Killer singles hitter: One-Eyed NB

Our family had a reunion at a 4-H camp a couple of weekends ago. It’s been a number of years since we had one because of the many family weddings we’ve had lately. Mostly we did what people do at reunions—eat and yak.      

On Friday morning some of us were talking about the 828 blog—myself, my two sisters, Linda and Nancy, and my brother George and his wife, Muffy, our first guest blogger. We were talking about Obstacle Park, the last blog post about our playing whiffle ball in the backyard. Since Nancy (N or NB) was there, I quickly realized that I had left out an important piece of Kerber whiffle ball lore: Nancy had a unique batting stance that was long remembered in our family. I said I would rectify this by posting a comment to the 828 blog, as a sort of an addendum.

Batting right-handed, N used only one hand to grip the bat as she faced the pitcher straight on. She stood more like she was playing tennis rather than whiffle ball. She was a good hitter too, not hitting (m)any home runs but she did get a lot of singles and some doubles. She hit mostly ground balls, but being quick, she often beat out the throw to first.

Linda asked, “You know why she stood like that, don’t you?” There were ‘Nopes’ all around. “She swung that way because she had to face the pitcher square on to see the pitch. She’s practically blind in her left eye.”

Now it was ‘What!?’ all around. None of us knew that Nancy, who we thought we knew well, was one-eyed.


Why would you put a patch on this face?

Later that night around the campfire, I asked the rest of our siblings if they knew that N could see only out of her right eye. (She can detect movement and shapes with her bad eye.) Besides Linda, only Alan knew.

Then someone asked, “NB, Didn’t you wear an eye patch in high school?” All us boys remembered the patch, but we didn’t know that she couldn’t see out of her left eye.



Is this the face of a cheater?

In grade school she remembers cheating on the eye exam by peeking through her fingers. Tests were something she was expected to pass, and she did. By high school, someone somehow figured out that she had Amblyopia (lazy eye), and she wore a patch that was suppose to force her to use her bad eye. Of course, being of that ‘fit in’ high school age, she hated it. Alas, by tenth grade it was too late – you can’t teach old muscles new tricks.

This seems like an important fact for us Kerber boys not to have realized her problem at the time - a big deal. It suggests that we saw only the surface but not the interior. Were we just uncurious as to why she was wearing an eye patch? Did we think that the patch was cool and that was enough for us? As kids we really did see only N’s surface; as we became older, it was a pleasure getting to know her more deeply. (It has been a pleasure getting to know all my sibs more deeply.)

At times when I’m slip into my “If Only” game, I say things like, “If only I were born in an age when people questioned authority more easily, then I wouldn’t…” Thinking of N’s eye, I say, “If only someone would have caught the problem when it could have been corrected.” But I also think, “If only Nancy could have been born in a cooler age, maybe she’d have had better choices in eye patches.

 --Bob   

Obstacle Park

In 1958 or 59 dad reduced the size of the garden to give us kids more room to play. He planted grass on the new part, and when he thought it was established sufficiently (it wasn’t) for kid use, the first of many whiffle ball games were played on our new field.

The ball field was a little lopsided. First base was a neighbor’s clothesline pole; second, third, and home were marked by anything we could use—an old, flat ball glove, a toy, or often rhubarb leaves that we picked from the edge of the garden. I never did understand why mom or dad never complained about that. 

 In the late 1950s, the Kerber teams were so short on players that the team batting supplied the pitcher. Also, when a player got on base, we often needed an imaginary runner so that the one who just got a hit could pitch to his (mostly his) teammate. We often had only two on a team. There were sometimes more when mom instituted her own rule of “Let the little kids play!” She usually yelled this from the kitchen window where she watched over everything in the backyard.

The lineups were chosen from a limited number of kids. For reasons unknown to me, Dan and Bill never played. In the early years that left me, John, Linda (not often), Nancy, and George. Mike and Fred were designated as “little kids” in the early years. Sometimes Alan, the next in line, was used as a pinch runner and he ran as a player who was determined to lose his little kid status. At that time Joe and Gary were too young; in later years, they would move up to the “little kids” category.

We named our ballfield Obstacle Park because of the confining nature of our backyard. Porches, roofs, sides of houses, bushes, trees, clothesline poles, sandbox—each obstacle had to have its own rule, such as a ball hit in the air and onto a porch was an automatic homerun and a ball hitting a garage or porch roof that was caught before hitting the ground was an out.

Other fun OP rules:

·         A ball hit into the garden was an out; who wanted to face the wrath of dad?

·         A ball hit onto Cherry Street was a homerun. (George was famous for these, and when he was at bat, the defense made a radical shift right.)

·         If you hit the second-floor roof of either house, it was a homerun. (John was good at this.)

·         A fly ball that hit a tree branch and was caught before hitting the ground was an out.

·         A fly ball that landed in a bush and got stuck would be an out.

·         A ball that landed in the sandbox was nothing but a hit ball.

These rules were fun to make up, but they produced a lot of arguments, which often led to older kids shouting and younger kids crying. But the games almost always went on.

The rule that undoubtedly was the biggest source of arguments was being able to put a runner out just by hitting him with the ball. The plastic balls would sting a bare back or leg if thrown hard enough. And this rule often led to “You’re out, I hit you!” “No you didn’t! I didn’t feel anything!” “I did too! I nicked the back of your shorts!” And so on.

As much arguing as we did, I don’t remember it ever escalating into a physical fight. We spent hours and hours playing whiffle ball. The game was so popular that when we returned to 828 from college or military service, we often got a game up. The last game at Obstacle Park was played on Thanksgiving weekend in 1988. That was when all of us Kerbers came home to say goodbye to the house. (Dad died in 1981.) Mom was selling 828 and moving to a smaller apartment. Many of us played in that game, and many of our own kids, too. And Mom didn’t have to tell us to let the little kids play.

Often in my adult life I think of my childhood as difficult or even grim. (More about that in a post soon.) But when I remember the good times I had at Obstacle Park, I know that “difficult” is only part of the picture.

-- Bob

Note – the  828 blog will not post in the next couple of weeks. Our family is having a reunion, at which there will undoubtedly be a whiffle ball game. If not that, there will be plenty of pinochle, euchre, etc.                              

Lint Lessons: Making Grandma's Throw Pillows

Eleanor Kerber Schmitmeyer is 828’s first Gen 2 blogger. She is the daughter of Steve and Linda Schmitmeyer and one of George and Dorothy’s 38 grandchildren. Her earliest memories of Grandma Dorothy are making homemade egg noodles and playing rummy. Born and raised north of Pittsburgh, she recently started her first “real” job as a physical therapist at the Cherokee Indian Hospital in Western North Carolina. 

Lint Lessons: Making Grandma's Throw Pillows

Earlier this summer, I crammed the last of my belongings into my Scion XA, a small hand-me-down car from my parents that has little room to spare even when it’s empty. I moved my bike pump, running shoes, and school binders from behind the driver’s seat to make room for things that have been in storage at my parent’s house for the past several years—a set of shelves, small toolkit, dart board, and large soup pot stuffed with one of Grandma Dorothy’s afghans. 

I was getting ready for another journey to Western North Carolina where I have been in graduate school for the past three years. I have made the 550-mile trip many times, but this particular one was significant because it marked the beginning of my “professional” life there. A full-time job as a physical therapist was waiting for me; all that remained was for me to drive my nervous-but-excited self and the last of my Pittsburgh possessions down South to officially make my transplant complete.

I unplugged my phone charger, then scanned my packing checklist to make sure I wasn’t leaving anything north of the Mason Dixon Line. After realizing an omission, I headed to the garage and shouted to my older brother, “Hey Luke! Where is Grandma’s dryer lint?”

I imagine plastic bags full of dryer lint are not typically packed by young professionals embarking on new careers, but I have Grandma Dorothy to thank for this.

Bags of lint

“Grandma’s dryer lint” is something Luke and I have been casually collecting over the past several years. It started when I was in middle school, where I learned the basics of sewing in a home economics class. One night when I was diligently practicing my stitches on a spare piece of fabric, my mom explained how Grandma Dorothy used to make throw pillows out of bits of fabric and saved-up dryer lint. Though my 12-year-old self was not particularly impressed by this fact, over the years I have become enamored by the concept, appreciating the craftiness, creativity, and—of course—frugality of her actions. I’m not exactly sure when, but soon after realizing this, I promised myself to make a Lint Pillow at some point in my life. 

Elly with her chief lint collector, Luke

Luke jumped on board to assist with the Lint Pillow Cause and became my primary collector. He diligently harvested lint from his wire dryer screen and stowed it in Ziploc bags—I daresay he hasn’t missed a load.

There was no hesitation or second guessing in Luke’s response to my question: “The bags are on the top shelf, behind the laundry detergent.”

I walked back to the laundry room to find, as promised, three dusty one-gallon Ziploc bags full of gray-blue dryer lint. Pleased with the volume of lint stuffed into each bag, I retrieved them from the shelf and tucked them between some of the more practical items in my very full Scion. 

I drove south, excited by what awaited me in this next chapter of life: a challenging new job, living on my own, receiving a paycheck. But I also have a good deal of apprehension. I’m very aware that my life as a student has ended, a lifestyle I’ve known for twenty-two years now. As I work towards establishing myself as a new professional, I take comfort in our family’s strong roots and traditions.  Which is why, when things get overwhelming, I often find myself seeking simple, productive tasks that help me feel more grounded. After all, I have plenty of dryer lint saved up, and at least one Lint Pillow to stitch. Life as an adult is looking bright. 

—Elly  Schmitmeyer