Andrew Nemethy’s recent hiking trip and whatever else to Utah produced a message exchange between us. (Andrew, Rob Dewitt, and i shared forward officer’s quarters on our first ship, the USS Hawkins (DD 873) a long time ago). Our exchange made me decide to post this poem  again about my Utah experience.

Way up in the Mountains

way up in the Wasatch mountains,
where snow covered the Mormon pretense
one hundred, fifty years or so ago;
passages to the west were few
except in the warm months;
only the hardy would climb so high
with mules, packs, jerky, coffee
to mine the silver,
hunt the plentiful game
in the cold deep white of the mountain.

now the heights are a playground,
cleared groomed slopes skied down after
rides up the mechanized chair
where hunters and miners
persevered in the hard months,
now playtime in the rockies
for the masses.
the old town street running up and down
the hill called Main
was general store, haberdashery,
gin mill, assayer,
probably a red light house or two,
amidst the good, lord abiding citizens;
now
pizza joints butted against
boutiques, fashion salons,
restaurants with high cost haute cuisine;
only the Empress Theater and saloons
bear some resemblance to their former selves:
instead of grimy miners
swigging down the swill,
home brew out of pails,
rot gut whiskey.
now movie stars,
dressed to the nines
sipping wine
at the festival of cinema
named after an outlaw;
town and tourist drunks
drinking the trendy micro brews.

Still, in the quiet after a late winter storm,
there are tracks
of rabbit, mountain goat, even elk,
if one dares to climb so high.

The above newspaper article brings back a memory, a good moment for me.

Dan Boone is from San Diego. His achievement noted in this article is nothing short of amazing. He had pitched for the Padres and in another major league team’s Triple A club in Louisville before falling out of professional baseball. He resumed playing in San Diego’s ADABA league (see the first bullet in the second column) before making it to the bigs again as recounted in this 1991 article.

ADABA is where we crossed paths. Bill Hammond, a Navy lieutenant, and a good friend who worked for me in leadership training, talked me into joining his team, the Rangers, in 1986. The minimum age to play in the league was 33. All of the other team members were just barely over the minimum age and a couple were younger, slipping under the radar. At 40, i was six years older than any other player on the Ranger roster.

Since i hadn’t played baseball since American Legion ball in Lebanon, i was a bit concerned about being able to play well enough to contribute. The first game i played was against the “Dodgers,” at the high school field in Ramona, about 40 miles northeast of our home. The Dodgers came out in LA Dodgers replica uniforms. But when they came out on the field, i laughed and knew i could play in the league. These guys, all in their Dodger uniforms all looked like Tommy Lasorda clones.

Then, the Rangers started their infield warmups. I was not starting, and although i was anxious to play, i was not unhappy i would slowly be back into the game i loved. Practice had proven to my teammates and me my old shoulder injury would keep me from making strong throws to first from my old third base position. i was fine with being the second base backup and third string catcher.

The starting second baseman was a doctor at UCSD. About my height, maybe just a bit shorter. He was called “Little Bob” to distinguish him from our big first baseman who was dubbed “Big Bob.” Little Bob was a baseball nut and had an early computer program where he could keep all of our statistics, individual and team. Our catcher had played what was then the “D” league for the Montreal Expos organization before becoming an insurance salesman. He was good. Period. He fired rockets to second base. When the pitcher completed his warm-up throws, our catcher shot his throw, a speeding bullet to second. It was a bit high. Little Bob, standing on the bag, realized the throw was high, extended both arms up, and leaped as high as he could (about six inches) to catch the high throw.

It hit him in the forehead.

i immediately became comfortable with the idea of contributing to the team.

i played for three years (it was year round league with a winter and a summer season). My last year was in 1989, quitting before the summer season about six months before i retired (sic) from the Navy. As usual, there are a number of stories about that experience to be told later.

But Dan Boone contributed to one of my finer moments. Dan was playing with one of the top-notch teams in the league. The one that went to the national tournament in Arizona almost every year. In my last season, we played Dan’s team at the San Diego “Cavers” high school field. Dan pitched a one-hit, 8-1 win against us. i did not get a hit, but i did get the only RBI in the games Dan pitched that season. One of our better players walked, he stole second. A fly ball moved him to third. I hit a hard grounder to deep second. It was good enough the second baseman could not stop the run from scoring and threw me out at first. It was the best non-hit i could remember in my storied (oh, okay, it was only storied in my mind) baseball career.

We had our nephew, Bill Boase, over last Saturday for supper and watched the Padres beat the Giants on television.

Maureen asked me to make my chili, award-winning i might add, and cornbread, also praised by many. My secrets? Well, my cornbread secret is i try, failing miserably, to make cornbread like my mother did. My chili secret is i cheat.

It’s not really big award winning chili. When Maureen was working at Parron-Hall Office Interiors, they decided to have a party featuring a chili contest among employees and their families. Maureen liked my chili, but i think she didn’t really want to lower herself to make chili. i mean she makes this wonderful white bean chili, but i think she realizes it’s delicate, and ain’t nobody gonna vote for a delicate tasting chili. So she asked me. i did but didn’t go to the party. She came home and told me i had won. i laughed. i cheated. But i now can claim it’s “award winning.”

i learned how to cheat from JD Waits…or maybe he learned how to cheat from me. JD is a very, very good cook. His parents ran a diner in Houston for years. i don’t know if it was award winning, but it should have been. Their patrons were many and quite a few gave JD’s father and Wanda Pearl, JD’s mother, lots of bennies, like tickets to see Spike Jones (but that is another story, one of JD’s best and makes me think of Christmas Story).

The origination of our cheating chili came in what could be the greatest hail and farewell party in Naval history (at least for JD and me) — a hail and farewell party is a wardroom celebration on ships when a new officer reports aboard to relieve an officer who is rotating to a new assignment. JD and i offered to serve as hosts when a number of officers were rotating within several weeks of each other. At the time, i had an apartment on Coronado and JD moved in with me for several months before moving to his own place (there are many sea stories involving JD and i from 1981 to 1983 and beyond, only a few told here so far).

This was a big affair. At least fifty officers and wives attended, maybe more, and a whole lot more of the 80 officers assigned were anticipated. JD suggested it would be easiest to prepare a huge pot of chili. Not having a clue what would be involved in chili making, i readily agreed. i had a couple of pots, but nothing that would provide chili for the number of expected guests. So we went to a large discount house in National City, sort of a gigantic Pic ‘n Save (yep, there’s a story about Pic ‘n Save for later…if Maureen will let me post it). We found a six-gallon pot of questionable metal quality for five bucks. Perfect.

Then we went to the commissary and got all the fixings. The most secret of our secret ingredients were in one box. Some Texan named Shelby Carroll put the stuff in the box. The day before the Saturday shindig, we stir-fried the stew meat, about a half a cow’s worth, and put it in the big pot as well as a couple of the biggest pots i had and put the pots on the stove. Then we added the stuff Carroll told us to add and several things like a gazillion red beans, in the pot Carroll did not advise.

JD, a master at getting me in trouble, oversaw the mixing and set the temperature on the range. i was in charge of stirring. JD took a nap. i had a beer. i went back after the beer and stirred. There was something on the bottom of the pots. i had not stirred enough and the elixir on the bottom along with the meat had burned. Not realizing what it was, i scraped it off the bottom with my big spoon. When i picked the spoon up, i realized what the charred goop on the spoon was.

i called JD. “i think i ruined the whole batch,” i lamented.

“No problem,” JD cooly calmed me, “Just stir it into the rest. We’ll tell ’em it’s Southwest chili. They will never know the difference.”

The next morning, we sat a can of Hormel chili alongside bottles of Thunderbird and Night Train (“Serve Very Cold” for obvious reasons), a total outlay of six bucks. When folks expressed dismay, we assured them the Hormel can was just a joke. King Deutch, JD’s boss on Okinawa, showed up with his model wife, Jeannie. She insisted on having a glass of the Night Train. After tasting her wine, she assessed, “Quite elegant with a nice finish.” She laughed.

Most of the farewells were for officers transferring overseas or to the East Coast. Navy moving does not allow ammunition or alcohol to be included in a move. So all of the departing officers brought their entire collections of booze and donated them to the hosts of the party. JD and i were deliriously happy. After about six months, we became apartment mates again in the Coronado Cays condominium with the boat slip below our patio holding JD’s  25-foot Cal sailboat. When someone came to our double door entrance, they opened the door and became face-to-face with the best stocked private wet bar in the Southwest corner crammed with every kind of alcoholic beverages from all over the world.

Everyone loved the chili.

Now, i don’t burn the bottom of the pan. The pan itself is cast iron and is nowhere near as gargantuan. Some people even think it’s award-winning, which it is…to my way of thinking. And yes, it is cheating, but i don’t care. It’s good.

This morning, i donned my jeans for working in the yard. Levis. 501s, metal buttons for the fly, NOT a zipper. Been wearing those since 1956, maybe earlier. i recognized i must give in to this aging thing. Already have in some things. Like wearing a belt with jeans. Didn’t do that until a couple of years ago when the midsection began to bulge. Insurance, you know. But now i was considering getting a new pair with a zipper of all things. Old fingers, fatter than they used to be and certainly not as flexible demanded i change. Felt sad i had to put aside another something i had done most of my life.

i began to put the belt through the loops. Every time i put a belt in my jeans, i think about the protest.

It didn’t make the news. i’m not even sure anyone outside of the eighth grade class ever knew about it. i’m not even sure my mother heard about it, and as the secretary to the superintendent, she knew everything that went on in those three buildings, especially when i was involved. It wasn’t the first protest. Brown versus Board of Education (Kansas) was ruled upon in 1954. The ruling began school integration leading to violent resistance. The protest i’m recalling was certainly the first and perhaps only protest in which i participated.

It was in a small, country town almost smack dab in the middle of Tennessee, the county seat. It was the third year after the small country town had separated the seventh and eighth grade from elementary school.

Perhaps we were feeling our oats, being noted as older, more mature than those “children” in elementary school. Perhaps because the building had formerly housed the high school, we believed we were of that ilk, not junior high students. Perhaps because we weren’t in our school building proper, we felt we had more power, more independence. Who knows. Perhaps it had something to do with puberty.

It was in the basement cafeteria in Highland Heights Elementary School. Lebanon Junior High where the protest was fomented was across the parking lot in front of the gym.

It all began innocently enough. i don’t remember if the guy involved in the initial incident even knew he was doing something outside of the regulations. But the principle knew the regulation. And enforced it.

The guy was R Townley Johnson (the R was just there, no name associated with it, just “R”). He was a bit different than most of us. A really good athlete who didn’t have a lot of interest in athletics. He was into music. Big time. i played with him a lot, stick ball in the parking lot behind his apartment building on West Main, between Pennsylvania and Castle Heights avenues, if i recall correctly. We played on the Nokes Sports Little League team together. Townley hit home runs. i hit doubles.

Along with Bill Cowan, the three of us practiced being a band trio together. Great plans. But the piano player, me, really wasn’t good enough to play in a band.

Townley and Bill scoffed me when i suggested we play Jerome Kern’s “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes.” “Too old fashion,” they said. The next year, The Platters made the song into a Top 40 hit.

Townley went on to be the drum major of the University of Tennessee marching band. He played or led a number of bands. i lost track of him until Henry Harding told me Townley had showed up and scared the beejeezus out of Henry’s wife Brenda due to Townley’s attire, appearance, and behavior. There are lots of stories about how and why he went downhill. i don’t know because i had taken off to roam the seas, unaware of the bands and Townley during those days.

Sadly, Townley died a number of years ago.

But he did cause this infant protest. Noble cause? Well, not really. All of us guys wore blue jeans, preferably Levis except when we dressed up. Townley went to lunch that fateful day without a belt in his jeans. That was the regulation Mrs. Burton was adamant about enforcing. She did. Mrs. Burton was a sweetheart, one of the best teachers and administrators i experienced through all of my schooling. A wonderful woman.

i don’t remember exactly what the punishment was. Probably Townley had to stay after school or something.

But we didn’t think it was fair. i don’t think we were old enough to really understand “Freedom of Speech.” You know, that Constitution First Amendment thing, which is the cornerstone of the idea of freedom, equality, and all of that stuff. Nah. We just thought it wasn’t fair.

So all of the boys got together and discussed it. i suspect Henry Harding, as he was likely to do, especially with me, quietly was the instigator of the protest although it could have been Bill Cowan, Mike Gannaway, Jimmy Gamble, Buddy Phillips, Bobby Byrd, or several others who came up with the protest event. i’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.

But the next day at lunch, we all went to lunch in the cafeteria in our jeans sans belts.

My story must end there because i don’t remember what resulted in that protest. i’m guessing retribution was swift and made us recognize the errors in our ways, but that is just a guess.

Yet somehow i remember it every time i put my jeans on (with the belt). It makes me feel proud.

My adventure with bobcats in the garden has entered a new chapter with another pile this morning. Although the latest pile suggests it just might not be a bobcat and could be a very exuberant tomcat, like the two our neighbor’s have roam the neighborhood. But from the size of the pile the first time, i’m still favoring bobcat. The onions didn’t seem to deter whatever it is. The strangest part is there are no droppings, just a pile. But i don’t think tomcats or bobcats are into cultivation.

So i am searching the internet, seeking friend’s advice, and thinking of all sorts of answers on how to keep any kind of cat out of my garden. Solution is TBD.

But the problem brought me recall of another cat of a long time ago in a far off place called Houston.

Before Facebook, a lot of connecting was done on email. i found this exchange, updated and revised here that addressed that cat and four spankings.

…I am relaying this story from one of my all-time favorite shipmates and adventure sharers, JD Waits.

About ten years ago (now about twenty years ago), JD and i were reminiscing (and bragging a bit) about our youth and our experiences in spanking. JD topped me when he said, “I’ll bet you’ve never been whipped four times for one thing.”

“No, I replied, “How did you manage that?”

“Well when I was growing up in Houston, we had this old widow lady as a neighbor, and she had a cat,” he began.

“I was in the eighth grade and my science project was growing tomatoes in our back yard, and that cat kept getting into my tomato plants. So I asked my daddy how I could keep that cat away from my tomatoes. My daddy told me to get a water pistol and wait for the cat. He said if I shot the cat with the water pistol when he got in the tomatoes, then after five or so times, the cat wouldn’t bother the tomatoes.

“I was a pretty bright boy, and i figured that if it took five or so times with a water pistol, it would only take once with a BB gun.

“So I got out my trusty Red Ryder BB rifle and lay in wait. When that cat got in the tomatoes, i plugged him once right in the ribs. He went back to the old widow’s house like a laser, screaming at the top of his lungs.

“Unfortunately, I had made a tactical error, and the old widow saw me shoot the cat. She came out of her house, yelled for me to get over there, and wore my britches out. Before I could get home, she had run in her house, called my mama, and told her what I had done.

“When I got home and before I could explain, my mama spanked me too, all the time yelling at me about how I could have given the old lady a heart attack.

“An hour or so later, my daddy gets home from work; my mama tells him about it, and he whips me.”

“But that’s only three times, JD,” I observed, “What about the fourth?”

“I’m getting to that,” he said. “Later that night, one of my friends came over and we were sitting on the front porch steps.

“After I told my buddy about my bad day with the cat, he asks me, ‘’Would you do it again?’

“I replied, ‘I’d do it again if I didn’t think I would get caught.’”

“Without me knowing it, my daddy had come out on the porch and was standing behind me when i answered, and…he whipped me again.”