Maureen is in her usual place, lying on the love seat with one cat snuggling by her side and the other on her legs. She is purportedly reading but there is really more sleeping going on. She will soon give up and go to bed.

It has been one of those special evenings for me, quite accidentally i might add.

Today, i reengaged with fitness, of my determination i should qualify. i tired of being a slug. At some point about two months ago, i said the hell with it. After all, i’m 73, not an old 73 but still 73, ancient. i should be able to do what i wish for the remaining years. Right?

Then i thought about some things. My parents lived to just shy of 99 and 97 respectively. Good genes, right? But i have lived a much wilder life than they and don’t expect to make it to their age. However, my goal is to make it to at least 85. i want to see my grandson Sam graduate from college. Since i have been wilder, i need to work on lasting more than Mother and Daddy ever did.

Then, there are my friends and me. Several have had some major procedures concerning health issues in the last month or so. My concerns about my condition have continued to prove minor. i am about the only one of friends my age who can still run, albeit rather pitiful to how we all used to run. Dammit, i owe it to them.

So in the last two days, i started running again. Sort of. In my last Navy tour, i ran at lunch, from the Naval Amphibious School along Coronado’s beach to the security fence of North Island Naval Air Station. It was about a 48 minute run, roughly six miles. i did that every weekday from early may 1985 until the end of November 1989.

It was a good run: full of life, enjoyment.

So i decided to work up to running 48 minutes. Today, i ran (my interpretation) for 11 of those 48 minutes. Oh hell yeh, it’s only about half the distance i used to cover in that time. But so what? i’m 73. Feeling good. Oh yeh, oh yeh.

Then i worked on packing and arranging for my trip home. Yup. This is my home, but Lebanon, Tennessee is also my home…forever.

This evening, Maureen and i chose to fix our own fish we had bought at “Blue Water,” an incredible sea food diner and deli. Maureen chose sea bass. i got opah. She did one of her magic cooking jobs on hers. i did some swags on the marinade and grilled mine.

i grilled it in our new “egg” knock off.  We bought it about three months ago. It’s magic but requires me to cook rather than my previous guess and by-golly approach to grilling. i eschew any grilling without charcoal. If i’m not grilling with charcoal, why not cook inside?

It was a lovely twilight. Grilling fresh opah, one of my favorites. My world behind me, ahead of me, here right now. So i gave in. A martini with JJ Cale as the opah grilled to its glory.

As usual, we ate on dinner trays in the family room.

i had recorded the playoff in this weekend’s golf tournament. We watched. It was rather anti-climatic. But we enjoyed. Maureen even liked a taste of my grilled opah. We shared the Lanzarote. It’s a rose wine from the Canary Island of Lanzarote. We bought it at the wine tasting last Thursday in San Francisco. Thanks, Alan Junior. The meal was about as good as it gets for an evening meal. The wine was perfect, and i’m not a big fan of rose.

After the golf, we watched the end of the second Sherlock Holmes movie. Maureen decided she didn’t wish to hear bad so we didn’t watch the news, not even PBS. i’m all for that all of the time.

We turned off the television. i put Dvořák’s 9th, the “New World” Symphony on the portable whatever it is connected to my invaluable iPod. It is one of the few pieces i could hear over and over and over…again and again and again.

When Anton’s piece concluded, i took the whatever that new technological magic is into our bathroom to shower. i put the selection on shuffle. i finished the evening ritual and came back to this infernal computer. But i continued to play my iPod.

It occurred to me i have learned to appreciate all kinds of music. Tonight, i listened to JJ Cale, Dvořák, the Carter Family, Andrea Bocelli, Charles Mingus, Flatt and Scruggs, and Joe Williams. It’s pretty nice to be without prejudice.

Maureen is in bed now. She read out. i am checking all things internet, at least in my limited capabilities to check out all things internet.

Tomorrow afternoon, i will head for Tennessee. Nine days back home. i cannot wait to see my friends, visit places so dear to me, relish Tennessee May.

But as i sit here in the final hours of a Southwest corner day, i have to admit, they just don’t come much better than this.

i hope your day was as good as mine.

It is Monday morning. i am awake, waiting for Maureen and Alan and Maren Hicks to rise before packing.

It’s travel time. Back to San Diego. Home. The drive to San Francisco’s airport will take about an hour in traffic. The flight will be just over an hour, but the airlines have turned short trips into all-day affairs.

That’s okay.

It has been a glorious weekend with the Hicks.  Alan and Maren took us to Alan Jr’s wine shop, Arlequin over on Hayes Street,  for tasting wines from the Canary Islands — the wines were delicious and unique — after we arrived on Thursday. Friday, we spent several hours, i gawking, at “Monet: The Early Years” exhibit at The Legion of Honor Museum, a piece of art in its own right.

Following lunch at Alan’s Sausalito Yacht Club, we drove to their home in Sonoma. Alan grilled pork tenderloin. Maren and Maureen prepared vegetables and salad. i sat around.

We studied the stars in their backyard with the shadows of the grapevines in the abutting Sebastiani vineyard looming in the dark across the fence.

Saturday, the ladies went to book signing of a cookbook writer, featuring her new book on Middle Eastern cuisine (i think). Alan and i walked around Plaza de Sonoma and nearby streets with a late lunch.

Steve and Maria Frailey joined by their neighbor, Leslie Yellen flew in from San Diego midday Saturday. We met the Frailey’s and Leslie at Murphy’s Pub for a delightful celebration of Maria’s 55th birthday. Sara Petite and her band performed. Sara has been a long time favorite of Maria and they are friends. Sara is also a terrific song writer and singer. Her band matches her in talent. We sat up front. Except for some way too old yahoo playing the spoons, it was a wonderful evening.

Sunday, we met the San Diego threesome at the Buena Vista Winery. Then we ate lunch at “Sonoma’s Best” deli, truly more of a wine shop than a deli. It lived up to its name. The Reuben was great. The Shebang red wine perfect for a Reuben.

Nap time before dinner with the seven at the Depot Hotel, no longer a depot and no longer a hotel, but a great place to eat Italian al fresco, sorta.

Then, it was over. As usual, i woke early. Packing day. But first at first light, i walked in the backyard on the tan rock path. The day would be overcast. It was spring cool. Near the fence, i stopped to gaze at the irises, Tennessee’s state flower, you know. For some reason, it brought a neo-gospel to mind. i thought it came from slaves. It didn’t. Some guy named Tom Dorsey — no, not that Tom Dorsey — wrote it in 1947, and the country and rock singers, even Elvis rolled with it, even later, Little Richard. i liked it better when i didn’t know better and thought its origin was different. But it was still just right for the moment: the early morning moment next to a vineyard in the Valley of the Moon. Sonoma. Fit the weekend too.

As i looked at the flowers, i remembered the words:

i’m tired and weary but I must toil on
Till the Lord come to call me away
Where the morning is bright and the Lamb is the light
And the night is fair as the day.

There’ll be peace in the valley for me some day
There’ll be peace in the valley for me
I pray no more sorrow and sadness or trouble will be
There’ll be peace in the valley for me.

There the flow’rs will be blooming, the grass will be green
And the skies will be clear and serene
The sun ever shines, giving one endless beam
And the clouds there will ever be seen.

Where the bear will be gentle, the wolf will be tame
And the lion will lay down by the lamb
The host from the wild will be led by a Child
I’ll be changed from the creature I am.

No headaches or heartaches or misunderstands
No confusion or trouble won’t be
No frowns to defile, just a big endless smile
There’ll be peace and contentment for me.

Thanks, Steve, Maria, Leslie for sharing. And thanks, Alan and Maren for peace in the valley.

i suppose there are an innumerable number of men named Mike Kelly.

i know one. He lives near Houston. He is from Texas and Montana and probably several other places i don’t know about. He lived in the Southwest corner for a long time before moving East. He is a giant of a man in many ways. i met Mike through a mutual close friend. Jim Hileman and Mike go back a long way. They both were in the Navy on carriers in rougher times. i’m pretty sure it wasn’t together, just similar. The two became fast friends working for Ma Bell out here.

i met Jim Hileman at my wedding. 1983. He was late to the reception because he had a golf round that morning. When we were introduced, he explained, and i asked him why hadn’t he invited me to play. We’ve been fast friends ever since…but that’s another story and one way too long to tell here.

Shortly after i met Jim, he introduced me to Kelly on a golf course. From that point on, we played golf together until Mike and Sheri moved back to Texas to be near their granddaughter and son.

Mike rose through the ranks of AT&T until he was at an upper management level. He also got his masters in fine arts. He was/is a landscaper, a farmer, a hunter, and a wonderful artist among other things. Much more importantly, he is a great friend. i remember how he and i picked up Sarah from day care when she was one. She was crying in her baby car seat. While i drove, Mike put Sarah in those gigantic arms of his, and Sarah immediately quit crying and started to coo. He also is tremendous artist. We have one of his chalk paintings hanging in our master bedroom.

A week or so ago, Jim and his wife Sharon returned to the Southwest corner from near Dallas. They had attended their daughter Mandy’s wedding. Since they were in Texas, they rolled on over to Houston and spent a day with Mike and Sheri.

“They haven’t changed,” the Hileman’s commented on the Kelly’s. i expected as much.

Then Jim gave me a present. Kelly had given two six packs of beer to him, one to be given to me upon return. Jim gave me both. He doesn’t drink. i have given some to friends causing them to laugh. It’s pretty good beer made in College Station, Texas, of all things.

Mike Kelly thought the gifts were appropriate. i found a perfect spot for drinking it. It’s the workshop side of my garage. That’s when i say the words on the label most, although i’m sure Mike had heard me shout them in frustration many times on the golf course.

As usual, Mike hit the nail on the head:

Thanks, Mike

i have written of Easter before. Several times. It is a hallowed, sacred day.

In the span of my life, it has been much celebrated in many ways.

Today, it has been quiet.

No sunrise service. i did walk to the top of my hill around that time of the morning and watched the white heat orb burning through the mist of the marine layer hanging over Mount Miguel. i had my moment, prayer i guess you could call it. Thankful, sober prayer.

i came down to another Maureen egg special with toast, fruit, and Tennessee Pride country sausage. We sat at our usual places at my great aunt’s oak table, looking out the window at the green lawn as the sun burned through. We read the newspaper with several cups of coffee.

i remembered previous Easters. A not too big Easter egg hunt at home upon awakening and scurrying down the stairs. Those egg hunts remain dim memories except i know i never fared well at the community ones. Perhaps i was too impatient. Sunrise service outside of MacFadden Auditorium in the cool but sunny mornings. Dressing up in our finest, newly purchased spring ensembles to spend most of the day at church. Big, big ham dinner (that’s the midday meal where i come from) in the dining room reserved for only the big family celebrations. For some reasons, the dinner rolls stick out in my mind.

i don’t remember Easter at sea except for my last ship. The chaplain made it a big deal, or at least as big a deal as he could with sailors who preferred to sleep in on the one day of the week they could do so. i do remember a number of Easters at sea when we raised the church pennant above the U.S. Ensign on Easter. It was the only pennant or flag we ever flew above the ensign.

Most of all, i remember Easter Egg hunts with my two daughters. The ones with Blythe were sadly few in the first years of her life. It was such a beautiful sight to see her dressed up in a pinafore dress with her beautiful blonde hair and carrying a real basket. She would laugh excitedly every time she spied another real colored egg hidden somewhere by her clever mother.

The hunts with Sarah were outside at first, usually confined to the courtyard. She behaved just like her sister when finding an egg. i guess that is pretty much a universal response for children on Easter egg hunts. The hunts here in the Southwest corner quickly moved indoors. Sarah’s mother delighted in her own cleverness in hiding the foil covered chocolate eggs. The Easter Bunny, or as he signed his nickname “E.B.,” began to leave a note each year, usually extolling Sarah’s behavior and telling her of how the others who left her notes on big days, Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, shared his fondness for her.

Maureen is off to yoga. i have cleaned the grill. We had steak last night with a superb California Red wine from Shebang “without too much pretension” as the label describes it. I like pretty much any wine without too much pretension. Unlike my old grill, i am taking good care of this relatively new “egg” knockoff.

We are going to friends for dinner tonight.

That’s it.

i sit in my office with many tasks and other writing projects piled around me. The sun slinking low to the south is now in its glory. The mist and the clouds have burned off. The bougainvillea outside my office window is the healthiest it has been in years after the rain of previous months and somehow reminds me it’s Easter.

Sitting in my desk chair, i meditate, something i have found greatly calming, refreshing, and empowering in just the last six months or so. Again i had my moment we might call prayer. i think of my two daughters, son-in-law, and grandson. i know Sam had yet another successful Easter egg hunt in Austin. i suspect Sarah either participated with Blythe and her family or with one or other of the children she tends. i am happy for them.

The Easter Bunny didn’t leave any eggs for us here in the Southwest corner. He didn’t leave a note either. i checked.

He did leave something better.

Hope.