tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post7236807425078037540..comments2023-06-08T06:49:49.809-05:00Comments on New Baldwyn "Bearcat" Blog: The Day Baseball Was Banned from Brice’s Cross RoadsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger7125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-70318482488722037542008-03-07T15:25:00.000-06:002008-03-07T15:25:00.000-06:00Carl, I fear to wade too deep into my romantic mem...Carl, I fear to wade too deep into my romantic memories.... however I actually went fishing there once. Murray Cook and I were going to camp out overnight and do some early morning fishing. Unfortunately, a light rain plus too many critter noises prompted us to spend the night in the old 57Chevy. We flipped coins to see who got the back seat. Ever tried to get a good night's sleep in the front seat of a car? And the raccoons stole our bait... not one of our better fishing trips. MCAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-69524537302541106172008-03-07T14:45:00.000-06:002008-03-07T14:45:00.000-06:00Now you've opened up a real can of worms!ELDER...Now you've opened up a real can of worms!<br><br>ELDER'S LAKE<br><br>Sometimes at nightfall he would forget(?) or for some unknown reason not close the entrance gate. There were 2 pavilions and some large picnic tables to the right across from the refreshment stand.<br><br>How pretty the girls were in that Fall full moon light sitting on the tables with us!Carl Houstonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06135737520303997277noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-53620625417214975482008-03-07T14:15:00.000-06:002008-03-07T14:15:00.000-06:00Loved that poem Bobby. I think I saw that same tru...Loved that poem Bobby. I think I saw that same truck turning off on the road to Elder's Lake one evening, dream on....MCAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-11323027317483183442008-03-07T13:35:00.000-06:002008-03-07T13:35:00.000-06:00Here's the poem Carl remembered about the pick...Here's the poem Carl remembered about the pickup truck. If it had been nighttime, of course, it would have been minus one headlight and maybe both taillights.<br><br>DREAM WEAVER<br><br>Somewhere today in north Mississippi,<br>still cruising the narrow blacktops<br>that wind and loop and crisscross<br>before they collapse into a rutted field road<br>leading to a dirt yard,<br>an abandoned barn,<br>and a frail, unpainted farm house<br>anchored to the ground by a tv antenna<br>tilted like a broken promise,<br>is a pickup truck named “Dream Weaver.”<br><br>I saw it once,<br>limping along Highway 45<br>just below Booneville,<br>before it turned off the main road<br>and disappeared, heading God knows where—<br>its oversized cab, short bed,<br>warped frame pointing the front wheels east<br>and the back ones west,<br>its magical name, relic of some grander day,<br>stenciled across the tailgate<br>on a field of rusting, mud-splattered stars,<br>its driver no one I knew,<br>or everyone.<br><br>The day was early summer<br>after no spring at all,<br>a day of untinted blue sky<br>and sunlight as thick as honey.<br>Passing cyclists sliced the wind<br>with lovers laced to their backs,<br>and at every stoplight<br>beautiful young women dawdled<br>behind the steering wheels of convertibles.<br>Children frolicked in every park and yard,<br>and old men lounged on courthouse benches,<br>hawking and spitting their ancient grief<br>into the bright, splendid air.<br><br>With one self I drive on, duty-compelled <br>toward an appointment in Tupelo,<br>but with another I turn back to follow<br>the Dream Weaver.<br>I see him, home again, sitting on the front porch,<br>strumming a guitar, dreaming in song.<br>Tonight he and his lover will lie<br>on a blanket beside a lake.<br>When he comes to her he will bring<br>the moon riding on his shoulder,<br>and her fingers will pluck stars from his hair<br>and give them back to him as eyes.<br><br> --Bobby Hamblinbobby hamblinnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-7152883172176488442008-03-07T11:30:00.000-06:002008-03-07T11:30:00.000-06:00Milton Copeland has asked me about the "Bapti...Milton Copeland has asked me about the "Baptist" church in the story. The actual church, of course, is Presbyterian, but my family went to the Baptist church in Jericho, and I don't know what the equivalent of the Baptist W.M.U. is among Presbyterians. The caretaker of the park was Curtis Tapp, and while he did take sweat baths in the church attic, he never chased us out of the park. There was a real Grady, but he never hit a baseball through the church window. The soldier is a wildly exaggerated portrait of my brother-in-law J.C. Morris. He did use a huge knife to cut hoop cheese and bologna, and once used it to tap the chest of a drunk who was bothering my mother at the store. I never saw a drunk man sober up so quickly. I won't tell you the name of the drunk--some of you might be kin to him!Bobby Hamblinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03970073596436788956noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-58339504395573952642008-03-07T10:56:00.000-06:002008-03-07T10:56:00.000-06:00LMAO!I would loved to have seen that!TMGLMAO!<br><br>I would loved to have seen that!<br><br>TMGAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-812534277296231586.post-36262288893413457342008-03-03T12:19:00.000-06:002008-03-03T12:19:00.000-06:00Nice article, Bobby, and thanks for your contribut...Nice article, Bobby, and thanks for your contribution! Always glad to get them, do some more occasionally...<br><br>I had one you sent out about the old pickup truck going down US45, and have misplaced it.<br><br>You may post it here in the comments section if you like, would like to see it again and I'll be sure and save it better this time!Carl Houstonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06135737520303997277noreply@blogger.com