A borrowed mitt, a musical memory

For just a few moments on a recent Sunday morning my first name was Sophia and I was 19 years old. Whenever I order an overpriced small vanilla latte from a Starbucks I am asked what name to put on the cup, and I always tell the person with the Sharpie in hand the name I see on her nametag. So, I was Sophia.

The only time this has backfired was at Heathrow Airport in London, where the person taking my order was quite distant from those concocting the beverage. Thus, when the name Fatima was called out there was some confusion as to whether or not the drink was indeed mine. It was.

Speaking of drinks, my doctor has suggested I cut down on my alcohol consumption. I told her I’d certainly give it some thought, which I have done: not cutting down, but thinking about it on occasion.

As I write this a small glass of Drambuie sits within reach, an expensive indulgence which causes me to think of my late wife. She loved Drambuie and, with her first sip, she would invariably turn to me, smile that room-brightening smile she had, and say in a low, husky voice, “Smooth.”

It has been an interesting summer out here. I have crossed the Mississippi River dozens of times and have yet to see any barge traffic. The river seems low but surely a lack of barges on the muddy water would be a major news item, something I’ve not seen.

I hope you caught the “Field of Dreams” game between the Chicago White Sox and New York Yankees. Thanks to brilliant lighting on an Irish-green ball field the effect was stunning, and it made Iowa look to be a wondrous place.

Many years ago I worked briefly as a journalist and was assigned to cover a Presidential candidate visiting the Field near Dyersville. A photo of this candidate throwing a ball, green corn in the background, a gloved left hand out in front like he knew what he was doing, appeared in newspapers and on television all across the country. Here’s the deal; the beautiful ball mitt he was wearing did not belong to him. It was mine. Not exactly ‘of the people’ he had failed to bring a glove to the Field of Dreams, so I produced one from the trunk of my car. Son-of-a-bitch didn’t bother to thank me. I so love politicians and, these days, wish most of them ill.

At some point during the baseball game the producers played a snippet of a Canned Heat song called “Goin’ Up The Country,” a tune from 1968. You oldsters will remember it. As soon as I heard the song I was thrown in to my own past. A number of years ago I was sitting in a restaurant in Munich, Germany when a young couple from Italy joined me. In Germany one is not seated in restaurants: you simply look for an open chair, ask if it’s OK to join the occupants, and sit down. It’s a terrific way to meet people.

This was the first vacation the Italians had taken in fifteen years, as they had a dog and never wanted her to be boarded out. The dog died, so the couple traveled to Germany at Christmas, looking for a bit of happiness. I can’t say they found it, but I did. She was a singer and he was, like me, a bass player and their favorite band was, oddly, Canned Heat. We sang a bit of “Goin’ Up The Country,” while other diners turned to look, and it was beautiful.

Kurt Ullrich lives in rural Jackson County. His book “The Iowa State Fair” is available from the University of Iowa Press.