Monthly Archives: April 2017

Peace in the Valley

It is Monday morning. i am awake, waiting for Maureen and Alan and Maren Hicks to rise before packing.

It’s travel time. Back to San Diego. Home. The drive to San Francisco’s airport will take about an hour in traffic. The flight will be just over an hour, but the airlines have turned short trips into all-day affairs.

That’s okay.

It has been a glorious weekend with the Hicks.  Alan and Maren took us to Alan Jr’s wine shop, Arlequin over on Hayes Street,  for tasting wines from the Canary Islands — the wines were delicious and unique — after we arrived on Thursday. Friday, we spent several hours, i gawking, at “Monet: The Early Years” exhibit at The Legion of Honor Museum, a piece of art in its own right.

Following lunch at Alan’s Sausalito Yacht Club, we drove to their home in Sonoma. Alan grilled pork tenderloin. Maren and Maureen prepared vegetables and salad. i sat around.

We studied the stars in their backyard with the shadows of the grapevines in the abutting Sebastiani vineyard looming in the dark across the fence.

Saturday, the ladies went to book signing of a cookbook writer, featuring her new book on Middle Eastern cuisine (i think). Alan and i walked around Plaza de Sonoma and nearby streets with a late lunch.

Steve and Maria Frailey joined by their neighbor, Leslie Yellen flew in from San Diego midday Saturday. We met the Frailey’s and Leslie at Murphy’s Pub for a delightful celebration of Maria’s 55th birthday. Sara Petite and her band performed. Sara has been a long time favorite of Maria and they are friends. Sara is also a terrific song writer and singer. Her band matches her in talent. We sat up front. Except for some way too old yahoo playing the spoons, it was a wonderful evening.

Sunday, we met the San Diego threesome at the Buena Vista Winery. Then we ate lunch at “Sonoma’s Best” deli, truly more of a wine shop than a deli. It lived up to its name. The Reuben was great. The Shebang red wine perfect for a Reuben.

Nap time before dinner with the seven at the Depot Hotel, no longer a depot and no longer a hotel, but a great place to eat Italian al fresco, sorta.

Then, it was over. As usual, i woke early. Packing day. But first at first light, i walked in the backyard on the tan rock path. The day would be overcast. It was spring cool. Near the fence, i stopped to gaze at the irises, Tennessee’s state flower, you know. For some reason, it brought a neo-gospel to mind. i thought it came from slaves. It didn’t. Some guy named Tom Dorsey — no, not that Tom Dorsey — wrote it in 1947, and the country and rock singers, even Elvis rolled with it, even later, Little Richard. i liked it better when i didn’t know better and thought its origin was different. But it was still just right for the moment: the early morning moment next to a vineyard in the Valley of the Moon. Sonoma. Fit the weekend too.

As i looked at the flowers, i remembered the words:

i’m tired and weary but I must toil on
Till the Lord come to call me away
Where the morning is bright and the Lamb is the light
And the night is fair as the day.

There’ll be peace in the valley for me some day
There’ll be peace in the valley for me
I pray no more sorrow and sadness or trouble will be
There’ll be peace in the valley for me.

There the flow’rs will be blooming, the grass will be green
And the skies will be clear and serene
The sun ever shines, giving one endless beam
And the clouds there will ever be seen.

Where the bear will be gentle, the wolf will be tame
And the lion will lay down by the lamb
The host from the wild will be led by a Child
I’ll be changed from the creature I am.

No headaches or heartaches or misunderstands
No confusion or trouble won’t be
No frowns to defile, just a big endless smile
There’ll be peace and contentment for me.

Thanks, Steve, Maria, Leslie for sharing. And thanks, Alan and Maren for peace in the valley.

Long Ago Mystery This Morning

i received the package last week.

It was a stuffed 10-inch by 13-inch manila envelope inside a white plastic protective envelope. The return address was that of my cousin, pretty much the same as sister Nancy Orr Schwarze.

Nancy has been observing my posts of old photographs. Obviously, she also is going through lots of stuff and decided rather than throwing away some she had she would send them to me. As her note instructed, i will throw away the duplicates from my cache, copy the others and add them to the burgeoning notebooks for posterity.

The two shown here have some mystery for me. Others more inclined toward digging through family trees or with a better memory of mine may have some inkling of who was who linked to whom.

Between deciphering the faded writing on the back and having my sister Martha inform me of my grandfather’s history — Why, oh why don’t i know or remember the things she  and Joe know and remember? — i have solved some of the mystery about this photograph.

The guy with the “X” on his head is my grandfather, Joe Blythe Prichard. Turns out, according to Martha he played semipro baseball. From what i could make out, this team, Chanchellor, was in Little Rock. The pitcher was Carnesty; first base Demoss; second base Woodard; shortstop Eddins; outfielders Purdorn (?), Eddins (a brother to the shortstop i assume), and McClellan (?). i cannot make out the manager’s and assistant manager’s names. It’s signed “J.B. Prichard” and dated March 22, 00. And folks, that is not 2000; that’s 1900. (i should explain the spellings were difficult and likely contain some errors.) i’m guessing this is mostly a team of Little Rock players, but some could have been from Lebanon.

So my love of baseball goes back a long, long way.

The second photo may be a mystery for Lebanon folks to solve.

There are no descriptive notes on the back. Martha has photos of family members in similar dress in Lebanon. So i’m guessing this one is in the late 1800’s. i cannot identify any one in the photo. When i look at it, i think of Coles Ferry Pike, but that is just my unrealistic dreaming. i have enlarged the section with the people included.

Can any family member or someone from Lebanon help me solve this mystery.

Thanks, Nancy. This is fun.

 

 

Mike Kelly

i suppose there are an innumerable number of men named Mike Kelly.

i know one. He lives near Houston. He is from Texas and Montana and probably several other places i don’t know about. He lived in the Southwest corner for a long time before moving East. He is a giant of a man in many ways. i met Mike through a mutual close friend. Jim Hileman and Mike go back a long way. They both were in the Navy on carriers in rougher times. i’m pretty sure it wasn’t together, just similar. The two became fast friends working for Ma Bell out here.

i met Jim Hileman at my wedding. 1983. He was late to the reception because he had a golf round that morning. When we were introduced, he explained, and i asked him why hadn’t he invited me to play. We’ve been fast friends ever since…but that’s another story and one way too long to tell here.

Shortly after i met Jim, he introduced me to Kelly on a golf course. From that point on, we played golf together until Mike and Sheri moved back to Texas to be near their granddaughter and son.

Mike rose through the ranks of AT&T until he was at an upper management level. He also got his masters in fine arts. He was/is a landscaper, a farmer, a hunter, and a wonderful artist among other things. Much more importantly, he is a great friend. i remember how he and i picked up Sarah from day care when she was one. She was crying in her baby car seat. While i drove, Mike put Sarah in those gigantic arms of his, and Sarah immediately quit crying and started to coo. He also is tremendous artist. We have one of his chalk paintings hanging in our master bedroom.

A week or so ago, Jim and his wife Sharon returned to the Southwest corner from near Dallas. They had attended their daughter Mandy’s wedding. Since they were in Texas, they rolled on over to Houston and spent a day with Mike and Sheri.

“They haven’t changed,” the Hileman’s commented on the Kelly’s. i expected as much.

Then Jim gave me a present. Kelly had given two six packs of beer to him, one to be given to me upon return. Jim gave me both. He doesn’t drink. i have given some to friends causing them to laugh. It’s pretty good beer made in College Station, Texas, of all things.

Mike Kelly thought the gifts were appropriate. i found a perfect spot for drinking it. It’s the workshop side of my garage. That’s when i say the words on the label most, although i’m sure Mike had heard me shout them in frustration many times on the golf course.

As usual, Mike hit the nail on the head:

 

Thanks, Mike

Easter

i have written of Easter before. Several times. It is a hallowed, sacred day.

In the span of my life, it has been much celebrated in many ways.

Today, it has been quiet.

No sunrise service. i did walk to the top of my hill around that time of the morning and watched the white heat orb burning through the mist of the marine layer hanging over Mount Miguel. i had my moment, prayer i guess you could call it. Thankful, sober prayer.

i came down to another Maureen egg special with toast, fruit, and Tennessee Pride country sausage. We sat at our usual places at my great aunt’s oak table, looking out the window at the green lawn as the sun burned through. We read the newspaper with several cups of coffee.

i remembered previous Easters. A not too big Easter egg hunt at home upon awakening and scurrying down the stairs. Those egg hunts remain dim memories except i know i never fared well at the community ones. Perhaps i was too impatient. Sunrise service outside of MacFadden Auditorium in the cool but sunny mornings. Dressing up in our finest, newly purchased spring ensembles to spend most of the day at church. Big, big ham dinner (that’s the midday meal where i come from) in the dining room reserved for only the big family celebrations. For some reasons, the dinner rolls stick out in my mind.

i don’t remember Easter at sea except for my last ship. The chaplain made it a big deal, or at least as big a deal as he could with sailors who preferred to sleep in on the one day of the week they could do so. i do remember a number of Easters at sea when we raised the church pennant above the U.S. Ensign on Easter. It was the only pennant or flag we ever flew above the ensign.

Most of all, i remember Easter Egg hunts with my two daughters. The ones with Blythe were sadly few in the first years of her life. It was such a beautiful sight to see her dressed up in a pinafore dress with her beautiful blonde hair and carrying a real basket. She would laugh excitedly every time she spied another real colored egg hidden somewhere by her clever mother.

The hunts with Sarah were outside at first, usually confined to the courtyard. She behaved just like her sister when finding an egg. i guess that is pretty much a universal response for children on Easter egg hunts. The hunts here in the Southwest corner quickly moved indoors. Sarah’s mother delighted in her own cleverness in hiding the foil covered chocolate eggs. The Easter Bunny, or as he signed his nickname “E.B.,” began to leave a note each year, usually extolling Sarah’s behavior and telling her of how the others who left her notes on big days, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, shared his fondness for her.

Maureen is off to yoga. i have cleaned the grill. We had steak last night with a superb California Red wine from Shebang “without too much pretension” as the label describes it. I like pretty much any wine without too much pretension. Unlike my old grill, i am taking good care of this relatively new “egg” knockoff.

We are going to friends for dinner tonight.

That’s it.

i sit in my office with many tasks and other writing projects piled around me. The sun slinking low to the south is now in its glory. The mist and the clouds have burned off. The bougainvillea outside my office window is the healthiest it has been in years after the rain of previous months and somehow reminds me it’s Easter.

Sitting in my desk chair, i meditate, something i have found greatly calming, refreshing, and empowering in just the last six months or so. Again i had my moment we might call prayer. i think of my two daughters, son-in-law, and grandson. i know Sam had yet another successful Easter egg hunt in Austin. i suspect Sarah either participated with Blythe and her family or with one or other of the children she tends. i am happy for them.

The Easter Bunny didn’t leave any eggs for us here in the Southwest corner. He didn’t leave a note either. i checked.

He did leave something better.

Hope.

You Don’t Want to Know What’s Out There

 

Lady Snooks of Joy, aka Snooks, 127 Castle Heights Avenue, 1971. We were visiting my parents for the first time with Snooks, named after my wonderful uncle Snooks Hall. She was a wedding present we gave to each other. My wife trained her. i enjoyed her. When everything finally fell apart, i ended up with Snooks, or Snookers as i often called her. My wife on her way to divorce me couldn’t bear of thinking Snooks and i should be separated.

Snooks was mine. First dog, really.

My sister won the golden cocker spaniel we appropriately named Lucky in a Halloween drawing in the school festival in Mrs. Vasti Prichard’s fourth grade class. Puppy Lucky lived in the den and the basement at night — our parents grew up in a farm world where animals were for helping with work or providing something to sell like eggs, milk, beef, or chicken breasts, not as house pets — through the winter only to escape one spring afternoon and run into the street and into a car. Just over six months.

Then, we had Trixie, an obnoxious little ankle biter the three children loved but who disappeared mysteriously after about a year.

Finally, Martha brought home Cotton, a bundle of male energy and close to a Eskimo Spitz, but there was something else in there too. He was allowed in the den but stayed outside at night unless brutal cold caused my father to let him in for the night. Cotton became the family dog. Cotton also, long before we even knew what lease laws were, ruled the world, wandered afar, and had a good and healthy life. Even the averse parents became fond of him, and he really ended up being our father’s dog.

But Snooks was mine. My ex-to-be understood that.

She, Snooks that is, presented a problem. She was my solace and no real problem at Texas A&M while i was the senior Naval officer at the NROTC Unit. One of our secretaries lived on a farm with her husband. She would keep Snooks when i went on summer duty to Little Creek, Virginia. But i was in the Navy. Navy officers, especially those that shunned the idea of heroically flying, sinking below the surface, or doing superhuman things like SEALS, to go to sea. i went back to sea.

So the secretary agreed to keep Snooks when i left to join the amphibious staff in Hobart, Tasmania and remain in the western Pacific for five months. On the way back, i was trying to figure out how to make having Snooks with me work in San Diego. I wanted her badly, but it was a sticky wicket: finding an apartment that would allow big pets, finding a keeper when i went to sea, giving her exercise, what to do with long work days. Problems. But i was working on it until i got the letter in the mail call when we reached Pearl Harbor on the way home.

The secretary sent the letter. It told how her husband was taking Snooks and another of their dogs to the vet in the back of their pickup. How Snooks leaped out of the truck bed while the truck was going pretty fast. She died instantly.

When i read the letter in my stateroom, i cried for about an hour. She was a lovely dog.  My dog: slept with me in the bed on the porch of that farmhouse north of Paris, Texas when we came back from Korea; jumped into Spring Creek while i was water skiing because she wanted to me with me. Worst fault: she didn’t like Blythe getting close to her food dish. She was my dog. i cried some more.

Lady Snooks of Joy. We named her that because she was AKC registered and her mom was a champion with Joy in her name. Fitting.

And, i now think when looking at this photo, she really didn’t want to know what was out that window. i’m not sure i did either.