Maturation

Since we forgot the camera as we shunted what felt like our life possessions into the car for the Big Trip to Hagerstown and Parts Beyond (diapers? check. changing pad? check? Baby Bjorn? check. And so on...), we'll let this photo of a few of the ripening tomatoes in our southern garden plot stand for a big day of maturation.

Maturation in that Cleo crossed her first state line (into West Virginia, where she witnessed a round of miniature golf and saw most of the greater metropolitan area of Paw Paw) and attended her first baseball game (a 4-1 affair in which Greenville shut down host Hagerstown, largely on the strength of a classic minor league second inning in which the Drive scored three runs on zero hits).

But what I really wish Cleo could remember about the game was the young woman who sang the national anthem. Maybe 15 years old, she stood just shy of the pitcher's mound, surrounded by players who were probably wondering why they were even on the field at 11 a.m. (Camp Day at the ballyard!) and hundreds of wriggling campers in matching oversized tees. To this uncaring audience, she sang heartfully, and while not quite able to hit every note, stayed as true to the tune as she could, as dignified and as professional as any girl her age should hope to be. Listen, Cleo: that rendition of the anthem is the sound of growing up.