This one is a bit off color but it remains one of my favorite moments with Maureen.

Someone had told me this joke. It was a great joke:

There’s this guy who walks into a bar and sits down, putting his large satchel on the bar. He orders a martini, and begins a discussion with the bartender.

“Say, pal,” asked the bartender, “What have you got in that satchel?”

Silently, the guy reaches into the satchel and pulls out a tiny piano and equally small piano bench and sets them on the bar. Then, he reaches in the satchel again, and pulls out this very small, very alive man about a foot high. The man sits down at the piano and begins to play exquisite music, so beautiful the bartender was incredulous.

“Wow,” exclaims the amazed bartender, “How did you find this guy? This is incredible!”

The guy says, “Well, I was walking on the beach, and i found this old brass lamp sticking out of the sand. Having heard of such stories, I rubbed the lamp and made a wish. Voila, this is what i got.”

“That’s absolutely amazing,” the bartender exclaimed, and then asked, “Do you still have the lamp?’

“Yeh, sure,” the guy replied, “It’s right here,” reaching into the satchel again and pulling out the lamp.”

The bartender takes the lamp, goes into the corner, and rubs the lamp. The guy knows he’s making a wish. When he finishes, the bartender gives the lamp back to the guy, and then goes outside. In a few minutes, he returns, shaking his head.

“What’s wrong?” asked the guy.

“i just don’t understand,” the bartender exclaims dejectedly, “i walked outside and the sky is full of ducks, millions of ducks.

“When i rubbed the lamp, i wished for a million bucks. Then i go outside. There’s no money but all of these ducks.”

The guy shakes his head knowingly and explains, “Do you think i wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”

Good joke, right? Well, Maureen loved it. Now, i don’t know if you have heard Maureen laugh uncontrollably, but that laugh is so good i have friends who plot to tell Maureen jokes to elicit her laugh. When i told her this joke, she hit that laugh for about five minutes. It was delightful, fun, and made me laugh as well.

She liked the joke so well when we were going out to dinner with our friends Sharon and Jim Hileman, Maureen had me repeat it so she could tell the Hileman’s. i complied.

After ordering our meals, Maureen began telling the joke. She was laughing, thinking of the ending. Jim and Sharon were leaning forward. They knew this was going to be good.

Then Maureen got to the punch line. She was excited. The Hileman’s were waiting in anticipation. i was already chuckling. So instead of saying, “Do you think i wished for a twelve-inch pianist?” Maureen blurts out:

“Do you think i wished for a twelve-inch piano player?”

The Hileman’s were beyond perplexed. They looked a Maureen completely puzzled. i was already on the floor laughing. Maureen is confused as to why the Hileman’s weren’t into hysterics.

i explained, “Twelve-inch pianist.”

Maureen realized her mistake and began her laugh. The four of us laughed through the entire meal, and even now, about ten years later, we still laugh at the mention of THE JOKE.

She would have been 98 today.

She was a mother who never had a child just like he was a father who also never had a child. So they adopted all of us, and all of us knew they were our second mother and father.

She was unique. Later, she would get the magazines with special deals and buy things for us, some useful, some funny for birthday and Christmas presents.

i have a hard time throwing things away, especially when they are a reminder of people or events important in my life. i keep one of her gifts, a glasses holder on my bedside table. When i put my glasses in there at night or take them out in the morning, i always think of her.

i cannot express how much i loved her. She was my aunt, Bettye Kate Hall. i loved him the same. He was my uncle, Snooks Hall.

They were very special people.

*     *     *

Sometimes, small things catch my interest. When we landscaped our home in 1993, we planted two Mexican coral trees in the backyard along with a carrotwood tree. The carrotwood became huge. Its roots destroyed the stuccoed planter in which it was planted and was threatening the sitting area we had constructed in the south corner. Its branches loomed over the nearby coral tree, cutting out the coral tree’s access to the sunlight.

Last year, we finally had it cut down. More landscaping is in progress. But this morning when i went out to check on our strawberries, tomatoes, and Maureen’s herbs in the garden planter boxes, i stopped to look at the two remaining trees (there is a magnolia tree between them). The one near where the carrotwood had been fought for sun and grew accordingly. Maureen does not like the ill-formed shape, especially when it drops its leaves for the winter. i find it…inspiring i guess is the best word for my feelings. Cool tree, a survivor:

*     *     *

If you don’t know already, i am a huge Vanderbilt sports fan. There are other college teams i like, and i try to remember to not dislike other teams. i usually do that pretty well.

i sort of lost that perspective last night when the Louisville pitcher, Luke Smith, pitching superbly, lost control of his emotions and said some things you could clearly understand from reading his lips. i thought it was inappropriate and got a little upset he was not removed from the game. i mean, i say the words Smith yelled all the time, after all, i was in the Navy.

Then, the Vandy Boys made me proud and a little bit more humble. You see, they ignored the profane taunts except maybe for motivation and took Smith to task in the last inning, eventually winning the game and gaining a berth in the College World Series championship final games. Then when the game was over and the interviews began, the Commodores taught me a lesson.

Pat DeMarco, the centerfielder explained, “We try not to give energy to the other team. We know how that works. So we just tried to re-center ourselves, come back and focus the energy on us, and we came out on the right side.”

Julian Infante, the first baseman who received the tirade from Smith, when asked about what happened, replied, “”I’d rather not speak in those kind of terms. Things work out the way they work out. Sometimes you talk and things happen, and sometimes you don’t need to talk and things happen.”

i am happy Vanderbilt is in the CWS finals three times in the last six years. i am glad Coach Tim Corbin gains success with an emphasis on education and overall development of his players into men to be respected.

But i am proud, real proud of the team, for handling a potentially inflaming incident the right way.

The Vandy athletic catchwords are “Anchor Down.” Having spent some time at sea, i prefer “Anchor Aweigh.”

The Vandy Boys are underway, sailing fast, and most importantly, doing it right.

*     *     *

i think i better get started on that trellis.

Our recent trip to Scotland was magical.

Scotland was a wondrous place: beauty of the Northern Atlantic island, incredibly beautiful vistas, history, uniqueness, good eating, and wonderful people.The magic part was the six siblings and in-laws sharing each other.

And there was another kind of magic there. i have tried to capture it as it affected me with the below poem and a couple of photos (Note: i copied some of these photos from on-line images).

Culloden

a moor;
that’s what it was;
a moor
in the mist of a cloudy Scotland Highlands,
the stuff of Gothic novels,
windy, cold, rainy;
but not just any moor:
tragic it was then,
soul-stirring now
if one allows the moor to sink
into one’s soul:
the Highlanders call it Culloden now,
Blàr Chùil Lodair then,
still a reminder death is not fleeting.

the Scots and the Brits had at it,
or rather, the Brits had at it
while the Scots took it from the Brits
hard, real hard;
today, the Scots have made it a memorial,
a graveyard:
it is impressive, as a graveyard.

the battle lines are noted on many maps,
explained in the many exhibits in the modern museum,
pointed out by the tour guides,
somber though they may be;
those lines of battle formed
thirteen score and thirteen years ago
are marked on the moor by
red flags for the British,
blue flags for the bonnie Scots
who do not seem so bonnie
when one stands on the moor
where they stood back then
to create those staggering numbers
for souls gone so quickly,
so sobering it is hard to grasp
more than 1500 Scottish souls
dying in the mucky bog of the moor
in less than it takes to drive there
from Inverness today;

i walked the moor quietly
reading the plaques describing
battle lines,
stones noting the number of clansmen
underneath the sod
with mounds of mass graves nearby;
i stood quiet near the large monument
dedicated to the dead while tourists
took photos of each other standing there
not quite in reverence.

i recognized the names of friends
descended from the dead clansmen
underneath the centuries of soil,
coming upon one clan name
striking me more deeply than the others:
Fraser,
close friends in my formative years
who had a lot to do with that forming;
had we been back then
we could have been on the opposite
lines of battle, bloody carnage;
i paused,  breathed a bit deeper,
thinking of across the seas
where another country’s battle with itself
occurred about halfway between
Culloden and today;
thinking about what i thought later half a word away
observing people fleeing their native land,
risking death for them and their family
to escape fear, domination,
feeling, like at Culloden, but off the coast of Vung Tau,
a deep and penetrating sadness
from the realization
we have not overcome
intolerance, hatred, fear, carnage of each other.

i worshipped off Vung Tau, praying for a better world;
i worshipped at Culloden,
wondering if we can ever conquer ego, power, greed, hate;
i stood quietly by the marker of the clan with the name so familiar
while a tear running down my cheek was blown away by the cold wind:
there was an emptiness inside me.

My wife is in love, a new love, and it ain’t me.

You see, we’ve had a pressure cooker for as long as we’ve been married, but i don’t think she ever used it. Then, she bought a new fangled, high powered, Cadillac…er, Caterpillar bulldozer of a pressure cooker and fell in love. No, not with the salesman. The pressure cooker.

Since we got back from Scotland, the pressure cooker has been caressed by all sorts of food products and the loving hands of my wife damn near every evening. My wife loves to cook. With the pressure cooker, we have reached critical mass.

She has always loved to cook. She’s very, very good at it. She has somewhere in the neighborhood of 7,486,321,544 cook books. She has more cookbooks than i have novels and non-fiction books. Maybe not as many LP’s as i have but way too many for me to count both to prove a point. She watches every cooking show and cooking movie ever made. i eat gourmet meals at breakfast, lunch, hors d’oeuvres, and dinner (yeh, we have dinner out here in the Southwest corner, not supper like back home). i love every one of her meals. She is really good, even with stuff i’m not partial to, like chicken, brussel sprouts, and beets.

i still cook every once in a long while.  i grill steaks, salmon, a few other things. i am trying to make my grilled cheeseburgers a weekly event, but it ain’t taking real well. i smoke a turkey every Thanksgiving we’re home. i cook my own version of jambalaya i call okra with tomatoes and sausage. i cook a bunch of things my mother used to cook: meat loaf, turnip greens, biscuits, cornbread. Mine aren’t as good as Mother’s, but they are passable. When i was in my last Navy tour, i always got home first in the afternoon. When i retired (sic), i was either always home or still got home first. i cooked a lot then. i figured in her high pressure job in office interiors she needed a break when she got home. Then i realized cooking was a release for her and i stopped. This was accelerated by a brief period when we traded off, one cooking one night and the other the next night. When it was my turn, i could find all sorts of reasons to go out to eat. She stopped that. But now, unless i get a specific request, get the urge to eat something akin to what i used to eat back in Tennessee, or demand i grill the steak rather than some barefoot woman’s recipe for ruining a steak, Maureen cooks.

It was all still good until she fell in love with the pressure cooker.

Now don’t get me wrong. What Maureen cooks in the pressure cooker is superb dining. We had pork loin last night, and it was wonderful. But this love affair with the pressure cooker has some other issues. Initially, i had to be called when the pressure cooker had concluded pressuring, cooking, or whatever pressure cookers do. You see the pressure release latch is pretty difficult to…well, release. So Maureen would call me to release the pressure. No, not that kind of pressure: the pressure in the pressure cooker. But last night, she figured it out, and now, i don’t have to stop watching a ball game to release the pressure.

No, but there is another problem. You see, when the pressure cooker is pressuring, it has the need to release some of that pressure intermittently. This is when it emits the sound of orcs coming out of Middle Earth with exponential decibels. While this is occurring, Maureen lights off the thirty-year old vent fan in the kitchen at full bore for a reason i cannot fathom. i first noticed this when i scrambled out of my television watching lounge chair (Yes, it’s a lounge chair, not a recliner because my interior designer prone wife thinks all recliners are ugly and do not fit the family room decor) and hit the deck with my hands covering my head to avoid George Alley’s FFV, the swiftest on the line, “runnin’ down the C&O road/Just twenty-five minutes behind” as Lester, Earl, and the Foggy Mountain Boys used to intone. i mean the first time she lit off that pressure cooker and the vent fan, i thought engine ole number one hundred and forty-three was rumbling out of our backyard through the breakfast room headed straight for me.

Sadly, i don’t think this is going to end any time soon. She is still in love with that pressure cooker. But it’s okay.

i eat well, and last night, she told me she still  loved me.