Well, bless you, Coach, as in JB Leftwich, columnist and journalism mentor extraordinaire.

You see, one of the grateful moments of my short and oft interrupted life in journalism was to write a weekly column on the same newspaper, The Lebanon Democrat, while JB was writing his weekly column on another day of the week. Even when i had no hair…again…i learned from Coach about writing for a newspaper.

One thing i learned was if you have a column for a specific season and it is well received, keep submitting/posting it that particular season every year. JB did that with a column about his mother’s fruit cake (again, Leftwich family, please correct me if i got the kin or the dessert incorrect in my memory).

So on Thanksgiving, i re-posted my column about smoking a turkey. And now, i’m re-posting my column about a dark day of the Christmas season. i know it has been appreciated because my close friend, Pete Toennies, guffaws each time he reads it. Sometimes, i am embarrassed by the story. Sometimes, i wonder why i have told anyone about that dark day. Then, i recall what occurred. i start laughing. It is a good story.

i cutsied it up a bit last year and called it “No, Noel, No.” with a couple of photos edited to make my rather silly point. But it was the same column.

The saga continues. The “NOEL” sign in the original story was made of 1×2 pine, was much larger, had holes drilled into the wood for the lights, and weighed considerably more than the current version. But a couple of years ago, some of the lights on the original went out and it was just too complicated to replace the lights in the series. So i constructed a more manageable sign. i was very meticulous and before drilling the one hundred or more holes, i decided to check it out and just stapled the light strings on the front. i showed it to Maureen. She decided she liked it much better than the more regimented one with holes drilled in it. Since she is the one who has an eye for design (and it was one heck of a lot less work), i agreed.

So i put the sign up last year.

That’s when i noticed i had two different strings of white lights. The first string was “white;” the second string was “bright white.” There’s a difference, you know. i didn’t.

Now i should change them out to match. But you know what? It sort of looks like i made it. So it’s staying this way, at least for this Christmas season.

Noel.

Notes from the Southwest Corner: An Embarrassing Christmas Moment

As I have noted previously, I am in Tennessee for Christmas, not in the Southwest corner. The below events, however, did occur near San Diego.

Have you ever had one of those days when everything turned into an embarrassment? I had a champion day like that several years ago.

It started innocently while I hung our outdoor decoration, a home-made “NOEL” sign from the eave of our garage, hoping to get it up before my wife’s friends arrived for their Christmas dinner.

Maureen and her six friends have been meeting monthly for dinners 15-plus years. They had this December dinner catered, did it up right. It was Maureen’s turn to be hostess.

It was dark when I began. I was at the top of my step ladder attaching the second of two wires from the sign to a hook secured to the eave when the ladder lurched and toppled. I grabbed a metal ornamental grating above the garage door.

There I hung, my arm intertwined with the “O” of the sign. If I tried to drop, the sign could catch my arm and do some pretty bad stuff.

I yelled, but Maureen had Christmas carols at top volume and didn’t hear. I tried to think of what to do while simultaneously wondering how long I could hold on. The dog wandered underneath, occasionally looking up as if I was a very strange person hanging there.

After several minutes, a neighbor’s son and friend pulled into the driveway several houses away. As they emerged, I swallowed my pride and yelled “Help.”

At first, they could not discern who was calling. Then they spotted me and came to help. The dog decided to protect me and began barking threateningly. The boys hesitated. I assured them the only danger was being licked to death. They finally righted the ladder and helped me down.

I thanked them profusely and then studied whether I should tell Maureen or not. Now that I was back on solid ground, I decided it was too funny not to tell her. She was incredulous and not particularly amused.

I did not realize my embarrassment for the night was just beginning.

While Maureen made final arrangements for her dinner, our daughter, Sarah, and I went to a local spot for supper. The little place was an oasis of sorts in Bonita, where there were only Mexican, Italian, and fast food restaurants. The attraction was being different and having a wide-range of ales and beers for golfers finishing a round across the street.

When we arrived, two couples were at tables and three guys sat at the bar. As we neared the end of our meal, the largest of the guys at the bar walked to the door and then turned back. I noticed his eyes seemed glazed. Then he walked back to the bar.

Suddenly, this guy and the one on the other side grabbed the guy in the middle off his stool, slammed him into the wall and started pummeling him with their fists. The three male diners, me (instinctively) included, approached from one side and two cooks approached from the back. Sarah had retreated to the door with the two lady diners. I grabbed the big guy. He spun and fell backward, slamming us into our table, knocking it over with shattering glass. It gave me some leverage, and we spun to the floor with me on top and knocking the wind out of the big guy. The other two diners helped me hold him until he calmed down. The cooks had quelled the other assailant. The two left quietly.

Even though the waitress wanted us to not pay our bill, we paid and left for home. On the way, I talked to my daughter about what I should have done (directed her outside before joining the fray) and what she should do the next time if she were ever in a place where a fight broke out (get out and away and not come back until she was sure it was over).

I was feeling pretty good as we arrived home. Then Sarah dashed out of the car, ran into the house and yelled to her mother in front of the caterer and her six friends dressed to the nines amidst fine china, Christmas decorations, and haut cuisine, “Mom, Dad got in a fight in a bar.”

Some days, I just can’t get a break.

May your holiday season be embarrassment free.

And may all of you have a most wonderful and amazing Christmas Season, and please, please, please (as James Brown would implore) remember the reason this all occurs every year.

i walked up my hill today and remembered why i loved to go up there.

The reason i climbed up today was i needed to lower my ensign to half mast in honor of the original George Bush.

i no longer go up there frequently. i used to go twice a day. i am old Navy and my ensign, in accordance with U.S. flag regulations required being raised at 0800, colors, and lowered at sunset, then folded in accordance with regulations and stored properly for the night. But then i added a light to illuminate the flag at night, which allowed the flag to be flown at night. Then the neighbor on the opposite side of our slope went land hungry (another story) and erected an ugly fence. It was not as enjoyable. So i quit going up. But today, the flag had to be lowered to half mast.

i went up, executed the half mast, stood silent for a moment in respect for President Bush. Then i looked out.

i saw the Pacific about six miles away as the crow flies.

i saw San Diego proper with its rather insane drive to build more high rise condominiums.

i looked down at our home feeling blessed.

i looked east at the majestic Mount Miguel.

i looked to the north at the distant mountains and clouds beyond the development housing on the rim above a reservoir.

i came down from my hill and went for a walk, not my run/walk route but one along the rim of the canyon two blocks to the east. The views are a reminder, this land was scrub high desert on its highlands, fertile agriculture along the river bed, and always horse country within spitting distance of the big city.

And in spite of all of the vitriol of those who really don’t have a clue and all of the valid concerns about cost of living, i think i’ll stay.

It has been a good day.

It is late.

Maureen has taken her bath and gone to bed, where i should be with her. Sarah is in her bed, probably doing some web thing with Billie, her loving dog, curled by her side. The fire in the fireplace is just smoldering embers.

i have been working, shotgunning on many things when not working on my book.

Earlier, i stumbled upon one of my all time favorite movies, “The Bishop’s Wife,” the original with David Niven, Cary Grant, and Loretta Young. i pretty much stopped everything else and watched straight through while Maureen multi-tasked reading on her Kindle or working on something on her laptop, something i am incapable of doing, never have been able to watch television and do something else. When the movie was over, as usual, i felt warm and good inside. My kind of movie along with oaters.

Maureen reminded me we will go to the symphony tomorrow, the San Diego kind featuring a violin concerto, #5 by Mozart and Dvořák’s Symphony #6. Thursday, i’m pretty sure i’m going solo to another San Diego Symphony performance of Purcell, Vivaldi’s “Winter” from The Four Seasons, Arensky’s Variations on a Theme by Tchaikovsky, Bach’s Concerto No. 1 in D minor, and Strauss’s Pizzicato Polka featuring Avi Avital on the mandolin.

We are booking our seats for Dirtwire’s performance at the Music Box in downtown San Diego in mid-January. A member of the band, Evan Fraser is the son of one of my best friends, Cyril Vaughn Fraser III, who grew up in Old Hickory established a Vanderbilt record similar to mine, and now lives on Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands of Puget Sound. Evan is not only almost kin, he is one incredible musician playing all sorts of exotic instruments from many lands.

And of course in early October, we made our annual journey to San Francisco to attend the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park with our friends Alan, Maren, and Eleanor Hicks, along with Cy,  not to mention our other 750,000 friends we meet every year.

As i write, i am listening to my collection of 45 RPM records, converted to digital. It is old rock and roll and rhythm and blues.

The eclectic nature of my music interests is pretty wide, i thought. i blame it on WCOR AM & FM. That is where i played the Top 40 on weekends on AM; played classical, semi-classical, and jazz on weeknights; and listened to country all the time because that was the bulk of the music slate on WCOR AM.

i am glad i somehow gained that appreciation. i am not an expert in any of those genres, but that is pretty much the story of my whole life: jack of all trades, master of none, except i think mariner/ship driver is where i did excel.

It is good.

In a few moments, i too will be hitting the rack (Navy term, and if you ever saw enlisted berthing on Navy ships in my early USN days, you would understand where the term came from. If i am still pumped, i may have a bit of a hard time actually getting to sleep. So i will resort to my mantra:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I ‘wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

It is the prayer i uttered since early memory for more than three thousand times. i now say it in my mind on a loop until i fall asleep.

When i said it at my childhood twin bed on the north room of the upstairs on Castle Heights Avenue, i don’t recall being one bit concerned about the second two lines. i do now. It has more possibility now. i am surprised some politically correct, well-meaning bozo hasn’t attacked it for being scary to children. Perhaps someone has and i just don’t know it. There are a lot of things i don’t know i prefer to keep that way. This is one of them. There are also a lot of things i know i wish i didn’t.

But for now, i think i will just remember:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I ‘wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

She is a year away from entering  the decade and a half, which overall was the best years of my life. She turns twenty-nine today (in fact, about five hours from now, to be specific).

Once upon a time in a land right here, Sarah May Jewell was born. It has been well documented that day twenty-nine years ago was the same day i completed my active duty service. i was blessed with becoming Mister Mom for quite some time.

Sarah his beautiful, intelligent, and caring. That’a about all i could ask.

Oh yeh, i love her.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.