Ah, Wilderness

I was out hiking in Plymouth with my family the other day and after about four hours of grueling shopping we set up camp in an isolated parking space, somewhere between the towering new Mega Mega Giganto Walmart and the majestic Sam’s Club.
We utilized our wilderness survival training to build a fire out of discarded sales circulars and, once the flames had died down, roasted several hundred marshmallows –barely putting a dent in the super-sized twenty pound ‘family’ package we had purchased during a previous hike in the BJ’s.
After the pain of consuming so many flaming bits of spun corn syrup had subsided, we climbed into our shopping carts to watch the sun setting behind Circuit City. It was an awe-inspiring site, filling me with nostalgia, when suddenly I realized that this was not the Plymouth of my youth.
A moment later my wife reminded me that I had not actually grown up in Plymouth, so it could never have been the Plymouth of my youth: but then, this was not even the Plymouth of last year.
Historic Plymouth was disappearing before my very eyes!
Luckily for me the Olde Towne Trollee was passing by on its historic tour just then, so I jumped on board: much to the dismay of my family, who were all snuggled deep down into their carts.
If there was anyone in town that knew the true story of historic Plymouth, I thought, it was those darn Trolley drivers.
The first tour stop, as it turned out, was an old hang-out of mine: the big rest stop and commuter parking lot at Exit 5 on the Expressway.
“Once upon a time”, the driver began, “this was the site of an information center, where visitors to Plymouth could find pamphlets on all the historical sites and attractions, but nothing else: no donuts, no burgers and fries, nothing!”
A shudder went through the half-empty trolley.
Before the shock of the first stop had subsided, we rolled up to a quaint brick building, no more than 100,000 square feet in size, but now as empty as the Shops at Five.
“Just a few weeks ago this building,” the driver informed his incredulous audience, “was a fully functioning, if undersized Walmart”.
Further down the road we came upon another artifact of a simpler age: what had once been called -it was hard to believe, a ‘Super’ Stop & Shop.
All of these buildings were remarkably well-preserved, and the average visitor would probably not have realized their antiquity, save for the placard that was affixed near the front doors of each building, indicating their last week of occupancy.
The next stop was a fabled Giant K-Mart, last occupied according to its placard, in 2002. Here the trolley pulled over so that we could disembark and take a brief tour.
It was marvelous: the local historical society operated the building as a living museum, staffing the facility with actors portraying the stock boys and cashiers of its Blue Light-lit past. You could talk with these dedicated volunteers, but no matter how hard you tried they never came out of character.
The tour continued, passing strip malls with insufficient parking, lone auto dealerships, and high schools with barely more than a thousand students. It was so reassuring to see that the Plymouth of yesterday (literally yesterday) had not been completely obliterated to make way for the Plymouth of a few hours later.
When the trolley finally circled back around to our campsite, the sun had set behind the stores and the sky was filled with the mysterious lights of the Aurora Storealis.
I got off and rejoined my family, entranced by the neon lights, and filled with a newfound confidence in the future of our community.
“It’s not how big the store is,” I blurted out to my wife and children, “it’s how big the people in the big store are:” or words to that effect.
Then we began packing up our gear in preparation for the long hike down in to the residentially zoned foothills.
“Can we go camp-shopping again soon,” my youngest son asked, unaware of the state of my credit?
“Why not” I promised: “we still have about fifteen pounds of marshmallows left, and empty parking spaces for as far as the eye can see!”

Help Wanted!

It’s not just a job, it’s an adventure! Remember that?

If that appeals to you, how about this: your own staff of 20, near-dictatorial powers, and ultimate responsibility for upwards of 750 very eager ‘employees’.
Enjoy the outdoors?
Like to get a little dirty, now and then?
No, I’m not talking about heading up FEMA or any disaster agency, but you’re getting warmer.
How are you at handling an irate parent, or two, or three, a week?
And of course the pay is, well, to be honest there is no pay.
Ready to sign up? Sorry, it’s not as easy as that. Though there are an enormous set of responsibilities, no pay, long hours and a lot of grief, you also have to be loved and respected by the staff or you’ll never get the job in the first place.

Pope!
You’ve got it, sort of.
I am talking about a once-in-a-lifetime job opening (when you retire you’ll feel like you died and went to heaven) that has just opened up and if you act fast you may have a shot.
El Presidente of the South Plymouth Little League!

I just received an email from South Plymouth Little League saying that resumes are now being accepted, and listing the following percs:
-Free Life Insurance!
-Body guards that travel with you, field to field.
-Cheeze-whiz on your hot dog at no additional cost!
Carpentry experience desirable, but not required.
Public speaking is part of the job, but eloquence is optional.
A big ego is mandatory, but don’t expect that it will get you anywhere.
Little League is full of big egos, and fragile egos and, of course, with hundreds and hundreds of egos that have just hatched and need nurturing.
Strangely enough, you don’t have to know a lot about baseball. You should love the game –the way kids play it, but you don’t have to be a walking encyclopedia of baseball lore, or a former high school star (there are plenty of those guys coaching teams).
No, the main attribute required in a President of a local Little League is a kind of naiveté: you have to believe, no matter how many ‘more-experienced’ staff members tell you otherwise, that you can make the experience more enjoyable for the kids.
That’s the constant struggle –as I see it: to keep it about the kids.

I know a little about the subject. I was Pope Francis the First, back when the League encompassed only about 600 players divided into about 40 teams. Now there’s upwards of 800 players, and something like 60 teams.
When I was the Big Dude of local Little League (there were other titles I heard muttered) the pay was not so good. Today, taking in to account inflation, the pay is the same.
When I was El Presidente I earned the title of ‘The Human Rain Delay” because of a mistake I made with our newfangled sprinkler system. Today there are new fields, new fences, remote-controlled scoreboards, and Cheeze-whiz dispensers to play with.
It’s not really about baseball.
It’s not really about the rules.
It’s definitely not about the parents and their needs.
No, if you want to be the President of the local Little League you have to be a bit of a fool, or willing to act the part at least.
Ideally, a twelve-year-old would make a good Little League President, but they’re usually too busy playing games to take on the job.
If a big piece of that twelve-year-old kid you once were, is still available –maybe forgotten in the glove compartment of your new pick-up truck, you’re a likely candidate.
If you’re a salesman who can set his own hours, or employed locally so you can get away at a moment’s notice, or even if you are temporarily out of work, you’re looking even better.
Do people often scratch their heads and mutter, ‘that’s one crazy SOB” when you speak?
Congratulations, Mr. President.