It was not really her birthday. That event happened last month. It wasn’t even really her present. It was my present to her, but also very much to me.

When i came back from my Vanderbilt-Los Angeles baseball excursion in early March. i told her of my idea. i had been overwhelmed with the Harald Szeeman exhibit “Museum of Passions” on one of Alan Hicks, Cy Fraser, and my side trips on the baseball exhibit. It was my fourth trip to Getty Center. i also had recognized i could never get enough of the Getty. And neither of us had been to the Getty Villa, reputed to have an rather amazing collection of art from the antiquities.

So i said, “Let’s go to Los Angeles for a few days and just see museums.” Now if you know Maureen, you already know this was a done deal. See planned it to perfection (as usual) and even added an evening dinner and stay-over with our cousin Tim and Melinda Cook.

Well, the whole thing turned out splendidly. We hit the Huntington Library, the Getty Center, and the Getty Villa.

The evening with Tim and Melinda was reconnection on the high side with promises for more.

Maureen was moved by the Szeeman exhibit.

The Huntington is such a vast array of architecture, gardens, history and art, we walked for seemingly days in wonder.

The Getty Center continues to say some back, appreciate, and learn more.

The Getty Villa takes me back to the emotions i feel when trying to channel the days of the Greeks, Etruscans, and Romans.

Our stay in Santa Monica was in a wonderful rework of a craftsman home as VRBO guests of Paul and Amanda, superb hosts and members of the jazz rock soul group, The Strands (Paul and Amanda, please excuse me if i mislabeled the genre a little bit: we have enjoyed your CD’s.

Maureen planned our dinner outing at Tar and Roses. It was so good, we went back the second night.

The experience was everything we hoped. It was so good, i did not wish to record it via photos because i did not wish to detract from the enjoyment: i wanted to enjoy it, not record it, and we did.

Of course, there was Los Angeles traffic. We got home midday, and as Sister Lila (Kim Novak) told Zero Mostel’s character in “The Great Bank Robbery,” my ass was dragging. Hence, the late post on the trip.

There is more, but i think Maureen had a great birthday and that was what this was all about.

My grandson, Sam Gander, turns eleven today. ‘Nuff said.

joy and hope
came upon me
eleven years ago
right after a flight
to austin, texas
and
a quick ride
to the hospital
where i ran head first
into joy and hope;

he was a tiny thing then,
holding more joy and hope
than pretty much the world combined:
Samuel James Jewell Gander,
named perfectly after my father in the middle,
giving all of us
joy and hope;
unification really
of a family, nuclear as it was,
but
then with joy and hope;

through the years,
he continues to bring
joy and hope
growing into manhood
as we gasp and wonder
as he teaches us anew
joy and hope;

Eleven. Sam.
there will be rocks in the road ahead;
you are headed into the adult world
where
joy and hope takes on self-interest,
where
joy and hope will sometimes fade
but now at eleven,
you continue to hold
joy and hope for me
forever.

you, at eleven, moving onward
shall experience glorious things,
yes, and precious things,
and some not so
glorious and precious,
but
you will succeed
if you retain
the joy and hope
you continue to give
to us.

Another sunset on the Pacific tonight. The world is all right. The world is about as hosed up as Hogan’s goat.

And i…well, i am okay.

No, not okay. Good. Damn good. Thank you, people for making me feel good, all of you. For those of you who may have wished or even tried to make me feel bad, thank you, too. i would not have reached this place in my life without all of you. And i am in a good place.

My little garden, though in its infancy, is doing well. Oh, it’s not The Getty Center Garden, and it is just a start, but i find comfort in my new garden. i water and i think of my father watering his gardens in different aspects of his life. i recognize the feel-good he must have felt during the daily process.

The onions apparently has succeeded in keeping off the bobcat. The composter arrived this afternoon. That phase will begin in earnest next week. If all goes well, we may add more boxes. Thus far, it makes me feel good.

And the other yard project is finished, although Maureen or i will find flaws and correct them as we go along. The flagstone path to the sitting area has been set. It was more difficult than i anticipated. Roots were everywhere. It took about a week longer than i expected, but it felt good to wield a pick, shovel, rake, and hatchet again. Feel better. Even our gardener complemented the effort.

i have avoided home projects of any significant scope for quite a while, but i’m back at it, and it feels good. i think i will work on the seven hundred, twenty gazillion others i have on my list. i mean, this half-acre property has been ours for nearly twenty-eight years. It’s time to reassert to the earth, to nature, to all of those wild things out there it is really ours.

There are good things going on. Billie Holiday is here. i love to watch the alligator-hunting hound run with the joy she has, reminds me of my old lab Cass. She is a sweetheart. Sarah has trained her well. Billie’s eyes are eyes of trust. She makes me feel good. But she also has convinced me i will not have one of my own until old age restricts me in my capacity to wander.

i find myself enamored, maybe even entranced with nature’s creatures. My Friday Morning Golf buddies and i have watched and will continue to watch the various fowl along the coast, i.e. the North Island Naval Air Station golf course, Sea ‘n Air, as they live through the seasons. Canadian geese, ospreys, and pelicans are frequently spotted. This time of year, we watch the ducks pair off with the drake and the hen becoming a duo. Then, the ducklings appear. Maureen and i played Sunday with Nancy Toennies while Pete is on the mend. On the 17th tee box, we were greeted by this contingent.

Life is good even if my golf game sucks. But i will be at it again tomorrow just as i have been on most Fridays since 1991.

It is late. More ramblings to come.

Andrew Nemethy’s recent hiking trip and whatever else to Utah produced a message exchange between us. (Andrew, Rob Dewitt, and i shared forward officer’s quarters on our first ship, the USS Hawkins (DD 873) a long time ago). Our exchange made me decide to post this poem  again about my Utah experience.

Way up in the Mountains

way up in the Wasatch mountains,
where snow covered the Mormon pretense
one hundred, fifty years or so ago;
passages to the west were few
except in the warm months;
only the hardy would climb so high
with mules, packs, jerky, coffee
to mine the silver,
hunt the plentiful game
in the cold deep white of the mountain.

now the heights are a playground,
cleared groomed slopes skied down after
rides up the mechanized chair
where hunters and miners
persevered in the hard months,
now playtime in the rockies
for the masses.
the old town street running up and down
the hill called Main
was general store, haberdashery,
gin mill, assayer,
probably a red light house or two,
amidst the good, lord abiding citizens;
now
pizza joints butted against
boutiques, fashion salons,
restaurants with high cost haute cuisine;
only the Empress Theater and saloons
bear some resemblance to their former selves:
instead of grimy miners
swigging down the swill,
home brew out of pails,
rot gut whiskey.
now movie stars,
dressed to the nines
sipping wine
at the festival of cinema
named after an outlaw;
town and tourist drunks
drinking the trendy micro brews.

Still, in the quiet after a late winter storm,
there are tracks
of rabbit, mountain goat, even elk,
if one dares to climb so high.

The above newspaper article brings back a memory, a good moment for me.

Dan Boone is from San Diego. His achievement noted in this article is nothing short of amazing. He had pitched for the Padres and in another major league team’s Triple A club in Louisville before falling out of professional baseball. He resumed playing in San Diego’s ADABA league (see the first bullet in the second column) before making it to the bigs again as recounted in this 1991 article.

ADABA is where we crossed paths. Bill Hammond, a Navy lieutenant, and a good friend who worked for me in leadership training, talked me into joining his team, the Rangers, in 1986. The minimum age to play in the league was 33. All of the other team members were just barely over the minimum age and a couple were younger, slipping under the radar. At 40, i was six years older than any other player on the Ranger roster.

Since i hadn’t played baseball since American Legion ball in Lebanon, i was a bit concerned about being able to play well enough to contribute. The first game i played was against the “Dodgers,” at the high school field in Ramona, about 40 miles northeast of our home. The Dodgers came out in LA Dodgers replica uniforms. But when they came out on the field, i laughed and knew i could play in the league. These guys, all in their Dodger uniforms all looked like Tommy Lasorda clones.

Then, the Rangers started their infield warmups. I was not starting, and although i was anxious to play, i was not unhappy i would slowly be back into the game i loved. Practice had proven to my teammates and me my old shoulder injury would keep me from making strong throws to first from my old third base position. i was fine with being the second base backup and third string catcher.

The starting second baseman was a doctor at UCSD. About my height, maybe just a bit shorter. He was called “Little Bob” to distinguish him from our big first baseman who was dubbed “Big Bob.” Little Bob was a baseball nut and had an early computer program where he could keep all of our statistics, individual and team. Our catcher had played what was then the “D” league for the Montreal Expos organization before becoming an insurance salesman. He was good. Period. He fired rockets to second base. When the pitcher completed his warm-up throws, our catcher shot his throw, a speeding bullet to second. It was a bit high. Little Bob, standing on the bag, realized the throw was high, extended both arms up, and leaped as high as he could (about six inches) to catch the high throw.

It hit him in the forehead.

i immediately became comfortable with the idea of contributing to the team.

i played for three years (it was year round league with a winter and a summer season). My last year was in 1989, quitting before the summer season about six months before i retired (sic) from the Navy. As usual, there are a number of stories about that experience to be told later.

But Dan Boone contributed to one of my finer moments. Dan was playing with one of the top-notch teams in the league. The one that went to the national tournament in Arizona almost every year. In my last season, we played Dan’s team at the San Diego “Cavers” high school field. Dan pitched a one-hit, 8-1 win against us. i did not get a hit, but i did get the only RBI in the games Dan pitched that season. One of our better players walked, he stole second. A fly ball moved him to third. I hit a hard grounder to deep second. It was good enough the second baseman could not stop the run from scoring and threw me out at first. It was the best non-hit i could remember in my storied (oh, okay, it was only storied in my mind) baseball career.