There are times when i can get downright depressed. Such a feeling does not occur often. Most of the time such feelings are more annoying than any deep pain, but i must confess i have had those moments as well, just rarely.

i have sought many options, most recommended, some self-invented, for eliminating these moments of depression. i have attempted Buddah-like, Zen humming. i have tried running. i have tried reading the Good Book. i have tried reading inspiring and motivating books. Once, a long time ago when i found out i would be losing the right to be a full-time father to my daughter, i went out in the back yard in the middle of the night, and smashed poles against a tree until they were splinters. And yes, i have tried drinking.

To some degree, they all worked.

This morning early, i arose for what men rise for when they get old. Returning to bed, my mind raced on a number of things depressing to me. They would not go away. i admitted i would not be able to go back to sleep, and slipped out of bed, hoping i would not awaken the beautiful houri lying next to me as she has done, surprisingly willingly for nigh 33 years.

i went to the other side of the house and gathered a pile of to-do papers. On top was a copy of my book, A Pocket of Resistance: Selected Poems. It was not very successful in terms of making money. Counting the expense of print-on-demand publishing, i think i’m about $900 in the hole. But it is mine. i did what i wanted to do, and about fifty or sixty people have a part of me in their library. i now have a small cache of copies i sign and give to friends when i think of doing so. This copy was in the pile for that purpose.

Before signing, i opened it toward the back. Recently, something occurred i connected to one of my poems. i thought i would look for a connection again. My thumb caught on page 217, the first page of a longer poem i entitled “Fiddlersburg and Billie Potts Resurrected: A Note to My Brother.

i read the poem and i felt better. It not only gave me perspective and calm. Reading it, i realized i had the right perspective and calm within me, and i had them all along. i think i will try reading my own stuff again.

Fiddlersburg and Billie Potts Resurrected: A Note to My Brother

the little star over the left tit.
they buried Little Billie and
no one knew in that patch of land between the rivers which was
Fiddlersburg, revisited and drowned
under the auspices of TVA,
the government men.

i would like to resurrect Little Billie and Fiddlersburg,
but there is no more South,
only a filmy, flimsy image of what used to be
or a caricature of used-to-be South.

and Robert Penn would insert some Italian here:
i would ponder the depth of what he wrote,
but what you see is what you get with this old sailor;
the point is (without Italian)
we strive for balance, and it never is balanced, especially in Italy, especially in Southern Italy; In our South, balance ain’t
Southern lonesome;
it ain ‘t passion;
it ain’t.

i may be there again,
i may be suffering enough,
touching depths of my Southern,
unbalanced male soul,
not brooking balance but
yearning for tragic,
yearning for lonesomeness.
we are the last of a breed i fear;
i wonder how many still exist,
i even wonder about you, my brother;
but we can’t tell even the most intimate soul mate,
even brothers perhaps;
for to reveal the awful truth,
shit,
even to write it,
which it what it is all about, will alter it;
will take it inextricably, permanently away.
we can no longer be the tragic figure
we wish to be,
even though we’ve never
really figured out the tragedy.

there is a sadness in joy
because of all forgotten.
there is a joy in sadness
because of realization.

the schooner, sails hauled down,
motors into the narrow pier
in the mist of twilight.

i posted this team portrait on Facebook Monday. It is of the 1957-58 Lebanon Junior High Girls Basketball team. i asked if anyone could name the players and i received several correct names. i was working on naming them all but was short on four of them. i pulled out the 1962 Lebanon High School annual. The annual was Jimmy Nokes, but he graciously sent me his copy when he read something about me not being able to remembers. Thanks, Jimmy.  i got  one or two more names.

Then, more responses from my Facebook post came in. Sarah (Sassy) Ward Jaeger blew me out of the water by naming all but two. Then Ken Clinard provided Brenda Callis’ input which made the list complete except for the mysterious number 25, second row, eight from the right. This is frustrating in that i think i should know her.

It was a fun exercise about a wonderful time in my life, long, long ago. They were beautiful women, inside and out, and Lebanon Junior High School is an experience not likely to be repeated for anyone.

Below is my annotated list of the LJHS 1957-58 Blue Devilettes, political correctness be damned:

First row: Jennifer Brewington, manager ( she was the Football Homecoming Queen the previous autumn, and i have a photo of Jimmy Gamble and i as co-captains with her in the middle where Jimmy and i look like deer caught in the headlights); Elaine Davis (in the eighth grade, she wore my letter sweater and my ring around her neck); Pet Meadors (who could beat me in one-on-one); Mary Cardiff (at her home on Castle Heights Avenue, right behind my aunt’s home on Wildwood, Mary introduced a bunch of us to “spin the bottle” when we were in the sixth grade: i didn’t get to kiss any girl) Judy Baker; Sharry Baird (i dreamed about her one night in the fourth grade and fell in love with her the next day in Mrs. Major’s class on the second floor of McClain Elementary (1954, i think) and she remained my platonic love (although usually from long distance) for the rest of her life); Sarah (Sassy) Ward (she was my twin in eighth grade class play, “The Sunshine Twins,” at Lebanon Junior High, 1958). Second row: Suanne Smith, Catherine Jones (as mentioned in the Facebook responses, i rode her and sister Betty’s horse — i only remember falling off — on their farm on Coles Ferry Pike), Jean Ballinger, Yvonne LaFevor, Brenda Hankins (one of the most constant friends in my life),  Mister Mac ( a glorious man who did so much for so many and was a close friend of my mother), Marcia Emmert, the mystery young woman, Dorothy Bryan, Angela Wilson, and Bobby Jane Reed.

It was, without question, one of the best years of my life.

Another note about Memorial Day.

Yesterday, my cousin, Lori Oxendine, posted a photo of this young man on Facebook and told of his and his ship’s heroics in WWII. Later yesterday, i found the program included here (again) among my grandmother’s keepsakes handed down to me from Aunt Naomi (Jewell) Martin, to her son Maxwell, to my father, and finally to me. I am in the process of sorting this box of memorabilia and more from Mother, Daddy, and Aunt Bettye Kate Hall.

The photo on the program is the same as the one Lori posted. i’m sure my cousin Joann has a copy, but this one is special in that it has our grandmother’s writing on the side of the front page. i am imagining Carrie Myrtle Orrand Jewell,”Mama” to me, in that house at the beginning of West Spring Street writing the note to file in those special things she kept: “Jessie’s boy that they took care of when he was young and went into the service.”

i do not know the circumstances around Uncle Jessie and Aunt Alice bringing Tad into their family. Knowing them, they saw someone in need and took action, making Tad a part of their family. The sisters, Myrtle, Joann, and Shirley, considered him a brother.

Lori called him “Tad.” The program lists his nickname as “Tab.” i’m pretty sure Lori is correct. i didn’t know him as he and his ship, The USS Rowan (DD 405) were sunk eight months after i was born.

It makes me shudder to think of the sacrifice of all Americans during that war, and Tad’s hits close to home. i can envision the church on North Cumberland Street: dark wood inside with stained glass  windows. i can imagine reading the typed program, and reciting the litany in unison with the congregation. i can hear the rustling of quiet in the minute of silence at the conclusion. i can picture Aunt Alice, Aunt Naomi, my mother, and Mama Jewell tearing up while Uncle Jessie remained stoic during the service. Here’s the four-page program:

While thinking about how powerful a service this must have been, i wanted to say something more and did another web search. There, just as powerful, perhaps even more so was this newspaper clipping:

i found myself wishing Tad had been one of the young men in this photograph. At that moment, i was in tune with the agony of World War II.

i am sending the program to my cousin Joann, a wonderful caring lady in her own right, who knew Tad as her brother.

This morning, slightly after first light, i climbed the rough-hewn railroad tie steps up my hill and then up the remaining slope to my flag pole. i lowered the flag, flying at night because it is lit by a solar light, in accordance with U.S. Flag protocol, to half-mast.

At noon, i will repeat my hill ascension to raise my flag until it is two-blocked.

The weather  was cloudy and cool on my morning climb. It is predicted to be moving toward “sunny” on the second climb. “May Gray” is transitioning to “June Gloom” with a vengeance this year. We even had a light rain for an hour or so this morning. i like it that way now that i’ve gotten used to summer not really hitting the Southwest corner until July. It seems somehow fitting.

i am not a rah-rah person (unless it comes to Vanderbilt athletics). i prefer quiet observations of significant events rather than large crowds and pompous speakers. There are a number of old veterans like me who will drape themselves in old uniforms if they still fit and other replicas of when they were warriors, and will salute (some improperly) at certain moments as the bands play, the speakers pontificate (or make some unfitting political plea), and the crowd “oohs” and “aahs.” That’s just not my way of memorializing men and women of honor.

i’m not against that kind of demonstration, by the way, as long it is intended to honor the fallen, not some veiled attempt at a political agenda. i think such celebrations are a good thing, just not for me, not anymore.

i’m sure there are quite a few of those we honor today who would shy away from such celebration about them. So i am honoring them my way. i walked up there in the early morning, pulled the lanyard to the proper position, and secured the lanyard to the cleat. i turned and looked upon the Navy ships silhouetted the gray mist and thought of shipmates and those officers and sailors who did not make it to retirement.

This is the ensign…er, flag (ensign is the Navy term i used for almost a quarter of a century) after being lowered to half mast. The ridge in the background is Point Loma.

i turned my gaze northwestward toward the silhouette of Point Loma. i could not see the white stone markers from this distance, or even the Fort Rosecrans cemetery boundaries, just the silhouette of the ridge in the marine layer. But i will know it is there, and i silently thought of those soldiers, sailors, and marines lying there in repose who will later be honored in a red, white, and blue festive, but respectful ceremony with a large crowd. My silent little ceremony is no less of an honor to them. Those men and women deserve both the festive recognition and my quiet reflection.

Last night, Brian Lippe, a retired Navy SEAL, excellent photographer, and good friend, posted his view of the Rosecrans cemetery at twilight. It is even better than my recollection of what the cemetery represents:

The sun coming out midday is also appropriate. At noon when i raise the flag to its normal position, i will know those fallen honorees will be with me as i refocus. Thinking about the symbol representing why they gave their all. You see, that flag is not a person, a political party, a section of our country. We pledge our allegiance to our country. That allegiance must continue.

Military enlisted personnel “…solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”

In their commissioning oath, officers “solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign or domestic, that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservations or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office upon which I am about to enter; So help me God.”

It seems we forget those oaths. The oath does not allow for disrespect to the President. We swore to obey his orders.  But not because of who he or she is, or what their political bias happens to be. Our military is led by a civilian because that is the way our forefathers designed the best model for a country before or after. We are all in this together. We are not supposed to be divisive. We are all immigrants, even those tribes of people who came long before others. We are not separated any longer as second-tier inhabitants or citizens. We are all citizens. Those men and women lying in those graves didn’t stop because of another citizen’s race, religion, or political leaning. They died for all of them, all of us. They died for our country symbolized by this beautiful flag hanging at half-mast until noon.

When i die, i have arranged to have my ashes put beside my parents’ graves in Wilson County Memorial Gardens. Maureen may follow suit. That is her decision. The small grave markers lie flat in the ground in that section of the cemetery. I hope there is room on the marker to simply note i served my country. That, and knowing i have joined those whom i honor today is enough.

Thanks, this country of America, for being just, and kind, and free, and for honoring those who have served you nobly with the greatest sacrifice.