The Facebook video of a ship in a sea storm posted by David Hughen, my recollections of  storms at seas in sharing David’s video, my response on his post, my Tuesday column, and my posting here about going down the PTS pier yesterday, made me nostalgic, missing the sea life. And tonight when i continued my flailing quest at organization, i came across this poem i wrote three years ago. Seems sort of suitable:

eternity

nigh onto thirty years ago, the old mariner left the sea;
after nigh onto thirty years, he still misses the life:
the sea takes your heart, your soul, and sets you free;
the sea becomes your mother, your ingénue, your wife.

so the old man climbs his hill each day
and
looks down to the bay
and
beyond the sliver of land
they call the strand, which forms the bay,
and
gazes out to the sea,
which just goes on and on and on
until the curvature of the earth
takes the sea away from the old man’s gaze
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be
and
he shifts his gaze down
to the harbor where the new
gray ladies lie at their berths:
modern, sleek creatures,
electronic, green-powered wonders
of advancement, they say
and
he remembers
the huffing and puffing of the steam ships
with twitches and twangs
of machinery
and
sweat and labor of men
manning the engine rooms, fire rooms,
and
magazines and crowded mounts
belching fire and smoke and noise;
realizing those old ships of the old navy
have gone over the horizon
as well as the sunset
into eternity
and
he breathes a sigh
for what used to be.

i read the email and felt numb, all over numb.

Then i was confused because i could not figure out how much of the hurt was because i had not done what i had promised myself to do.

Forrest Crockett Carr had sent me the email. It was the obituary of one James Allan Smith prefaced with Crockett’s note, “One of the best ‘town boys.'”

Every one i have known looked up to Jimmy Smith. He, John Sweatt, and Kent Russ took care of me at Heights and beyond. Jimmy and Kent were instrumental in getting me to pledge Kappa Sigma at Vanderbilt where i forged some of the strongest friendships i’ve ever had and many remaining so today.

Jimmy was just flat something special. At Heights, he played on the last golf team (1958, i believe). He exuded cool, which was a difficult thing to do in the school’s military uniform. Jimmy and Leonard Bradley are the only two guys i remember who could pull that off. And Jimmy excelled. In everything. Graduating my freshman year, he was the 1959 class salutatorian.

Then Jimmy and Kent Russ went to Vanderbilt. Three years later i followed. The summer before i matriculated, Jimmy invited me to a Kappa Sigma summer party. It was not pretty. i drank rum and coke for the first (and last) time, drank more, and blew lunch somewhere. It should have given me a clue, but it didn’t. When classes began, there was no question what i would pledge, and to this day, i’m glad Jimmy and Kent influenced my being a Kappa Sigma pledge. My closeness to my brothers remains strong and good.

Both of them watched over me that freshman year and tried to help me as much as possible, but i was on an inevitable course to failure. Even as my grades slid and my acumen for calculus vanished, i still thought i could do everything, including partying hard, sleeping late, skipping classes and still bring my grades up. It didn’t happen, but it wasn’t because of Jimmy and Kent.

At Vandy, everyone knew Jimmy as one of the coolest guys around. His favorite phrase was addressing everyone he liked as “fat man.” It became such a deal, he was known as “Fat Man,” and that was a cool thing. He impressed me in everything he did. He was an immaculate dresser, never overdressed, never underdressed. And just as he did in his Heights uniform, he made everything look cool.

Jimmy hung out often as The Sportsman Club to the west of the Parthenon in Centennial Park across West End from Vanderbilt. The cool guys hung out there. Of course.

In the spring, Jimmy invited me and another freshman (i think it was Cy Fraser) over to his apartment, where we drank scotch. i was not a scotch drinker, but Jimmy drank scotch so i thought it was cool and drank it that night. Then he put on a record. The artist remains one of my all time favorites.

It was Mose Allison singing on all the tracks of “Mose Allison Sings.” i listened with awe. I  fancied myself a blues fan, and obviously, Mose has some of that in his songs, but it was different, jazz, cool, just like the Fat Man. i later learned it was also the first album where Mose was allowed to sing on all of the tracks. Jimmy knew. He was that cool.

Jimmy left for Virginia law school after that year, and i never saw him again. Through my Lebanon, Heights, and Vandy contacts, i kept loose track of him, and knew he had become a prominent labor and contract attorney in Atlanta. i also learned through either John Sweatt or Earl Major or both, Jimmy had lost his vision in his later years.

The Fat Man was an inspiration to me. i always wanted to be like him. He was the coolest, but he also was one of the most genuine friends i ever had. After learning he was in Atlanta, i vowed to get his contact information, call, and even planned how i would go spend an afternoon or a dinner with him. i’m sure if i had, i would have more memories of how cool, intelligent, genuine, and funny he was.

But i was thwarted in my initial efforts to contact him, usually being called away from my quest for some immediate crisis. The item on my checklist kept getting pushed down the page.

i am terribly sorry i was not more tenacious. i hurt from his loss because he meant so much to me. i hurt even more because i did not spend more time with him.

i guess what i’m really trying to say is: if you have a friend who is special to you but with whom you haven’t communicated in a long time, don’t put it off. Find them, call them, visit them.

If you do, i don’t think you will hurt as much as i am hurting right now.

Rest in peace, Fat Man.

the kid with green hair

it was a necessary drive
for a blood test about
five miles down the road
pass four to six schools
depending on my route,
i not realizing
it was the first day of the new school term
in july.
something is just wrong about that:
july, when i was shirtless, barefoot, just shorts,
romping in the front and back yard,
under the fence or up the hill or down the street
to play with neighbors, similarly attired
climbing trees, hitting balls, playing cowboys and indians,
vacation bible school, swimming pools, picnics
in the dirt and grass with stinging bees
or
throwing a blanket under the chinese elm in the front yard
or
sitting on the small screened-in back porch when it rained,
playing board or card games with lemonade as a chaser;
can’t imagine school in july.

but
what the hell do i know?
i mean, they got all these teachers with degrees,
unions and administrators as many as the teachers
directing those self-same teachers
as to what to teach, how much, grading, testing
so the kids will be smarter than me
and
they divided up the terms for shorter vacations,
i.e. summer vacations truncated, for memory retention
but
i remember my teachers who loved me enough
to teach me basics
and
give me three months of summer vacation in the sun;
of course, we didn’t have air-conditioning then,
just big ceiling fans and open windows;
can’t imagine sitting in those big rooms in july
staring out at summer.

then, coming back from the blood test,
taking the back roads to avoid the opening school crowds
then giving up when i realized the crowds were everywhere,
i spotted the boy walking with his mother to school:
i did that once,
walking to school with my mother
once,
the first morning, six-years old,
within a half block of the school
when
i told her i was all right; she could go home;
i walked that half-mile with friends or by myself
every weekday for six years (except for summer vacation, of course),
no adult supervision, no fear, laughing mostly,
to home where most of the time
it was just me, then sister and me, and two years brother, sister, and me
into the unlocked house
until mother got home from work;
i understand
this mother walking her son along with an unending parade
of mothers walking their children to school
because it’s different now:
fear breeds protection: that is good and understandable;
yet this boy, this kid has got green hair:
am i watching sesame street?
does the boy want to be oscar the grouch, kermit the frog?
i wanted to be hopalong cassidy and then roy rogers
and
would have been laughed into oblivion
if
i had shown up with green hair.

i drove through the crowd at the elementary school;
i drove through the crowd at the middle school;
i drove through the crowd at the high school;
i drove through the crowd at the community college;
i did not see one girl in a dress or skirt;
where did those girls i worshipped go?
they were mysteriously, beautifully different;
put them on a pedestal, so to speak,
i worshipped them, didn’t understand them (still don’t),
wanted to be their hero,
wanted to take care of them, or at least to a movie;
now they are independent,
like the boys, only prettier,
and
someone might call me a chauvinist
or worse,
and
i recognize the world, their world is not what mine was:
ike and adlai running against each other: the world was safe,
segregated but safe,
bigoted but safe,
polio inflicted but safe,
soviet a-bomb threatened but safe
because we could hide under our desks,
then muster in the school’s front yard,
before walking home by ourselves
with the boys in jeans and the girls in dresses,
but
not in summer,
and
not with green hair.

As with all things, one (as in this one, aka me) should not get frustrated when there is a detour in the road. It might lead to something beautiful.

Yesterday, i had several important tasks, administrative and physical to get done at home. The first one was to get our home phone line and wireless remote sets working correctly. i went to the corner of my office bookcase next to the window. One of our indoor cats (we are pretty sure it was the male, Bruce Willis) had peed in the corner, a repeat performance).

So, instead of working on the telephone problem, i began to clean up the mess, including the telephone and electrical cords hidden in that corner, and Maureen and i began planning a strategy to stop Brucie (Maureen’s loving title for the boy) from repeatiing this foul deed again…forever (i know a cure, but PETA would hang me from the yardarm, and i couldn’t do it anyway).

Then, i wondered what damage had been done back of the bookcase.

Now, this bookcase with the storage areas on the bottom rises to my office ceiling and runs almost the length of the wall. i’m not going to just slide it out. Oh no. i must take out the books to move it.

i take out the books and pile them on a folding table and the dining room table, each pile rising to about three feet. i slide the bookcase from the wall, clean up the mess, and spray cat pee repellent for a temporary fix. i go to Home Depot — i cannot think of a home task i’ve done in the last twenty years or more that didn’t require a trip to Home Depot, Lowe’s, Office Depot, the drug store, or the liquor store — to get a new telephone wire. i move the bookcase back even though when i moved it out, i found several other tasks that should be done, like replacing two baseboards and painting the wall, which would lead to painting all of the walls and baseboards, which would create the need to move pictures and wall hangings to new places, to sorting through a lot of memorabilia, keeping a few out and adding the others to boxes of memorabilia, which would lead to reorganizing all of Maureen’s and my memorabilia, which includes her father’s, my parent’s, aunt’s, grandmother’s, and other family member’s stuff…ad infinitum.

So i decided i would just put the bookshelf back and reload it with the books so Maureen would not be upset with a pile of books spoiling her beautiful dining room’s appearance.

By that time, it was time to watch a baseball game. Fittingly, the Padres lost both games in the double header to the Cardinals.

This morning, i began returning the books. i found a few that needed a new home. Then i came upon one that puzzled me. It was a 8 1/2 x 11 inches bound book entitled Uncovered Dreams from “The International Library of Poetry.” There was no handwritten inscription inside. The copyright year was 2002. i remained puzzled when i spotted a 3×5 index card inserted almost completely in between pages 62 and 63, with one end barely sticking out, a bookmark.

Scanning the 16 poems there, i finally saw the reason i had for keeping this book. “Lost Hope” was there, the sixth poem on page 62. It was written by Sarah May Jewell. There had been a promotional appearing to be a poetry competition for middle school students. We entered Sarah’s poem. i had forgotten.

Then i read the poem, again although it had been over 15 years since i had read it before. i have always claimed my sister-in-law, Carla Neggers; my brother, Joe; and my two daughters, Blythe and Sarah could write rings around me. Carla, Joe, and Blythe are published. You can read their stuff, Carla’s new book, Keeper’s Reach, will be out next Tuesday. Joe’s book, The Elements of Prayer: Learning to Pray in Real LIfe, is a spiritual guide for me. Blythe’s book, Something Smells Like Pee, is a funny, poignant book of poems you can enjoy.

And Sarah, i remembered is published too.

Lost Hope

Writings on the wall
Show there are so many to fall
For that lost hope in the world,
The kind that makes you cringe.

The time will come when the world will end,
Fear is not supposed to descend
Upon our hope,
Thinking it’s all a joke.

For it will come at odd times,
Times when you are in sublime,
Times when you are depressed,
And times when you are in deep rest.

Frozen tears roll down their cheeks,
Losing their hope
And dreams.

— Sarah May Jewell

She wrote this when she was 13.

i have proved my point about those four writing better than me.

It is time to complete refilling the bookcase.

This was originally written in 2009 and revised last night. To me, it was sad then and even sadder now. i am amazed we have created a system of two groups of political lemmings. i am amazed at the vitriolic, poisoned, and untruthful slime these two groups of lemmings throw at each other. Quit trying to be funny by spreading BS, or worse just passing it on. Our system is broken and spitting venom from either side is not going to make it better. We need to take appropriate and effective action to wipe out those who would destroy innocent people and our system, but putting good folks in the same category as the bad ones — and i don’t care which group is categorizing and which group is being categorized — is not the answer. In fact, it’s the opposite of the answer.

Okay folks of the good ole US of A, get real. i don’t think we can.

A Flight From Fancy

The flying experience takes many twists and turns.

If one can keep his wits and not dwell on the inconvenience and lack of customer service, it can be an entertainment medium through watching the characters.

In the long lines and mostly ineffective security measures employed in San Diego, i embarked on this business trip today. Even before i got on the flight, i witnessed a montage of characters that would have fit well into a novel of international intrigue.

Amidst the seasoned travelers, trying to act like they were seasoned while still perplexed at the continuing change in rules, regulations and procedures, and the wide-eyed questioning new air travelers, i found my way to the Delta counter.

A tall, slender Muslim woman was at the next counter to the automatic ticket processing, which i have come to use rather than the redcaps. She wore a head-to-toe black veil that was attached across her face at the left ear. While checking in, she unattached the veil in order for the counter personnel and, later the TSA security guards match her identification with her features.

“Ahh, i wondered with no malice, “i wonder what Allah thinks about this particular waiver for progress?” While going through these checks, she would demurely hold the garment across her nose with her graceful slender fingers of her right and touching the lobe of her left ear. When requested, she would open out the veil just enough for the evaluator to see that the face did indeed match the photo on the plastic card.

After each check to see if she was really who she really was, she would reattach the veil so it would drape across her face of its own accord. From my vantage points, this semi-permanent visage reminded me of the “Black Bart” characters in the black and white western movies of my youth – Oh Hoppy, where have you gone?

For me, the veil enhanced her allure. The floor length garment was of fine material and it flowed elegantly around her slender frame. The garment would occasionally flitter open, revealing a blue and white sheer taffeta gown underneath. The chic, square-toed, black leather and low-heeled shoes slipped out from underneath the black folds when she walked. They strangely fit the image of this mysterious lady. Her eyes were deep, dark and fetching.

But in one of those vulnerable moments of identification verification, i caught a brief glimpse of her face. The skin was flawless and matched the beautiful eyes. The nose, however, was long and hooked, ill fitting, and it shattered my illusion of her allure. That is not to say she was not beautiful to some.

i recognized my prejudice in such a judgment and chastised myself.

Later while waiting for our aisle numbers to be included in the boarding process, a well dressed lady with a sharply pulled back pony tail, short sleeve sweater, and slacks passed the Muslim lady while moving toward the boarding pass screening. She looked directly at the lady of the veil. Her look was a combination of loathing and fear.

Inexplicably, she made the traditional Catholic sign of the cross gesture and moved quickly away.

i felt sad and powerless. It struck me we, all of us, at our core are mean people. We fear things we don’t know or understand, and it’s even worse if those things are people.

i did not try and change the woman with the pony tail. i never talked to either her or the veiled lady. i realized it would be fruitless.

Today, the differences are even more pronounced. Evil has reared its head in an even worse form than before when this piece was originally written seven years ago. And we have taken sides, and our sides are blind to the humanity of the majority of those we label as enemies.

i have friends who actually take a stronger stance against Muslims than the Republican presidential candidate. Nearly all are military men, like me, and the art of killing in defense of our constitution is part and partial of the mission we served. That is what we were trained to do.

But i cannot go along with even Trump’s proposed draconian position on Muslims. Didn’t we learn from WWII, the Civil War, and the history of settling this country? People are people. There are good ones; there are bad ones; there are those in between; and there are evil ones. And that goes for those in all religions, all races, all countries.

i don’t claim to have an answer, but surely, some men and women in positions of power can come up with a better answer than hate.

Bonita, California
July 18, 2016