All posts by Jim

Daddy

A Pocket of Resistance

You can call it “Father’s Day.” if you choose. i call it “Daddy Day.” That is because i never in my life called my Daddy “Father.” As an aside, i never called my Mother anything but “Mother.” And i never called him “Dad” either. It was always “Daddy,” even when i last saw him in July 2013.

He was and is always “Daddy.”

i don’t know why.

But “Daddy” fit my father better than the alternative. “Grandpa” may have been a better moniker for him. He was that kind of man.

i’ve said enough about him in many posts, in many ways. i’m sure there are many others that feel that way about their Daddies. i think the best ones were called “Daddy.” So, i will simply note i miss him and always will and include the poem that prompted him to say, “Son, i didn’t realize you knew so much about me.

Hands

When most folks meet him,
they notice steel blue eyes and agility
his gaze, gait and movements
belie the ninety-five years;
but
those folks should look at his hands:
those hands could make Durer cry
with their history and the tales they tell.

His strength always was supple
beyond what was suggested from his slight build.
His hands are the delivery point of that strength.
His hands are not slight:
His hands are firm and thick and solid –
a handshake of destruction if he so desired,
but
he has used them to repair the cars and our hearts;

His hands are marked by years of labor with
tire irons, jacks, wrenches, sledges, micrometers on
carburetors, axles, brake drums, distributors
(long before mechanics hooked up computers,
deciphering the monitor to replace “units”
for more money in an hour than he made in a month
when he started in ’34 before computers and units).

His hands pitched tents,
made the bulldozers run
in war
in the steaming, screaming sweat of
Bouganville, New Guinea, the Philippines.

His hands have nicks and scratches
turned into scars with
the passage of time:
a map of history, the human kind.
Veins and arteries stand out
on the back of his hands,
pumping life itself into his hands
and
beyond;
the tales of grease and oil and grime,
cleaned by gasoline and goop and lava soap
are etched in his hands;
they are hands of labor,
hands of hard times,
hands of hope,
hands of kindness, caring, and love:
oh love, love, love, crazy love.

His hands speak of him with pride.
His hands belong
to the smartest man I know
who has lived life to the maximum,
but
in balance, in control, in understanding,
gaining respect and love
far beyond those who claim smartness
for the money they earned
while he and his hands own smartness
like a well-kept plot of land
because he always has understood
what was really important
in the long run:
smarter than any man I know
with hands that tell the story
so well.

God, i miss him.

A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam) – Installment 10

Sea Stories

This is out of sequence. If i ever get through all of my sea stories and make it a book, this post will be toward the later part of that book.

It seems nowadays, everyone wishes to knock what used to be, failing to recognize the progress we have had is rooted in what was in those days. To fail to recognize the goodness of what was, and deride the bad is a negation of that progress.

To me this is sad. Yesterday, i found myself in the midst of some great men whose institutions are now subject to a lot of rebuke…and misunderstanding of what was. Selective memory is bad, creating only divisiveness and disrupting if not stopping progress. Sad.

Gratitude

It was after our usual Friday morning golf round, a ritual begun in May 1991. In the past, we have had as many as four foursomes included. For the past number of years, we have been down to two groups. Now, it seems the number is growing again. Yesterday, we filled up the two foursomes. Eight of us sat on the patio of the Sea ‘n Air Golf Club on the Naval Air Station, North Island, located on the northwest end of what is now part of Coronado — Sometime after the big war, they filled in the “Spanish Bight.” It was a spit of water and sand almost totally separating the two islands connected by a causeway.

That golf dining patio, and the one at the Admiral Baker Golf courses, North and South, are part and parcel of the tradition. It is where we gather at the end of the round with our usual pitcher (or two) of beer. That’s where sea tales and war stories abound.

As i sat listening yesterday, several thoughts bounded from the past into my head.

i also thought of the folks who have played with us and been an integral part of our group who have passed on. They are missed, and we continue to try to recapture them in our stories.

Another thought: in 1964 in “Maple Manor,” a 1920’s relic of a house near Vanderbilt housed four Vanderbilt students and me, a former Vanderbilt student and office boy/cub reporter for Fred Russell’s sports department of The Nashville Banner. Think of the movie “Animal House” and you should have a good idea of what “Maple Manor was like. Cy Fraser, also a former Vandy student and close friend from Old Hickory, frequently spent the night. One morning while fixing the coffee, i remarked to Cyril that i apparently was going to be someone who recorded life and people and not be an earth shaker. This is why i am writing this post.

Another thought, frequently uttered by yours truly, also bounced into my head: “i am one lucky man. i have met some incredible people passing through life, amazing folks who consider me a friend.

Friday was a good example of that. It is not a place for thin skin. Each of us is roasted for past antics. We delight when a new golfer joins our mix. We can tell our phalanx of stories all over again. Some we just repeat because we think they are hilarious. The Friday session is what we politely call sea stories and war stories. There are a whole bunch of other kind of stories in the mix. It is really a bullshit (B/S) session. And it is great fun. Many of the stories cannot be told anywhere else. Politicians, many flag officers (we have had a couple of admirals that enjoyed our sessions), the politically correct, do-gooders, and single-cause focused folks would gasp at some of those stories, maybe even faint. We love them. It is a relief from the daily grind and awful news of today. It is the past, which will never be repeated. It is at the root of esprit de corps.

Our Friday group was composed of five Navy SEALS, all of whom made Captain; one army artillery major who was awarded the Silver Star for his actions in Vietnam; one nuclear power submarine maintenance Commander; and me, a ship driving Commander that was euphemistically changed to “Surface Warfare Officer” in 1969. All but two of us were in action in Vietnam although mine was only slight compared to the others.

We are laughingly referred to as curmudgeons by the golf staff. It is an appropriate name we have adopted for our group. Our laughter is a mainstay on the patio, and several folks have told us they really enjoy listening to us have so much fun. Yes, there have been a few who have been shocked by our language. Profanity was part of the art of being in the army and navy back then as was drinking a bit more than we should and antics on liberty that would get us hoisted on our own petards in today’s military. We revel in it.

i will not take a stance on today’s military here. It is what it is today and not what it was then. i am too old to disparage our forces today, at least not here.

But we represent a living that no longer exists and, in our own way, are proud of it.

i will not name names here. i will send a link to this post to all of those who golfed Friday, thanking them for allowing me to be a a part of this group of not just good, but great men.

As i said, i am a lucky man.

A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam) – Installment 9

Sea Stories

i was to report to the Navy Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island on September 15, 1967. The first airplane i ever made me think i might have been better off taking the bus. i had a connection, i think it was in Philadelphia for our final leg to Providence, and then a bus ride to Newport. The last leg’s passengers were largely young men headed where i was.

That’s when the storm hit. We bounced around in the middle of the thunder and lightning. Several times, the aircraft dropped seemingly forever. Prospective officer candidates were using up those airsick bags like they were peanuts. We began our approach into Providence it seemed like fifty times, only to climb back up, turn, and try again.

Finally, we landed and loaded onto the bus to Naval Base, Newport. The ride was uneventful. Arriving, the first class OCs acting as DI’s ordered us off the bus. We hurriedly gathered into the sorriest formation i ever saw and marched (sic) into the barber shop line. i had fallen into line behind this one guy who, i later learned, had driven his car up and parked it in the lot available for OCs.

He was noticeable as the line slimmed down toward the four chairs. The barbers were almost croaking with delight as the long haired candidates sat in their chairs. The razors hummed and the OCs left the chair shorn down to the scalp. When this guy in front of me gets there, the barbers were obviously upset. He had shaved his head the day before. Their joy at whacking it off was lost. i chuckled under my breath as i sat in the chair. My shearing wasn’t quite so bad after watching this guy flummox the barbers.

From there, we were ushered to the uniform supply line where the storekeepers piled uniforms of all kinds into our arms until we could barely see over them. Then the faux DIs had us running in formation, or moving as fast as we could while trying to keep all of the uniforms, shoes, and covers in our possession. We were marched to the drill field in front of King Hall, an impressive new building for berthing Officer Candidates. i later found out it was a huge improvement over the World War II wooden barracks that had been previously used as OC barracks.

i was assigned to Company Lima. The DI’s marched us up to the fourth floor to the wing for 4/c OCs. i filed into my stateroom and introduced myself to the guy who would be my roommate for the next four months. He was the guy who showed up with his shorn head. It was Doc Jarden, a recent Duke graduate from Philadelphia. With what little time we had, we hit it off. Doc would have a significant impact on my life, although i didn’t realize it yet.

The DIs kept us running. It was good to hit the rack at taps. The DIs decided to continue to pursue the harassment. With taps on their shoe heels, they marched up and down the passageway outside of our rooms, clicking their heels to keep us awake. It didn’t work for Doc and me.

The next morning, a rumor came that one of the new OC’s on the third deck had needed to go to the head in the middle of the night. The rumor was he was so afraid of the DIs, he dared not leave his room, and crapped in his towel. i never had the rumor verified, but i still believe it happened.

One Drill Instructor, this first class Officer Candidate was particularly disliked by the new OCs. He was a NESEP. i don’t remember what the acronym actually was, but NESEPs were enlisted sailors who had performed well enough to be awarded a college scholarship. They remained enlisted while attending college and went through OCS in two summers, not like us. He apparently believed he truly was superior and delighted in harassing us at every turn. Our dress uniforms had to be tailored to fit (they claimed), which meant no liberty on the weekends for the first month. That meant more time at the mercy of the DIs.

We had been run to the limit during the first two weeks and were stressed out. But over the weekend, i had the opportunity to call my friend and teammate on the Castle Heights football team. John Sweatt had preceded me through OCS and was the Main Propulsion Assistant the USS Basilone (DD 824), home ported in Newport.

On Tuesday of the following week, the DIs ordered a room inspection right after the evening mess. Doc and i flanked the entry to our room at attention, as did the other 4th/OCs as our menace began his inspection at the first room

A stir occurred at the end of the hall. LTJG John Sweatt, in his service dress blue uniform, emerged from the stairwell. If possible the OCs stood a stiffer attention as he passed. When John reached us, he motioned us into our room. He sat on the bed and motioned for us to sit down as well and we all lit up our cigarettes. i was thinking what a great release his coming was to me, and how he was taking off from his precious liberty to do so. We chatted.

The dreaded DI emerged from the first room and saw we were not at our position of attention by the door. Although he demanded strict adherence for wearing our covers correctly, he had his on the back of his head as he entered the room, ready to give Doc and i hell. He stopped, startled to see a LTJG with us. He snapped to attention and looked like an idiot as he tried to decide whether he should pull his hat down to the correct position and then salute or salute and then pull his cover down. His right arm bounced back and forth for a few seconds before John directed him to leave us alone and proceed on his room inspection.

Not only was John’s visit a momentary escape from the rigid discipline, it gave Doc and i a reality check, and the silliness of the regimen dished out to us made it much more bearable. John passed away in 1921. He had retired as a commander with his last operational tour as executive officer of the USS Samuel Gompers (AD 37), the same path i followed several years later on the USS Yosemite (AD 19).

i will always be grateful to John for his visit and his mentoring.

The shenanigans at OCS will continue…

Great Trip, Ignoring the Bread on this Sandwich

A Pocket of Resistance

Recently, i realized that a ten-day vacation (is it really a vacation when you are retired?) is really not ten days.

In fact, Monday morning was the “recently.” Our ten-day vacation, trip for retirees, took two weeks. It took two days to get ready, and if i get everything done, it will have taken two days to get back in sync.

We have turned the water on — this is not usually required, but our cat, Bruce Willis, has taken to playing with the kitchen faucet, turning it on when no one is looking. Now, Maureen and i are both cautious. So, we checked with each other to be sure the kitchen sink water was off when we left. As i was offloading our suitcases, Maureen turned it back on at midnight. About one o’clock (what an antiquated term), with only an hour of trip recovery organization remaining, i kneeled under the sink and turned the valve. The next morning, Maureen couldn’t get water out of that faucet and thought we had a major problem before realizing i had also turned the valve, which, of course, turned it off again.

This is becoming more common.

So, we leave on June first. Of course, we had to get all organized two days before — not really, but i am anal about being organized for a trip only to forget something — then we pack on the day before. We get up around 4:00 a.m. Why? Because i’m, as aforementioned, anal, and women in general and Maureen in particular takes a…er, ahem, a little longer to get ready than i do. Dear Karin Fink, takes us to the airport.

Flight’s on time. Good. The plane warms up. It continues to warm up and warm up. The pilot comes on the intercom. “We have a mechanical problem and working on it,” he says. Fifteen or so minutes pass. The pilot again, “We (who is this “we” bunch?) need to replace a part. We are looking for it.” About twenty minutes pass. The pilot: “We can’t find the part. We are going to have to deplane (what a unpleasant term: it sounds like some body part is going to be replaced). We will find a replacement aircraft.”

i’m thinking, “Do replacement aircraft just happen to be lying around somewhere?” The answer is no, but somehow Alaska Airlines knows a thing or two. When we — not the Alaska inclusive “we,” mind you, but the passengers only — return to the terminal and wait anxiously for some news. Maureen and i discuss the options. Canceling our trip seems like a choice if we don’t get to leave before the next day. Fun wait.

Then, they say, “We have found another aircraft. Flight 930 to Boston will depart from Gate 30 at …noon, or something near: my eyes were glazed over by then and i do not remember except i calculated time factors and realized we would get to our nephew’s Watertown, Mass. apartment ’round midnight and that ain’t a jazz tune.

So we made it. Might i say we were a bit tired.

* * *

The other end of this sandwich was the trip home. It went off as expected, but it was the only non-stop flight between Boston and San Diego. So yep, we get home at midnight. i unpack and go through the mail. Maureen collapsed on the bed about twenty minutes after we arrive. Me? Two in the morning.

Unpacking, getting the house in order, storing stuff, dealing with the three-hour time change took a while, like two days.

So, our trip was 14 days, not the advertised 10. Is that because i’m old.

Regardless, air travel isn’t what it used to be. i used to look forward to flying. Now i dread it.

And that was the old bread slices for our sandwich.

* * *

The filling of the sandwich was glorious.

We stayed at our nephew’s apartment. Zach Jewell has a great place in Watertown, Massachusetts. Even better, my brother was there. Good way to start.

Then on to Newport, retracing my steps in November, but this time with Maureen. Noreen Leahy and Emily Black enjoy Maureen’s company. Jim Leahy –he and Noreen put us up at their wonderful home on Tuckerman Avenue — was just the best host possible and he even laughed at my sea stories. My first apartment is about three lots away. Their home looks south onto the Atlantic.

Of course, nostalgia was coursing through my veins. Newport is one of the few places i would consider as home if we didn’t live in the Southwest corner. And we hit spots that were my stomping grounds: Fort Adams boasts a park where my Navy housing was in 1972. The house with my apartment in 1983 hasn’t changed. It is located at the beginning of Ocean Drive. Castle Hill Inn, where Noreen, Maureen, and met Emily and sat in lawn chairs looking out on the Narragansett Bay channel, which i traversed on the USS Waldron (DD 764), USS Hawkins (DD 873), and USS Luce (DLG 7) enough to have lost count.

A new place, which was wonderful, was a sunset of Hors d’oeuvres with wine. Perfect. We were joined by Diego, a Naval War College Student from Panama sponsored by Jim and Noreen, and their son Joe, who is attending the Prospective Executive Officer course en route to a ship. Of course, Joe had to endure words of wisdom from an old XO.

Then, there was the Black Pearl. i have somewhere near 250 tales about the Black Pearl. It was literally a shack on a pier in my day, established by the owner of the three-masted schooner with the same name so he had a place for a drink and sandwich after a sail. Today, it has expanded (so has the pier) with outdoor dining and a fine dining extension off of the original shack. But back then, i dated a waitress who was attending Salve Regina College. She remains a close friend.

Ahh, memories.

We toured the Tennis Hall of Fame where in 1973, Blythe’s mother and i watch Billie Jean King, Margaret Court, Rosie Casals, and Evonne Goolagong in a tournament. We sat at center court and our necks hurt for a week from turning our heads to catch the action.

i even spotted Hurley’s building. Hurley’s was my spot for jazz and what was called Rhythm and Blues back then but bears little resemblance to that genre today. On Sundays afternoons in the late 60’s, Hurley’s held a jam session, and every Sunday, they played and sang, “My Satin Doll.” Nailed it. The lady that sang was in her happy zone. So was i.

And Saturday evening, Jim and Noreen took us to the White Horse Tavern. Legend has it that it originally was a pirate’s home. It became a restaurant in 1673, the oldest operating restaurant in the country today.

i went with Blythe’s mom in 1973 for our second anniversary. i ordered the seafood combo. They brought out a vat about 18 inches high with a diameter of about a foot. They dipped some tongs in and brought out a whole lobster, then shrimp, then mussels, then clams, then potatoes, corn, carrots, and lord knows what else. i don’t recall what Kathie had, and i sure as heck couldn’t see it. We got home in time to see the Knicks beat the Lakers in the NBA championship game.

Then in 1983, ten years later, i took Maureen there with the intention to share the seafood combo. But it was upscale change. We had a wonderful gourmet dinner by candlelight and closed the place up with a long conversation with the bartender while sipping armagnac. Perfect.

Ahh, memories.

Sunday, with the Leahy’s headed back to NYC, Emily took us to something new. We blew glass Christmas ornaments. Now that’s unique.

Then, we drove to Joe and Carla’s home in Quechee, Vermont. It is in the woods. Of course, Vermont is in the woods. It rained on us pretty much the whole drive. It was rainy and chilly (for us, not Vermonters. Except for our day in Hanover, New Hampshire with Joe (think Dartmouth) and an incredible afternoon at Castle Hill Inn in Newport, it was rainy and chilly. The Canadian wildfires turned the sun blood red one day and we could feel and smell smoke for several days (nothing like New York City). But our entire time in New England, it evoked New England, sea coast (even though Vermont is not clo se to the Atlantic).

Maureen spent a couple of days with her high school buddy, Chris Davis, in Essex Junction outside of Burlington and toured a bit of Canada. This was good for her.

While she was up north, i visited my shipmate. Andrew Nemethy. Andrew’s history is rather incredible, but i will save that for later. He now lives out in the woods, which is out in the woods even for Vermont. History is breathed into my lungs. Andrew’s home on a farm where he snow shoes through the woods with his dog, Django. was built in 1730. The exposed beams are held together with wooden pegs, not nails. You see, nails weren’t available at Home Depot back then. Neither was Home Depot. Andrew’s home is what i often dream of as an escape from the world. Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys” frustrated the Redcoats here. Andrew is erudite, a talented pianist and guitar player, and his own man. Now that, my friends, is someone to visit. Oh, by the way, mobile phone coverage disappears about two miles from his home.

We found our way back to Boston in the rain naturally, and spent Sunday morning with Joe’s daughter, Professor Kate Jewell, her husband, Conor Hansen, and their three children. Joe and i put together a cabinet for Kate. It was an event in the dining room and working with Joe evinced the two of us working on projects with our father back home. It was one of the strongest emotions i had through the trip.

And so it is over. We are back in the Southwest corner. Sun actually broke out today. Summer is here. Weather guessers and local news talking heads are talking about the increased dangers of wildfires here for the summer and autumn, a familiar refrain: the rain has increased the amount of vegetation, which will dry out and exacerbate any fires. Heard it before.

i wrote this to record our journey for Maureen and me. i hope there is interest of others, not a boring travelogue. The meat and fixin’s between the bread slices was good, damn good.

Now, it is time for sea stories. i love sea stories.