When Connie and her sister were teenagers, they lived half-a-mile from Dickson Street, which was party central in the college town of Fayetteville, Arkansas. After Mom and Step-Dad had gone to bed, the girls would out slip out their bedroom window and hang out with friends until the wee hours of the morning.
Before they left, the girls would place a folded strip of paper in the door jam. If the paper was there when they returned, no one had entered the room. Paper on the floor meant someone had opened the door and they could expect to be beaten with a belt by their step-dad at breakfast. It was a risky venture, but sounded like a good idea at the time.
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Living across the street from a softball field is nothing to brag about, especially in this neighborhood. The lights stay on until after midnight, people scream, cars peel out, and the place smells of soured beer and urine.
Last week, out of boredom, I decided
to forgo watching another rerun of Antique Roadshow and take in a ballgame instead. A couple of teams from the Women’s Industrial League were on the field.
Lo and behold, Rachel Crofton was playing third base for Kawneer. She caught me looking at her and smiled. Walking off the field, her butt swung back and forth like a rusty gate.
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Or the three people I guilted into reading this blog, whatever.
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