Reflections on A (Sometimes Absurd Life) – The Good, the Bad, and the Baseball Bag
By Mary Tanck
PHMOmag Columnist
Living in a small town is one of the great paradoxes of American life. On the one hand, I can’t sneeze without four people texting me, “Bless you,” that day. On the other hand, if my kid starts doing drugs, I know I will hear about it by end of day.
When my daughter was in 8th grade, she went to a high school basketball game and no less than three people texted me pictures of her sitting in the stands. To be clear, she wasn’t misbehaving or doing anything wrong – she wasn’t even trolling people by cheering for Harrisonville – everyone just wanted to let me know she was there and they saw her. It annoys my kids but, as a parent, I find a certain comfort in knowing people are looking out for them.
In Pleasant Hill, we take care of each other. My friend Tiffany Hamilton once told me, “The thing about Pleasant Hill is we’re gonna fight like cats and dogs. We’re also gonna take care of each other. We might have to scrape to pay the electric bill, but we will make sure the food pantry is stocked.”
Tiffany passed away in 2023, but her words still ring true. Just look at our friendly local Facebook discussion page. You would think we’d spit at each other on sight. We go to battle over things an outsider wouldn’t even recognize as being discussion worthy. Case in point, what are we going to call The Green Bridge now? I bet if I posted that question, I would have 2,586 comments and three fistfights would break out at the old Casey’s.
But anytime there is a tragedy in this town, it takes an average of 17 minutes for a meal train to be organized and the hat to be passed. (Although in today’s world, passing the hat looks more like sharing a Venmo or Go Fund Me address.) Traffic still stops for funeral processions, and men still remove their hats in the Napa parking lot when the procession passes. Having been part of more than one funeral procession in this town, I can tell you that sign of respect makes those who are mourning feel a little less alone in the world.
There’s a fair likelihood that someone might even start a Go Fund Me to pay for the emergency room bills of those who participated in the fistfights over what to call The Green Bridge now.
Our small town may not have any mega churches, but we have several smaller churches to choose from. At PH United Methodist Church, we eat a lot of cake, and the ladies always hold back a corner piece for me – they know it’s my favorite. Do big city people know who likes the corner and who is wrong? We also have a commiserate number of smoke shops and liquor stores; much like the church ladies, the people running these shops know their regulars’ favorite drinks and tobacco.
In the fall of 2014, a certain Senior Airman Paul Webber came home to Pleasant Hill. I don’t know Senior Airman Webber and I don’t know his story. But I know that PH Pet and Livestock Center, Sonic, Guido’s Pizza, and PH Chiropractic all had “Welcome Home, Senior Airman Webber” on their signs. We disagree on how the country should be run, but we love our country, we love our servicemen and women, and we love our people.
We love our people because we know who our people are.
Looking out for each other has its limits though. An alert reader of my column recently sent me a photo of an abandoned baseball bag on Broadway across from the ball fields. Apparently, The Baseball Bag has been there for several weeks – it even gets mowed around – yet no one has picked it up. There is discussion of what might be in it, but no brave man has yet stepped forward to look.
The alert reader wanted me to write a hard-hitting investigative piece about The Baseball Bag; here’s the thing, though, if you all ain’t opening it, I’m certainly not opening it! I’m a volunteer humor-ish columnist, investigating suspicious baseball bags is not in my job description. I consider myself a problem solver, but some problems are just going to have to be allowed to exist without my input.
Today I encourage you to find joy. Better yet – provide some joy to your friendly local humor-ish columnist and let her know what’s in The Baseball Bag. You (probably) won’t regret it.