Robert Penn Warren
Selected Poems: 1923-1966
“Garland for You”
Canto V:  “A Real Question Calling for Solution”
Verse 8

There is only one way, then, to make things hang together,
Which is to accept the logic of dream and avoid
Night air, politics, French sauces, autumn weather,
And the thought that, on your awaking, identity may be destroyed.

In early November 1979, i took a two-week trip from San Diego to Tasmania (included was a five-day holdover at the Subic Bay Naval Base in the Philippines). i was not a happy camper. i was going to report to a staff, Commander, Amphibious Squadron Five, not a ship, which i could drive. i was leaving behind a seven-year old daughter and a former wife who was recovering from breast cancer. i would be gone over Christmas and the New Year. And i didn’t have a high regard for an amphibious squadron staff job.

The trip and ensuing two months are a story to itself for later. But then there was:

Hong Kong. Christmas Eve. 1979.

Commander, Amphibious Squadron Five, his staff, and his flagship, the USS Tripoli (LPH 10) had drawn Hong Kong as their liberty port over Christmas and had pulled into Fleet Landing on the Hong Kong side right next to the great Fleet exchange.

Staff officers Mike Peck, the Tactical Air Control officer; Pete Toennies, the UDT advisor; OW Wright, the admin officer, and me, the staff’s current operations officer, had become good friends and running mates since i joined them in Hobart, Tasmania in November, and we had proved we were good liberty hounds. We were ready for Christmas in Hong Kong.

Mike and i had been in this wonderful city several times before. Mentioning the name of Johnny Lee, the tailor, got us a room in the Holiday Inn on the Kowloon side, a much improved version of the chain than those in the states. In Hong Kong, it was considered a luxury hotel. Mentioning Johnny Lee gave us the large room with two queen beds for $65 US dollars a night.

There are a number of sea stories related to this liberty, but i will stick to one aspect of our port stay.

The British Navy contingent in Hong Kong had hosted a reception for the squadron the day after we arrived. Mike and i hooked up with lieutenant junior grade in the British Navy, and we had a great time swapping stories. Unfortunately, i don’t remember his name, but i do recall he was a helicopter pilot who had been retrained to drive their surface effect boats in Hong Kong with the mission of interdicting any attempts at illegal immigration. This had been a big problem for the Brits after the evacuation of Vietnam as many of those displaced were trying to get into Hong Kong.

The three of us hit it off. To show our appreciation of the new friendship, we took the Brit to Gaddi’s, one of the finest high end dining establishments in the world, housed in the famed Peninsula Hotel in Hong Kong. It was a good evening. So Mike, the Brit, and i ran around for several days. The younger helicopter/surface effect boat driver invited us to Christmas Eve mess at the British Navy’s wardroom.

Now the officer’s mess in their wardroom was no ordinary place. The wardroom and the accompanying galley were not on a ship. They were on the penultimate floor of the British Navy’s Hong Kong headquarters, a thirteen story building on the waterfront. The Brits called it the HMS Tamar, as if it were a ship. The wardroom was actually two stories high and the bayside was a huge glass window looking out on Hong Kong. The city and its lights were a beautiful sight on Christmas Eve from that vantage point.

The HMS Tamar’s wardroom consisted of about one hundred officers, about a third of which were women, something US Navy officers weren’t accustomed to at the time. With shrimp cocktail appetizers and drinks, we chatted with all of the male and female officers before sitting down for the evening mess. It was a traditional British Christmas feast that seemed to have no end.  Roasted goose and roasted gammon (smoked ham) were the traditional meats but the British Navy added roast beef. Then there was roasted chestnuts with Brussel sprouts, roasted potatoes, pigs in a blanket, parsnips, and swede (rutabaga), ginger bread stuffing, bread sauce, cranberry sauce, and concluding with, of course, English Christmas Bread Pudding.

All of this of course, was accompanied by continuous libations of wine, whiskey, and of course, gin. It was all very, very lovely.

After dinner, we continued our discussions with just about everyone in a Royal Navy uniform. We were like celebrities. My glass was much like the professor in “The Bishop’s Wife” when Cary Grant, the angel kept magically filling the writing professor’s glass.

Just before midnight, i was looking at Mike, thinking it was about time to say our thanks and give our hosts Christmas wishes, catch the elevator, and walk back to the ship, berthed between the HMS Tamar and the U.S.Fleet Exchange. But the group of about six junior officers insisted we attend midnight mass with them. If anything, this contingent about half men and women officers, had consumed a lot more beverage than any of us. Regardless, we agreed. Then they exited the main wardroom and started walking up the stairs. i was surprised there was another floor and asked where we were going.

“To the chapel,” they informed me.

i would like to say we filed in quietly with decorum. i think Mike and i mustered the strength to approach some semblance of decorum. But it was a pretty raucous bunch who found seats in two rows toward the back of the small chapel that held about 150 people, if that. Our group was laughing and continuing to have fun until just before the service. Then, one of the female officers behind us, tapped me on the shoulder.

She pleaded with whispers for us to help them out. One of the male junior officers had hidden a fifth of gin and brought it into the chapel. He was also blown out of his mind and close to passing out. The young female officer asked me to take the gin and hide it through the service. She explained if the senior officers caught him our any of the English in our group with the booze, they could be booted out of the service, not the mass, the British Naval service.

We, somewhat dubious, complied with her pleas. She passed the bottle to me under our seat. With Mike’s approval, i slid it up under my sports coat and cradled it with my left arm as inconspicuously as i possibly could.

The service went on, but i was too nervous to pay much attention. Getting up and down for the liturgies and hymns was a frightening proposition. With great difficulty, i successfully maneuvered through the stand/sit requirement each time. At the conclusion, i breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mike and i had worked out a strategy, whispering during the service. We would file to the left to the center aisle and then move as rapidly as possible without causing attention with Mike leading interference for me. i would continue to cradle the booze with my left arm, hopefully looking as if nothing were amiss.

i had just cleared the aisle and was headed for the exit when the plan ran afoul of what Kevin Kline’s character in “Silverado” would have called “bad luck.”

Unbeknownst to us, the commodore, Captain Jim McIntyre, also known as the “Silver Fox,” was attending the mass, sitting on the front row with the British commander and a couple of Hong Kong notables. He spotted me and my interference walking quickly toward the door. He walked more quickly, caught up with me, grabbed my left shoulder, and spun me around.

“Sure am surprised to see you two here,” the commodore laughed.

i wasn’t thinking much about the commodore yet. When he spun me around, my grasp on the bottle of gin slipped. i lurched over catching the bottom with my right hand and moving it back up into its hiding place as covertly as i could.

Reaching out with my right hand, i shook his and said, “Commodore, you don’t know the half of it,” concluding, “It’s good to see you here as well. Merry Christmas.

With that, i turned before the conversation could continue, caught up with Mike and rendezvoused with our new British friends. They were ecstatically happy with their new heroes as we returned the bottle of gin. The female officer’s whose plea we had answered kissed me on the cheek, gave me a hug, and thanked the three of us for saving their hides.

They never knew our all of our hides could have been in deep, deep trouble if i hadn’t caught that bottle on the way down.

Christmas was nice but it was anti-climatic.

But there was more fun to come.

The ship headed back to Subic Bay, Olongapo, Fiddler’s Green with the wildest liberty port on the face of the earth. But en route, Iran had another idea. They raided the American Embassy and took the hostages. Jimmy Carter, his intelligence experts, and the military high command were confronted with some decisions. The immediate decision was to detour the Amphibious Squadron to Singapore. The five ships rerouted across the South China Sea past Borneo to the southeast and into the entrance to the Mallaca Strait. The ships anchored out, a mile ride liberty launch to the fleet landing.

Mike and i rented a room in Raffle’s Hotel, the old one which Joseph Conrad favored with the open bar and palm like fans on the ceiling with a rattan accent throughout. We sat in the comfortable couches and ordered Singapore Slings to discover the originals, created there, tasted very much like Pepto Bismol, quickly switching to gin and tonics, probably Conrad’s preference.

Pete came and OW Wright came to visit and we discovered a British pub around the corner where world champion dart players frequented. We spent a lot of  hours there, and one evening, i hit a bullseye to beat some of the best dart players in the world, never telling them i was aiming for a double twenty.

Pete invited Mike and i to join his SEAL buddies on a night out. We went to “Hungry Street,” an alley where the locals from several Asian ethnicities would roll in their wares and set up kiosks and rickety table and chairs. They offered seafood from their tanks and cook it, along with rice, of course, Asian bread, and things we decided not to ask about, in woks over fires in  the back of their kiosks. Six or so of us would order from each of the kiosks, sit at one of the round rickety tables, have a beer or two, while they cooked our fare, and eat, and eat and eat. Lord, one of the best meals i can remember.

On the other end, someone discovered Navy and Marine officers were granted entry into the Petroleum Club. It sat on the highest floor of a high rise in downtown Singapore. They served superb meals with the grass fed steaks from Australia. However, the bartender’s creation of “Le Bom Bom” was the attraction. It was one hell of a delicious drink that would knock your socks off.  And what a view.

We wandered the city, watched cricket matches, and solved pretty much every problem in the world while bringing in the New Year at, where else?, the Petroleum Club and Le Bom Bom’s.

About three days later, Jimmy Carter wisely figured out our squadron was not well equipped or well trained enough to attempt a hostage snatch. We were sent back to Subic, the Chuck Wagon, the Quarterdeck above the Subic Officer’s Cluh, Grande Island, Cubi Point’s Officer’s Cub with the Dempsey dumpster in the stag bar, and of course, Fiddler’s Green across “shit river.”

Oh lord, if you are a man and single, that was about as good as it could get…

…if you couldn’t get home for Christmas.

Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year: after this one we need a good bit of happiness.

It’s that time, that day before the day. i spent the morning wrapping presents for those who will spend Christmas day with me, glad it will be four instead of three. Maureen’s sister has decided it’s safe to join us. That will make it better. After all, Christmas is about…oh, it’s about many things depending on who you are, where you are from, and what you believe. Still, there is this joy about sharing it with family.

It struck me as i was wrapping the last presents. Poorly, i might add as i didn’t use a video like son-in-law Jason did, and my usual wrapping paper of old newspapers have been donated to Spud and Vonda Mumby across the street who need the paper to catch the droppings of the quail they are tending in their garage. Even got some pickled quail eggs for a Christmas present…along with Spud’s homemade port, which has become my favorite port to have with desserts and a nightcap.

What struck me was i keep griping about not being home for Christmas. Sorta got stuck on Bing’s Christmas song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dL71eMc1blw

But the truth is with that kind of attitude i won’t ever find peace and joy for Christmas. The truth is i have a number of places i would like to be each Christmas.

Christmas to me will always be what it was at 127 Castle Heights Avenue. Santa came in glorious beneficence. The three children and sometimes two more of the Orrs came over from Chattanooga would wait at the top of the stairs in their pajamas, probably emerging from their bedrooms before dawn to perch there in anticipation. But they had to wait. The parents has to set up the lights for making home movies when the big moment arrived. We would crash over each other when the signal was go, down the stairs, through the hall into the living room where Santa had spread the big gimmes over the floor under our stockings, stuffed full of small gifts, fruit and candy and hung by the chimney with care. Oh, the joy of discovering a Roy Rogers’ Ranch set, or a two-gun cap pistol set with holster and hat and caps to complete the outfit.

There were several, with the same procedure over in Red Bank, outside of Chattanooga proper with our cousins.

There were some wonderful ones in Paris, Texas where the Colonel Jimmy Lynch and Nannie Bettie would somehow magically cajole Santa to actually show up at their home and have Blythe sit on his lap, regaling her with stories and taking notes about what she was expecting the next morning.

There were the Christmases at the Boggs family home in Lemon Grove where incredibly wrapped gifts were presented by my father-in-law Ray Boggs.

Then in ’92. we began our annual trek to Tennessee Christmases. They were/are magic, even more so now with my sister’s grandchildren taking in Christmas at the magic age.

There is the place i’ve never been for Christmas that has always been a dream of mine: Christmas with my brother and his family in Vermont. i mean, man, what a place for having a White Christmas. They are wonderful folks and after all, that is where Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, and Rosemary Clooney has their “White Christmas.”

i was always torn in our decision about going to Tennessee or being with our grandson (and daughter, son-in-law, and former wife). We decided my parents didn’t have many Christmases left and it would bring them joy to spend to spend Christmas with two-thirds of their family. And so it was. Today, as much as i regret not having those Christmases with grandson and daughter, i think our decision was the right thing to do.

There was one Christmas, 2014, after Mother and Daddy passed that we did spend Christmas in Austin. It was magical. i mean, who wouldn’t be pretty close to heaven to spend a Christmas with his daughters and grandson.

There were others: Cam Rahn Bay, Vietnam, 1970 with Korean Military Advisor Group Captain Ollie White in the Officer’s Club with an admiral’s daughter whose name i forgot who managed the club (We drank a lot and cried a lot in our mulled wine).

And if i get my act together, there will be a following post about a bizarrely wonderful Christmas and New Year’s not home for Christmas.

So i could spend all of my time moping about where i ain’t. i am here. i have two of the five most important people in my life with me. My sister-in-law, Patsy Boggs will join us tomorrow. There is a fire in the hearth. We set up one of my stereos (sort of, whatever you call those things now) and have had almost continual Christmas music, my Christmas music. The presents are wrapped. The tree is decorated, the stockings are hung. NOEL is broadcast to the world outside.

And the birth of Jesus two thousand and twenty years ago brought hope to some for peace on earth, good will toward men, and joy to the world. Now folks, i don’t know all of your leanings toward beliefs, but if you ain’t into peace on earth, good will toward men, and joy to the world, i don’t think your Christmas (Holiday season for those who wish to quibble) will be all it could be.

For me, i have my peace, i have my joy. And i have good will toward men. It ain’t perfect, but i will celebrate.

Some time during Christmas day tomorrow, i will walk to the top of my hill and look toward the Western horizon. i will think of a birth long ago, and i will hope this year is behind us and we all may have peace on earth, good will toward men, and joy to the world.

Noel.

i have a Christmas present.

This is pretty much a photo essay. It is the follow-on to a post a week or so ago when i reinvented a walk in the woods…okay, okay, they ain’t woods in the sense of Tennessee or Vermont woods, but it’s open space, which once was open space…

Oh, this could go on and on (and probably will), but i just found a route from the top of my hill that allows me to take a hike (and many, many people have told me to take a hike). My access to the hiking-riding trail was closed for a while,  a good while, so i can do a real, no-kidding (and i cleaned that up) hike for almost as long as i choose.

Today’s was an hour’s two-plus miles up and down. It was glorious to me. It can replace the running, my doc told me to stop (and i might now). So Merry Christmas to me; Merry Christmas to me:

i found a new path from our house. The old one had grown over and not been maintained. Two days ago, some off road bikers came up to the top of our hill so i knew there had to be a way down. i found it.

This is down into a ravine and back up. The ridge is the trail that i posted in a photo last week.

Down that hill is community training corral (i think that’s what it’s called). It’s not very seldom used, but i saw these horses and had to visit.

It had been a while, so i forgot to look out for the nasty cholla cacti, their splines break from the main cacti and stick to the enemy, aka moi. They sting and getting them out is tricky. i have taken them off of our cats and dogs and can tell you this is one of the most un-fun things you can do. Fortunately, only three splines stuck me and only one stayed in my leg. i removed it and am fine and will be a bit more cautious on my next hike.

These things can grow in bunches, so if you see some on your sidewalk, walk around.

This is my new friend. i think i might have made friends with the white one, but she/he wasn’t interested. Besides this old guy and i had a great conversation. He’s getting a little white around the edges like me, so he’s a bit older, but from our conversation, he is very wise and very gentle. We promised to meet again. They reminded me of two horses in a pasture between my small home in College Station and Judy McConnell’s parent’s home there. i took Blythe for a walk one day and had an apple. One of the horses (i think his name was Lightning) came to the fence while i held Blythe with one arm. We petted him and i offered him the apple. He took it along with my entire hand. i stood there with my hand around the apple trapped by his teeth; i was afraid to be aggressive for fear of scaring or even hurting Blythe. i kept talking quietly to Lightning and pulling gently away from his mouth. Finally, he let go. Of course, he kept the apple. But this ole boy, seemed to gentle, too wise.

This is one of the better views of Mount Miguel. Without fog, it is one of the first things i see almost every morning, and it always connects me to our original settlers in this country and this region, the Kumeyaay and to the east, the Navajo. i continually try to envision this land when others came, before this rather incredible chunk of the Southeast corner, probably habitable for about five or six hundred people due to it being a high desert, began to add folks and houses and businesses and the money men who did not care for preservation or even quality of life but just making money and wishing i could walk across it in its and my innocence.

Coming back around before my climb back up to my hill, there is a glen. i always think of what a nice place it would be to lay out a blanket and have a picnic there. Peace.

And i made it up the hill, no mean feat for an old man, surveyed my view of the San Diego, Point Loma, the Coronado Bridge, ships of the fleet, and the Pacific horizon. i gingerly walked down our slope, and retreated to my lair with an appropriate energizer. i am a long, long way from home, many years have passed. Tomorrow is a different Christmas Eve, but all is well.

Peace on Earth. Good Will to Men.

This is not a Christmas post. But both incidents, 42 years apart, occurred as Christmas approached. i should have learned 42 years ago:

1978, Bryan, Texas, the sister city of College Station, Texas, home of TAMU and entwined much like Chula Vista and Bonita are entwined in the Southwest corner today. Christmas break at Texas A&M. December 22 with Bill McFall, the executive officer of the NROTC Unit at Texas A&M suggested (or perhaps it was me) that the two of us play golf at the Bryan city course.

It was cold.

We dressed warm. Surprisingly when we got to the clubhouse, the parking lot was empty. The starter was the only one in the clubhouse. Perhaps, because it was several degrees below freezing, the only  person besides Bill and me was the starter. We had no problem teeing off on time.

It was about 7:30 when we teed off.  My drive was okay but to the left, unusual for those days — i was a major slicer then and for most of my golfing exploits. Bill hit a nice drive down the middle. Figures. Aviators are always good golfers. i  took out a six iron. The shot went significantly right and landed on the water hazard next to the green. Except the water hazard was not water. It was iced over. My ball hit the ice and rolled to the middle of the hazard,.

Since there were not a lot of golfers before or after us, like none, we approached the green and decided to retrieve my ball. We found stray limbs around the hazard and  slid them across the frozen pond attempting to hit the ball and impel it to the other edge. It took a while, but we did get the ball back. We laughed. We were dressed warmly and the layers made throwing accuracy not, sort of like our golf shots.

It was cold.

It was the coldest round of golf i’ve ever played. i vowed to not to play in really cold weather again. Of course, i have violated that vow many times but it was a relative thing.

This past Wednesday, i remembered my vow. Unfortunately, i remembered on the second tee. There were few tee times available, but i managed a 6:38 for two at Bonita Golf Club, one of my favorite of comfortable places to play in the world.

(Dealing with the pestilence upon us in the Southwest corner is a curious thing. The restrictions keep changing based on reaction, not proaction. This has led to some very strange curiosities. For example, restaurants were shut down, then opened to take out, then open to outdoor dining, then open to social distancing  — damn, i still dislike that rather oxymoronic phrase — then restricted to outdoor dining, then takeout only, and the bounce from the last two phases has occurred three times in the last five days. Parks and play areas for children have been closed along with the restaurants,  but, get this, strip bars were allowed to operate until last week and then won a lawsuit to remain open, in which the judge included restaurants and that, my friends, lasted one day, Now there is an injunction putting the re-openings on hold.)

Golf courses have remained open since the first two months of the entire Southwest corner going homebound (March and April). Then, somebody figured out, golf was pretty safe with some precautions, which every course deciding what was “pretty safe” without any consistency whatsoever. Long live 2020, not only in crazy, but kicking it up a notch pretty damn close to idiocy.

Yet that has allowed us to have some relief. It just turned out last Tuesday was one of the coldest days in Bonita for quite a while. Somewhere around 5:50 when i left our house on the hill above the valley where the golf course abides, the thermometers read 42. i’m thinking “this is okay, it will warm up quickly. Wrong. As i drove through the entrance to the course, the outdoor temperature reading on my gauge read 38.

It didn’t feel like 38. It felt like it was Antartica. Before my second shot on the first hole, my hands like they were hanging in a meat freezer. For about five holes when i hit my shot, it felt like i was hitting a five-pound rock. It was not pretty. i was cursing myself for not buying some hand warmers or golf gloves. By the sixth hole, i began to feel like my hands were actually attached to my wrists. Before we finished the first nine, i was out of three layers of clothing and playing in my short sleeve shirt and trousers (i mean you folks have to live in the Southwest corner for a while to understand this weather). i think i got up a bit of a sweat by 13. But when i finished, there remained a tingling in my fingers.

Pete and i made an oath to not play before 8:00 a.m. between November and March. i’m guessing this vow may last a couple of weeks. But a couple of weeks is a chunk shorter than 42 years between my round with Bill McFall and this one.

But i’m old and now bragging is sometimes more important than my golf score or frozen slabs for hands.

Merry Christmas…and in memory of Jeff Caplenor, if you have a chance, play a round of golf.

Cold is relative.