The Allie troop made a decision to return to the zoo today. We did not see all that Allie had wished to see on our first foray on Tuesday, and the other possibilities just seemed not quite as inviting. So zoo today, Safari Park tomorrow (after all, they have the butterfly exhibit open).

i had many ideas to add here, but i am too pooped to pop. i’ll just say between the two days, we covered all of the zoo. Even with about 1/8 of the zoo area under construction for a new exhibit, this is quite an accomplishment. Today, we chose to rent a stroller for Allie. The first day was tough.

When we got home, Maureen took Allie to Hans and Harry’s Bakery, a destination to many all over San Diego, but just down the hill from us. Maureen got some kind of French pastry for her and Martha’s…er, Happy’s desert with strawberries and cream tonight. And Allie picked out a cookie, not a gingerbread cookie, but better. This was a highlight of the day, along with the polar bears, panda bears, hippos, and tigers.

As noted, yesterday’s zoo trip gave me the opportunity to be described by Kim Novak. With a storm predicted for most of the day in San Diego today, we planned a mostly indoor day with Alexandra and Happy, granddaughter and grandmother Martha.

So a bit later to miss the rain snarling of an already snarled San Diego commute, we left home a bit later. It turned out the raging rain storm was less than a quarter inch in the early morning with the clouds burning off by noon. Typical. But on we went to Balboa Park.

We had Allie’s visit planned out, but the plan had some holes in it. Trooper Allie made it through the first day at the zoo, but we only saw about half of what she wanted to see, and logistics prevented one goofy yahoo from getting to Albert’s, one of my all time favorite places to dine in the middle of the zoo, named after the zoo’s past famous gorilla. The other must stop was the Zoo’s “Safari Park” which is about forty minutes up the road inland of Escondido, which is inland of Encinitas, which is…oh, never mind, i got off track again. Anyway, we moved that visit around to Friday to ensure we missed the big storm, which never happened.

Then, i suggested the Reuben H. Fleet Science Center on the east end of the Park, across from  the Natural History Museum with the big fountain almost in between.

And that’s where we began today’s adventure.

It turned out the Science Center was a perfect place for a five-year old and a significantly older and very tired playmate. Allie loved it. We tinkered with the science education projects with inquisitive Maureen leading the charge, Happy being the effective teacher she has been all her life, and the goofy guy unsuccessfully trying to figure out the exhibits kids of all ages had mastered within a minute.

Then we went upstairs to Kid City. Allie was in heaven, along with about two dozen kids flitting about the air tubes, mock-up bus and fire engine, the “Mercado” grocery store and the factory next door. This, of course, allowed most of the adult escorts to sit down. Allie played until our group got hungry.

So we walked down El Prado to The Prado restaurant. Allie loved it, and the adults enjoyed their lunch and rest. The goofy guy had a glass of pinot grigio. So, at Allie’s request we went back to Kid City. This time, the goofy one was designated to be the playmate. Allie and i made the rounds. For most of the time, the air vacuum exhibits with the balls swirling upward in and around the Rube Goldberg contraptions before falling down a tube into a bin to be repeated thrust into the tubes again held sway.

And then it happened. While checking out the “walk” and “don’t walk” exhibit for crossing the Kid City highway of life, there was this three-year old rolling his Mercado thirty-inch high shopping cart at pedal to the metal speed (except, of course, there was no metal). The wipeout was pretty ugly. There were no serious injuries other than the goofy guy’s ego. The photo to the left is the evidence at the crime scene.

Fortunately, the wreck on the highway was near the end of the adventure because the beginning of a non-adventure called rush-hour was fast closing in.

As Allie’s entourage was gathering, the goofy guy walked out to the fountain and found a soul mate. One lone male mallard duck had claimed the fountain. The goofy guy and the duck discussed the state of the world, speeding plastic grocery carts on main highways, and independence. The two agreed neither of them was really lonely.

Allie, Happy, and Auntie Mo emerged from the museum. The entourage made it back home with minimal problems with the commute.

The designate playmate was informed that about ninety-five percent of his house was “Girls Only.” Fortunately, he was designated the “helper” and could traverse much of his home, but just in transit or when helping. He, as a playmate was blissfully extricated from a game of “Old Maid” because three players were required. But he lost in “Go Fish” yet again, although this time, there was some consideration in his claim the officiating was awful. Then, after Allie had finally, peacefully, and lovingly bit the dust for the evening, and Happy and Auntie Mo had retired, the goofy one, the helper found this note (to the left) on the table beside his favorite chair.

The rain decided to fall only at nightfall, like tonight. Tomorrow, the gang hits the zoo again for all the animals missed on the first day (with a very weak promised from Happy and Auntie Mo lunch would be at Albert’s). Friday, the planned visit to Safari Park is a lock.

But tonight, the goofy one, although even more resembling Sister Lila marching on that railroad track, is happy with a full day as Allie’s playmate and helper behind him and the assurance he still has at least one place to rest in his home.

The fog greeted us this morning, early this morning for Maureen, not so much early for me.

The fog reminded me of Newport. Rhode Island, that is, not up the road in California. i would not give up the Southwest corner climate unless i was forced to or for financial reasons, but i often think about the raw, beautiful, wind swept fog on the rocky shores of New England. i remember sitting on the rocks as the angry Atlantic crashed against those rocks below. Hite McClean,  a Greenwood, Mississippi boy who had done well, graduated from Vanderbilt, got his law degree from Ole Miss (i think i remember), and who was slightly goofy enough to run with me, especially down to Mac’s Clam Shack by the small shipyard off of Thames. i’m thinking maybe Waites Wharf, but it was a long time ago when Hite and i would plan ahead for eating quahogs because the grit from the sandblasting might end up in our quahog or beer and even if it didn’t, you could blow lunch for most of the next day, but man, were they good and and the setting was perfect so it is probably gone now, and the next day, blowing lunch or not, Hite and i would go sit on the rocks and watch the sea crash against the rocks in the fog.

This morning, the fog driving north reminded me of that…

But that is another story.

You see, Maureen and i were headed to Disneyland, not to go mind you. i have another story about the best way to go to Disneyland, but that too is another story. We weren’t really going to Disneyland. We were going to Mimi’s Cafe, which is right close to Disneyland to meet family.

The folks we were going to meet are a special part of our family. They live up east of San Francisco, except one couple who live in the city. They all are just incredible folks.

Ann Minoulti is the ringleader. She is also the mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother to all of them. She is a kick. She also takes care of them, loves them like mothers, grandmothers, and great grandmothers should love their offspring. Unconditional. No excuses. Gathers them about her and laughs with joy. i’ve seen it.

Nikki and Mark are the two who live in the city with their son, Marky. Nikki is one of the most beautiful young women i have ever met. From what i’ve seen, she is just right  for Mark who proposed to her in Disneyland yesterday. They are also both very smart and fun. Marky has good genes.

Stefanie and Eric are quite frankly in my opinion beautiful. Her son Stefan is in high school making great grades and on his way to success. You can tell. He and Eric are father and son even if it doesn’t say that on the official records.

Then there is Naomi. Naomi is eight. She had some difficulties in that thing called birth and has some special needs. But you wouldn’t know it. Stefanie has written a book, I See You, LIttle Naomi. It is a children’s book to make children understand special needs children in their midst and how to relate. Great idea. It works. Great book. Naomi, the title character is great also. It is a wonderful thing to see Eric and Stefanie loving her just right.

Finally, there were Sebastiano and Sienna. They are the children of Danielle, another daughter of Ann, who could not join them on this trip. Danielle is a winner and proving it. Sebstiano and Sienna are fun, well-grounded, and good to be around.

It all made me feel good because these folks, my family have faced life and its hardships and not only survived but succeeded through love and strength. They are very special to me.

In our breakfast conversation, Stefanie discovered she missed my Democrat column about her mother-in-law, a special person in her own right who i am honored to call family and my friend: Leonore Johnson. So i have included that column below the breakfast photo.

It was about three hours of driving in Los Angeles and I-5 traffic in the fog. And our short time together was worth every mile.

The column with its photo:

Notes from the Southwest Corner: Leonore Johnson, one of my heroes

By jim jewell

SAN DIEGO – Sometimes I think I whine about not being back home too much.

I miss Lebanon and frequently wonder what life would have been like if I stayed. In most scenarios, staying home comes out ahead in my mind.

But I ended up with a beautiful woman where the weather, in my opinion, is the best in the world, where I can climb my hill and see the ocean as well as Navy ships in the bay, and where I can play bad golf twelve months out of the year. Also, if I hadn’t stumbled into this vagabond life, there’s a bunch of great things I would have missed.

And once in a long while, I have run into someone immediately recognizable as special, someone with whom I immediately found rapport, someone who immediately gained my respect, someone I began to think of as a hero.

Race, culture, religion, background may not match, but I knew this was certainly a special person.

I have run into a handful of such special people. I have spent significant time with all of them except one.

I met Leonore Johnson once for about an hour, if that. Fortunately, in this age of “the cloud,” and “Facebook,” I feel as if I have known Leonore for a long time. She is one of those special folks I have come to see as a hero.

I would have never met Leonore if I had stayed home, although we might have met much earlier if the Navy had operated differently in 1968.

Leonore was born in southern Alabama. Her family moved to Killeen, Tex. when she was in her pre-teens. After high school, she met Leo Johnson at Prairie View A&M where they married. Both signed up to be Navy officers. Had the Navy sent them immediately after graduation to Officer Candidate School in Newport, R.I., we might have run into each other. I went to OCS in 1968. The twosome’s arrival in Newport was delayed until 1970.

While in OCS, Leonore became pregnant. The Navy, intolerant about such things back then, sent them back to Texas with honorable discharges. As Leonore says, “the Navy’s loss.” Leo became an agricultural engineer for the USDA Soil Conservation Service from which he retired in 1999. The couple moved frequently due to USDA assignments until they settled in Brownwood, Tex. where they have lived for 42 years.

Leonore returned to college and earned her teacher’s certificate and was a teacher for 35 years and then she retired in 2007). They have two sons, Eric and Michael; daughter Jerilyn; and two grandchildren.

I met Leonore through their oldest child Eric. Eric is married to Maureen’s and my niece, Stefanie Lynn Johnson. These two live in Concord, Cal. with their 15-year old son, Stefan; and 6-year old Naomi, who is a beautiful and intelligent child with special needs.

While we were on one of many trips to the Bay area four years ago, we were visiting with Eric and Stefanie when Leonore came by in the afternoon. Our meeting only lasted minutes but it has led into a lifetime friendship.

We have solidified that friendship through Facebook. Leonore is an avid and frequent contributor. We “friended” each other (“befriended” if you are old school) through Eric’s page. She puts up many posts, which I find interesting.

I am amazed she has the time. In addition to multiple daily posts, she sews, does woodcraft, cooks, makes artistic hair bows, and is a prodigious reader. But her real, continual job is being the caregiver for her 89-year old aunt.

Her posts, which initially drew me to her, were almost daily poems of the season by famous writers. The poems allow me to contemplate the bright side in my harried times. Leonore also provides interesting tidbits and photos of Texas history, women’s rights, and from a website named “Up from Slavery,” which has uplifting articles on how people with darker skin than I have reached great achievement in spite of racial prejudice.

In everything she posts or writes, she discloses what a caring, gentle, and loving person she is. I somehow identify with her. Her dedication to her children and grandchildren comes through on a grand scale.

She is one of my heroes.

And if my wandering lifestyle had not occurred, I would not have met such a courageous, wonderful woman.

That validates my choices.

Leonore and Leo Johnson with their granddaughter Naomi in the Johnson’s home in Brownwood, Tex.

i was a pre-teen when i first heard the man singing and playing. Twelve. i was twelve, deep into the giddiness of testosterone driven faux coolness, or in other words, being different from all about me, or at least i thought so. In that pubescent innocence, i wallowed in the new thing called Rock ‘n Roll.

Oh, there were wonderful things that took me away, made me a hero, made me a lover (without a real good handle on what that meant), let me suffer in my forlorn abjectness of rejection i assumed from beautiful young girls. It was Rock ‘n Roll. Ray Peterson sang a bubblegum version of “Corrina, Corrina.” Marty Robbins sang “A White Sport Coat.” Carl Perkins sang “Blue Suede Shoes.” Sonny James sang “Young Love.” The Coasters sang “Searchin'” and “Young Blood” long before “Poison Ivy” and “Charlie Brown,” but after “Idol with the Golden Head,” which remains one of my all time favorites.

And a long time before earbuds and cassette players and iPods and Smart Phones and iTunes,  i would sing those songs with gusto while mowing the two acres of yard across the street, thinking no one could hear me above the roar of the two-cycle power mower.

Then, i (actually i think it was for all three of us: Martha, Joe, and me, but i was oldest and i claimed it as mine) bought or more likely was given a “portable” 45 RPM record player, and i would take my hard-earned weekly mowing money from the Cowan’s and the Frame’s and head to College Street between East Main and East Gay to Simm’s Magnavox store with the forty-fives in wooden cases and buy as many as i could afford, take them home, play them on that self-same portable record player.

Considering my pre-occupation with Rock ‘n Roll, or as much pre-occupation as a pre-teen pubescent boy in a little town flat smack in the middle of Tennessee could have while he was dreaming of becoming a football, basketball, and baseball star,  i am sure i must have heard Chuck Berry’s earliest recorded singles (We called them singles, which in retrospect seems a bit odd since singles had a “B” side). But they didn’t seem to stick with me, or rather they were blown away from my consideration by one song.

1957.  “School Days.” i was mowing and singing in the summer. i wished my world to be Chuck Berry’s “School Days.” Mowing became a solid repetition of singing the song over and over and over…

The man was a genius. He touched an unexplored corner of our souls. He mixed country, rock, and rhythm and blues. He crossed lines. Unfortunately, one story has it one of those lines was a state line while escorting a minor young woman across some of those state lines and those twenty months in prison changed him those who knew him say.

Later, i admired him for his bravado. i am not wise enough to know what really happened back in that Mann Act period, but them white men and that white judge sending him off to prison makes me a little bit suspicious about what really happened. It annoys me the truth, justice, has been fogged by pretentious morals and prejudice.

But the man kept playing, and i loved every song.

He came from music. St. Louis. According to Wikipedia his influences were Nat King Cole, Muddy Waters, Willie Dixon, Louis Jordan, Jimmie Rodgers, and Bill Monroe. Now that’s a background.

Oh yes, i sang “Sweet Little Sixteen” behind that roaring two-cycle. But “School Days” was my anthem.

It never happened, of course. It was on its way during my junior high years, two of the best years of my life while i kept singing “Up in the morning, and off to school; the teacher is teaching the ‘Golden Rule.'” But my folks thought i should have the advantage of the military school up the hill called Castle Heights. They were right. A military prep school doesn’t quite mix with Chuck Berry’s “School Days.”

But i won’t forget the feeling of jubilation while thinking of the glory of my (never happening) “School Days” when:

As soon as three o’clock rolls around
And you lay your burden down
Throw down your books and outta your seat
You go down the hallway and into the street
Up to the corner and ’round the bend
Right to the juke joint you go in

And i won’t forget Chuck Berry.

Long live Rock ‘n Roll.

i didn’t really miss it yesterday.

i just had too much going on to pay my proper respects, so i delayed it until today, which i thought was appropriate because it was St. Patrick’s Day.

i think he would like that.

Yesterday, Ray Boggs (what a lovely Irish name) would have been ninety-nine years old.

Yes, i married his daughter. He seemed to be pleased, but i wasn’t really sure about what he thought about me. After all, i was a sailor boy. His daughter was…no, is a beautiful, sophisticated young woman. And i was from the South.

But soon, Ray and i had our own thing, not just in-laws, but best friends. We did projects together, we played golf together. We watched movies and sports together. We argued about the best route to get where we were going. And yes, to be perfectly honest, we drank a lot together.

Ray loved to play golf with my friends and me, especially when it was at Miramar, Admiral Baker, or North Island. This was not because of the golf, mind you. This was because he would go early and have SOS (okay, who besides military folks, especially Navy folks, knows what SOS is?) for two dollars.

Watching Ray and my father work together was something magical. Ray was the consummate engineer. Everything was planned out, drawn on engineering plans, all preparations complete, including tools, supplies, safety checks, etc., etc. My father shot from the hip, starting a project with an idea in mind, adjusting when in mid-stream he realized his original idea needed to be modified to work better, finding a tool he didn’t have was needed and either stopping to go get the tool or, more likely, figuring out a way to get it done without the tool. The two of them re-tiled the kitchen floor in our first house. Ray would present his plan, and Jimmy Jewell would point out something in the plan wouldn’t work. They would argue…hmmm, discuss the problem, go out to the garage refrigerator and get a beer, stand there and talk for a half-hour, seldom about the work, and go back in and resume the tile job. Within an hour, they were back in the garage.

The tile job was perfect.

i loved the way Ray loved his daughters, his son, and his family. i loved the way they loved him.

i have hundreds of stories about Ray. i love them all. All of them display how much he enjoyed life.

Yet the thing i always remember about the French-Irish, Boston-born, Wyoming-raised, self-made man, was his humming. Yes, humming. You see, a number of times Maureen and i would go out for the evening, we would take Sarah when she was between one and two over to Taft Street in Lemon Grove to the house of which Ray designed, engineered, oversaw the building of, and then did most of the interior work on himself.

i still remember him sitting with Sarah on his shoulder, her cheek next to his. Ray would hum in that gravely voice, low and rhythmic. i could almost hear the vibration, tremolo i think is the word. Sarah would go to sleep and Ray would rock gently in his chair, continuing to hum.

i miss him, but i always have the memory of Ray and Sarah.