"Harmless" Harmon Killebrew

I know.  Hold onto your hats blog readers because I am about to blog about BASEBALL.  Which is freaky and weird since, as an adult  I generally find it to be a slow and boring affair.  

I spent summers until I was 14 visiting my grandparents in Minnesota.  They had a cottage there on Lake Pelican near Pelican Rapids.  I had no idea how deeply those summers would affect me for the rest of my life, but I am absolutely glad that I had them.  They are the one part of my childhood that approached something akin to normal.

There were no children at the lake for us to play with, so we played games amongst ourselves where we never did that at home.  We ate every meal outside on a folding aluminum table.  We ate fish from the lake, vegetables from the tiny garden.  We swam most of the day or until our lips turned blue under my grandfather's watchful eye.  We freely roamed the countryside and nearby farmlands without fear of abduction or worse.  We snitched packets of sugar from the breakfast table that we would feed to the horses that lived a mile away.  We threw rocks into the stock tank at the Oldabandonedbarn.  That would give me killer precision at softball later.  We walked 2 miles in our dime store flipflops over gravel roads down to Els Resort for penny candy or around The Triangle for no reason other than  a child's nomadic need.  It was idyllic in every sense of the word.

The lake cottage was small and 3 adults and 5 kids would never have fit in there.  As the only girl I shared a bedroom with my mom.  My grandparents the other and my brothers were relegated to the room above the boathouse.  I always envied them that, the ability to escape the watchful eye of so many adults.  But sleeping in the house gave me certain privileges like access to the bathroom and falling asleep to the laughter of the people on Johnny's couch as my grandparents watched the Tonight Show.

It also means I got to see parts of my grandparents that my siblings did not.  I saw their quiet moments of togetherness.  My grandparents were married for over 50 years - something I can't even begin to comprehend in today's  world of fast food relationships.  I never saw them hug or kiss.  They slept in separate beds.  But I never doubted that they loved each other.   They spent all day apart, perhaps a pattern left over from the days when my grandfather was a telephone lineman for Bell.  Maybe it just worked out that way so as to keep peace.  I just don't know.  I can't remember them having very many conversations, but there was an energy between them that felt good and right and not at all like that between my parents.  That silent energy intrigued me.  Still does.  It was like a river that flowed between them always.  When my Grampa died, the river stopped and my Grami became lost without it, without him.  She lived another seven or eight years after that, but it was as if she always looked for him.

The cottage was my Grami's domain and I avoided it.  She was a stern woman who scared the crap outta me well into her 80's.  Her idea of fun was housework, cooking and all kinda things we considered chores.  Too much my Mama's daughter for that.  My grandfather on the other hand was warm and charismatic.  I remember following him around like a cub.  He gave us small tasks to do down at the lake or in the garden.  He took us fishing every day.  He let the noise of children break into his well-deserved lake silence and never got angry or short with us.

One of my favorite places to hang with him was in his workshop - a room out in the carport with his tools.  It always smelled like sawdust out there.  I think he went out here to escape from my Grami, my mom, and, yes, even us kids.  But sometimes he would let one of us into his domain, his holy of holies.  Other than the smell, the thing I remember most is the small radio on which he would listen to the Twins games.  I played with the curls of wood that fell off the planer onto the floor.  Or maybe I would just sit on the floor with my knees tucked under my chin content to be with someone who made me feel so safe.  Maybe he let me in because I revered that quiet as much as he did.  I can still remember how he would shake his head and talk about "Harmless" Harmon Killebrew when he came up to bat.  I thought Harmless was a strange name for a parent to give a kid.

Only years later would I understand it was a nickname my grandfather had given him.  Killebrew is best know for being a power hitter - second only to the Babe in the American League.   He retired at the top of the right-hand HR hitter board (Yes baseball stats - from ME!?!?)  He acquired the name Harmless because to my Grampa those runs never came when the Twins needed them most, but instead would come when they were leading by 4 or 5 runs.

I saw on the Yahoo feed today that Harmon Killebrew passed away age 74 from the complications of esophageal cancer.  He will undoubtedly be eulogized for his many accomplishments today.  I just wanted to add a few of his lesser known ones.  His name will forever be linked to a workshop where there is an older man shaving down a screendoor while a small girl sits on the floor and quietly plays with the wood shavings and basks in the silent flow of the river.  I can close my eyes and am right there.  Only a big league hitter like Harmon Killebrew has the power to knock you back that far in time.

RIP Harmon Killebrew.  Tell him I said hi.