Getting the picture

In 1973, on January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, I married for the first time. I was a month shy of 18.

I wasn’t interested in the Feast of the Epiphany when I chose it for my wedding date in 1973. Charlie, my husband-to-be had joined the Air Force and was about to go off to basic training. He’d cut his long, musician’s hair already. He didn’t want it to be too big of a shock when the Air Force did it for him. I suppose the date was chosen around that timing and perhaps the first open Saturday of 1973.

My sister made my dress. My sister-in-law was helping with my hair. We were standing in my mom’s bedroom and I was looking at myself in the mirror over her dresser. I was crying. It’s the moment I remember of my wedding day, as if suddenly, I looked at myself, maybe in somewhat the way Charlie might have looked at himself with his short hair, and wondered what I was doing. I don’t know if I doubted my love. I was thinking of making a commitment for life.

Today, I’m reading about Bert Blyleven finally getting into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I’ve got tears in my eyes again. I feel like a sap for having tears in my eyes. I tend to get this way with success stories, especially someone recognized after a long time of waiting for it. Or the story of anybody coming from behind and breaking through. Or the girl who gets the guy in the end.

I got a trial membership to Netflix a month or so ago. I picked movies for my que. Then Netflix suggested some. One was the old Hayley Mills movie, “The Parent Trap”, another was “Singing in the Rain.” I don’t know that either would be considered coming from behind, triumphing in the end stories, but they were both old favorites of mine. It spooked me a little bit. What could be seen about me from the movies I chose?

I signed on for the trial membership because I wanted to see a documentary film called “Food Matters.” It had been recommended to me. I was in the mood to watch it. I put “84 Charring Cross Road” in my que, and “Cannery Row.”

For Christmas I got three new books. Barack Obama’s “Of Thee I Sing: A Letter to My Daughters”, Kevin Klings “The Dog Says How,” and Jonathan Franzen's novel “Freedom.” I wanted each of them for different reasons. What did that say about me? Were these thing superficial…or not?

So back to crying over Bert. Maybe it’s that he’s been the commentator of Twins ballgames for as long as I’ve been a fan. He’s been up for Hall of Fame entry for 14 years. Each year he didn’t get in, he had to face that disappointment publicly. Last year, when asked how he felt about failing to get in one more time, he said, “I feel like crap.”

I liked that. Anything else, any of those “good sportsmanship” platitudes wouldn’t have appealed to me. That’s what it was, I figure. Having him admit he felt like crap, and knowing that this year, he doesn’t.

I meant to watch the news coverage of his selection yesterday. I turned on the TV a few times to do so but it wasn’t the right time and I missed it. I could see the emotion on his picture in the paper today though. He’s quoted as saying, “I was born to throw that baseball.”

He was born in Holland. His parents spoke Dutch. His dad got a job driving truck for his uncle’s molasses company. They didn’t have a lot, but when he needed shoes or a glove, he got them. His dad came to all his games.

He doesn’t read. His favorite cartoon character growing up was Fred Flintstone, he thinks “Field of Dreams” is an “outstanding” movie and likes Kevin Costner, Denzel Washington, Harrison Ford, John Wayne and Westerns.

Are you getting a picture of Bert? Do these things matter?

I like to think they do.

St. Paul Pioneer Press, Blyleven had curve to remember, Charley Walters, 1-6-2011, 2D. Associated Press Photos: Erik Kellar