This post is dedicated to Aunt Bettye Kate Hall. i ended up with several of her photo albums. My mother had almost duplicate albums. Joe and i went to Martha’s home in the winter of 2015 to sort through these albums and a few from my grandmother. We selected a representative number from the first one, taken sometime around the 1870’s, not counting some older daguerreotypes, tin types, ambrotypes, and possibly other types of old photography of relatives from Jewell and Prichard ancestries.

Martha has this collection and is scanning and organizing to make available for family members. i can assure you this is a monumental and time eating task.

Several years ago, i decided i would make the ones i have available to members of both sides of our family. i was pretty good for a year or two, but wore out. i am a bit reenergized and will try to follow this group with more frequent posts with family photos. These were taken in 1948, all but one in Orlando, i think. the ninth one shows the back of our home Castle Heights Avenue in its original construction. This is the one with Bill “Butch” Prichard on my tricycle apparently attempting to run over his younger brother Tim. i was probably upset Butch was on my trike my aside comments are in jest…just in case someone gets the wrong idea.

By the way, that porch in the photo was our magical fun place in inclement weather. We played there for hours, often with pieces of wood scraps provided by Uncle Snooks from his house construction business he ran with his older brother Ben Hall.

My inability to correctly align photos is demonstrated once again. Captions should be included…i hope.

For family, enjoy:

In my life, there have been three wondrous moments that have transcended most. Only one stands at the head of those three wonders. The latter was when i met Maureen. She and i have forged a relationship that is simply the way of a man and a woman should be for their lifetimes.

Tomorrow, the first of the other two occurred fifty-one years ago.

Now, i don’t think my life’s wondrous moments or my life itself are extra special. i’m sure most folks have their special wondrous moments as amazing as mine. But boy, mine sometimes whack me in the head with a magic wand. Other than meeting Maureen, the celebration of the one tomorrow was the first. But let’s consider the other two first.

Just over sixteen years ago, i winged from the Southwest corner to the hill country of Texas. My daughter Blythe gave birth to my grandson, Samuel James Jewell Gander. i arrived at the hospital around noon to hold him in my arms with his mother, father, grandmother there with me. i must point out again, Sam’s two middle names were to honor my father, Sam’s great grandfather. i said then and i repeat here, Sam was the forger of a beautiful relationship of a nuclear family. We all loved him and consequently loved each other a little bit more.

Then, on a cataclysmic fusion of events, November 30, 1989, our second daughter, Sarah was born. I’ve pretty well documented i had to leave the labor room to attend my Navy retirement ceremony and return for her birth. She has continued to be an amazing and wonderful young woman of whom i could not be more proud. Of course, i will write more of this wondrous moment in about four months. She and her moment remain one of the most wondrous events of my life.

The first of these wondrous events occurred fifty-one years ago tomorrow, July 7, 1972. It was a warm, humid day in Watertown, New York. i awoke, as usual for six days a week, around 5:00 am, quietly and hurriedly dressed, and walked just over two blocks from our upstairs apartment in a house on Keyes Avenue to the newsroom of The Watertown Daily Times. i arrived at my desk in the sports section and began to compose the pages for the afternoon sports section. i edited and sent all the copy to the linotypes and cold iron machines in the back room before deadline, followed it out, and with my crew, made up the lead type pages in the steel frames and checked the cold type pages for accuracy. i wrapped it up, had a sandwich and coke for lunch, made sure we were okay before press time and around 1:30 p.m. walked back to our apartment.

i asked my wife how she was feeling, and laid down for a nap when she said she was fine. About forty minutes later, she woke me up, calmly telling me she had broken water. i immediately went into a frenzy to take her to the hospital. Kathie calmed me down. She had packed her things for the hospital, made sure the house and our dog and cate were all in order, and was ready to go. i carefully walked her down the stairs and across the street to our car. i drove, er slightly faster than the speed limit, to the hospital and turned into the emergency entrance. She chastised me and instructed me to park in the regular parking. i obeyed and we walked to the check-in desk. They took us to the labor room. i stayed with her until they rolled her into the inner sanctum, where men, or at least the fathers, were not allowed. It was around 3:00 p.m. i found a pay phone and called her parents and mine, telling them of the pending birth of their grandchild — we had opted not to know the gender until birth.

i sat in this dark gray waiting room outside the delivery area for around six hours. i just sat there. i don’t know if i thought at all other than praying that Kathie and our child would be fine. It is possibly the loneliest six hours of my life. Finally, the doctor came out and told me i was the father of a beautiful daughter.

We had already decided on the name for a girl. Kathie picked a name from my family, “Blythe.” Her middle name of “Elizabeth” was connected to both sides of the family but primarily after Blythe’s grandmother, Nanny Bettie Lynch, and her great grandmother, Nanny Kat Lynch Hayes.

i walked in and, as usual, Kathie was her practical, no nonsense self. i kissed her and held my daughter Blythe for the first time.

She was, of course, beautiful, and she changed our lives radically. Kathie and i realized we needed more income to give her all she needed to grow up well and the surest way to ensure that was for me to forego my pursuit of a sports journalism career and return to Navy active duty. It was not easy but we did it. In just over month, we left a great place, and headed to Texas, so Kathie and Blythe could stay with Kathie’s parents while i went back to sea.

And to this day, i remain certain it was the right choice.

Her mother Kathie has passed too soon. But Kathie was wonderfully proud of her daughter and grandson. Blythe has become a success in every facet of her life.

And she remains one of the most wondrous things that has ever happened to me.

Happy Birthday, Blythe, oh daughter of mine. i love you.

dad

i claim it was the jacaranda that made me do it. Saturday loomed as the day to get done all i had put off all week. i arose with that intent, devoting the day to the never-ending, always growing to-do list as well as much needed exercises and a good swift walk.

i grumbled and felt badly. Most of our country was sweltering in unheard of heat and humidity. i had incredible Southwest corner weather: low 70s, slight sea breeze, no clouds. And the whipped cream was, because of the dour winter and spring, the jacarandas were still in bloom, usually done by mid-June. These kind of days have been rare this year out here. The weather guessers are predicting we are going to get the same kind of miserable heat elsewhere. i wanted loll about outside while it was possible. But i had vowed to get things done.

i decided to compromise with myself.

i chose to run my errands first. i headed down to Third Avenue in Chula Vista’s older city area. Currently, there is an effort to revive this older part of the city. It is a bit run down and does not feature The jeweler there needed more guidance on an old engine order telegraph to replace missing parts. i wanted it for memorabilia, knowing it would invariably be moved into my garage “workshop” even if was allowed inside the house before being relocated by a wife of mine — that was perfectly okay with me. My garage work space walls are line with my memorabilia. It is not so much a workshop, more like an escape. So i headed down the jacaranda lined streets to Third.

King’s Jewelry is a marvel in today’s world. It is a narrow space with counters on both sides to the reception table. the counters and the walls are crammed with clocks of every kind. Many are of the wood carved wind-up clock variety with glass fronts displaying the works and the gongs that can make you reel when they go off on the half-hour (one clang) and the hour (a clang for each hour, e.g. two o’clock = two clangs. Fortunately, none were wound. It is a private shop. These folks aren’t into uppity, high-end jewelry. i have the impression most of their business comes from repair of watches, clocks, and strange requests like some old Navy guy asking if they can come up with an arrow matching the one he lost for the Engine Order Telegraph repeater. They were not only courteous and helpful but were downright interesting in the project. i should have an update after the holiday tomorrow.

Man, it felt like old school.

Since i was on Third in Chula Vista (i will repeat a post with the poem i wrote more than a dozen years ago about Third after posting this one), i used the excuse of proximity to head to National City and Neiderfrank’s. It really isn’t that close and even more distant if the route is on surface streets. Since i avoid freeways as much as possible, i chose the longer route.

8th Avenue in National City is much like Third Avenue in Chula Vista. It is older, the chic upper class (they think) folks don’t go there much. No one is going to be impressed by their high-priced duds. You find working people there. The homes, mostly well kept, are modest bungalows from bygone days. Back when, i went there a lot, primarily for McDini’s. McDini’s originally was an amazing Irish pub, located downtown San Diego on Market Street, now a condo high rise haven with trendy restaurants. McDini’s shut down its operation and the National City restaurant became “McDini’s Baja,” a combination of Irish and Mexican fare. There is a post there all by itself. Later. It is shut down now. Sad.

But across the street on A Avenue stands Neiderfrank’s, truly an ice cream parlor par excellence.

The parlor was created in 1948. New owners took over in 1995 but retained the business in the exact way it had been run just shy of a half century. They didn’t change a thing.

That includes using an ice cream maker that is over 100 years old as well as the process that reduces the amount of aeration. They also have created or retained some great quotes like:

“We make our ice cream by some of the most antique, inefficient, outdated, and expensive process in the world,” and “We are so far behind in modern technology that we are about 100 years ahead.”

They are ahead of the world by retreating to a world i once knew. Neiderfrank’s is old school, my kind of old school.. The reason i went there was to get my fix of black walnut, my favorite ice cream since i finally realized my father was wise in choosing that flavor at Johnson’s Dairy on the corner of West Main and West End Heights some eons ago. i have had other black walnut concoctions but Neiderfrank’s is the best. As i was waiting for my pint, i noticed a hand printed add-on to the available flavors. Peach. When this affable and fun lady, whom i presume was the owner, returned with my black walnut, i added a scoop of peach in a cup.

i took my first taste as i walked back toward my car. Bells went off. Choirs sang. i called Maureen to tell her i was cutting my errand run short because i had something i wanted her to taste before it melted. When i got home with the one spoonful i had not eaten, she tasted it and shared my ecstasy.

i was back to the 1950’s in the back yard of our home on Castle Heights Avenue. We only ate two things in that backyard. One was slices of a whole watermelon long before they agronomists or whatever they are figured out how to reduce the number of seeds in a a watermelon. The children sat cross-legged on the lawn, take a bite, and spit the two dozen or so seeds that came with each bite before diving in again. Oh, oh, that sweet delicious taste.

But the best was when the ladies of the house mixed the ingredients for ice cream in with the sliced peaches they had picked from the trees. Those ingredients filled the small wood barrel of the ice cream maker, and closed with the churn handle on top. The whole shebang was covered with dry ice and that, in turn, was covered with old blankets. The children would take turns at the churn until they were worn out. Often the men in the family would finished the churning until the ice cream had hardened. The adults would sit on the lawn chairs and the children, again cross-legged, would sit on the lawn and feast in heaven on the home-made peach ice cream.

Fantasia. Neiderfrank’s peach was that good. i’m going back tomorrow to get a half-gallon.

You see, Neiderfrank’s is old school. There isn’t a lot of glitz, just perfect ice cream. Old school. Like me.