Three thousand, one hundred, and four-tenths miles.

8:45 a.m. PDT Monday, May 16, to 3:00 p.m. CDT Tuesday, May 17: 29 hours.

8:00 a.m. CDT Monday, May 23, to 1:00 p.m. PDT Tuesday, May 24: 29 hours, 15 minutes

Stops: Monday night, May 16 – Day’s Inn, Van Horn, Texas. Monday night, May 23: Comfort Suites, Lordsburg, New Mexico.

Diet: Medium bag of Fritos, two one-egg omelets, one link sausage, two pieces of toast; one apple, chile relleno, beef taco, margarita, two beers, medium bag of Fritos, and four cups of coffee.

Final equation: 3100.4 miles + 73:15  hours + 72 years = not very bright old fart.

But, in spite of a few spells of fighting sleepiness, the solo trip was strangely rewarding, not including the rather incredible stay in Austin.

i was planning a long and probably boring accounting, but even with a nap, i’m not going to last very long. And tomorrow, i have a round of golf.

It has been a wonderful eight days, road trip included.

It is 8:30 by one of the time zones i’m living in.

i have traveled near eight hundred miles in just over eleven hours. It should not surprise you this old man is tired, and therefore, this will be short.

Other observations will follow. But as i curl up for a short sleep and early rise to complete the voyage, a couple of observations:

Dust devils intrigue me. So does this world i’m in.

i’ve stopped in Lordsburg, New Mexico. i’m pretty sure this is where my friends Henry and Beetle Harding have relatives. i was surprised it is as small as it is unless i’ve missed something. i thought i should contact the relatives, but not this time. Sleep is the driver.

i’m staying at the Comfort Inn right next to I-10. When i asked for a good place to eat with a bar — i think i deserved a martini — the clerk informed me the only place in town with a bar was El Charro, a Mexican restaurant, literally across the tracks from the main part of town.

It is a sprawling place, a bit run down, that reminded me of a VFW hall gone south. When i entered the restaurant, the waitress, serving all of one older couple in an area with seats for about seventy-five, pointed me to the bar, another cavernous area that apparently is a venue for parties.

i sat at the bar to order my meal and my much desired martini.

“Do you have Bombay Sapphire,” i inquired. The bartender, replied, “We only have well gin.”

i had her margarita. Good. i also had a chile relleno, my gauge for good Mexican fare ever since Virginia Harding made it for me and her sons back home in Lebanon, and a beef taco, of course with a beer.

But i kept wondering what George Harding would think of this.

i am sitting on the porch of my daughter’s rented house she shares with a couple of guys.

It is raining. Southern rain: occasional thunder and lightning in the distance, a summer coolness in the air with the wind blowing the mist through the air to where i sit. i miss it in the Southwest corner.

i sit here thinking about how much i like George Lederer, one of Sarah’s housemates. He is simply a wonderful, caring, and intelligent young man. The landlord is selling the house, and George and Sarah will be moving to different places by the end of May. They are friends by the way, but they are the best friends i’ve ever known not to be romantically involved.

George and i sat up and talked until Sarah got home from a late appointment. Then the three of us talked some more: good stuff but tinged with problems normally associated with relocating.

But yesterday afternoon, i was lucky enough to be given a “feelin’ good’ feeling. After the monopoly game of which i posted a photo earlier on Facebook, the boys; son-in-law Jason, grandson Sam, and i went out to get a pizza (Blythe was leaving for an evening presentation). We came back their home to eat, while Sam went to play in the other room and Jason and i talked about a myriad of things. Jason and i connect. Cool.

Then as i was getting ready to leave, Sam came in with a lunch box.

“Papa, this is a gift for you,” he said, but added, “The lunch box is just the wrapping; you can’t take that with you.”

Sure enough on the top of the lunchbox was a sign:

He opened the lunchbox for me and handed me the small stuffed animal. There were a number of small figurines at the bottom. Sam announced, “And you can have one of these too.

i picked one out. After thanking Sam profusely, i put my gifts in my backpack and began my evening good-byes. Sam and i hugged about a half-dozen times before i got out the door, then a couple of more en route to my car parked about twenty-five feet away, then some “hand hugs” through the open window.

When i got back to Sarah’s place where i have stayed until Maureen arrives at noon today, i opened my backpack and put my gifts on the dresser top.

My desk in my home office is pretty much cluttered with mementoes. But these gifts are going to have special place of honor there when i get home.

It is simply amazing how wonderful a grandson can make you feel.

i have just arrived in Austin to be with my grandson, two daughters, and Jason (sorry, Jason: in that order).

It was a non-life threatening but very long and sometimes harrowing 1300 miles and 32 hours of minor misadventures and a few discomforts, all of which i enjoyed…after i arrived.

Traveling alone gives one plenty of time to think. i put my iPod (4700 “songs”), on shuffle, clicked ahead through most of the classical stuff because it’s hard to hear in a Mazda 3 doing eighty, and sang along when i wished…and i thought a lot.

There was one overriding thought throughout the trip produced by a voice mail Sunday afternoon. It was from Judith Pendergast. I knew it was not good news.

Judith is David Pendergast’s wife. David and i were partners in a two-team foursome who worked on reorganizing the (then) 18,000 work force for the Department of Energy’s Richland Operation Office, which was responsible for the management of DOE’s Hanford Nuclear Reservation, 640 square miles dedicated to creating nuclear bombs during WWII and the ensuing aftermath.

When Judith and i finally connected, what i suspected was verified. Only the timing was a surprised.

David died last July of pancreatic cancer, a disease he had temporarily conquered several years before. Because Judy could not penetrate Internet and computer security and government regulations on divulging personal information, it took her ten months to connect with me.

I was shocked. After David retired from organization development, he and Judith moved to Naples where they bought, renovated and resold homes for a while. We kept random and infrequent communication. i had actually thought about seeing if he would be interested in working, or at least providing for a book i was contemplating writing.

But i didn’t. Now, he is gone.

The timing of the sad news would not have made much of a difference had it been earlier. he is still gone.

David was one of the most intelligent, caring, and honest people i have ever known. This is slightly amazing in that he worked for the most part in improving organizations of Nuclear Power companies, and DOE, damn near an oxymoron from my experience, but he did it.

We made a good team. After about seven months of commuting from San Diego and Naples, we both volunteered to move to Eastern Washington’s tri-city  area because we realized how much our weekly commuting was costing the government and ultimately, the taxpayers. Until Judith arrived, David and i spent our free time together exploring the southeast corner of Washington, a delightful experience.

We also had the same ideas about effective management of the operation at Richland.

David, because of the respect he had earned from nuclear organization, was the leader, and he never missed a beat. There are several stories here that must wait. But after Ian Urquart, Frank Gatos,  David and i, evolved into the team, David and i became a one team and Frank and Ian were the other. alternating our time in Richland. And David and i  connected (another story).

i will write more of David later, but in this late Austin afternoon while my family are doing their thing, i am sitting in a much-younger-than-me bar, disguised as an eatery, listening to a strange mix of music, which suits my proclivities in the music world, but too loud: something i don’t understand since all of the young middle-agers here can hear better than me.

But on my crazy ride and sitting here, i keep coming back to something that actually involves two of the folks i’ve met in my rather diverse pursuit of living.

When i was getting input for that book i was contemplating, one of the first people i contacted was Peter Thomas. Pete is an incredible man who has accomplished things physically, professionally, and as a good human being as  exists. I asked him my question i planned to ask a bunch of my leader heroes what was the one thing most important to being an effective leader.

My question was, “What’s the most important thing for a leader to do to be most effective.

Without hesitation, Peter replied, “Do the right thing.”

Peter’s response has become my mantra in everything i do.

While talking to Judith, she reflected on David’s assessment of me.

“Jim had integrity. You could trust him,” he told Judith.

Then he said, “Jim always did the right thing.”

For him to assess me with the most important aspect of a relationship with anyone, not to mention satisfaction with your own being, is on of my most welcomed aspirations.

So did David.

i don’t like to toot my own horn, but this one is special because David was a special man.

So i am sitting in the Workhorse bar, writing this while listening to music way too young for me and writing this post. But you see, i ordered  their best bourbon because they didn’t have George Dickel (David always enjoyed my claim of Mr. Dickel’s bourbon excellence) or Jack Daniels.

i had one more than i should have. But i don’t care. David would laugh at that. And that, makes it okay with me.

RIP, David.

Again, if you are not fond of profanity, you might wish to  skip this one. As you can see, Walker Hicks showed me how to get a colored font. i’m green.

This sea story is not verifiable from my experience, but it is one of my favorite sea stories. In fact, i may have shared it here already, but i am old and can’t remember, and this “F” thing is now on my mind.

Back in time, before the Navy left Newport as a Naval station with ships, and before the station had the destroyer-submarine piers, destroyers anchored or moored to buoys in the the bay, requiring them to continuously steam.

It also meant to go on liberty, sailors had to take a liberty boat into Newport’s Long Wharf, the location of the legendary bar (it was a restaurant, but sailors knew it as a bar). When the sailors disembarked from their liberty boat and began walking up the pier, the sign in front of the establishment read “Leo’s First Stop.” When the sailors headed back to their ships before liberty concluded (back in those days and into my early years in the Navy, when liberty call expired sailors below second class had to be back by 2200, second and first class liberty expired at 2300, and chiefs’ liberty ended at midnight. Officers’ liberty hours varied, but was nearly always later, often only until morning quarters), the sign for the same establishment read “Leo’s Last Stop.”

The end of the Long Wharf also served as the mid-day snack bar. Geedunk trucks (similar to today’s food truck fad, but much more archaic; geedunk refers to snacks and cold drinks) would drive out to the end of the wharf and serve sailors who would take launches, usually motor whale boats. Ships’ crews would pick some designated runners who would take orders and money from other crew members, make the run and return with the geedunk.

One minesweeper’s executive officer had recently reported aboard. He was very religious and dedicated to limiting, if not eliminating profanity from the crew and wardroom. As part of his drive against profanity, he was holding an officer’s training session in the wardroom on the topic of not cussing. In concluding his exhortation, he empathically pronounced, “And there is no situation where a better word can be used rather than profanity.”

The minesweeper had a Chief Warrant Bosun, an old salt who was sitting in the back of the wardroom with his chair leaning against the bulkhead. He raised his hand. The XO, knowing the Bosun was an old school cussing deck hand, reluctantly, acknowledged him.

“Beg your pardon, XO, but i think there is one place where that might not be correct.”

Feeling like he was trapped, the XO said, “Go on, Bosun.”

The Bosun continued, “You see, sir, the other morning, Seaman Fritz was making the geedunk run for the deck division. There were a lot of orders that day, so he took two shit can tops (trash can lids) to carry back the geedunk.

“When he got the orders, he was holding the two shit can lids in each hand. Holding one lid in each hand, he put one foot on the gunnel of the motor whaleboat. The bow hook had not secured the forward line and the boat began to drift away from the pier.

“Seaman Fritz with one leg on the pier and one leg on the gunnel began to spread. Knowing he was about to do the splits before getting dunked, he looked at the shit can lids in each hand and said, ‘I’m fucked.’

“And sir,” the Bosun concluded, “There ain’t no other word you could use in that situation.