This morning, Patsy Manning answered my request, and jogged my memory. She noted that the restaurant before Cat and Birdie was owned by the Winfrees. That is the name for the restaurant in my family. Thanks, Patsy.

i’m finding it a bit more difficult to write something meaningful about growing up in Lebanon. i mean between Lebanon Democrat columns and posts here, i’ve written a ton. Maybe i’m running out of material. Maybe i don’t remember as well as i used to remember.

The other day, while working in my garage, making the third parking space an even better work/play place for me.

My father and i turned it into a workshop when he and my mother were coming out every winter. We moved my father-in-law’s work table into one side, and Daddy built another workbench on the back wall. i hung my tools on the walls and filled up old organizers with nails, screws, and lord knows what. And then, of course, being me, i added some music machines that over the years have gone through a bunch of replacements and upgrades: there aren’t any newfangled things in that workshop. i added my LP albums and CDs. When Sarah left home, i moved the desk my father made for her out there. Over the years, i have added photos and art work that are no longer appropriate for Maureen’s beautiful and tasteful house decor.

It’s not a “man cave.” That’s too trendy a term, an excuse for men to create some luxury lounge with a iMax size television to watch sports and drink beer, or perhaps whiskey. If i ever finish the renovations, it will be my escape, my briar patch, where i can go and wallow in memories of growing up in a beautiful (and ugly sometimes) time and place, where dreams have turned into pleasant memories. i took some photos but decided i would wait until it’s finished to my satisfaction to post, which, of course, means there will be no photos here because it will, like an innumerable number of my pursuits, never be finished to my satisfaction.

And perhaps that is the nature of my life, and it is good to pursue, to chase satisfaction but unfulfilled. The chase. Ahh, the chase.

But i, as i often do, digress. In this new renovation effort, i relocated CD’s. Those memories i couldn’t remember came flooding back. i found a CD of an LP album Billy “the Agent” Parsons introduced me to almost seventy years ago. Some Nashville dentist, a folk music pursurer had gone up into the woods of Grundy County, Tennessee and recorded Hamper McBee, a moonshiner and folk singer and teller of tales. i remembered hitting the apex of I-24 headed east right after it had been completed and seeing the tavern. i was told that if a white mule was tied to the hitching post, Hamper was inside giving the folks a thrill of tall tales and good ole hillbilly music. i regret i never went in but loved listening to Hamper, something most folks nowadays would find politically incorrect.

But i loved Hamper, and i listened to the album with glee. Then, another one hit me in the head with memories. It was an Ernest Tubb, the Texas Troubadour, album. One of the tracks took me back. Ernest teamed with Loretta Lynn to cover Nat Stuckey’s song “Sweet Thang.” Ernest and Loretta’s version came out in 1967.

Back in the late 50’s, our family would dine out on Sunday’s after church. We went to a number of local eateries. The name of this particular one is causing a brain fart in my recall. i will remember it hopefully before i finish this post. i think it was on the corner of Nashville Pike and Winwood, although it could have been Blair Lane. Later, Jimmy McDowell sold cars there. For Lebanon, it was high end dining. (Okay, some Lebanon folks help me here: i think the name started with an “S”). Sometime in the early 60’s, it closed and became one of the few beer and sandwich diners in the county.

When i returned to pursuing a college degree in 1965, i was the night time FM disc jockey and engineer at WCOR FM five nights a week. i would close down the station at 10:30, lock up and head home. Except on a number of evenings, i would head to the new diner. i think they retained the old name, but Clayton and Katherine Birdwell ran the new place. We called it “Cat and Birdie’s.” They served beer, pizza, Stewart sandwiches, beer and sodas and beer, did i mention that?…as i recall. On the west side next to the wall was a shuffleboard table. i would have a couple of beers, play several games, listen the the good folks around the place before heading home.

And, of course, they had a juke box. One evening and then, for a whole bunch of following evenings, one of the most played tunes was…yep, Ernest and Loretta singing “Sweet Thang.” The song was about a man cheating around on his woman with someone else in a bar. One of my favorite lines of all time was when Mabel (Loretta) barges into this bar and sings:

Well, has anybody here seen my sweet thang?
I got a notion he’ll be headed this a way
‘Cause when my sweet thang is out tom cattin’ around
He’ll find a sandbox like this to play.

Listening to those two singing those lyrics nearly sixty years and about 2500 miles ago, i was back shooting shuffleboard in one of the best periods of my life.

Of course, just about every period of my life has been pretty good.

And if you are looking for me, just remember when i am out tom cattin’ around, i find a cat box like that to play.

Last night, Maureen and i settled into our usual routine of watching the Padres on TV, or at least Maureen watches to somewhere around the seventh inning when she heads for the bedroom to read before sleep. You see, the anxiety she suffers in close games is difficult.

This old sportswriter has a built in inability to leave a game before the ending. As Yogi said, “It ain’t over until it’s over.” A quote attributed to Dan Cook, a San Antonio sports announcer, but i like to think it was invented by Danny Murtaugh, the manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 50s and 60s was “It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings”. Those quotes and scorekeeping imbued in me to stick around. So i did.

Friday, i watched the Padres leading the Arizona Diamondbacks, 7-2, into the 9th, only to suffer a grand slam and two-run homer to fall behind 8-7. Then, in the bottom of the 9th begins with Jurickson Profar, an all-star, tie it with a home run, and then Manny Machado hitting a walk-off (he didn’t walk, he trotted) home run to win the game 10-8. Last night, i watched them lose in the “ghost runner” 10th inning, 7-5.

Throughout both games, i felt a vacuum. Jim Hileman and i shared Padre season tickets to Padre home games. Jim, like the preponderance of folks my age, has lost interest, not just the Padres but most professional sports — Jim still follows his Pittsburgh Steelers with a passion. The last guy around here who discussed Padre baseball with me was Marty Linville.

Marty was the subject of my short tribute Friday when he crossed the bridge. i kept feeling this vacuum of not being able to call or text him about a particular play or a particular call.

When Jim and i shared those tickets and Jim, Maureen, or Sarah couldn’t go, Marty was the guy with whom i most shared our tickets. We would sit and kibbitz over our beer and hot dogs for the entire game.

In the hospital room Friday, Rod Stark noted that he and Marty had been close friends for 40 years when Marty reported to the Naval Amphibious School Coronado in the Naval Gunfire department in 1984. i reported to the leadership department nine months later. That’s 39 years of a relationship with that man.

We drank together like the old sailor and soldier we were. We played golf together. We played softball together. We traveled on golf trips together. We dined with our wives together. We shared friends together.

i wrote to my daughter Blythe that i’m sure i will not ever again pick up a golf club, drink a gin and tonic, or have a martini without feeling like something was missing.

Something will be missing: sharing those things with Marty.

Ahh, stories about Marty will abound here in the future. He was a warrior. He was my friend.

It is difficult for me as i write this.

There is this Soldier Brave who just lost his last battle. For this battle, he did not volunteer. He is a true warrior who defended our country, our constitution, our flag. Major James Martin “Marty” Linville, USA, retired, has defended you, me, and our country well. He passed away this morning.

The foes in his last battle were the afflictions to which he was exposed in defense of us.

i will undoubtedly write more, much more about this incredible man. But for now, i will take in a deep breath and try, try to behave and think in a manner i believe Marty would wish me to think and behave.

Along with his wife Linda, who was holding him, and his daughter Michelle, who was stroking her mother’s back in support, i was with him when Michelle had just put her phone to Marty’s ear, and his son Michael, over a thousand miles away, told him of his love for his father. When Michael concluded, Marty took his last breath.

He was a warrior, one with whom i played golf for thirty-nine years. He is one of my closest friends.

Rest in peace, Soldier Brave. You’ve earned it.

Mister Babb, the manager, introduced me to the two permanent workers at the city’s Cedar Grove Cemetery: “Dub” and “Mister Bill.” No last names.

I have written about all three men and the cemetery in my Lebanon Democrat columns and posts here.

Dub intrigued me and earned my respect as a hardworking, good man. This is about what he and Mister Bill did for a living as well as what my summer job entailed through three summers of high school.

He and Mister Bill put me to work as the primary mower of the grounds and trimmer of the cemetery stones. Then, we got to our real job. Digging graves.

My first grave digging came about a week into going to work there. Mister Babb had told us exactly where as we put up our tools one afternoon.

The next morning, we the gathered the tools from the stone structure with multiple uses. It was where we met that first morning. It was where the mowers and tools were stored. It was the refuge in bad weather although i don’t recall ever using it, maybe once, even in thunderstorms (i was young and impervious…and not all that bright. I was a bit queasy when i first learned that bodies in their caskets were stored there in the winter when the temperatures rendered the ground too hard to dig the graves, delayed until the warmer weather allowed the grave to be dug). We didn’t use back hoes back then.

We went to the grave site and Mister Babb, whose home was on the city property where the current cemetery office now stands. He pointed to the plot which Mister Bill and Dub griped about because it was clear by the name where the grave was to be.

The old man left. With Mister Bill giving us more direction than we needed, Dub and i took the old 2×6 lumber strips and outlined the length and width of the grave, 2½ feet wide and 8 feet long. I was relieved a bit when Mister Bill, confirmed by Dub, informed me the graves at Cedar Grove were only dug to four feet deep due to the water level being too high to go down to six feet.

We laid out the 2×6 worn, wood planks, dark gray from use, age, and moisture. The long ones marked the sides of the grave to be; the short ones marked the ends. We took straight bladed shovels and dug next to the woods for the first cut. The first pass of digging took up all of the sod and was deposited on the side of the grave away from where mourners might gather.

Then we began to dig in earnest.

Dub was usually the lead on the digging. He would take the pickaxe and loosen the dirt a foot or so deep from one end to half way. Then either Mister Bill or i would take over and work from the other end with the pick. The third person would shovel out the dirt onto the sod on one side of the grave. Then, we would start the process over again: loosen the dirt with the pick and then shovel it out until we reached 4 1/2 feet. Once finished digging, we smoothed out the floor and sides of the grave, cleaned around the grave, adding any loose dirt to our pile and then covering the pile with a green fabric.

i have told many stories and will tell more about my three summers as a grave digger. But this is for Dub.

i really didn’t know him other than at work. He always had on bib jeans and a tee shirt with a worn sports coat over them. He wore brogans and a fedora as equally worn as the sports coat. This attire was standard throughout the year, hot, humid, Tennessee summers included. He did shed the sports coat when digging the graves but that was it.

It seemed to me, he was always smiling, one that just made you feel like you were his friend. Occasionally, when something a bit odd happened, or one of us did something askew, i detected the smile becoming wry, with a slight shaking of his head beneath the fedora.

When i left my summer job of grave digging to go to college, the three of us said goodbye in an orderly fashion. i never saw Dub or Mister Bill. Mister Bill’s son contacted me a number of years when i wrote a column about my grave digging. i don’t know how to find out what happened to him, complicated because i only knew him as “Dub,” Not to mention it was 1958, 66 years ago.

There are a huge number of people whom i’ve lost track who i would like to sit down and talk about who we were and what happened afterwards.

Dub is high on my list.