Death of a horseshoe court
Stay tuned for my picks for the best movies of the year
The Front Page
Morning Update
Friday, April 24, 2021
By Ken Tingley
It is one of my only childhood memories of my father’s father.
The house up on Prindle Avenue in Ansonia, Conn. was a magical place when I was a kid complete with acres of lawn, miles of garden and a two-story home that my grandfather had built with his own hands.
It was what your grandparents house is supposed to look like. It smelled of pine needles and had a big screened-in front porch.
Late on those hot, humid summer nights with the fire flies twinkling all around us, the women sat in lawn chairs sipping what the Baptists of the day all drank - lemonade.
The men were out back by the edge of the words as dusk turned into the gloaming where from time to time you would hear the clang of horse shoes and laughter of competition.
My grandfather had built a horseshoe court where his brothers would congregate on those summer evening to let the horseshoes fly with amazing consistency. My dad was good, but my grandfather Joe was better. I remember that much.
On a big leafy tree next to one end of the court, my grandfather had put together a scoreboard with two rails nailed on a piece of board with metal rings. Each time someone tossed a ringer or scored a point, one of the men would slide a few rings down to the other side of the board.
There was a rudimentary bench where the players could rest for a moment while working up a thirst in the dying Sunday evening.
This was adulthood.
This was the fraternity of my future.
Sadly, I never got to play on my grandfather’s court.
The cancer got him when he was just 61. I was 10.
Not long afterward, my dad built his own house in a nearby town. My father’s brother was the contractor. I remember our family sitting in the nearly finished living room on another summer night, and my mother telling my father how proud he would have been of him.
Not long after that, I remember my dad claimed some of the woods for his own horseshoe court in the new backyard. As the oldest son, he inherited his father’s scoreboard, too and put it up on another leafy tree. Over the years I was part of many spirited matches. I got pretty good, too, not as good as my dad, but I gave him a game.
Twenty-five years ago, I was trying to figure out what to do with all that Queensbury sand in my own new backyard. It was clear you couldn’t grow grass in it.
I went down to the lumber yard, purchased eight lengths of 2X4 and constructed two boxes where I could put the sand to good use. My brother, who worked in a machine shop, got a couple pieces of steel and provided the stakes.
Before too long, I had my dad up there pitching shoes and we continued the family tradition into a third generation.
I had high hopes that friends and relatives might regularly take a term at the horseshoe court, but those times were rare.
Each year, the weeds grew a little and have sadly taken over. One of the boxes is completely overgrown. I used the other spot of sand to split some wood this week to keep from tearing up my lawn. When I was done splitting the wood, I wondered if it was time to retire the court with some topsoil.
Maybe it was time for the next generation.
Oscars preview
The Academy Award ceremony has always been a special event for me. I’m not sure if it is the magic of movies or the memory of sharing the night with my mother and her love of the Hollywood glamor.
With the three days to go, I have seen all the nominated movies except three, so this year I’m going to call myself an expert. I expect to see the final three over the net three days.
On Saturday morning, I’ll give you a snapshot of the best movies you probably missed - animated, international and documentary - and on Sunday, I’ll take a look at the the major awards you will see celebrated Sunday night.
I would love to hear what your favorite movie was this year. We all certainly had enough time in front of the television to make us all experts.
Don't bury it. Renew the tradition.
What do you have to lose?