Tomorrow. i turn 74 tomorrow. As with 73, this isn’t a big deal for most. It just means another year older. 75. That’s some big deal. Three quarters of a century. Right now, getting to this one is my focus.

The trip i just made to Austin and back in five days made it a big deal. With all that time to think on the return drive, i decided to grow up. Oh, i won’t stop being goofy or politically incorrect or a contrarian or a pocket of resistance, but i am changing some things.

i want to spend of the rest of my life, not wasting time, being as good a man as i can be, and doing the right thing.

This is tough in a world i know longer recognize. My world of yesteryear (man, that hurts to write that) wasn’t much better if you look at all aspects, but it was mine. And you know what, i’m really sort of tired of people revising history to meet their needs, their goals, without regard to the humanity of the people in the past. There are wonderful historians out there who are trying to delve into the past in an honest, forthright way, to help all of us have a better idea of where we came from. My niece Kate Jewell is one of those. i just finished her book, Dollars for Dixie, and it does service to our past and allows us to learn.

i also realized on that trip, i am an antecedent. Those younger than me don’t listen to my ravings because they don’t know what i’m talking about. i shy away from being concerned because each older generation has worried about the next one going to hell in a handbasket, but i do have concerns. There seems to be a whole lot more of non-think, adopting a cause or an idea because someone cool suggested it or some media of some kind intimated it was good. And then it becomes a passionate cause. That scares me.

It bothers me we seem intent on proving what we believe when believing, faith is enough. You can’t prove it, regardless of what you believe. Quit trying. I have.

It doesn’t matter because i’m not going to change those younger folks. i am amazed so many people my age are ranting and raving, and even, god forbid, trying to influence the mass of politic behind us, like being politicians when they should be in old age homes resting on their laurels.

Here’s my thought on this: i recognize i am not as fast thinking as i used to be, just like i’m not as physically able as i used to be. i view my role from here on out is providing succor for the younger folks, not trying to make them do what i think they should do. i hope some of them gain some insight from my recollections, stories, and observations. i’m not sure they are in the receive mode. So i also hope folks my age will simply enjoy my stuff and remember their own good times.

i have had many loves, many heroes, many adventures, and many good memories to share. i have had a good life, relatively unique because i never could quite figure out what i really wanted to be other than a good husband and a good father. Sometimes those desires have worked out quite well. Other times, they weren’t so hot.

You know what? That’s life.

My other goal is to be as much like my parents in aging as i can be given the different conditions. They did it differently, but they did it together, right up until the last nine months of eighty years of a marvelous relationship. They lived in a small Southern town and were working too hard to be successful, raise their children right, than to consider the moral conundrom continuing to plague the South today.

My mother had illnesses plaguing her from at least since i was about twelve. Allergies, asthma, over-medication, bone problems, and on and on and on. But she dealt with them with defiance, doing what she wanted to do, loving her family, being exact and with an incredible memory right up to the night i spent with her in the hospital until she went into that final sleep. She lived a good, an incredible life.

My father? Well, i guess you probably know how i feel about him. He had yellow fever when he was seven, damn near died, lost three years of school. After that? Had kidney stones in the mid-50’s, the only in-patient time he spent in a hospital, a week (during the yellow fever combat, he had a care-giver attend to him in the family home) until his last two months of living. Stayed amazingly healthy all of his life while eating eggs, toast, butter, jam, sausage or bacon, coffee, coffee, coffee, all things fried, steak, pies, cakes, ice cream, chocolate, chocolate. Everyone i know called him a “good man.”

And everyone thought he was the neatest man in the world, primarily because if he wasn’t, he was in the top ten.

Well, i am a combination of the two of them, just like my sister Martha and my brother Joe. i am honest in my assessment i will never quite reach their pinnacles of living a good life. Maybe i could have but i left, wanderlust, whatever. No problem really. i have accepted i have spent my life as a vagabond, a renegade, a wanderer, a wonderer. Some really nice folks have tagged me as a renaissance man. i think i’m a jack-of-all-trades, master-of-none.

My father gave me his thoughts about his age in our garage when he was 87. We were working on a project. i tried to capture his thoughts in short poem. i have posted it before, but to reflect on how i understand what he was getting at, here it is:

Going Quick

Two men, father and son
hunched over a work bench
a number of years ago;
working on a project quietly
in the glare of the naked bulb
hanging above their heads;
they talked a bit,
focusing on the task at hand,
smiling quietly at the bond
they continued to build;
then,
the old man with thick strong hands said,
“You know, son,
i’ve led a pretty good life,
got three good kids who have grown up well,
some good grandchildren,
and
your mother;
‘bout the only thing I hope now
is when I go,
it’ll be quick.”

That’s where i am. Just gotta try to live the rest of it like they did. Regally. Right.

So good night all. i will wake in the Southwest corner just after i was born, 7:30 a.m. CST, January 19, 1944, seventy-four years ago. My plan is to write a lot.

But tomorrow, i will be working on fixing my approach shots, chips, and putts. i’ll still be a lousy golfer, but i have fun.

May all of you have a good day on my birthday.

i don’t how i came up with the name Shelia, but it fits.

i usually name special inanimate objects and pets with some connection, like pets with writers, actors, or singers. i named all of my gps devices, programs, or apps “Shirley” as in “Shirley, you didn’t want to take that turn you just made!”

But “Shelia” just popped into my head, and it sounded real good (to me) with “the Beast.” And so, Shelia the Beast and i just spent two rather amazing days after a short and awakening visit to Austin.

Sarah is going through a life change (i did that as well about her age), and we made a whirlwind trip to Austin in her car.  We powered out (i thought it was powering out, but found out on the return just what “powering out” was all about) with a Thursday jaunt to Van Horn, Texas (850 miles), slept for four hours and made it into Austin (456 miles) midday Friday.

We slept, got caught up with a great guy named George Lederer, and then dined at North Italia in the Domain with my family less Maureen.

Sarah worked there as a waitress, and Jason worked there as a manager. It was old time week. The obvious highlight for me was Sam. To my delight, we spent a great amount of time hugging. He also immediately recognized i no longer sported a mustache, one of the very few who have noticed since i shaved it off over six months ago. He then told me he really liked my mustache. i’m growing it back. There are very few things in my life which will make me euphoric . Sam is one of them.

As we ate, the sisters began talking like…well, like sisters. Blythe is seventeen years older than Sarah, so they would declare when Blythe was in the “mom” role. They were just…what? Together. Then Jason and i talked about his new job. Sounds like a perfect fit, long term, security, all that. Then Blythe talked of an impending promotion. She deserves it. They are in a good place. Blythe’s mother, who was not in attendance, is with them, part of the family unit.

Sam told me he wanted to be a comedian when he grew up. i told him about the original Papa, my great uncle, and how he would come to our home every Wednesday after the farmer’s market. How he would park his Model A Ford on and off the street in front of our house and how Martha, i, and eventually Joe would run out to meet him. How he would sweep us up in his arms. How then he would reach into his pocket and give Martha a Milky Way (Martha, i think i got this wrong before: correct me if i’m wrong) and the marvel of all marvels, give me a Three Musketeers candy bar. i told Sam Sarah would bring him a Three Musketeers from me when they got back from their weekend hiking. He smiled. i was about as happy as i could be.

For me, in that noisy, busy restaurant, things seemed to go quiet, like i was in another place watching. It felt as if it were in slow motion. i heard them talking about things the next generations talk about. It occurred to me i was out of it. Not part of the conversation. Looking on. i thought of my mother in her later years hard of hearing. She would listen intently and nod her head approvingly when she had no idea of what was being said.

i did not nod my head in approval. i felt a quietness inside of me. Serenity, peace coming over me. i was me, an old man. They did not need me anymore. What i do is not part of their world. What they do is okay because they are on their own. The Ganders are in a good place. They all will do all right. Blythe’s mother is there with them. This is good for everyone. i’m just removed, not just because i’m some 1300 miles away. Sarah is going to be fine. i changed from sportswriting to Navy officer, the sea-going time at 28. It worked out great. It will for her also. We just don’t know how yet. She is independent.

Yeh, there were a few tears welling up several times when we said our goodbyes and Sam and i reluctantly quit hugging each other. i hope it didn’t show, because they were not tears of sadness, but of joy for them.

It was somewhat startling to realize it was my life to live here on out. i’ve said for a long time “good, effective parenting is the art of letting go gently.” i have let go. i feel good. Peace. We will see them, talk to them, communicate as they see fit. And all is well.

The next day, Sarah, Shelia the Beast, and i loaded out the van. We were done just after midday. i said goodbye and left. Shelia and i forged ahead on the real power drive. Unlike most women i know, she had a governor. At seventy-five miles an hour. We sat on it. To Fort Stockton, a Texas cattle town if there has ever been a Texas cattle town. i looked around for Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hopalong Cassidy, Lash Larue, or Bob Steele to show up on Trigger, Champion, and Topper — as far as i know Lash and Bob horses were named horse.

But i got my sleep and hit the road early. Sixteen hours, two stops: forty miles east of Deming, New Mexico, and of course, Gila Bend, Arizona. Power trip. Now for those of you who have not experienced driving a twelve-foot rental furniture van, you should know they are made for getting their thing done, not for comfort. When i first sat in the driver’s seat, i felt like i was in that old Johnson Dairy milk delivery truck, the one HM Byars required me to drive across town from the old Johnson Dairy east on West Main through the square and up East Main to Hankins, Byars & Jewell for Daddy to fix. It had a three-speed shift sticking out of the floor board. The seat was like a stool. Shelia the Beast wasn’t that bad but it was close.

The only available sound was a radio. i never turned it on. FM doesn’t do well on long drives across the barren wastelands. AM doesn’t exist, although you might pick up some Mexican music. No bluetooth, no “auxiliary.” Oh, there was a CD player, but i had no CD’s. Couldn’t use earbuds with my iPod because i should listen for highway sounds. Nothing but me and the wind whistling through the insulation on the back top of the driver’s door. That’s a long time for limited observance of the passing countryside and thinking, lots and lots of thinking.

There was enough countryside. i never get tired of the expanse of our land from Fredericksburg, Texas to descending from Mount Laguna on the downward leg into San Diego and home. It is almost, almost like being at sea. Vastness. Not much of anything out there except a few cattle munching on sparse dry grass, a few scrub oaks at first, then mesas and jutting hills from the landscape with the wonder of how they got there riding in my thinking and then as i closed in on El Paso, then Yuma with mountains corralling the vastness, hemming in that vastness, eliminating the open horizon with the sky. Approaching Yuma, my thinking and the mist lying around the mountains like a sheer stole made me think of Gene Autry again. He took Hoagy Carmichael’s “Old Buttermilk Sky” and gave that vista to me in a song. Western.

Then there are the giant energy wind vanes jutting out at surprising places and miles and miles of solar panels, the new west. The wind vanes have coordinated aircraft warning lights that took me to some space station in an immense cave for a civilization. Star wars. And agriculture: miles and miles, not small plots, not acres, but miles of green. Truck farms. The smell of fertilizer can sensitize nostrils. Made me think of how we relied on smells when we all lived off the land, and how those selfsame odors are offensive to our delicate urbanized olfactory detectors.

And trains. Oh not the steam engines of the wild west or the passenger trains with gentle people peering out at the vastness and the wildness while sipping their morning coffee in the dining car. No. Working trains, containers from the shipping lanes piled high, two to a car, and literally miles. i saw several with at least three miles of cars behind (and in front; whatever happened to the caboose?). It seemed we were all invaders in the beautiful wild vastness.

But of course, there were the people. Few, yes, but people nonetheless, literally living off the land. You know, like we used to. And i wondered about those people: the ranch hands living in two-room huts in the heat of the desert with no trees to provide cooling shade; and the trainmen, brakemen, engineers, plowing through this explosive star sky with no heed of the beauty, getting to the next offload spot, and the agriculture workers tending the fields, pickups, shanties. i wondered how they got their news. The cellular phone did not work for probably more than half of that 1300-plus miles. Antennae on the mountains, sentinels of transponding, but not in the vastness, not where the huts housed these folks. And i wondered what they thought of all their countrymen pounding their fists, yelling about how unfair the other side was, how words have become more important than working, how those other folks out there where there is no vastness have become so small, like their surroundings.

A great deal of the trip was along the border. i mean literally along the border. From the rise on the hills along I-10 through fifty or more miles around El Paso and later on I-8 through the south vastness of Arizona desert, i could almost see in the open windows of shacks and shanties with the soiled cotton curtains blowing akimbo, seemingly never ending, as far as my eye could see. i thought of how the city folks are fearful of them hollering “don’t let ’em in” and not having a clue who they are and what they need, and i thought of the deathly sense of passionless killing. Death, drugs, money, corrupting and how these evils, this lack of humanity played on the lives of the shanty dwellers. No answer. Sad. i thought i would like to go to a shanty and meet these people.

But i’m powering out, Shelia the Beast and me, worrying about the next big rig or some fast driving automobile with no heed of my precarious governor-stretching Shelia the Beast hurtling down that ribbon of concrete westward, westward (as Mr. Cash once intoned).

Time to keep moving. Gila Bend. Last gas stop. Was it a converted Stuckey’s, the Mexican version? Colorful ceramics crammed into every nook and cranny. Chimereas lined up like the Chinese terra cotta army for Emperor Qin’s eternity. Life-sized Tyrannosaurus Rex (with a baby even), a Triceratops, and a Camarasaurus, all near actual size over by the side parking lot.

Then there was the sunset out of Gila Bend. Glorious pinks and grays and whites whispering against the westward mountains until the night took the hues away.

Then as i passed the last outpost with an inn for overnight they call El Centro. Home two hours away with Shelia the Beast climbing up the windswept hills carefully, ploddingly.

Then down, Sheila wished to let it out, but i could feel the load in the bed and braked her down tenderly. After all, we had been through a lot together. i had grown to like the old girl.

Somehow, all that thinking piled on top of itself. The family dinner at North, the vastness, the people in the vastness, me. Doing the right thing seemed to resonate through it all.

It was a cathartic experience, this five-day power trip. The old man is not likely to do it again.

But i sorted out a lot of things in my mind, and i am at peace. At least for a little while.

In case you haven’t noticed, there have been no Facebook posts from me in the past three days including the “laws” from my “Murphy’s Law” desk calendar archives.

Well, there was this short notice trip to Austin, a mere jaunt around the corner of somewhere over 1300 miles.

As usual, it was not a sight-seeing adventure. Sarah and i didn’t stop and smell the roses…er cacti; or to climb to Anazai cliff dwelling homes in Canyon de Chelly; or to stop and see why enthusiasts  clog their RV’s, their dune buggies, and their very souls with the fine brown sand west of Yuma; or to visit the Navajo’s in Window Rock; or to order a martini in the lone bar in Lordsburg, New Mexico to admire the bartender’s look of bewilderment; or to study the Juarez, lighting up the entire landscape south of El Paso, eerily resembling the armies of Orcs from Modor; or to visit the National Museum of the Pacific War by the City of Fredericksburg, Texas in honor of their hometown boy, Admiral Chester Nimitz, something i swear i will do next time when i pass through once again.

No, this was a power charge by the road warriors. Sarah has already made this journey four times. i think i’m getting close to twenty. We know the roads I-8 to I-10 to US 290 and have watched the motels, gas stations, convenience stores, and fast-food stops replace farms and wide-open spaces (but just, mind you, right at the rare exits on I-10 through the vastness of West Texas.

We left just after 8:00 a.m. PST, powered through to Van Horn, arriving at 11:00 p.m. CST (15 hours) in Van Horn, home of Chuy’s Mexican restaurant reputed to have the John Madden room who stopped his RV there to partake of their fare on every cross-country trip to cover NFL football because he had a fear of flying. Then we arose before 4:00 a.m., that self-same Central Time Zone so hysterically wide from East Tennessee to roughly sixty miles east of El Paso, and arrived in Austin just before noon in, yep, CST.

Tonight, i will have dinner with my daughters, son-in-law, and the heart of my heart, Sam. But then it’s business, loading up a van and headed back west as soon as possible (Sarah will follow a couple of days later after settling up things and saying goodbye to friends . From experience, i can tell you there is not a lot of joyful moments driving a twelve-foot moving van solo.

But you know what? There is something strange about me (you probably had already figured it out). Even old, i love road trips like this. Someday i will take a leisurely one, see the country like my parents did for years. But not this weekend. Nope.

i’m on an old man road trip.

Sean Dietrich’s “Sean of the South” post today stirred up memories. i read it right before breakfast. Usually it’s a bit earlier when i read Sean’s emailed post. Had i read it then, i probably would have just nodded my head with understanding and deleted it. i made a vow i wouldn’t repost Sean’s posts unless they struck a major, major chord. This one struck a chord as i read the Sunday paper during Maureen’s superb eggs, toast, and fruit (it’s been a while since i made it to the commissary down at the 32nd Street Naval Station and we’re out of Tennessee Pride country sausage).  As i finished up with coffee and the comics, i thought about Sean’s post some more.

He hit that chord because i wrote of a good man once, about four and one-half years ago. i consider “a good man” one of the highest praises a man could get. Acting, behaving, and even thinking in a manner to warrant being called a good man is one of my two major goals left in life. Doing the right thing (thank you, Peter Thomas for articulating this one) is the other.

i explained why my primary reason for pursuing being a “good man”  in my Lebanon Democrat “Notes from the Southwest Corner” that four and a half years ago. For those who might have missed it, i have pasted it below.

The link to Sean’s column is http://seandietrich.com/respects/

Respects

Good man gone

By now, most of you know my father, Jimmy Jewell, passed away last Tuesday (August 14, 2014), 46 days shy of his 99^th birthday.

This newspaper and its competition carried articles about him and as well as his obligatory obituary. He would have been embarrassed by all of this fuss over him. He shied away from publicity.

Jimmy Jewell’s near century of living is interwoven with the history of this city and this county. His history has been fairly well documented in many of my previous columns.

But I do not wish to discuss his history or how it has been interwoven with the city. I wish to honor him for what I think he treasured most: being a good man.

♦     ♦     ♦

In the early 1960s, I first heard of Jimmy Jewell being described as a “good man” when a Seabee buddy of his, Elmer Hauser, from World War II traveled from Arizona to see Daddy. Elmer and his wife Minnie went to dinner with us at Dr. Lowe’s second Plaza Motel on North Cumberland. There Elmer leaned over to me and said, “You know your father was the best liked man in our battalion (the Navy’s 75^th Construction Battalion). He didn’t drink so he would give his beer and liquor rations to his friends. Everybody wanted to be his friend.”

Elmer chuckled and then explained to me confidentially, “But the reason he was so well liked was not the rations. He was liked because he was a good man.”

♦     ♦     ♦

In July as we prepared to move Jimmy Jewell from UMC to his new but short-termed home of Elmcroft Senior Living in early July, I went to see my mother in their new digs. A man on a motorized wheel chair met me half way down the long hall.

“Are you Jimmy Jewell’s boy?” he asked, ignoring the fact I resemble my 69 years.

“Yes, I’m Jim, his older son.”

“I thought so. “I’m Basel Tyree. Can’t wait to see him,” he continued, “I’ve known him since the late 40s. He worked on my cars. He is a good man.”

We talked some more and in one humorous exchange, I laughed. “When you laugh, you sounded just like him,” Basel observed said.

“Best compliment I’ve ever received,” I replied.

Archie King, also on a motorized wheelchair had met me earlier with eagerness to see my father. When we met the next time, he told a story of when his car had been rear-ended in the early 1950s.

“The insurance company was only going to pay for the bumper and the dents to the trunk, but the frame was bent. I didn’t know what to do,” Archie related.

“I told Jimmy about it,” he continued, “Jimmy took the phone, called the insurance agent and said ‘I’m Mr. King’s attorney, and we are going to sue your company if you don’t pay for fixing that frame.’

“They paid. There’s no telling how much money Jimmy saved me,” Archie concluded and then added:

“He’s a good man.”

♦     ♦     ♦

After my father passed away, several folks like Tilford Elkins and John Cook also used “a good man” to describe Jimmy Jewell. I decided to cite them and others in this column. But before the Sellars Funeral Home visitation was over Saturday, I could not keep up with the names of those who used the term, I had also lost count.

That pretty well describes how Jimmy Jewell has been perceived in this town. I think it was his greatest trait.

It occurred to me there are other Lebanon men who have earned or are earning the “good man” description. Perhaps my perception is somewhat flawed, but I recall thinking of many Lebanon men of my father’s generation being “good men.” I believe it was not a false perception. The men of that generation valued the trust and caring of others over physical possessions or power. They did not draw lines in the sand unless it really mattered. They tried to make things work for everyone.

It seems our culture now leans toward self-protection, greed, and self-aggrandizement more so than in those times. There were a lot of good men back then, but they are dwindling quickly.

Jimmy Jewell was one of the best of those good men.