The beeches and maples, oaks and birches were every color from the palest yellows to the deepest reds. On this particular Saturday in October they were so bright they seemed lit from within, glowing stars in a daytime sky. I was winding down Beech Glen Road along West Creek to the mill. Frank needed a wall, that’s what Ron had said, and I was going to help Ron build it. I didn’t know much about building a shale stone wall and neither did Ron, but he knew more than I did and he got us the job. That part of Pennsylvania is pretty much made of shale rock. You can use it for walls, build a chimney and even a house. The walls that line the farm fields are usually laid up dry with the rocks stacked to hold each other in place. A good wall is a thing of beauty, a sculpture. Each one has its own personality.
I was glad Frank needed a wall. There wasn’t much in the way of paying jobs around Benton, so when one came up you were grateful, and relieved. A little cash right before winter would come in handy. Now that I think back on it I realize that Ron most likely didn’t need to be building a wall for Frank. He probably took the job to help me out as much as anything. I was just twenty-two and still feeling my way along. The wall was on a dirt road and it helped hold back the embankment on the hillside so the road wouldn’t wash out. Nobody ever came by there so it was solitary work, well solitary work for two.
I worried a little about Ron’s hands. After all he was a fine artist and banging those rocks around could crush a finger. Someone who could draw every detail of a Queen Anne’s Lace and then turn it into a collar for Don Quixote should be careful. Ron’s pinky stuck out anyway, kind of like when you hold a china teacup. He probably broke it in an art argument. You know how passionate those can be. So I guess maybe lugging rocks wasn’t so bad.
I remember just when it was because we had a little radio with us. We were rooting for the Mets that year, it was October 1973, they had Yogi Berra managing, we called them the “Amazing Mets”. That was the year Tug McGraw used to say, “Ya gotta believe”. Me and Ron, we believed. After all they had won it all in ’69 and here we were again, well almost. It was pennant time. The Mets took the East and Cincinnati took the West, “The Big Red Machine”. That was one dangerous team and the Mets had their work cut out for them. The Reds had won 99 games that year, the Mets only 82. You had to believe.
There is nothing like being outside along a dirt road in the fall when the sun is filtering through the trees and all you have to do is build a rock wall and listen to a ballgame on the radio. It didn’t take too long before we really had the hang of the work and got into a smooth rhythm. We were going to do a good job. Frank would be pleased with his wall. We would be pleased too. With a wall you could always go back and take a look at it and remember. It was something you did that would be there for a while, kind of like Ron’s paintings. I always knew he was one of the greats. I could sense it even when I was a kid. So building a wall with him made me feel a little like the sorcerer’s apprentice but without getting into trouble.
Game one was on Saturday afternoon. We had Tom Seaver, one of the greatest pitchers ever, on the mound. It was a pitchers’ duel all right. The game was tied 1-1 going into the bottom of the ninth with Seaver still pitching. What a heart-breaker. Johnny Bench hit a walk-off homer and Riverfront Stadium went crazy. Ron and I went back to the studio and had some soup and a few beers. Tomorrow would be another day. At least we had made a good start on the wall. The adrenaline had kept us moving. It wouldn’t be long now. Tomorrow was Sunday, there would be a game so we decided to continue the wall. The only problem was that now the Mets were down a game in a five-game series.
Sunday morning found us back on Frank’s dirt road working on the wall. It was a beautiful day and quiet, almost like being in church. We paced ourselves and took a good lunch break. The wall was coming along just fine. The hardest part was going around collecting rocks and loading them into the ’47 Dodge pick-up. That was a truck where you had to double-clutch and shift into neutral and then into the next gear, it took a little practice, like building a wall with rocks. Another few days and we would finish. Frank would have his wall and we would get paid. The game started.
It seemed like deja vu all over again, another pitching duel, Jon Matlack and Cincinnati’s Don Gullett pitched great. Rusty Staub homered for the Mets in the fourth and that was the only run going into the ninth inning. At least this time the Mets had a lead, but it wasn’t much. They really needed this game. Suddenly all hell broke loose. The Mets cracked it open and beat up the Reds’ relievers. They scored four more runs. Matlack held on for a five to nothing win and that was it, the series was tied. Back then they didn’t take a day off when the series moved to the next city. Game three would be played the next day in New York’s Shea Stadium. Bud Harrelson was so elated he said that Matlack had made the Big Red Machine hit like him that day. In retrospect, that might not have been the best thing to say. Ron and I were both worn out so we went our separate ways to get some rest. It looked like it could be a tight series but the wall was taking shape.
1973 was the first year that the World Series weekday games were played at night. But the National League Championship series games were all day games, a perfect backdrop for building a stone wall with an artist along a beautiful secluded dirt road in Columbia County, Pennsylvania. Ron and I knew we had it good. We had a paying job that would be cash-on-completion, we had great weather, and we had the Mets going for the championship. It wasn’t going to be easy though, the series I mean, the Reds had rolled to a ninety-nine win season that year. The Big Red Machine was one of the greatest baseball teams ever assembled. They had Pete Rose, Johnny Bench, Joe Morgan, Tony Perez, they had it all. The Mets, meanwhile, had one of the worst records ever of a division champion. As of July the Mets were in dead last place. At that point Tug McGraw saying, “Ya gotta believe” wasn’t all that convincing. Yet here we were with old-time great Yogi Berra’s Mets going against the best with the series tied at a game apiece.
It was around this time, Monday, October 8, 1973, that I noticed the wall was taking on some kind of synchronicity with the pennant race. Until Monday I didn’t really have an idea of how long the job would take or when we would finish. Now I knew. The wall would be finished when the series was finished. That was all there was to it. Ron and I were in rhythm just like a pitcher and catcher. We automatically knew which rock was going where and we complemented each other’s work and built progress upon progress and all in complete silence. It was a thing of beauty. We had become wall builders.
In Shea stadium Joe Morgan looked for Bud Harrelson before the game. Joe told Bud that Pete Rose was pisssed off about Harrelson’s remarks about their hitting and he wanted Bud to know he was coming after him. The game started with fireworks right away. The Mets scored early and often and the Reds could not get their hitting in gear. By the bottom of the fourth the unbelievable Mets had scored nine runs and were ahead 9-2 going into the fifth inning. This had Ron and I in a groove. By now the wall was practically building itself. It was late afternoon and we weren’t even tired yet. What a game, what a wall. Okay, time to calm down, we had five more innings to go. With Pete Rose on first base Joe Morgan hit a double-play ball to Milner at first. Pete went barreling down to second cleats-up to break up the double-play. It didn’t work but Harrelson had been warned and he knew what Rose was up to. They immediately got into it and soon the benches emptied and a brawl erupted in the infield. Bob Murphy, the Met’s radio announcer, was calling the game. It was better than television, you could just see it.
Somehow order was restored and, incredibly, no one was ejected from the game. When Pete Rose took his place in left field for the bottom of the fifth, Mets fans began showering him with debris. It was New York baseball fans at their finest. You go after our guy and we will cover you with trash. “You want summa this?” New York, baby. The only problem was the Mets were winning and the fans were about to forfeit the game with their behavior. Sparky Anderson got the Reds off the field and National League president, Chub Feeney, threatened the forfeit. Yogi, Willie Mays, Tom Seaver, Rusty Staub, and Cleon Jones all came out of the dugout and persuaded the fans to hold their fire. Order was restored and the Mets won, 9-2. Oh yeah.
So maybe we were tired, a little. We went back to Ron’s studio in the mill and basked in the glow of the old pot-bellied coal stove. On top was a pot of soup full of vegetables from Ron’s garden. I used to call it the never-ending soup. It appeared at the beginning of heating season and lasted through until spring. There was something Darwinian about that soup. In spring it still contained the DNA of the previous fall but it had evolved into a new species, still delicious, but different. Accompanied by Ron’s classic music records, we settled in with a few beers and relaxed in the glow of victory. There was a brief flurry of excitement when Ron decided to pop some popcorn with the stove door open. HIs beard flared up as it caught fire but it went out as quickly as it began. As the sun set, the paintings in the studio grew dimmer and dimmer until we sat silently in the darkness. The smell of burnt beard lingered for a bit, then faded. It had been an exciting day.
Tuesday morning we were back at the wall, the finish was in sight. A good day’s work and we would be done. Nothing could have matched the excitement of Monday’s game and, predictably, Tuesday’s game-four did not. The Mets now held a 2 games to 1 lead. If they won this game it would mean the championship. It’s not that it wasn’t a great game, it was. Maybe the problem was that the Mets lost. Each team scored only a single run during regulation. The Reds looked like they were going to score in both the tenth and the eleventh innings. Only Rusty Staub’s incredible catch saved them in the eleventh but Rusty separated his shoulder in the process. To make things worse, Pete Rose homered for the game-winning run in the twelfth. Shea stadium filled with hate and then immediately deflated as the loss of Rusty Staub sunk in. Both teams had looked tired after the previous day’s brawl. Ron and I decided to call it a day.
Wednesday October tenth dawned bright and clear. The wall was practically finished. As a matter of fact the wall could have been finished the day before but it just didn’t seem right to let it end that way. We had committed ourselves to the project but somehow, in the process, we had also committed ourselves to the series. This was game five in a five-game series and we knew we had to see it through. With nothing much to work on we just finished details and moved a rock here and there for aesthetics. Our focus that day was on baseball. We had a wall. Now we would see if the Mets could get a National League championship.
This was it. The series was tied at two games apiece and this one would decide it all. This was no time to hold anything back. The Mets started their best pitcher, Tom Seaver, who had lost that game-one heartbreaker. Jack Billingham took the mound for the Reds. The Shea Stadium fans held their breath and so did we, the game began. It was close, for a while. The Reds tied the game 2-2 in the fifth but in the bottom of the inning the Mets caught up with Billingham. Sparky Anderson pulled the starter after three batters but the damage had been done. The Mets scored four runs that inning and and gave Seaver a four-run lead going into the sixth inning. Seaver even helped his cause by hitting a double and then scoring on Cleon Jones’ single in the sixth.
The Reds threatened in the ninth by loading the bases with one out. Yogi sent the Mets’ best closer in and brought Tom Seaver back to the bench with him. Tug McGraw took over with only one thought, to finish the game for the championship. “Ya gotta believe.” By now the wall was done and we were entirely focused on the game. This was it, we believed. Joe Morgan popped a fly to short, two outs. Then Tug McGraw got Driessen to hit a grounder to first base. McGraw ran over from the mound, took the throw for the final out and the series was over. The crowd went wild and stampeded out onto the field. You could barely hear Bob Murphy on the radio: “Back to McGraw, he is going to take it to the bag…ooh Mets win the National League Pennant, the Mets have won the National League Pennant, and there is a wild scene here at Shea Stadium, the fans pouring on to the field, unbelievable!!” The players ran to the dugouts for safety in the pandemonium, especially Pete Rose. You couldn’t blame him.
Ron and I just sat there for quite a while soaking it all in, The wall was finished, the Mets had won the series, and it was a beautiful afternoon in the woods. These were moments to savor and we knew it. I don’t think I will ever forget that wall. I even went back and looked at it a few times, though it’s been a while. I will always remember it though, and how we built it together that fall with the red and yellow leaves dropping around us. I will remember Ron’s hands too. I will never forget those hands. Yup, me and Ron, we believed. We even got paid for the wall. Unbelievable.
Dispatches From Key West 
Alice’s Adventures In Uberland
Uber Alice
It was one more in a succession of dreamy days. Alice drowsily looked down through the bougainvillea from her balcony perch to the narrow Old Town street below. She loved Key West in the summer, when time seemed to flow in that special sticky slow way and no one wanted to do anything in a hurry. As she gazed, she heard a nervous voice from the open window of a car below. It sounded so pathetic that she felt the urge to help.
“Oh my, oh dear, I’m already late,” the voice said. “What will she think?”
He was trying to drive and look at his GPS at the same time, and doing both badly. Alice went downstairs, grabbed her bike from the porch and followed. Everyone knows that bicycles go faster than cars downtown, so Alice caught up quickly. Why was he in a hurry? Why did he fret so?
He turned into a narrow lane, barely wide enough for a car, and then disappeared from view through a beautifully carved wooden gate. Curious, Alice peeked inside and was enveloped by the overpowering fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. Suddenly, someone pulled her by the arm…and she was inside.
It seemed she had stumbled in to a party. And what a party it was, with all sorts of characters in costume dancing in a never-ending conga line. She danced along to the mesmerizing beat until she collapsed into a chair. She glimpsed the car driver entering the house, but before she could follow, a waiter appeared with some tiny cakes on a platter.
“Here, eat these,” he said.
“I wouldn’t try those if I were you,” said someone in a chicken suit. “I had one earlier and now I don’t know how I’ll ever find my way home. But, here, take this. I paid for three hours of parking and it still has 57 minutes left on it. You can have it for a dollar.”
“What is this place?” asked Alice.
“Why it’s Uberland,”, said the chicken. “Here we drive each other around, we stay in each other’s houses, we fix each other meals, in fact, we do almost everything for each other. It keeps the economy going. I have an extra cauliflower. Would you like it?
“But how does it work?” asked Alice. “Wouldn’t that just keep everyone going around in circles forever?”
“Well of course”, replied the chicken. “That’s exactly the point, isn’t it? If we stopped it would all come crashing down. You wouldn’t want that to happen, would you?”
Before Alice could think of an answer, the driver scurried by in the wake of a large, elaborately dressed woman who seemed to be in a great hurry. They disappeared through the gate, leaving partiers bobbing behind them.
Alice was too bewildered to even think of following them.
“The queen hates it when she’s late for work,” the chicken cackled. “I’ll bet she gives that little Uberland driver a good thrashing before the night is through. Oh well, sorry I can’t stay and chat. I’ve got guests coming in to rent my porch swing in a little while. Ta ta sweetie.”
Later, back on her balcony, Alice thought about all that she had seen in Uberland.
“Such a curious place,” she pondered. “Could it actually work?”
But it was all too much. She decided to wait and think about it again some other day.
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