Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s in the Cradle” has always gotten to me.
It’s a warning about time. A father is too busy when his son is young, and by the time he has time, his son has become the busy one.
But it isn’t really my story.
My parents were there.
They drove three hours each way to watch me play college basketball. When I was younger, football games happened during harvest and baseball games happened during the workday, but somehow Mom and Dad figured it out.
They were there.
Later, when I became the one with a business, a wife, three daughters and too many things competing for my time, I tried to be there too.
I’d take a morning off and drive to Tekamah to play golf with Dad.
We didn’t even keep score.
We’d ride around in the cart, hit the ball, find it and hit it again. Neither of us cared who won.
The point was being there.
Dad has passed now.
And I’ve discovered there is no such thing as enough.
There could always have been one more round of golf. One more ride in the cart. One more ordinary day.
Maybe that’s why Field of Dreams hits me differently now.
After everything Ray Kinsella goes through—the voice, the cornfield and baseball players who shouldn’t be there—it eventually comes down to something incredibly ordinary.
A father and son playing catch.
I’ve wondered what my version of that would be.
With Dad, I know.
Golf.
Give me two more hours with him and put us in a cart. No scorecard necessary.
With Mom, it would be lunch.
We’d talk about the girls, my brothers and what everybody in Tekamah was doing. We’d gossip a little. Probably more than a little.
If I could have both of them sitting at the kitchen table, there would be iced tea and brownies or cookies.
Nothing profound.
That’s the strange thing about the moments you eventually want back.
Most of them weren’t profound when they happened.
They were just life.
So if I could walk into the corn and have one piece of my past waiting on the other side, where would I go?
The answer came almost immediately.
Iowa.
When I was growing up, our Smith-Hardy family reunions were held in Woodbine. We had a park shelter and a baseball diamond, and there were enough of us that we could actually field two teams.
Later, the reunions moved to Logan, where we had access to the town auditorium. No rainouts.
No air conditioning either.
We kids would play on the theater stage until we were soaked with sweat, then run across to the park and play on the swings or hide-and-seek.
Eventually we’d come back starving.
The food was potluck. Casseroles, side dishes, fried chicken and enough desserts to keep a bunch of kids fueled for another trip outside.
And there were Grandma Madeline’s pies.
Cherry. Apple. Peach. Strawberry-rhubarb. Blueberry.
It didn’t matter.
Grandma Hardy never made a bad pie. The crust was perfectly flaky and the pies disappeared fast.
I developed a strategy.
Pie first.
Then I’d go back through the line for everything else.
This may have violated every known rule of proper dining, but I wasn’t stupid.
The adults would settle into visiting while we kids disappeared.
My brothers Jason, Jesse and I would find Kerrie and Kellie Saar, Melanie and Geoff Trecek, Thomas and Timmy Bandy, Beverly and Jeff Smith, and the rest of the cousins.
We ran. Played baseball. Climbed on bleachers. Played on the stage. Melanie would sometimes play the piano. We’d run outside, come back in, eat again and probably disappear one more time.
Meanwhile, Mom and Dad and the other adults were laughing, telling stories, teasing each other and catching up.
At the center of it, at least in my memory, were Grandpa Lloyd and Grandma Madeline Hardy.
They were lovebirds.
At family dinners, after everyone finished eating, most of the men and kids would migrate toward the television to watch football while the women started cleaning the kitchen.
Except Grandpa.
He’d be in there helping Grandma wash and dry dishes, occasionally bumping butts with her.
Grandma came first.
Always.
Of course, Grandpa was also perfectly willing to deploy fart spray, provide the real thing when necessary or pretend to become violently ill before throwing a piece of fake plastic vomit onto the table.
That was Grandpa Lloyd.
Somehow Grandma Madeline kept all of us orbiting around them.
When she was gone, the reunions were never quite the same.
But those afternoons are still there in my head.
So if my own Iowa cornfield opened tomorrow, that’s where I’d go.
And I wouldn’t stand off in the distance watching everybody and contemplating the passage of time.
Hell no.
I’d jump right in.
I’d get my pie before it disappeared.
I’d find Kerrie and Kellie and Melanie and Geoff.
I’d find Thomas and Timmy and Beverly and Jeff.
I’d play baseball.
I’d listen to Grandpa’s bad jokes again.
I’d watch him make Grandma laugh.
I’d listen to Mom and Dad laughing with people they loved.
I’d soak up every damn minute of it.
And I think I’d spend a little more time with Timmy.
He’s not here anymore.
At first I thought that, knowing what I know now, I’d have to tell him something profound about life.
But what profound thing could one kid really say to another?
Maybe I’d just find him.
Make him laugh.
Ask him to come play.
Maybe that’s enough.
Because maybe “Cat’s in the Cradle” isn’t only about fathers and sons.
Maybe we never know which ordinary afternoon with someone will someday become the one we’d give anything to have back.
There’s another character in Field of Dreams I’ve come to understand better too.
Archibald “Moonlight” Graham gets an impossible chance to become the young baseball player he once was. But when he’s needed as the man he eventually became, he steps across a line knowing he can never go back.
I think I would too.
I’d want another piece of Grandma’s pie.
I’d want Grandpa to pull some stupid prank.
I’d want Dad back.
I’d want Mom young again.
I’d want the cousins running around and everybody laughing before any of us understood how much an ordinary afternoon could eventually mean.
But eventually, I’d cross the line.
Because I don’t want to live in my past.
I’d just like to visit.
Laura is here.
My daughters are here.
Mom is still here.
The life Mom and Dad prepared me for is here.
Before I left, though, I’d find Grandma Madeline and Grandpa Lloyd.
I think I know what I’d tell them.
I grew up okay.
Your son and his wife did a pretty good job.
They were there to watch me do it.
Then I’d cross the line.
Maybe that’s what Harry Chapin’s song means to me now.
Not that I failed to make enough time.
Not that my parents did.
Just that enough time doesn’t exist.
Eventually every game ends. Every reunion breaks up. The food gets packed away, the folding chairs get stacked and everyone drives home.
You don’t know which ordinary afternoon will someday become your field of dreams.
You only know whether you’re still lucky enough to be living one.
If this resonated with you, you’re not alone.
