice, casseroles or other similar dishes.
3. Very gently stir the clotted cream into a creamy, smooth texture. Serve at room temperature.

NOTE: Using an airtight container, you can store the cream in the refrigerator for up to four days. Bring to room temperature before serving.

Yield: 2 cups

and without succumbing to all the bad stuff that may get thrown in your direction.

No one believed I had seen the mouse. I was quite young, and in their adult eyes, an unreliable source of information.

“Au contraire, mon frere”—I’d seen it all right, a fact soon vindicated. Mama was seated on the floor near the end table by the hallway, Daddy’s dog, Jo-Jo, was under the table (close to the heater vent), my sister and father on the couch, Auntie Rose and Uncle Mal in arm chairs. I was in bed, supposedly asleep, but actually under the covers with a flashlight reading “Little Women.” A movement across the hall caught my eye as I came up for air at one point and there it was—the small, trembling mouse tried to sneak back into my room, but I shooed it away with my book. I watched it go down the hallway and skitter behind the couch. Mum saw movement from the corner of her eye and calmly said, “I think I just saw Gael’s imaginary mouse go behind the couch.” Jo-Jo’s ears perked up and everyone jumped from their respective seats to begin “the search.” The poor mouse must have been terrified as the thundering humans and dog scurried to and fro. It was like a scene from a Marx Brothers movie, with shades of the Keystone Cops. I sneaked down the hall and listened to the circus unfolding, peeking out every so often at the mayhem. And quite a to-do it was…

Dad had thrown the cushions off the couch and was in the process of unfolding the hideabed to see if the mouse had run under there (it had). My sister squealed as the mouse, disturbed by the activity, scampered from its former hiding place and over her foot, then under Auntie Rose’s chair which had been hurriedly vacated only seconds before. Auntie Rose let out a loud, “EEK!” (just like in the cartoons and comics) and ran across the room toward my Mum who was leaning against the hall doorway, surveying the carnival with amusement. Dad had a rolled up Sporting News in his hand by this time, and was trailing the mouse in a hunter’s stance. Uncle Mal had just said, “I don’t know why you girls are so upset. After all, it’s just one tiny mouse,” when the offending rodent did a somersault over his feet. With the grace a member of the Bolshoi’s corps d’ballet would have envied, Uncle Mal did a perfect plié, leaped in the air and landed with a flourish on the seat of one of the arm chairs. Mama burst out laughing at the picture in front of her and Daddy glared. This was serious business for him. His territory had been invaded, even if it was only by one sorry, undernourished mouse.

Mum bid a hasty retreat into the kitchen to give the hunter room, and to find some suitable weaponry to capture the elusive critter. Uncle Mal suggested a colander (spaghetti strainer) in which to trap it, so Mama grabbed one, along with a broom. The idea was that the broom would be the hockey stick and the colander the net—with the poor, naive mouse given the dubious honor of being the hockey puck. This was in theory, of course. It didn’t quite work out that way.

By the time Mum returned to the living room, the hideabed had been fully unfolded. Dad had attempted (unsuccessfully) to coerce my sister in to getting our big monster vacuum out of the closet. She was rooted so firmly to her spot on the carpet that moss had begun to grow on her north side. Mama, laden with her hardware, passed off the colander to Auntie Rose, who then took her position at one end of the couch, with Mum wielding the broom at the other

end. LET THE GAMES BEGIN!

Dad was still calling for the vacuum to try and suck the mouse up its aluminum piping (tells you how small the thing was, doesn’t it?). Mum was ignoring him, hoping they could trap the mouse and release it to the outdoors without any bloodshed. So here’s the tableau: Auntie Rose in a crouch, with the colander resting like a tennis racket in her hands; Daddy, grim-faced, with his rolled up Sporting New” ready to whack anything that moved; my sister, now standing on top of the outstretched sofa bed; Uncle Mal with a Life magazine held like a shovel/scooper; all topped off with Mama brandishing the broom like a baseball bat. Looking around her, Mum lost it. She started laughing, saying, “Look at us! All of us against one little mouse, and so far, the mouse is winning!”

Watching from the hallway, I stifled a giggle, and saw the mouse skitter behind the couch again. So did everyone else, and more mayhem ensued: Dad sprung into action, barking orders to which no one listened; Mum attempted to sweep the mouse into Auntie Rose’s waiting colander but missed; Uncle Mal tried to scoop the critter up with the magazine to no avail; and my sister remained on her perch atop the hideabed, directing traffic. Mama was doubling over because she was laughing so hard, totally ineffectual by this time, and Daddy was proceeding with his slow burn as the mouse kept evading capture. Mum’s laughter became too infectious to ignore, and Auntie Rose started tittering. Uncle Mal’s hearty guffaws added to the hilarity, and my sister finally moved from her spot, only to collapse on the outstretched hideabed. Mum and Auntie Rose soon followed suit, and Uncle Mal fell back on one of the armchairs. The only one not amused by all the proceedings was Daddy, who slammed out the front door into the garage, vowing to find a mousetrap to finish off the little bugger.

The only sad note to it all was that he was successful. In the middle of the night after Dad had set the traps, I awoke to a loud “snap” and the pitiful squeal of a small mouse destined to go on to “Mousie Heaven”—or its next life, depending on your point of view.

Dad didn’t get what was so funny because he was too busy being upset, missing the wonderful humor in the silliness and absurdity of it all. He never failed to get a little irritable when the story was related, so we avoided telling the tale in his presence. Instead of letting go and having fun, he seemed to take the whole thing personally—as if that one silly mouse was an insult to his very existence and Italian “manly man” sensibilities. If he had only laughed along with the rest of us, he would have discovered something he could have really used during the rest of his short life—the precious commodity of utter abandon—and the light, sweet (albeit temporary) exhaustion where all cares are lifted, and your world is nothing short of perfect, childlike innocence.

Those are the times where “laughter IS the best medicine of all”—times when we can put aside everything but the joy of laughter for no better reason than to laugh.

© Gael MacGregor * All Rights Reserved

Over the years I’ve worked for, with and contributed to many different causes. Here are links to some which embody the true spirit of giving, learning, strength of character, commons sense, and/or respect for others and what I think should be the answer when each of us is asked our race: human.

In addition, I’ve included links to companies and services which employ ethical businesses practices, give back to their community and are responsible in their operations with respect to the environment and society as a whole.

If you want to add one of YOUR favorite causes, organizations or businesses to this list, feel free to email

me with the info. I’ll check ‘em out, and you may just find them here on your next visit. If any links are broken, just let me know and I’ll get them fixed ASAP.

Click on the logos/images to find out more about each organization and what they do.

First off… If you’re going to contribute to a cause, you should know how much of the money you donate actually goes to help, and how much is eaten up by “administrative” costs. Here’s the place to check out the folks who want YOUR money:

American Institute of Philanthropy (Helping you give wisely to charity)

HELP FOR THOSE IN NEED

The Giving Spirit

The Salvation Army (ringin’ the bell since childhood—my grandparents were officers)

COMMUNITY, EDUCATION

The Literacy Site (Click daily. Companies/sponsors donate. Free & easy to help!)

The Torii Hunter Project

Heart of a Champion

Angels Baseball Foundation

SIZE ACCEPTANCE

Health at Every Size

The Body Positive

Kelly Bliss (Plus Size Fitness & Wellness)

Plus Size Yellow Pages

Love Your Body Day (sponsored by the NOW Foundation)

ENVIRONMENT & WILDLIFE

The Rainforest Site (Click daily. Companies/sponsors donate. Free & easy to help!)

POVERTY & WORLD HUNGER

Heifer International

The Hunger Site (Click daily. Companies/sponsors donate. Free & easy to help!)

Feeding America

The Dinner Garden (working to end hunger in the U.S. through home and community gardening)

POLITICS & VOTING

FactCheck.Org (Want to know if those campaign ads are true? Find the real deal here)

Follow the Money (Who contributes to YOUR state’s candidates?)

OpenSecrets.Org (Who’s giving, how much & what are they getting in return?)

ANIMAL RIGHTS

The Animal Rescue Site (Every purchase funds food & care for rescued animals)

BUSINESSES & SERVICES

CREDO Mobile (cellular and long distance services with a conscience)

Union House (clothing & other goods made in the USA by union workers)

All American Clothing (clothing made in the USA by union workers)

Yeah, she’s hot… whoever she is!

We’re Hot Tonight

Words & Music: Gael MacGregor, Barry Coffing & Ramona Wright
© MacMusic Magic, Barry Coffing Music & Cosmotion Music

We’ve come to call this my

“movie song” since it keeps on getting licensed for everything from opening title sequences to fight scenes, kids joy-riding and jukeboxes in sleazy bars. At last count, I think we’re at ten placements. Not bad for a song that was an afterthought during the recording of the first three songs for the project (that turned

into four).

I’d written this originally in the late 1970s as a rockabilly tune. Ramona and I dusted it off in the mid-’80s and modified it as an offering for The Pointer Sisters (it was being considered for their next record, but changed producers mid-stream and he took them into an entirely different direction).

So there it sat, until Barry said “Hey… we have enough studio time for another tune. Whaddya got?”

I pulled this one out of the coffers, Barry wrote a bridge and we tweaked it a bit, Dave Stambaugh did a killer horn arrangement and off we went to raise the roof.

No pockets to lock!

Lock Your Pocket

Words & Music by Gael MacGregor, Sam Winans & Ramona Wright
(with a thanks to Stuart Weinstein for the title & inspiration)
© MacMusic Magic, Betsy Winans Music & Cosmotion Music

This song actually developed from a real incident. Some years before, Ramona, Barry & I were in a band that did a song called Lock Your Pocket. The guy who wrote it wanted to ditch all the lyrics and asked Ramona and I to pen some new ones. He said a friend of his was in a bank, set his briefcase down for a moment to make a transaction, and when he went to pick it up, it was gone. His comment? “I gotta remember to lock my pocket from now on.”

With that inspiration, Ramona and I wrote some new lyrics and (of course) the band promptly broke up.

Fast forward to

the studio with Sam Winans (our string & horn arranger and studio owner) playing a bluesy & fun guitar progression during a break. I started humming some melody ideas and realized that our old Lock Your Pocket lyrics would fit really well, so starting fooling around with them. Sam made a few adjustments to the progression, and a new Lock Your Pocket was born in about an hour. Sam & Mike Lent put together a kicking arrangement, and I recorded a final lead vocal in 22 minutes.

Barry was mad ’cause I beat his prior studio record.

The horns were recorded well after the

initial sessions, and we were quite fortunate to have Dale Penner (producer/engineer for Nickelback’s breakout CD, The State, taking care of the final mix.

Latest test results confirm I have a cholesterol level one doctor said “a 12-year-old would kill for” and according to the surgeon who removed my appendix in 2009, its bursting had nothing to do with my weight — in fact, he said that I actually survived the resulting acute sepsis and peritonitis because I’m fat (lost about 45 pounds while in the hospital, and yes, I’m still fat, just not as fat as before).

Like 70% of folks over the age of thirty-twenty, I have some periodic blood pressure issues, but unlike a lot of my Type 2 diabetic friends (many of them thin), I actually control that without medication, despite my genetics (on both sides of the family, multi-generational, and didn’t matter who was skinny or who was fat… it seems my mum was the only one who managed to avoid it).

I was underweight child from birth through early childhood, and until the appendix episode, quite healthy as an adult. I haven’t had the flu in decades (and no flu shots), rarely suffer from headaches the way so many do, and when I do get the rare cold, it’s usually gone in 2-3 days instead of the 5-7 as some of my contemporaries experience.

I was an athlete as a youngster—a competitive figure skater—and if I had listened to my body after I stopped skating, I’d probably weigh about 146 pounds, wearing a size 12. Not skinny, but certainly considerably less than I weigh now, and very in keeping with my genetic predecessors on both sides of the family. Instead, I dieted my way UP to about 245 because I thought I was a “fat pig” when I was just pretty normal. I now look at pictures from my after-skating/pre-diet days and think “Sheesh! I was skinny!” which goes to show you that so much rests on our perceptions, not necessarily on reality. Ironically (or not, considering the realities of diets and their 95%+ failure rate), when I STOPPED dieting, I not only stopped gaining, but without conscious effort, I dropped a considerable amount of weight over a year, and maintained a pretty steady weight within a 5-pound range since that time.

I’ve been a vegetarian since 1985, would rather have strawberries than chocolate (even gave up chocolate for about 8 years… years my hubby says I’ll never get back [lol]), and while not as active as I was 30 years ago, I walk (good thing, since I’m a Disneyland addict), swim (OMG! A fat chick in a bathing suit! Will picturing it scorch my retinas?!?), and lead a relatively active lifestyle—although at this stage in life I’d rather watch a baseball game than play it. On one trip to Disneyland, I was with two younger, thinner people who pooped out on me by around 8pm, and had been dragging their tails for a few hours beforehand. We had to watch a parade so they could sit down for about an hour, ’cause I wasn’t about to leave the mouse house until they kicked us out at 1am! They both fell asleep in the car as I drove back to L.A., still energized by the day’s fun. So exactly WHO was the most fit—a 6’3″ “normal” weight guy and his skinny, younger sister, or the fat broad who was older than their combined ages by a year?

Skinny doesn’t automatically mean “fit” any more than fat doesn’t automatically mean “couch potato.”

Contrary to what a certain fast-food sandwich chain would have you believe, I dated, got married (to a man 10 years my junior), don’t have to use a deodorant of any higher strength than anyone else, give parties that are well attended by people of all sizes, shapes (yes, ROUND is a shape) and diverse backgrounds, have an active social life and rewarding career, have a sex life (wow… fat folks can have and enjoy sex?), and my round belly is my hubby’s favourite resting place for his hands.

So instead of hating our bodies, we need to know that for this time around at least, these are the bodies we have and we should be at peace within our “houses”—’cause that’s all they are. We can keep them in good repair or let them get shabby; we can enjoy living in them, or can complain about their imperfections; we can choose to make them fancy, or can be Spartan

in our approach (either fancy

or plain is perfectly okay); we can choose to be happy with what we have, or become depressed because we don’t have what someone else has (the “grass is greener” syndrome).

I choose to live life and not have others dictate to me what they want for theirs.

My motto? Be healthy, be happy and have fun!

© 2010 Gael MacGregor

h Mum & Dad) there was lots of time to talk, and for stories about the game and about life in general. There was a warm sense that all was right with the world and that somehow Dad’s illness (that took him at the young age of 46) was a mere illusion. He looked so healthy on those spring and summer days and eves at the ballpark, and time almost stood still there.

Dad taught me a lot about the strategies of the game, and he could quote more stats than most people forget. I learned about patience, how to focus on minute details and how to watch a runner at first to spot when he was about to attempt a steal. Dad would point out why the pitcher was throwing low and inside to a particular hitter, and why all base runners would be off and running when there were two outs and the count to the batter was 3 balls and 2 strikes.

I felt I could ask Dad anything during those games, and those were the most carefree times I ever had with him. That feeling extended to an extent when listening to games on the radio and watching them on TV with him as well—even though the latter were not as prevalent on the tube as they are today. Something about the game—especially when witnessed in person at the ballpark—opened up lines of communication and broke down barriers that otherwise were firmly held in place by his Italian sensibilities.
During my high school years, a classmate’s dad was actually the general manager of my beloved Angels and he would sometimes let her invite some of her friends to the games. She didn’t know me much at all except from the orchestra in which we both played, but I somehow managed to get myself included in an invitation or two and it was quite a treat to be near the field instead of up in the nosebleed sections where we usually sat. I remember going back home to report to Dad about those trips, since he was in the last stages of his life then, and his trips to stadiums and such were “few and far between” as the old saying goes.

I’ve never been one to leave a game early. It’s just rude, not to mention foolish. The game lasts nine innings (okay, so sometimes more), and would you get up and leave before the end of a concert or a play just to miss a little traffic? Dad said that he witnessed his only triple play in person because his buddies left a game early and he stayed to watch, even though his Giants were behind and there was little chance of them winning. His pals missed a rare occurrence, Dad didn’t. I’ve left only two games before they ended—one because I’d taken the bus from L.A. to Anaheim, the game was in the 18th inning, and had I not left, I would have missed the last bus of the day to get back home and would never have made it to work the next day. The other one was at Dodger Stadium during a pre-season game in early April of one year. My friend Rosie, Mum and I went on an unseasonably cold day when temperatures dipped to the high 30s/low 40s and wind was whipping around us as if we were off Lake Michigan instead of in Chavez Ravine. While we’d worn coats and thought we’d bundled up enough, we California gals were no match for balmy Chicago weather and couldn’t make it through to the end of the game, skedaddling in the 8th, much to our mutual chagrin. Luckily, we didn’t miss any triple plays or monumental comebacks. It’s significant, though, that I recall the exact circumstances necessitating my only two early departures. I never could understand folks who routinely leave games before they’ve ended—especially when the game is close or tied. I always think of those red brake lights from cars leaving the parking lot at Dodger Stadium as Kirk Gibson belted out his home run in the first game of the 1988 World Series. Vince Scully commented on it and I wondered… What do you say to your kids when they ask you about the only World Series game you ever attended? “Uhm… Daddy ALMOST got to see that famous home run, but was trying to get out of the stadium before the traffic rush at game’s end and missed it.”

My dad was at probably one of the most famous baseball events ever—when Lou Gehrig gave his “Luckiest man in the world” farewell speech. Dad was a NY Giants fan, but above all else, he was a baseball fan and appreciated the greats of the game, regardless of the team(s) on which they played. He was a fan of Roberto Clemente’s, too, for some of the same reasons he admired Gehrig.

Dad said being at Yankee Stadium on July 4th of 1939 was one of the highlights of his life. He remembered that there was a profound silence as Gehrig came to the field to speak, with barely a cough or paper rustling to be heard—just the crackling of the microphone and the echo from Gehrig’s voice breaking the silence. All eyes and ears were focused on the Iron Man and everyone was trying to take in the magnitude of his words. Dad said that there truly wasn’t “a dry eye in the house.” An era was ending. Gehrig was one of those heroic figures in sports who actually lived up to his iconic status. Unlike the bombastic, womanizing, boozing Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig was humble, self-effacing and an

all-around “good guy” ambassador. He was evidently just as gracious and humble off the field, working in the community until his health had deteriorated beyond his ability to participate.

I guess that’s part of why I’ve always loved Nolan Ryan so much. He reminded me a lot of what I envisioned the great Lou Gehrig to be—obviously not in his play, since Ryan was a pitcher, and Gehrig primarily a first baseman—but in the image he presented to the fans. A gentleman to the core, with an unaffected, sincere “aw, shucks, ma’am” honest humility.

After Dad’s death, my baseball bonding with Mum really expanded. She always loved to go to the games, but finances being what they were, and with her having to work the swing and late shifts a lot because Dad couldn’t work much any more, it wasn’t until after his death that she was able to seek her personal solace at the Church of Baseball. It was also when my friendship with my high school and college pal, Rosie, really flourished as well. We were the Three Musketeers at Angel Stadium, even though Rosie’s first love was for her boys in blue, the Dodgers. In the 1980s, both Mum and Rosie had made their way to the L.A. area (living in the same building where I’d been since the mid-late ’70s). Due to lack of car transport and the erratic and inconvenient bus schedules from L.A. to Anaheim and Fullerton, and suffering from baseball withdrawal, I’d started spending time at Dodger Stadium, watching the renowned Garvey-Lopes-Russel-Cey infield and Dusty Baker’s behind from the outfield bleachers (nice view). With Mum and Rosie in tow, we were again Three Musketeering it, only this time rooting Rosie’s boys on to victory. Mum and I sat behind three Hispanic nuns on Fernando Valenzuela’s historic first outing as a Dodger, and that was a real hoot. The sisters were whoopin’ and hollerin’ as if he was their own nephew, and who knew you could bond with nuns over baseball? I still have my #7 “F. Lee Boomer” jersey (an homage to Steve Yeager) and my “Wally World” shirt from when Wally Joyner played with the Angels—proof that one can root for more than one team with equal fervor. Of course, it was much easier before inter-league play, and choices sometimes must be made.

Don’t get me started on today’s Dodgers, the glorification of Manny and other cheaters in the game, or the ludicrous and embarrassing gaffe in renaming the Anaheim Angels (the new name translates to The The Angels Angels of Anaheim—how could a Latino owner miss or ignore the redundancy of the name in translation?). The Angels are still the butt of jokes about the name change, and it certainly hasn’t resulted in increased market standing or respect for the club. Instead, it has intensified an unsettling and mean-spirited rivalry between the fans of the two teams and created an enemy atmosphere instead of camaraderie between American and National League fans in the two counties. The year before the name change, there were Angels billboards all over the Los Angeles area (even near Dodger Stadium), prompting questions from Angel fans to the owner and the Angels’ organization asking if a name change was being considered. Of course we were all lied to—they said “No, of course not,” and then the next year, The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim moniker was hung onto the team. Billboards around Dodger Stadium now feature Dodger players and a firm, “This is MY town” declaration. War has been declared [lol]!

After all, when the Dodgers moved to L.A. they weren’t dubbed the Brooklyn Dodgers of Los Angeles. The Giants aren’t the New York Giants of San Francisco. Regardless of where your team may have begun, you are where you are. Baseball fans are much more sensitive about such things than are football fans (Go Steelers!). I’m not sure exactly why—maybe it’s because it’s a 16-game season for football (soon to be 18 if certain folks get their way) and 162 games for baseball (not counting pre- and post-season games), and fans have more time to discuss such things in-between innings…

Suffice to say that the only World Series Championship trophy the team won was as the Anaheim Angels—something Anaheim residents won’t let the organization forget.

But I digress…

I remember watching with Mum many games that were “almost” no-hitters for Ryan, but when I witnessed a REAL one at Angel Stadium in late September of 1974, it was astounding. I finally had a sense of what Dad spoke of—the silence in the stadium—not in connection to a sad event, but because we were witnessing greatness in action. I recall the gasps when a ball was almost hit, the sighs of relief when a batter struck out or popped up, the groans when someone walked (Nolan gave up eight of ‘em that game), the roars at each of Nolan’s 15 strikeouts, the “oohs” when the great Harmon Killebrew came up in the 9th to pinch hit, and the “aahs” when Nolan walked him, and then the thunderous applause and screams when Eric Soderholm struck out to end the game. I couldn’t help but thinking, “Dad would have loved to have seen this one.”

Funny thing, too… I witnessed a milestone from another player who took part in that historic no-hitter (albeit he was playing for the other team

[Minnesota Twins] at the time)—Rod Carew. Mum and I were in left field on that early August game in 1985 at Angel Stadium when Rodney got his 3,000 hit. A stark contrast to the “hush, don’t talk about it” atmosphere when a no-hitter is in progress, the fans went wild every time Rodney came to bat or onto the field, and were rewarded with witnessing another great becoming a part of the elite 3,000 hit club.

I’ve never been a fan of “The Wave” at baseball stadiums. I’ve always considered it a refuge for those without the attention span to follow the game and its intricacies (I dislike the whole beach ball tossing in the stands as well—for some of the same reasons, but also from a safety standpoint since I witnessed a woman getting slugged in the jaw when a guy tried to hit one of the balls making its rounds and this “boy like beer” fan hit her instead—not a pretty sight).

I got a different perspective on The Wave, however, when attending a game with my husband and another couple (neither of whom knew much about baseball, yet had a great time as we explained the game as it progressed)… When my hubby and I were shaking our heads as The Wave was progressing through the stands (while the opposing team was at bat, no less), one of our friends stated simply, “I kinda like it—all these people in one place in total agreement with one another.”

And that’s why I love baseball.

It brings together people you’d never suspect would or could agree on anything and can stop time in its tracks. It can create bonds between people who otherwise can’t always find common ground with one another or understand what makes them tick. It can make you forget all the troubles in your life—at least for a few hours—and can actually make you look at life differently than you had before.

Somehow, nothing else matters when you hear the crack of the bat and watch the ball sail into the bleachers, or when the right fielder catches a fly ball on the warning track and practically throws a strike to home plate to get the runner out, or when the sound of a 101 MPH fast ball hits the catcher’s mitt or you hear nothing but your own breathing as you cross your fingers and hope that the home team pitcher makes it through the top of the 9th inning and gets that rare no-hitter.

Baseball truly is the perfect game, and while the oft-used “baseball as life” metaphor may seem hackneyed and worn to some, it rings loud and clear and true to me.

I think it always will.

One of my favorite players, Torii Hunter, has a foundation whose focus is to help kids develop a strong character and assist them in obtaining a college education. They provide scholarships, and the applications are available on the website:

The Torii Hunter Project

The Project is also aligned with the Angels Baseball Foundation

As their website states, the Foundation “…focuses on initiatives aimed to create and improve Education, Healthcare, Arts & Sciences, and Community related youth programs throughout the region, in addition to providing children the opportunity to experience the great game of baseball and its countless positive attributes.”

© 2010 · Gael MacGregor