All posts by Jim

Notes from the Southwest Corner – 010: Masirah, Oman: A Different Place

Most of this post is included in my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings. i still find it amazing that women are subjected to such bizarre thinking that prevents them from making decisions for themselves.

SAN DIEGO –J.B. Leftwich’s column in The Democrat two Fridays ago provoked some memories of a land far away.

His column addressed change from his student days at Cumberland and today. He also discussed inequality towards women (more tactfully than I would) in the Muslim world and the recent news sensation of the polygamist offshoot of the Latter Day Saints.

I complimented J.B. on his column, and added I soon would tell him about women on the island of Masirah, Oman.

J.B., always with a sharp eye and ear for the news, suggested the topic was good fodder for a column. So here goes:

Masirah in 1983

Much of my last Navy deployment was spent anchored off the coast of Masirah. The USS Yosemite was sent there in 1983. What was to be a five-day repair mission for Battle Group Alpha, the USS Ranger (CV 61) and her escorts, turned into forty-five days and then another thirty days on station.

The ships moored alongside the anchored Yosemite. The repair and maintenance sessions lasted four days. Working port and starboard shifts (six hours on and six hours off), we accomplished what normally took more than two weeks.

We also played a role in the Ranger’s recovery from the fire in November. Six crewmen were killed. The carrier lost half of her power and maneuverability. Yosemite provided repair assistance and her asbestos removal team, making further repair of the damage possible.

Each Tuesday, we would halt most repair work and replenish. A C-130 would fly supplies from Diego Garcia to the former Royal Air Force base, which had evolved into an Omani base manned mostly by former RAF personnel. CH 46 helicopters from one of the battle group’s ships would ferry out the supplies. The small flight deck created for a short-lived drone helicopter program was too small for landing. Consequently, the ten- hour operation was conducted with loads being lowered to the deck by the helicopters.

I was the ship’s coordinator for the operations, which kept me from going ashore. However, several officers and senior enlisted were allowed to go ashore. The helicopters would fly them to the island after the first load and return them after the last.

A Different Place in Time

The stories brought back were astounding. The air base, located on the northern end of the island, was not too unusual except the British were very excited to have Americans visit, and their hospitality was unlimited.

The local culture, however, was a major shock to all who visited.

In 1904, the British ship, Baron Innerdale, went aground off of the Khuriya Muriya islands at the south end of Oman. The largest boat on board embarked 17 people and ended up on Masirah. The specifics are unknown, but a fight resulted in all of the boat occupants, except a boy passenger, being massacred.

Sultan Faisal of Oman learned of the incident, investigated, and executed a number of locals at the site of the massacre. Local legend says the sultan razed the village of Hilf and decreed no one on the island could have permanent housing for 100 years.

While the lack of permanent housing may be myth, it appeared to be the order of the local culture in 1983. Local village buildings were constructed of plywood sheets and cardboard. The Yosemite visitors noted it was like going back a 1000 years in time.

Most of us have seen the burqas worn by women in Afghanistan. The culture of Masirah in the early 1980’s was even more draconian concerning women. They were required to be covered, but instead of a veil, they had to wear soft leather contraptions down the middle of their faces. The idea was the leather would flop to one side or the other, allowing the woman to look at anyone only with one eye.

When women passed child-bearing age, they no longer were allowed to live inside the houses, such as they were. A husband could declare and effect a divorce by raising his hands above his head and clap while he turned around three times.

I was amazed at the juxtaposition. While the Yosemite was at the leading edge of women becoming an integral part of our military forces, we were next to a culture which had not advanced in hundreds of years.

I wondered then and I continue to wonder what those Omani men in the Masirah village thought as our young female officers in Navy uniforms mixed freely with the male officers.
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3/3 027- 04/21/08

Good Morning.

This morning, i thought about what “Good Morning” means…not just the definition.

Today began with a good morning.

Yesterday, our grandson, the grand Sam James Jewell Gander, turned sixteen. He was a bit grumpy as he wasn’t allowed to skip school (is that a new tradition started by fifteen years ago like “Mule Day” in Lebanon, Tennessee was a high school holiday, a tradition by some of the boys, including my father who might have been a ringleader with his buddies, H.M. Byars and Jim Horn Hankins, at Lebanon High School around 1934?). But it is a right for sixteen year boys to be grumpy. Perhaps the testosterone levels are kicking up. Although i am unwise and very disconnected to the current teenageism, i’m pretty sure the gamut of emotions running through a just-turned sixteen teenage boy, remain a controlling factor. Sam’s fine. He just turned sixteen yesterday. i’m proud of him…and his parents.

Yesterday, we played golf at Bonita Golf Club with the Toennies and shared an early supper there. Maureen is getting better and better. It’s fun to watch. i improved slightly from awful, and better yet, the old age biting of back and knees stayed away, hopefully a new trend.

Did i mention the Southwest corner weather was perfect for a late morning tee time? It was, cloudless with a slight breeze and temperatures in the high 60’s, low 70’s. Southwest corner spring weather. The drear of damp, cloudy, and chilly (for San Diego) apparently is finally run its course (the least wonderful of any Southwest corner winter i’ve experienced. We seemed to have missed the April-early May bonanza of perfect as May Gray has started early, which will lead into June Gloom. That’s okay. It’s seaport weather, and in spite of having to add and subtract clothing layers as the marine layer goes through its cycle, it is always comfortable.

And last night, my Padres beat Tommy Duff’s Cubbies. ‘Bout time, the gazillion dollar team came through.

Those things led into my appreciating the deeper meaning of good morning. i arose a bit later than usual, still early for my bride and turned on the kitchen light. The breakfast room looked like:

“Lucky,” i thought, “It’s a good morning.” The scene reflected my thoughts. The table was my great aunt’s. The secretary was my parent’s. The roses on the table and the orchid on the stand are Maureen’s. The arty cookbook is gift from Maureen’s brother. the teapot on the table is one Maureen got a while ago. The woven basket under the window is a Filipino wedding basket i bought during one stop at the Subic Bay Naval Base on Luzon. The Mexican sage outside the window is the menu for hummingbirds who breakfast with us. The flagstone path is to our patio sans top (my brother pointed out the silliness of calling it a “sitting area”). The secretary holds an old ink well from my parents, Maureen’s Dutch teapot and cookie jar. The secretary’s book shelves and drawers hold cookbooks, lots and lots of Maureen’s cookbooks and two of mine.

In short, this is the story of Maureen and me we enter into every morning.

When i have retrieved the paper, made the coffee, put up the dishes in the drying rack, and set the table, it looks like this:

Maureen’s prepares another wonderful breakfast. We dine, say hello to the hummingbirds, and read the paper, repeating the tradition of both sets of parents sans the newspaper (they both got the afternoon paper, the Nashville Banner and the San Diego Tribune). It is a nice connection for me a wonderful way to start a “Good Morning.”

And i think of everyone else who hopefully are having a good morning. All of the connecting stuff is great for us but not necessary. i just hope that as many as can are having as good a morning as we are, and those who can’t because of the conditions they are facing will soon be able to have a good morning as well.

Good Morning.

Frolicking in the Magic of Yesteryear, I

For a couple of weeks, i’ve been happily wallowing in college academia, a place that provides me with good feelings about myself…from a long time ago. It was something, decent work, for me to do. While doing so, i have been escaping to other yesteryears.

And, my music, claimed by Apple but my smart phone and i still resisting, put on my 45’s and LP’s from a forgotten era. Jimmy Reed dominating my “shuffled” songs originally heard on late night, early morning WLAC with Big John R, Gene Nobles (a Vanderbilt professor of all things), and Hoss Allen.

Bob Seger’s line from “Against the Wind,” “…wish i didn’t know now what i didn’t know then,” keeps resounding in this old empty head.

It is, here in the Southwest corner, the first real San Diego spring day. In other words, perfect. i am grilling a steak outside after sitting down in the late afternoon sun and sipping a “Martin.” Not misspelled by the way. That term came from yesteryear, from a spectacular chemist out of Washington, D.C. and VMI.

My recent email to closer friends involved with my recollection from yesterday retold my recollection:

Last evening, i had forgotten we were going out to dine. i was preparing my martini, when i realized that would not be a good thing to down since i was driving and would imbibe during our evening out. i pondered on what to do with the gin i had poured into my glass mixer with the spritzing of vermouth.

And then i remembered that classic man of Old Hickory fame, Cyril Vaughn Fraser, Jr. i took the glass mixer and put in the freezer.

Tonight, i pulled the concoction out of the freezer and poured it into my chilled martini glass with a couple of olives. Before i took my first sip, i toasted the man. You see, the elder Cyril would take his bottle of gin, infuse it with a small dousing of vermouth and put it in the freezer to store. When he pulled it out and poured his drink, he called them “Martins.” As i recall he made his with Beefeater and i make mine with Bombay Sapphire, but we will let that slide.

As i drank my Martin tonight, i realized that wonderful man had it right. They are much better the way he did it. i will resume that practice in his honor and to my benefit.

The addendum to that is a doozy.

Across the street on the corner was the home of neighbor friends of Cyril Jr.: Cyril, III, and Walt, or “Whitz” his family and i called him. The neighbor’s dog was a Saint Bernard. One summer afternoon, Norma, the distaff side of the neighbors, came across the street with her Saint Bernard to visit with the elder Fraser. He offered Norma a “martin” as they sat on the front porch, discussed all things important in the world and the neighborhood. One “martin” led to another, and another. Then, it was time for Norma to go home. Trying to get up (which i’m sure anyone who has had too many martins or martinis including me, have found to be an enormous challenge), Norma just couldn’t make it on her own. So, she fell across the back of that old faithful Saint Bernard who carried her across the street and to home.

This is a Fraser legend, which i do not doubt at all.

A Sister’s Birthday

By all expectations, we weren’t supposed to be close, to even know each other.

She is nine months older than me, give or take a few days. But that’s about it. She was born and raised in the San Diego area, lived a couple of years in Detroit, but has been back here in the Southwest corner since then, a long time ago. i think you know enough about me to know i’m from a small town in Tennessee, about 2400 miles away.

She has been a waitress for most of her life, a superb one. i have kicked around in all sorts of things with the two defining pursuits being writing and the Navy. Other than baking the tortilla chips in the kitchen of Bilbo’s Restaurant on Orcas Island in 1980 that lasted oh, about twenty minutes, i have never been involved in restaurant work.

Yet Patsy Boggs and i have become close. i’m glad.

You see, i found this magnificent woman who, for some strange reason, agreed to marry me. That’s when i discovered the whole package included her sister. Yep, Patsy is Maureen’s older sister.

i’m a lucky man. These two top out on sister love. They have taken care of each other since i have known them. They care for each other and everyone who is connected to the other. Patsy is curious like her father, wanting to know how and why things work. She reads extensively and deep. She follows the events of our day with enthusiasm and has an independent spirit. She is a major San Diego sports fan. That makes conversing with her a pleasure.

Did i mention she’s fun and funny?

But best of all is she allows me to be around one of the strongest and best relationships i have ever witnessed: two devoted sisters caring for each other.

i care, too.

Thanks, Patsy, for accepting me and allowing me to be part of your life.

Oh yeh, Happy Birthday with love.

Patsy and Maureen, circa 1983: