We returned to the Southwest corner this afternoon. We just had four wonderful days of Peace in the Valley.

No, it wasn’t the peace in the valley in the religious song written by Thomas Dorsey made immensely popular by Elvis, but originally sung and sung better by Mahalia Jackson. It was our peace and the valley was Sonoma’s. Regardless, it provided us with peace in the valley.

The primary reason was our stay was at Alan and Maren Hick’s home adjacent to the Sebastiani vinyards. The Hicks homestead is about as peaceful as you can get. Alan, Maren, and i have been friends since we were at Vanderbilt together 62-64. The friendship has never waned even though my Navy career and Alan’s shipping career primarily with Pacific Container Lines took us far away for years.

When Maureen met Maren at a Vandy reunion in 2006, it was a instant friendship. Their likes and interests are an amazing match.

Our ventures from peace in the valley were intriguing. Alan and Maren are very good at allowing us to learn.

On Thursday, we walked through the past. Alan drove us to Mare Island. The US Navy’s first presence on the West Coast was on Mare Island in 1849. The first permanent Navy dry dock on the West Coast was completed in 1891. It was made of granite, not concrete.

Many buildings dating back to the 1800s are still standing. The area has been declared a National Historic Landmark. Several of the huge cranes for dry dock and ship maintenance services, no longer in use, stand as if they were ready to roll again, sentinels looking out on the past. Mansions, formerly the residences of Naval officers, stand majestically and serve many purposes. In the middle of it all is the Navy chapel, the first interdenominational chapel in the Navy. It has Tiffany created stained windows and is a beautiful and stately evidence of the past. As we drove past the old Navy cemetery and then walked up the hills to a promontory where the base golf course once sprawled, now only imagined on the open spaces where there were once fairways.

As we walked, i commented to Alan that the experience was beautifully eerie. After all, one of its first commanders was Commander David Farragut in the 1850s, of the later civil war quote “Damn the torpedoes” .

The other travels out of peace in the valley were equally intriguing.

It was a great weekend. The Hicks, as usual, gave us respite from our daily dallying in the Southwest corner. Thank you, Alan and Maren.

i close with the lyrics of “Peace in the Valley.” For me, they seem to fit:

Oh well, I’m tired and so weary,
But I must go along,
‘Til the Lord comes and calls
Calls me away, oh, yes;
Well, the morn-ing is bright,
And the Lamb the Light,
And the night, Night is as fair
as the day, oh, yes.
There will be peace in the valley for me, some day;
There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray;
There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow,
No trouble, trouble I see;
There will be peace in the valley for me.

There the flow’rs will be blooming,
and the grass will be green,
And the skies will be clear
and serene, oh, Yes;
Well the sun ever beams,
in this valley of dreams,
And no clouds there will ever
be seen, oh, yes.
There will be peace in the valley for me, some day;
There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray;
There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow,
No trouble, trouble I see;
There will be peace in the valley for me.

Well the bear will be gentle,
And the wolf will be tame,
And the lion shall lay down
By the lamb, oh, yes;
And the beast from the wild,
Shall be led by a child
And I’ll be changed
Changed from this creature
that I am, oh, yes.

There will be peace in the valley for me, some day;
There will be peace in the valley for me, oh Lord I pray;
There’ll be no sadness, no sorrow,
No trouble, trouble I see;
There will be peace in the valley for me.

This Democrat column is posted out of sequence. The photo i posted on FB earlier this week accompanied that column. It was written in 2009. Coach JB walked over that bridge in 2011. He remains a beacon for all journalists who have the goal of doing it the right way.

SAN DIEGO – This column is positioned, date wise, to address 2011 beginnings, but this is more about ending than beginning.

In last Friday’s “Second Thoughts” column, Lynda Leftwich Newton, Jim Leftwich, Barbara Leftwich Froula, and Jack Leftwich announced their father would no longer be writing his weekly column here.

My first inclination was to describe this conclusion as the “end of an era.”  But J.B not regularly contributing to print journalism in Middle Tennessee is so much more than just a simple end of an era.

The man and his contributions to journalism are not only woven into the fabric of our town but will continue to positively influence journalism in the future.

J.B. has been associated with the Democrat for 72 years.  He was also a reporter for the Nashville Tennessean.  His direct impact on journalism in Middle Tennessee cannot be overstated.  The Democrat; Tennessean; Nashville Banner; and our other local newspaper, the Wilson Post, have benefited from J.B’s writing and photographs.

J.B. Leftwich’s indirect impact on journalism is even more widespread and will continue to have a positive influence across our country for generations.

He has been far more than a prolific reporter, columnist, and photographer of great repute.  He has been a teacher, coach, mentor, counselor, disciplinarian, father figure, and friend for at least five decades of journalists. A week ago, I once again sought and received his wise counsel.

He has guided us through the principles of effective news reporting and editing.  He has taught us how to market and sell advertising, maintain financial records, transfer skills from the linotype (hot lead) layout and makeup to the computer age cold type pages of today without losing the smudges of newsprint on our hands, the smell of newsprint running off the presses, or the ink in our veins.

Many of his students departed to apply J.B. Leftwich’s principles in other careers, in their writing, and in the way they walked the halls of their businesses.

Some with newspaper infused into their bloodstreams, went off to other pursuits, only to return in some fashion to the world of journalism.  I am one of those.

Many never stopped the pursuit J.B. discovered for them. They worked at their craft and succeeded to the highest levels at newspapers across the country.  In doing so, they passed on the legacy of J.B. Leftwich.

All who have fallen under his guidance have found his lessons reach far beyond the discipline of print journalism.  We have been exposed to how to live one’s life well, how to remain steadfast, loyal, and how to live our lives by doing what is right.

I considered eliciting quotes from former editors of The Castle Heights’ Cavalier, the national award winning high school newspaper, and The Adjutant, the school’s annual.  I almost picked up the telephone and called David Hall.  David, a cousin of mine, is one of the most successful Leftwich products.

David Hall’s success carried him through the Tennessean; Chicago Daily News; Chicago Sun-Times; Pioneer Press and Dispatch in St. Paul, Minn. where he was managing editor and executive editor; the Denver Post as editor and senior vice president; editor of the Bergen (N.J.) Record, and editor of the Cleveland Plain Dealer.  David became the first Pulliam Visiting Professor of Journalism at DePauw University before his retirement.

Before I elicited quotes or called David, Rob and Susan Hosier, the couple who keep Castle Heights and its memories alive, sent me a list of former editors of the two Heights publications.  The count ran to almost 100.  Then, I realized there were many more who carry the Leftwich legacy.  For example, Sam Hatcher worked the business side of the Cavalier and Frank Sutherland, former editor of the Tennessean, was a reporter for the Adjutant.

There are no quotes or tributes from others here.  This is my column, and it’s my tribute.  J.B. Leftwich, his wife Jo Doris, and their family are just like family to my family.  He continues to give me guidance, inspiration, and motivation.  I think about him every time I sit down at a keyboard.  He is one of my closest friends.

One of my greatest honors is to be considered as a fellow-columnist of J.B. Leftwich in the Democrat, the newspaper I grew up reading.

I will miss his columns, but I hope his guidance will continue for a long time.

oh, take me down to the trolley station;
i shall catch the orange line downtown,
find a bench at an intersection.
to watch all of the folks pass by.

i will not need more than a bottle of water
along with a pad of paper and a pen;
i’ll wear my straw fedora for sunshade
while sitting and watching the passer-bys.

those walking past will entertain me
with a variety of all i see:
the good, the bad, the quiet, the loud.
all different with a take on life their own.

i’ll watch them and identify with all;
parts of me i see with each walking past;
i’ve been there; i’ve done that,
good, bad, caring indifferent, all.

i will spend several hours there,
then catch the trolley back;
please pick me up, take me home;
and i will be all right.

tonight, i will have a glass with Mr. Dickel
reflecting on what i’ve seen,
those who passed by me
reminding me of what i’ve been.

it will have been a good time spent;
tomorrow will be near the same,
i won’t take the trolley downtown then;
i’ll go to the zoo instead.

good morning, ole sun rolling across the hills of Mexico:
will you be around long enough to view my past?
i’m not asking you to stay around to see my future;
i don’t really wish to see how it all shall end;
so, roll across the Southwest sky,
finally fade beyond the Pacific;
i shall follow you there by and by.

Back in my old home town,
i passed an old haunt of mine;
went there most evenings
when i had nothing to do;
it was shuttered;
plywood covered the windows,
windows out of which i peered,
saw a ten-point buck
in the side yard one night
i parked in the weeds overtaking the lot
in the back and walked through knee-high grass
to the un-boarded main entrance;
peering in, i saw dust and cobwebs,
pieces of furniture strewn about,
the shuffleboard table gone;
i turned toward the road:
cars and pickups hurdling past
on the four-lane road
rather than the occasional pickup,
which back then, didn’t hurdle anywhere,
that passed on the two-lane road
when i lingered here;
a sign by the door
announced it would be soon torn down
to make way with a strip mall,
anchored by a convenience store,
including a cleaners, a franchised burger place,
a liquor store, a hair salon, and several more.
i returned to my car;
sitting there for a moment.

i realized that old haunt of mine
was a lot like me, a lot like me:
we were dilapidated, past our time,
lost in a world that passed us by;
i had a lot of dust on eighty years,
cobwebs of memories in my head,
not much more;
my world is filled with weeds,
not manicured lawns,
certainly not fake lawns;
i will be replaced by folks
glued to their phones,
buying the latest fad,
hurdling by in their electric automobiles,
ignoring the past.

that old haunt doesn’t fit in today:
it was too comfortable for today;
not much plastic, only a juke box
in the corner playing country called oldies;
i am comfortable but
certainly not plastic,
playing a lot of oldies,
waiting to be replaced by convenience.