As Yogi Berra once sagely said, i just had “Déjà vu” all over again.”

A lovely lady from my hometown, Sara Yahola, had made me feel great me by telling she was enjoying reading the poems in my book of poetry, A Pocket of Resistance: Selected Poems. She added a friend of hers had especially enjoyed “Git,” and “The Rain.”

Being vain when it comes to my writing, i took down my copy and read those two poems and a couple of more when i ran upon “Feelings.” There was some strange rumblings in my soul as it sounded recently familiar. i realized it had some similar feelings to “a curse upon me,” which i posted yesterday (i think it was yesterday: old age got me again).

i wrote this one in 1969, when i was confused even more so than now.  Divorced after a short marriage, half-way through my three-year Navy commitment, and looking for love, not yet in all the wrong places which i would get to later in life, and generally out to have a good time.

But i was writing. i can’t remember when i wasn’t writing. i probably understood why more then than now. Then, i was going to finish my obligation, become a sports writer, become famous, and write the great American novel, or something. But i was recording my emotions, my thoughts, not really thinking about any of it getting published. Now, i write and hope folks will read what i write, and as Dave Carey once noted about his motivational speeches, take from my writing what works for them.

i would like to remember i wrote this on a day in May when i had spent the night at Hite McLean’s apartment just outside Newport, Rhode Island. Hite was in JAG school. i was the ASW officer on the USS Hawkins (DD-873). His apartment was on the coast above a cliff to the sea actually. That night, Hite and i had gone out to Mac’s Clam Shack on Thames and indulged in quahogs and a pitcher of beer. We came back to his place, talked over some Jack Daniels until late, and i, unusually wise for that stage of my life, decided to sleep on his couch. The next morning, it was New England spring raw when i walked out to the edge of the cliff, sat down with my legs hanging over the side and watched the foam of white waves crash against the craggy coast line while a light cold rain driven by the Atlantic wind drenched my face.

i remember thinking it was beautiful, perfect. A seacoast the way a seacoast should be. Thomas Hardy stuff.

i know that event happened. But as i wrote that memory i realized that wasn’t when i wrote the poem. It was while i was at OCS, 1968, right before i was commissioned. It was at Hurley’s, the rather off the beaten path, rhythm and blues and jazz club in the alley across from the tennis hall of fame where this wonderful jazz group played while an incredible voiced lady would sing “My Satin Doll” during a Sunday afternoon jam and i would ask again and again but this was not Sunday afternoon but Saturday night when the Fall River girls would arrive in large numbers to catch an officer candidate, which i later learned was called “hog call,” and later, was the inspiration for the movie “An Officer and a Gentleman” (alright, you aviators, it might have been a combination of Newport and Pensacola, and i avoided them most of the time by sitting at the bar asking again if they could play “My Satin Doll” while i nursed a Manhattan and wrote things on a scratch piece of paper. And i saved this one (Oh yeh, i smoked then. Chesterfield Kings. Unfiltered). As Bob Hope and Shirley Ross famously sang: “Thanks for the Memories.”

Feelings

Snow is falling.
A quiet has fallen on the world.
Everyone wants to sit by the fire,

Feel its warmth.
But what it’s like to stand out in the cold,
feel the wind biting,
biting into the cheeks?

It hurts.

But the hurt is satisfying.

The room is big and empty;

There is nothing here
but
me and my emptiness;
There are people dancing to the loud music.
There are people laughing at the jokes that are not funny;
but
I can’t laugh because I know something.
Something?
The something is
I don’t know;
No one knows.

I can appreciate
A warm person,
The beauty of a snowfall,
The warmth of a fire,
A sky full of stars after a snow fall,
A good cigarette.
Let’s cry.

My “Writer’s Almanac” email today, noted Charles Dickens published his first part of the serialized A Tale of Two Cities on this date in 1859 in Dickens’ weekly journal, All the Year Round.

The article detailed the history of the journal’s publication, added some interesting information and ended with the first paragraph of that novel, one i believe to be, an incredible work:

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way …”

i have used this quote several times but confess i stole it from Dave Carey. Dave, a rather incredible person himself, used the quote in the leadership seminar he and i facilitated together in 1985 when he was discussing our choices on how to view our world and our situation.

i would bet money…no, i need to ask Dave if that was behind the title of his inspirational book, The Ways We Choose: Lessons For LIfe From a POW’s Experience.

Then, i considered this is a perfect quote for what we are experiencing with this pandemic (Have you ever thought “pandemic” could mean a bad skillet? No? Just wondering).

It certainly is the worst of what many, if not most of us have experienced. It could also be a time for restructuring our personal goals, behaviors, and attitudes about what really is important in our lives.

Best of times. Worst of times. 1859. 2020. And all points in between, behind, or beyond.

Our choice. It’s what we make of it.

And that is one thing that will never change.

Thanks, Charles and Dave.

Created from extensive research of late:

Goofy guy’s Curse of the Road: If traffic is reduced to almost nothing, the number of wrecks will be increased.

Goofy guy’s explanation of his Curse of the Road: Since hunkering down began, i have been on the interstate/freeway system exactly five times: drove Sarah to pick up our wonderful meal s from Wine Vault and Bistro three times, drove there myself  to pick up the first one when this all began, and drove to golf at Temecula Creek Inn yesterday for golf. During three of those five times, i was in the middle of extensive traffic jams that extended the drive over a half-hour to more than an hour. Sarah has declared it my curse.

Goofy guy’s small delight in his Curse of the Road: Maureen decided to drive home yesterday.

What a difference a day makes. Twenty-four little hours. And no, i don’t care what you say, this is Dinah Washington’s song.

And today there was a difference.

Last week, i caught the announcement Temecula Creek Inn, among other golf courses in Riverside County, was open for play. i told my buddy Pete Toennies, thinking the two of us might drive up (an hour’s drive northeast of here) and check it out. i didn’t think our wives would want to drive up and back in a day with 18 holes sandwiched in between.

Well, i don’t know whether they are golf fanatics, love being with their husbands on a day long trip ( i really don’t think so), or just wanted to go SOMEWHERE, but they not only glomped onto the idea, Nancy Toennies made the tee time.

We went. Weather was nice but hot. Temecula is desert but has become a mecca for ultra commuters and grown from horse ranches, sod farms, and  hot dirt, into this mega wanna be a big city with all of the strip malls and franchise stores you can cram into a country town with lots of heat added. Still, they built several nice golf courses and it is on the way to Palm Springs, Palm Desert, La Quinta, Indian Wells, Indio, etc., so i’m okay with that.

And we played. A polite description of our games would be sporadic. i’m used to that.

But we were out. Safe, distant, following the rules — Do you how incredibly hot those masks are in dry eighty degree weather? But it felt free.

Funny thing is i really haven’t minded this hunkering down at all, but just driving seventy miles and back felt like freedom, release.

This lovely reprieve from the dungeon was preceded  by some pretty dark thoughts last night. Well, maybe not dark. Just sort of wake up in the middle of the night and think that’s what i want to say kind of thoughts.

Actually, they weren’t dark at all because i was accepting having so many diverse friends. i thank you all:

there is, in my old age,
a curse upon me
and
i spit in its face
in spite of
involuntarily allowing the curse
to invade me occasionally;
yet
i spit in its face
even while
i see dumb shit
all over the place,
large scale, small scale
dumb shit
folks refusing to think beyond
their noses
believing they are the supreme knowledge
of the world
because
someone told them to think that way
to make them better
and
make the ones that told them
rich and powerful and loved
and
full of bullshit;
and so
they go on believing
their form of politics,
their form of religion
their form of living
is the right and only way
so
we should eradicate all the others,
which, of course, is
bullshit,
and
for god’s sake
(and i mean that universally),
they believe they are pure
and
do not see
the manipulation
of the power brokers
who call it good and pure and right
but
when the layers are peeled back
good and pure and right
are only a disguise for
hate and then fear,
and
they really aren’t for something at all;
they are against whatever they believe is against them,
but
i spit in the face
of my curse
and
refuse to don the layers of hate and fear
covered by against
as i am only against the against,
not the againsters
because they are good folks
who don’t look below the layers
and
they are my friends
for whom i’m not against.;
wipe that spit from your face,
my curse.

It is that lull time in the late afternoon. Even in the days of bustling everywhere throughout those days when we could, this time of day is another moment to…well, repair in both the current use and in my use of the word as used a while ago.

i only did some organizing kind of work with my book, and spent most of the day doing house fix-its, furniture repair, and my usual fussing around in the garage workshop without getting a whole lot done.

Then instead of my fartlek walk/run (and that’s a good, clean word, mind you), i cut my hair.  i mean cut. i hadn’t touched a hair above my neck since all of this hunkering down began six weeks ago until we got some wonderful news.

A number of the golf courses in Riverside County are open. It’s about an hour drive northeast from here, so we will be going up Wednesday for a round with the Toennies, our go-to-golf friends (and much more). Ahhh, golf. The restaurant and lodging remains closed, so it will be a day trip, a haul, but that’s okay. We can play golf and social…hell no, not social, physical distance ourselves as required.

My lack of attention to the tonsorial regimen was not to grow a beard. i’ve tried that numerous times and finally recognized there too many bare spots for it to look decent. And although i am no longer really vain, i do like to look decent in public. And social-physical distance or not, a golf round is out in public.

Since i gave up barbers quite a while ago and resorted to an electric razor for what is left, it didn’t take long.

When finished, i repaired to my home office where i am now. i am writing but i am reflecting. In case you don’t catch Facebook, my grandson, Samuel James Jewell Gander turned 13 today. Repaired is a good word for reflecting about Sam. Sam is a repairer of hearts. He may not know it, but he has been repairing hearts since the day he was born thirteen years ago. He has seven grandparents. They all are one when it comes to loving Sam.

i could go on, but i already have.

Six weeks is a long time to shelter in. Lots of folks, i noticed, are getting antsy. There is more getting out.

i have mixed emotions about that, but Wednesday, i’m getting out also.

Yet tonight, i don’t care. The Southwest corner is enjoying Southwest corner weather. Maureen is watching “Third Rock from the Sun” while she is fixing supper — man, i love that term “fixing supper;” it’s so much more descriptive than “cooking” although “cookin'” is a close second). And in my repairing and reflecting, i will get her classic, infectious laugh wafting into the office.

Sam’s birthday stoked up my reflecting. Last night set it up. Sarah recommended we watch “Field of Dreams” as our movie. We did. i blubbered again. Several times. That movie, as fanciful as it is, gets to me.

And boy, did i reflect, and wish. As i was doing this, Bill Davenport posted a photo on the Lebanon,TN & Wilson County, Past & Genealogy Facebook page. Reflection kicked into high gear. This was a special dining experience for us. Daddy would get us all in his ’48 dark green Pontiac sedan, and take us to this place. Incredible hamburgers and the best chocolate malts in the world EVER, as i noted on the Facebook post.

Sitting here after repairing, and reflecting on the world, i wish Shoeless Joe Jackson; Moonlight Graham; Terrence Mann; Ray, Annie, and John Kinsella were real, which should mean i could take Sam to Maple Hill Court for supper and let him have a chocolate malted milk. And you know what? i would let him play the pinball machine for a dime. My father wouldn’t let me play. He told me it was a waste of money. Different times.

i hope you too can get some relief and stay safe from this craziness. And i hope you too have someone like Sam who can pull folks together, and give you peace.

And lord, i hope you have a chocolate malted in your future. It won’t be as good as Maple Hill Court’s, but it’s hard to mess them up.

Good night.