Well, bless you, Coach, as in JB Leftwich, columnist and journalism mentor extraordinaire.

You see, one of the grateful moments of my short and oft interrupted life in journalism was to write a weekly column on the same newspaper, The Lebanon Democrat, while JB was writing his weekly column on another day of the week. Even when i had no hair…again…i learned from Coach about writing for a newspaper.

One thing i learned was if you have a column for a specific season and it is well received, keep submitting/posting it that particular season every year. JB did that with a column about his mother’s fruit cake (again, Leftwich family, please correct me if i got the kin or the dessert incorrect in my memory).

So on Thanksgiving, i re-posted my column about smoking a turkey. And now, i’m re-posting my column about a dark day of the Christmas season. i know it has been appreciated because my close friend, Pete Toennies, guffaws each time he reads it. Sometimes, i am embarrassed by the story. Sometimes, i wonder why i have told anyone about that dark day. Then, i recall what occurred. i start laughing. It is a good story.

i cutsied it up a bit last year and called it “No, Noel, No.” with a couple of photos edited to make my rather silly point. But it was the same column.

The saga continues. The “NOEL” sign in the original story was made of 1×2 pine, was much larger, had holes drilled into the wood for the lights, and weighed considerably more than the current version. But a couple of years ago, some of the lights on the original went out and it was just too complicated to replace the lights in the series. So i constructed a more manageable sign. i was very meticulous and before drilling the one hundred or more holes, i decided to check it out and just stapled the light strings on the front. i showed it to Maureen. She decided she liked it much better than the more regimented one with holes drilled in it. Since she is the one who has an eye for design (and it was one heck of a lot less work), i agreed.

So i put the sign up last year.

That’s when i noticed i had two different strings of white lights. The first string was “white;” the second string was “bright white.” There’s a difference, you know. i didn’t.

Now i should change them out to match. But you know what? It sort of looks like i made it. So it’s staying this way, at least for this Christmas season.

Noel.

Notes from the Southwest Corner: An Embarrassing Christmas Moment

As I have noted previously, I am in Tennessee for Christmas, not in the Southwest corner. The below events, however, did occur near San Diego.

Have you ever had one of those days when everything turned into an embarrassment? I had a champion day like that several years ago.

It started innocently while I hung our outdoor decoration, a home-made “NOEL” sign from the eave of our garage, hoping to get it up before my wife’s friends arrived for their Christmas dinner.

Maureen and her six friends have been meeting monthly for dinners 15-plus years. They had this December dinner catered, did it up right. It was Maureen’s turn to be hostess.

It was dark when I began. I was at the top of my step ladder attaching the second of two wires from the sign to a hook secured to the eave when the ladder lurched and toppled. I grabbed a metal ornamental grating above the garage door.

There I hung, my arm intertwined with the “O” of the sign. If I tried to drop, the sign could catch my arm and do some pretty bad stuff.

I yelled, but Maureen had Christmas carols at top volume and didn’t hear. I tried to think of what to do while simultaneously wondering how long I could hold on. The dog wandered underneath, occasionally looking up as if I was a very strange person hanging there.

After several minutes, a neighbor’s son and friend pulled into the driveway several houses away. As they emerged, I swallowed my pride and yelled “Help.”

At first, they could not discern who was calling. Then they spotted me and came to help. The dog decided to protect me and began barking threateningly. The boys hesitated. I assured them the only danger was being licked to death. They finally righted the ladder and helped me down.

I thanked them profusely and then studied whether I should tell Maureen or not. Now that I was back on solid ground, I decided it was too funny not to tell her. She was incredulous and not particularly amused.

I did not realize my embarrassment for the night was just beginning.

While Maureen made final arrangements for her dinner, our daughter, Sarah, and I went to a local spot for supper. The little place was an oasis of sorts in Bonita, where there were only Mexican, Italian, and fast food restaurants. The attraction was being different and having a wide-range of ales and beers for golfers finishing a round across the street.

When we arrived, two couples were at tables and three guys sat at the bar. As we neared the end of our meal, the largest of the guys at the bar walked to the door and then turned back. I noticed his eyes seemed glazed. Then he walked back to the bar.

Suddenly, this guy and the one on the other side grabbed the guy in the middle off his stool, slammed him into the wall and started pummeling him with their fists. The three male diners, me (instinctively) included, approached from one side and two cooks approached from the back. Sarah had retreated to the door with the two lady diners. I grabbed the big guy. He spun and fell backward, slamming us into our table, knocking it over with shattering glass. It gave me some leverage, and we spun to the floor with me on top and knocking the wind out of the big guy. The other two diners helped me hold him until he calmed down. The cooks had quelled the other assailant. The two left quietly.

Even though the waitress wanted us to not pay our bill, we paid and left for home. On the way, I talked to my daughter about what I should have done (directed her outside before joining the fray) and what she should do the next time if she were ever in a place where a fight broke out (get out and away and not come back until she was sure it was over).

I was feeling pretty good as we arrived home. Then Sarah dashed out of the car, ran into the house and yelled to her mother in front of the caterer and her six friends dressed to the nines amidst fine china, Christmas decorations, and haut cuisine, “Mom, Dad got in a fight in a bar.”

Some days, I just can’t get a break.

May your holiday season be embarrassment free.

And may all of you have a most wonderful and amazing Christmas Season, and please, please, please (as James Brown would implore) remember the reason this all occurs every year.

i walked up my hill today and remembered why i loved to go up there.

The reason i climbed up today was i needed to lower my ensign to half mast in honor of the original George Bush.

i no longer go up there frequently. i used to go twice a day. i am old Navy and my ensign, in accordance with U.S. flag regulations required being raised at 0800, colors, and lowered at sunset, then folded in accordance with regulations and stored properly for the night. But then i added a light to illuminate the flag at night, which allowed the flag to be flown at night. Then the neighbor on the opposite side of our slope went land hungry (another story) and erected an ugly fence. It was not as enjoyable. So i quit going up. But today, the flag had to be lowered to half mast.

i went up, executed the half mast, stood silent for a moment in respect for President Bush. Then i looked out.

i saw the Pacific about six miles away as the crow flies.

i saw San Diego proper with its rather insane drive to build more high rise condominiums.

i looked down at our home feeling blessed.

i looked east at the majestic Mount Miguel.

i looked to the north at the distant mountains and clouds beyond the development housing on the rim above a reservoir.

i came down from my hill and went for a walk, not my run/walk route but one along the rim of the canyon two blocks to the east. The views are a reminder, this land was scrub high desert on its highlands, fertile agriculture along the river bed, and always horse country within spitting distance of the big city.

And in spite of all of the vitriol of those who really don’t have a clue and all of the valid concerns about cost of living, i think i’ll stay.

It has been a good day.

It is late.

Maureen has taken her bath and gone to bed, where i should be with her. Sarah is in her bed, probably doing some web thing with Billie, her loving dog, curled by her side. The fire in the fireplace is just smoldering embers.

i have been working, shotgunning on many things when not working on my book.

Earlier, i stumbled upon one of my all time favorite movies, “The Bishop’s Wife,” the original with David Niven, Cary Grant, and Loretta Young. i pretty much stopped everything else and watched straight through while Maureen multi-tasked reading on her Kindle or working on something on her laptop, something i am incapable of doing, never have been able to watch television and do something else. When the movie was over, as usual, i felt warm and good inside. My kind of movie along with oaters.

Maureen reminded me we will go to the symphony tomorrow, the San Diego kind featuring a violin concerto, #5 by Mozart and Dvořák’s Symphony #6. Thursday, i’m pretty sure i’m going solo to another San Diego Symphony performance of Purcell, Vivaldi’s “Winter” from The Four Seasons, Arensky’s Variations on a Theme by Tchaikovsky, Bach’s Concerto No. 1 in D minor, and Strauss’s Pizzicato Polka featuring Avi Avital on the mandolin.

We are booking our seats for Dirtwire’s performance at the Music Box in downtown San Diego in mid-January. A member of the band, Evan Fraser is the son of one of my best friends, Cyril Vaughn Fraser III, who grew up in Old Hickory established a Vanderbilt record similar to mine, and now lives on Orcas Island in the San Juan Islands of Puget Sound. Evan is not only almost kin, he is one incredible musician playing all sorts of exotic instruments from many lands.

And of course in early October, we made our annual journey to San Francisco to attend the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival in Golden Gate Park with our friends Alan, Maren, and Eleanor Hicks, along with Cy,  not to mention our other 750,000 friends we meet every year.

As i write, i am listening to my collection of 45 RPM records, converted to digital. It is old rock and roll and rhythm and blues.

The eclectic nature of my music interests is pretty wide, i thought. i blame it on WCOR AM & FM. That is where i played the Top 40 on weekends on AM; played classical, semi-classical, and jazz on weeknights; and listened to country all the time because that was the bulk of the music slate on WCOR AM.

i am glad i somehow gained that appreciation. i am not an expert in any of those genres, but that is pretty much the story of my whole life: jack of all trades, master of none, except i think mariner/ship driver is where i did excel.

It is good.

In a few moments, i too will be hitting the rack (Navy term, and if you ever saw enlisted berthing on Navy ships in my early USN days, you would understand where the term came from. If i am still pumped, i may have a bit of a hard time actually getting to sleep. So i will resort to my mantra:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I ‘wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

It is the prayer i uttered since early memory for more than three thousand times. i now say it in my mind on a loop until i fall asleep.

When i said it at my childhood twin bed on the north room of the upstairs on Castle Heights Avenue, i don’t recall being one bit concerned about the second two lines. i do now. It has more possibility now. i am surprised some politically correct, well-meaning bozo hasn’t attacked it for being scary to children. Perhaps someone has and i just don’t know it. There are a lot of things i don’t know i prefer to keep that way. This is one of them. There are also a lot of things i know i wish i didn’t.

But for now, i think i will just remember:

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
If I should die before I ‘wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.

She is a year away from entering  the decade and a half, which overall was the best years of my life. She turns twenty-nine today (in fact, about five hours from now, to be specific).

Once upon a time in a land right here, Sarah May Jewell was born. It has been well documented that day twenty-nine years ago was the same day i completed my active duty service. i was blessed with becoming Mister Mom for quite some time.

Sarah his beautiful, intelligent, and caring. That’a about all i could ask.

Oh yeh, i love her.

Happy Birthday, Sarah.

The other day, i kept thinking about how i should just quit writing.

Oh, i’m going to finish this book, but i thought about how much simpler my life would be if after finishing the book, i just quit writing. i could practice and play more golf. i could actually complete some home projects, which keep growing at an exponential pace now. i could go to the zoo and San Diego Museum of Art several times a week. i could cook, grill, and smoke more food. i could go to more to local high school and sports events. i could exercise more. i could hike these marvelous hills more.

Ain’t gonna happen. No way.

Writing, regardless of how good or bad it is, writing is somehow in my blood. i also like communicating with friends — and you will never know how much your compliments on my posts mean to me.

And then there is this other thing. i will be what i consider officially old in slightly less than two months. 75. Three-quarters of a century. Hell, up until somewhere around my mid-forties, i thought three-quarters of a century was ancient history. Writing these posts allows me to think about history and share it with others.

My Navy memories are shared with other men of the sea. i’m not sure the old guard is understood by the new, but the old guard identifies with steam and bridge watches and red-lit combat information center with radar repeaters and manual plotters and crackling radio and manned mounts and the salty breeze and the frothing main.

My memories of growing up in Middle Tennessee apparently resound with folks who grew up there with me, both the ones who, like me, left, and those blessed ones who stayed rooted to their…well, rooted to their roots.

Tonight, after a full day of stuff including dawdling, i sat down and thought about home. i enjoy writing about home. With our trip to Tennessee for Christmas looming, you might think i was thinking of the wonderful Christmases i have had growing up, and for the past twenty-six years, mostly on Signal Mountain, in Tennessee.

But no, i sat down and started thinking about dandelions, sour grapes, clover, and bees.

Don’t know why it came into my head, but i started thinking about our yard at 127 Castle Heights Avenue. Dr. Cash’s expansive two-lot yard butted against our back yard with one more house in the front between our house and his, which was on the corner of Castle Heights Avenue and West Spring Street. He had a large garden, very large for that neighborhood, which ran almost the entire length of our backyard. He spent a lot of time working in that garden with mixed results. He also spent a lot of time on his yard. We could see him when he would walk around his lawn, spot a weed or a blade of grass unwanted in his beautiful yard, get down on his hands and knees, and crawl around picking out the abusing growth and throwing it in his trailing gunny sack. His beautiful lawn nearly always looked like a beautiful lawn with pock marks where the offending plants had been removed.

His garden included a grape vine about thirty yards long inside the short rock border he had installed on the property line with our backyard. The grapes were sour, but Dr. Cash was very protective of them. So we would delight in hiding behind the neatly trimmed hedges (says one of those who was charged with the trimming) on our side of the property line, and surreptitiously steal grapes and eat them even though they were sour, bitter, not good. Later, once or twice, i cut off twigs and smoked the grapevines.

Our back yard, and the front yard too was our playground along with the empty lot the Padgett’s owned between our house and their home up toward West Main Street. But we dared not tread into Dr. Cash’s garden.

Up until i  was eight or nine, we had about three extremely poor yielding peach trees, good for climbing but not so good for peaches on the south side of the front lawn. Daddy realized the futility of them in the early 1950’s and took them out. There was a Chinese elm on the north side of our sidewalk leading to the front door. It was blown down by a tornado or a wannbe tornado in the late forties, but replaced several times. The shade of those trees was our haven from the summer sun. We would haul out blankets and spend leisurely summer days in shorts and barefoot sitting and lying under that tree playing games (hell, we might have even read some books). i can even remember (vaguely, of course) Mother bringing out lemonade for us. There is scant chance of us actually napping there, but we might have.

The backyard was a paradise for play. The old single wood garage had a backboard and basketball goal on the front. Daddy built a swing set out of pipe in the back of our lot and the garage basketball goal was replaced with one on the swings. The swing set was also perfect for working on kicking extra points. John Johnson was our neighbor for a long while with his mother and then his wife Charlotte and their daughters Kanya and Kristy. John, about ten years older than me would come over, shoot basketball, play pitch and catch, throw passes, and amaze me with how many field goals he could kick over that swing set. Of course, we would have to go through the hole in the northeast corner of the fence and hedgerow to collect the football from the orchard in the lot behind us.

In my younger years, it was a perfect ranch for cowboys to roam, complete with mini-Stetson hat, cap six guns, two-gun rig of course, the trusty Red Ryder BB carbine, cowboy hat, shorts, shirtless, and barefoot. Many a pretend bad guy bit the dust in that backyard.

Later, that backyard was also a good spot for “whiffle” baseball, usually a two-man game with imaginary lines defining the number of bases for hits and the property line and the back of the house serving as the home run distance. We threw away the whiffle bats and used wooden bats from Little League and even Babe Ruth League. Henry Harding and Mike Dixon were the usual opposite team in games that went on for hours. Oh, what movement you could get on those whiffle balls (and without risking Tommy John surgery).

Winter, cold winter, ice, snow, didn’t stop us from being in that yard. There was adventure in the cold. For the life of me, i can’t remember what we did other than some very poor sledding down the hill on Castle Heights, eat snow cones, and build snowmen. But we were out there.

On summertime nights after supper, we would venture forth into that yard, armed with bell jars including tops with holes punched with an ice pick. We hunted fireflies, lightning bugs some say, and catch them and put them in the jar, somehow expecting them to live in there and light up our lives. While we are on our great hunt, the mosquitoes hunted us, and usually won. My bare back, arms and legs were more itchy welt collectors than functioning body parts.

The backyard was the appointed place for eating watermelon and spitting the seeds out long before they had seedless (almost) watermelons. And it was the location for grinding on the home made ice cream maker surrounded by salted iced and all covered with blankets.

Unlike Dr. Cash’s back yard, our yard was not perfect. We had grass, lush grass really, but it was  the grass itself i remember now. Our grass was full of wonderful pastimes like searching for four leaf clovers. We harvested dandelions in the blooming stage, and plucked their petals with “she loves me, she loves me not” mantras. When the dandelions matured, we would pick them and blow the “pappus,” the white beard-like seeds into the air. Beautiful magic.

And in that lawn, there lurked the villain, the bee. And if you stepped on that bee, you got stung on your bare foot, and you would cry, and go in the house, and scream to Mother about those killer bees and have the stinger removed and get soothed and doctored (mercurochrome ?) and the world would eventually return to normal.

And if you were really bored and had a pocket knife, you could go out on that lawn and play mumblety-peg.

i miss it, but i can remember it and write about it.