For anyone who's paying attention, I made my First Communion on this date in 1967 at St. Colman Church in Cleveland, Ohio. It was a sunny day. Aunt Julie Ryan told me: "May you always be as good and as innocent as you are today." I haven't been, but you gotta love Aunt Julie.

Today's baseball notes:

The good news is, I finally got the Pedro Martinez Bobblehead Doll, one of a series of MLB dolls, in this morning's box of Post Raisin Bran. The bad news is, he keeps knocking all the other dolls' heads off.

Clevelanders are howling for the head of Cleveland Indians Manager Charlie Manuel after the recent sweep of the Tribe by Kansas City, one of many unexpected (but, IMNSHO, richly deserved) losses. Listen, people. If these guys get to the level of major league play, they shouldn't need to be pushed, scolded, coaxed and begged to play decent baseball. At the level at which these guys are playing, a manager's job should all but do itself. The greatest part Charlie can realistically be expected to play in this is deciding whom to plug in and where, with possibly a little constructive encouragement where needed. No, he didn't throw a s*** fit deluxe over the questionable foul ball call the other day, but let's look at this: When, honestly, have you ever seen an umpire reverse his decision based on the arguments of a team manager? The best we could have hoped for was for Charlie to get hot, the ump to eject him and a fire to get lit under the Tribe. If we're going to play the why, why why game, why was the ball toddling along the foul line when it should have been deep into the outfield? Quit blaming Charlie.

I saw an angel the other day. Really.

I was standing at the sink drying dishes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. So beautiful! Tumbling from the heavens, its robes a streak of white, its long, graceful limbs unfurling, golden hair flying, it landed in my backyard.

It really did take me a full second to realize that it was my daughter, turning a cartwheel.

I saw a ghost the other day too. A friendly one, one I really have missed.

My father, fresh from Navy boot camp, before all the horro of war had hurt him so, was turning the corner of our street, walking along with a pretty girl on his arm. His jaunty walk, his tall, handsome self, that crooked Tyrone Power grin -- I was so happy to see --

--that it was my son, walking home from school in his Junior Navy ROTC dress blues.

Motherhood is not alway fun. It is no ticket to glory, fame, wealth or even necessarily recognition. Sometimes I wonder how God decided to hand the job of raising these two beautiful people to me, little me -- surely the least patient, most selfish, most grossly inexperienced person for the job. I was so certain I'd be terrible at it, in fact, that on neither occasion did I seek the position -- I was pulled from the ranks and conscripted. Both of my kids were total surprises. But I can only conclude that God knew what he was doing, because I have learned more from my children than they will ever learn from me, and they certainly belong in the world.

Ah, and the things I have seen. Visions that, had I never been a mother, would never have presented themselves.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Don't make me answer that. I have already learned that God is the only good judge of what's best for me.

But, oh, the joy that has been in the journey. I can only look down the road ahead with happy anticipation and the hope that, maybe someday, many years from now, one of my grandchildren will see their grandmother in a girl jumping rope in "hot pepper time" on a chalked up sidewalk. They may not know it, but I'll be there.