This is one of the more difficult things i have had to write in some time. i sit at this  damnable electronic marvel, strum my fingers across the keyboard not hard enough to print a letter on the screen, and resort to my usual excuse to do absolutely nothing useful playing spider solitaire. It’s that time now. i need to get to it. It’s not easy.

You see, playing golf yesterday, he told me he wouldn’t be playing with us anymore, adding he had cancer. Being me, i thought he was joking after a pretty bad couple of holes. My cart buddy quietly admonished me. There was no joke. Our golfing partner really had cancer. And it didn’t look good.

It’s been a long time since i have been so shocked. As we played, i learned more. Then when we joined our other players in the clubhouse dining area, he told the group of seven the extent of the bad news. It was much worse than i thought.

Harvey Hathaway’s stage four pancreatic cancer has spread to his liver and his stomach. The only possible treatment is chemotherapy. With it, his prognostication for living is somewhere around eight months. Without chemo, the number shrinks to three months. Oh, there have been miracles of cancer patients surviving much longer than predicted, even beating it, and i am praying this will be another miracle story.

But it doesn’t look good.

Harvey is one of the nicest guys i know. He is a retired cop. One job he had was a security guy for Hugh Hefner and quite often his job was to escort and protect the Playboy Bunnies at Hef’s Los Angeles mansion. From Harvey’s account, he never strayed from his job for some dilly dallying and became friends with a number of the bunnies. Harvey is so nice i believe him totally.

Harvey and i have had a running joke for a couple of years. We often play partners with Marty Marion and Jim Hileman. That means two against two with each hole worth two possible points. Each six holes, we switch partners. Harvey began as a pretty high handicapper but kept improving. When we were partners, he would not play very well, and since playing well is not my usual profile, this never went well and we nearly always lost that six holes. Then Harvey and i would be have different partners. Harvey’s play would greatly improve and mine would go in the opposite direction. The result inevitably would be me losing all three partner matches and Harvey winning two.

i jokingly called it the “Harvey curse” until i about half-way believed it. i brought it up every time we played together. Harvey and i would share a laugh.

“Harvey” is a great name for Harvey. He reminds me of another Harvey, the title character in the movie. Actually, my Harvey seems to be a cross between the pooka, a six foot, three and half inches tall rabbit also named Harvey and the movie Harvey’s running mate, Elwood P. Dowd, the character played by Jimmy Stewart. If you can imagine that combination, you have a real good idea of what i think of Harvey Hathaway. He’s winsome.

He also is, from my perspective, going through this the right way. He is letting people know. He is from a time and has been in a profession where giving up and feeling sorry aren’t part of the agenda. He’s Harvey. He is approaching his situation with dignity. This is what i would expect from Harvey.

After our round and lunch of sliders, i began to drive home. My shock had worn off. i wanted to cry. i wanted to scream. i wanted it to rain so i could do what i did when one of the most wonderful women in the world passed away from breast cancer fifty-six years ago. i was a freshman in college when i learned my best friend’s mother, Virginia Harding had succumbed.

When i came home from Nashville for the funeral, i ran, an abnormal thing for me at the time, from my house to Henry’s where i had spent more time than anywhere else other than our house, about a half-mile. It was raining. i was sprinting at full speed, i screamed with tears running down my face. i hated the world for letting this terrible loss occur. It was fruitless. i knew it. But i needed to deal with it my way.

Well, Harvey isn’t gone yet, and god willing, he could beat this. But driving home, that’s how i felt. How could whatever powers of good that are let this happen to one of the nicest people i have ever met?

i have lived long enough to know that is not how the world works. But this one still stinks.

Oh yes, Harvey and i won our six holes. The curse is broken. Maybe that is a good omen for what is next.

Harv, if you need me, i will be there anytime, anywhere.

Yesterday “Writer’s Almanac” began with this poem. In my case, the directions are a little catawampus, and there are a couple of other statements a bit off their mark for my situation, but it made me think of my two daughters and me, and how i love them even though they are in different stages of leaving me, or perhaps my leaving them. So in my usual fashion, i teared up a bit because i believe — oh how i believe and hope while trying to believe — this  is best for them and that we are easing “into a rhythm where the plains of her life (their lives), of mine, drift buoyant, open, rising without words, hours, or habits—new country.” And the tears before reaching culmination turn into a smile of love.

The Way West
by Raphael Kosek

My daughter is driving
across the continent, eating cheddar
in Wisconsin, waking to a cougar’s yellow
rasp, sleeping tentless
in a corn field where a mysterious

insect leaves a sore story of welts
over her face, her neck—
she is off my radar, and it feels like
part of me is floating off the map,
past the flannel of sleep, the safety

of novels—I hear the wind over her phone,
constant. The wind, her voice
informs me, never stops blowing in South Dakota
where the Black Hills are not really black
but green and grey like Cezanne’s mountains.

Her hair glistens with a mid-American
sweat I have never felt, her car
runs into the different hours
of a different night. We have
lost the clock between us, the familiar

gone strange. Prairie, so flat, she says,
you can see the sun for a long time.
I feel something flatten out between us—
and ease into a rhythm where the plains
of her life, of mine, drift

buoyant, open, rising without words,
hours, or habits—
new country.

This morning, i received the below in an email from Marty Marion, one of my golfing buddies. i thought all of you friends and family who might still wonder why we stay in the Southwest corner might better understand by reading this. i add Tennessee to where friends or family have moved (#27).

i also add because of the Navy, i saw a pretty good chunk of the world. Based on a score of one to ten, as Bo Derek was once a “10” in beautiful women, most places have more “10” days in terms of weather than San Diego because of a relative comparison to the other days they have. But there is no place in the world has more 7’s, 8’s, and 9’s than San Diego.

Example: It is November 2. Last night our low slightly dipped in the 40’s. When we arose, we had to wear a long sleeve garment around the house but didn’t need to turn on the heat. This afternoon, it will be in the mid-70’s. And it is cool enough at night for a fire in the fireplace. Give or take five degrees, this daily pattern will continue for the next four months.

Thanks, Marty.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE FROM SAN DIEGO WHEN…

You can correctly pronounce Tierrasanta, La Jolla, Rancho Penesquitos, San Ysidro, Otay Mesa, Jamul, and El Cajon, and know where they are.
2. There are four distinct seasons: Summer, Not Quite Summer, Almost Summer, and “Oh, Hey look its summer again”.
3. Your house is worth more than some small countries.
4. You know what MB, OB, and PB stand for.
5. Every street name is either in Spanish or Spanish related, and
you’re surprised when other areas don’t have this.
6. You see weather forecasts for four different climate zones in the
same county and aren’t remotely surprised.
7. You remember going to “The Cross” on Mt. Helix for Easter services.
8. You’ve tailgated at Qualcomm Stadium, and for bonus points, also tailgated when it was Jack Murphy Stadium.
9. You know that “charge!” doesn’t refer to a credit card.
10. You remember going downtown via Federal Blvd. before Hwy 94 was built.
11. You remember when Hwy 94 was 2 lanes in each direction.
12. You still call it the Del Mar Fair.
13. You say “I’m going to the track” and people know what you’re talking about.
14. You remember when Lemon Grove, La Mesa, and Spring Valley were “in the sticks.”
15. You understand what May-gray and June-gloom means.
16. There’s a North County, South County, and an East County but no Central County.
17. You know what “the merge” is and will plan your entire day around not being on it during rush hour.
18. You know the difference between Clairmont Mesa, Kearny Mesa, and Mira Mesa.
19. You’ve gone to Sea World on a warm day and sat in the first few rows at the Shamu Show to get cooled off.
20. You’ve been delayed at the Border Checkpoints on the 5, the 8 and the 15.
21. Your house doesn’t have or need air conditioning unless you live in the East County.
22. No matter what the weather is, there is always someone walking around in a t-shirt, shorts, and flip flops.
23. You’ve been to the desert, the mountains, and the beach all in one day.
24. You know that Santee and Lakeside is where the “cowboys” live.
25. You hate tourists and their bad driving. (But you don’t know how to drive in the rain.)
26. You’ve gone to the Zoo just to hang out.
27. You have family or friends that have moved to Arizona, Nevada, Utah Texas, or Colorado.
28. You know what the “Santa Anas” are and that they have nothing to do with the city of Santa Ana.
29. You know what “real Mexican food” tastes like.
30. You remember when “Mission Valley” was cow pastures (Oh…to have bought land then!)
31. You remember when Lemon Grove had “the cows.”
32. 60 degrees is ice cold.

Have a beautiful, sunny San Diego Day!

It was a long time ago. i remembered when i ran across these photos in a golf ball box. They came from my two aunts and my mother during a significant phase of my life. i am posting them here primarily for my grandson Sam Gander. It was a long time ago.

The above was when i departed for my third class midshipman NROTC cruise in the summer of ’63. It was a life changer in many ways although i did not realize it at the time. The uniform, in my opinion, service dress khaki’s, remains the sharpest looking military uniform ever. The Marine’s uniforms are impressive but this one was so classic, so not overstated. It’s gone but it remains my favorite.

Granny, aka Katherine Webster Prichard, was an incredible woman, a survivor, one of the hardest workers on the planet who never gave up. She loved and cared for her family, her friends, and her charges as a “house mother” at Castle Heights. This was taken at my Aunt Bettye Kate and Uncle Snooks Hall’s house in1964.

It was 1969, August. i was a big fan of docksiders with no socks. Thought it was cool, but man those high-water pants with those shoes were not a good look.

Once again in my aunt and uncle’s house. This time it was August 1969. i was a one-year wonder LTJG on my first ship, USS Hawkins.

This was labeled by my Aunt Evelyn as 1969, but i didn’t make lieutenant until 1971. Summer whites were great uniforms but those white shoes were tough to keep white.

Paris, Texas. May 1971. a pre-wedding photo.It didn’t turn out well, but i loved her and my brother and sister always supported me. Blythe remains a beautiful daughter and my grandson Sam makes it worthwhile.

i first noticed him when he shuffled up to the bar, smiled at the bartender and ordered a glass of chardonnay.

On several earlier stops at the Bonita Golf Club for lunch, i had complained about a pickup parked illegally close to the door of the restaurant. Then one day, i noticed it had a sticker on the rear bumper that read “Pearl Harbor Survivor.” i decided whoever owned that truck deserved to park anywhere he wanted to park. i would no longer whine about the parking.

When i watched the old man shuffle, i wondered if it was him. The next time i saw him i was having a beer at the bar waiting for a take out order when he again approached the bar, ordered his chardonnay, and shuffled back to his table in the corner in the wing closest to the course 18th green. The bartender, a pretty young lady, smiled while she watched him shuffle back. i asked her if he was the one who owned the truck. She told me he was, he was 99, and added he was wonderful. i agreed.

i saw him several other times and now we smiled, nodded, and exchanged greetings. After each time, i regretted not asking him his name and getting more information about him.

This morning, as i noted in this morning’s pictorial post, i raised my flag atop my hill. The flag had a role to play later today.

Our cleaning ladies came today and the kitchen was embroiled in their efforts at lunchtime. Maureen and i went to the golf club for lunch. They serve great food with a variety of choices. Maureen had an afternoon appointment and left in her car. i finished my sliders and fries, paid my bill, and headed out. i looked back in the corner. The shuffling old man was sitting by himself. i decided to rectify my earlier regrets. i walked to his table, introduced myself and asked his name.

“Jesse Thompson,” he said.

i was taken aback a bit. i knew of Jesse Thompson, but on a Google search about a year ago, i could only find older references. i thought he must have passed. And here i was talking to him.

i asked him where he lived. He told me it was down the hill from my house. i asked if he was the guy with the Pearl Harbor museum in his home and had weekly meetings with other Pearl Harbor survivors at his home before they abandoned those meetings recently because they were down to three or four in San Diego and those had trouble making the meetings for various health reasons. He acknowledged it was his home. i knew he was the one. He kept apologizing for being forgetful. i told him i had been forgetful for a long time.

Then i asked him if he remembered coming to my house about ten years ago. Maureen and i were out, and only Sarah was home and answered the door when he rang. He told her who he was and gave her his business card. He told her about his club and how they would come out of the meeting and look at my flag in a moment of silence for the flag reminded them of the one on Mount Suribachi, the locale on Iwo Jima where six marines raised the U.S Flag to signal the U.S victory and become a national icon.

Then he told me he came to the club every day. i finally asked him if i could use his name and write about our meetings. He said yes. Then he apologized again for not remembering everything, and explained his reason for his daily trip for his chardonnay.

“You gotta stick to a routine when you are my age,” he explained.

i applauded him. We talked a bit more, and i took my leave, promising him i would like to talk him every time i saw him in the club. He said he would like that.

So i raised my flag this morning and talked to a hero at lunch. i didn’t lower the flag at sunset. i sort of hoped he would come out of his house after nightfall and see that flag lit by my lights to make it all right by the regs.

It was a gesture to thank you, Jesse Thompson.

If you would like to read my account of my first knowing about Jesse Thompson, it was a column written for The Lebanon Democrat. i have included the column below:

Notes from the Southwest Corner: Veterans Day and Flags on Hills

SAN DIEGO – An annual event passed almost unnoticed this past weekend here in the Southwest corner.

With San Diego being a big Navy town, it is difficult to understand why the “Day of Infamy” at Pearl Harbor went by so quietly on Saturday. I am not sure how much Lebanon observed the event which catapulted the United States into World War II, but I suspect it was much the same as in the Southwest corner.

I, too, was remiss in marking the day in any meaningful way. It seems we celebrate on multipliable numbers like 10, 25, 50, 100, etc. This was the 67^th year since the Japanese hit the beautiful harbor in Oahu with all they could muster, not a very multipliable number. Perhaps this was the reason for mine and others’ oversight.

Perhaps my lack of interest was abetted by continuing to come down from my grandson’s visit to the Southwest corner over Thanksgiving.

We had the big turkey dinner with my smoked turkey. We went to the San Diego Zoo. We went to the beach. We went to our favorite Japanese restaurant for my daughter Sarah’s 19^th birthday. All of the events, with the exception of the present opening at the birthday celebration, found Sam as the center of attention.

I am still winding down from his stay and find myself looking at the photos and reminiscing about how wonderful it was. I’m sure all of the grandparents who read this will nod their heads in agreement and understand.

Perhaps my inattention to the significance of the day was overshadowed by our short trip out to the desert with friends. The feature of last week was a round of golf in the winter Mecca for Hollywood celebrities with streets named after Bob Hope, Frank Sinatra, Gene Autry, and Fred Waring – as I type out “Fred Waring” on the computer,  I  wonder how many of those who read this will remember Fred Waring and his orchestra.

Since most of my trips here are in the blazing heat of the summer where 120 degrees is not uncommon, the journey and golf here in 70 degree weather was especially enjoyable.

Perhaps my lapse was due to the ballyhoo over Christmas. Even with the economic downturn, decorations here in the Southwest corner seem no less prolific, ads appear to be even more beseeching for gifts than usual, and Christmas carols are a constant background at our home.

And on Saturday, the big event was “December Nights,” at Balboa Park. It was called “Christmas on the Prado” for years before some over zealous political correct politicians changed the name. Sarah’s high school show choir performed at the open air organ pavilion, and the family went to relive old times.

So Pearl Harbor was forgotten for most of the day. But as I lowered the ensign (U.S. flag) on my hill before heading out to the Park and festivities, the significance of the day came rushing back to me.

I have written of my ensign before. I am proud of it. Raising and lowering it has become a responsibility. The hill on the back of our property is one of the higher ones in South San Diego. My ensign can be seen for several miles and has become something of a local landmark.

Almost two years ago, my responsibility surrounding the daily regimen of raising and lowering the ensign took on extra weight.

While my wife and I were out on errands, a older gentleman knocked on our door and Sarah answered. He inquired about the ensign and Sarah told him it was mine. He told her he lived down the hill and a group of his friends were thrilled with the flag and that it reminded them of Mount Suribachi. He gave her his business card.

When Sarah gave me the card, I recognized the name. Jesse Thompson has turned his home into an unofficial museum of the Great War. He and a group of remaining friends gather at his home each Wednesday to reminisce. They are all veterans of that war and most were on ships in Pearl Harbor 67 years ago.

The club’s weekly meeting and Jesse’s home has been the subject of several newspaper stories and television reports over the years. It is a much less formal gathering than the “Pearl Harbor Survivors Association,” but as many as 24 veterans of the war still show up on Wednesdays.

For those who are not aware, Mount Suribachi is the peak on Iwo Jima where the Marines raised the flag after taking the hill in fierce fighting. The event was captured by on camera by Joe Rosenthal. The photograph has become a symbol of the war in the Pacific and was the model for the famous sculpture for the USMC Marine War Memorial adjacent to Arlington National Cemetery.