Baseball season and flowering trees equal springtime in my book. Most people love summer, many prefer autumn, but I’ve always been a fan of fielders’ gloves and pink magnolias. Spring is my heart-singing, smiling season.

I think it all began in our backyard in my small Massachusetts hometown. Mom and I lived in the second-floor apartment above the Flynn family. Joe, the oldest of the four Flynn boys was a year younger than me. I was probably seven or eight when emptying and burning the trash became my routine job. On Monday afternoons, young Joe seemed to have the same after-school chore.

The big burn barrel stood in the back corner of the yard. I don’t know why we were allowed to light it and feed it at our age, but we learned some fire safety by experience. I carried wooden matches from the matchbox in our kitchen, but Joe loved to beat me to the barrel to claim the lighting privilege.

It was around that barrel that Joe and I gradually, grudgingly became friends. After all, I was clearly a member of the enemy camp in many ways. Prejudices and intolerance ruled in those days, even among the kids. I was a Protestant. The Flynns were devoutly Catholic. My mother was divorced and out working in a man’s world, and clearly making her own decisions. Mrs. Flynn stayed at home and did what she was told. Mr. Flynn, our landlord, ruled the roost.

Worst sin of all, I was the lone girl in an all-boy neighborhood. Horrors. Fortunately, my slow-blooming friendship with Joe saved me the worst harassment from the rotten other boys. Joe helped me – quietly. He did, however, warn me: “No talking about our time at the barrel. I’ll never be nice to you when they’re around.”

The gang of neighborhood kids nearest my age were Polish, Slavic, Italian and Irish. All boys. And me. A baseball gang of five.

Our diamond was formed by the pear tree as first base, the grape arbor as second, and the large apple tree as third.