My family came into town this weekend for an early celebration of my 75th birthday. I offered to take them on a tour of Wheatland, the home of James Buchanan, our 15th President. They weren’t interested. They wanted to go ride the Strasburg Railroad, a 45-minute ride through Amish Country. I’ve taken the Amtrak from Lancaster to New York, many dozens of times, so I had about as much interest in another train ride as they had in Wheatland, none.
We decided that they would go for the railroad ride on Saturday afternoon, and then we would all meet at Clipper Magazine Stadium for a Barnstormer game and the all-you-can-eat buffet.
They started with a little warm-up train, and Kevin quickly became Cooper’s favorite uncle…
I think I can. I think I can. I think I can.
So, they moved up to the real train…
When they got back from their choo choo ride, they had questions about the ballgame. Who are they playing, they all wanted to know. I told them that they were playing the newest team in the league, the Spire City Ghost Hounds. That didn’t interest them, so I had to start listing all the food that was on the buffet menu to regain their interest.
The Spire City Ghost Hounds joined the Atlantic League this year and they didn’t even have a name until June 24th. They wore question marks on their uniforms.
“You know I’ve been to the ballpark on a team with no name…”
So, then they held a contest to name the team and The Spire City Ghost Hounds was the winning name.
It might seem strange that The Spire City Ghost Hounds could possibly be the winning name, until you hear some of the losing suggestions: Bone Shakers, Rail Frogs, Sawbones, and Screaming Alpacas
The first part of their name actually makes sense, though. They’re from Frederick, Maryland, a city which was immortalized in the Civil War era poem Barbara Frietchie by The American Poet John Greenleaf Whittier. It refers to the spires of the many churches in the downtown area of the city. The most famous lines of the poem, which we all had to read back in high school was:
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
The Ghost Hounds part of their name, well, that’s from a local Frederick, Maryland urban legend about a grey-eyed dog that haunts the city, and it probably makes some sense to them, but not to anybody else in the world. Woo. Spooky Ghost Hounds. What a joke. I can’t wait for the Stormers to have a go at this new team.
So, we headed off to the field preparing to party, and party we did.
“I want to thank you all for coming out today to celebrate my 75th birthday.”
Then when my nephew DJ and my brother Kevin spotted the Barnstormers Mascot, Cylo, they raced all the way from the party pavilion in right field to where Cylo was entertaining the crowd on the left field side of the stadium.
Kevin made sure that he got in all the pictures. He writes a weekly article in the San Francisco Chronicle, and he was determined to write a story about the weekend so that it could be written off as a business expense. Maybe, contrary to what Brother X and I have been telling him for his 65 years, he might actually be the smart one in the family.
Now, all we needed was for the Barnstormers to kick a little Ghost Hound butt.
That was not to be, though, as the Hounds of Hell kept blasting homeruns at us into the pavilion where we were sitting. They stomped the Stormers by a score of 14-4.
We still had a blast, but I guess the Stormers should not have taken the new team so lightly.
Maybe, they should have called Ghostbusters.
Peace & Love, and all of the above,
Earl
Barbara Frietchie
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple- and peach-tree fruited deep,
Fair as a garden of the Lord
To the eyes of the famished rebel horde,
On that pleasant morn of the early fall
When Lee marched over the mountain wall,—
Over the mountains winding down,
Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Forty flags with their silver stars,
Forty flags with their crimson bars,
Flapped in the morning wind: the sun
Of noon looked down, and saw not one.
Up rose old Barbara Frietchie then,
Bowed with her fourscore years and ten;
Bravest of all in Frederick town,
She took up the flag the men hauled down;
In her attic window the staff she set,
To show that one heart was loyal yet.
Up the street came the rebel tread,
Stonewall Jackson riding ahead.
Under his slouched hat left and right
He glanced: the old flag met his sight.
“Halt!”— the dust-brown ranks stood fast.
“Fire!”— out blazed the rifle-blast.
It shivered the window, pane and sash;
It rent the banner with seam and gash.
Quick, as it fell, from the broken staff
Dame Barbara snatched the silken scarf;
She leaned far out on the window-sill,
And shook it forth with a royal will.
“Shoot, if you must, this old gray head,
But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame,
Over the face of the leader came;
The nobler nature within him stirred
To life at that woman’s deed and word:
“Who touches a hair of yon gray head
Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
All day long through Frederick street
Sounded the tread of marching feet:
All day long that free flag tost
Over the heads of the rebel host.
Ever its torn folds rose and fell
On the loyal winds that loved it well;
And through the hill-gaps sunset light
Shone over it with a warm good-night.
Barbara Frietchie’s work is o’er,
And the Rebel rides on his raids no more.
Honor to her! and let a tear
Fall, for her sake, on Stonewall’s bier.
Over Barbara Frietchie’s grave
Flag of Freedom and Union, wave!
Peace and order and beauty draw
Round thy symbol of light and law;
And ever the stars above look down
On thy stars below in Frederick town!
earlthepearl137 