It’s taken over a week for me to write this. It has been difficult for me to put down my thoughts about losing a sister.

She wasn’t really a sister. She was two years my older cousin. She lived with her parents about a four-hour drive from our home. But my family was very close. My mother and her older sister Evelyn loved to spend time with their nephews and nieces. When i was an infant, my mother and grandmother would board the train and ride to Paris where Aunt Evelyn, with Nancy and Johnny, were there for her first teaching job. The men of the family were away, occupied with a small disturbance we call World War II. So, from the first thoughts i had in my head, we would spend at least one month a weekend together until we approached the end of high school.

She was the first daughter in my mother’s Prichard generation. Here, she is with our Aunt Bettye Kate Prichard Hall.

She was the leader in the Prichard offspring. Johnny, her younger brother was between Nancy and me. Then there was Martha and Joe, and the Florida Prichards, Butch. Tim, Pam, Mike, Patrice, and Mary Colleen, when they could get to Tennessee or we could get to Florida.

Nancy was always very special to me. She and my sister, Martha had a very special relationship.

Since i learned of her passing last week, memories keep popping up at unexpected moments:

The side yard of our home, probably 1950 or 1951: We played cowboys. My cousin Johnny shot me with his cap pistol. i dropped my six gun and fell to the ground. The other three children stood around me. i recalled the final words of a hero on one of my oaters and emoted with the best of them, finally expiring playtime, closing my eyes, and rolling my head to the side. Dead cowboy.

Nancy was caught up in the moment and began to cry. Even when i jumped up and cavorted to show i was alive, she kept crying. Even when we declared the game was over, Nancy cried at the dead cowboy. It was a good ten to fifteen minutes before we finally got her to wipe her tears and return to being a normal child.

She cried because she cared.

When our grandmother, “Granny,” chopped of the head of a garter snake in our backyard, Nancy cried.

When Granny preparing for supper mid-morning, she twirled a chicken by the neck, snapping the head off. The headless chicken was running frantically around the yard. The other children were laughing at the sight. Nancy cried.

After Thanksgiving in 1954, we took off to Nashville on Saturday for the movie at the Loew’s Theater on Church Street. The area was our most frequented spot in Nashville. We shopped at Harvey’s, Cain-Sloan, and Caster-Knott. This outing was strictly for the movie. The family women all wanted to see “Three Coins in a Fountain.”

After many twists and turns in the romantic comedy drama, the three women (the coins) end up with their men, and Frank Sinatra croons the title song.

Nancy cried all the way home.

◆◆◆

About five years earlier, the two families had gathered on our great uncle’s farm on the corner of Hickory Ridge Road and Blair Lane. “Papa” and Aunt Corrine Wynne had a picnic dinner in the front yard. The adults went into the living room and began to talk about important things. The five children, tired of their usual activities of chasing chickens, playing Red Rover, etc. wandered into the pasture bordering Hickory Ridge Road.

Nancy became enthralled with the abundant prickly pear cacti, which were blooming at the time, amidst the grasses.

Wishing to collect some, she picked them and put them in the back pockets of her jeans. By the time we got back to the farmhouse, the barbs of the prickly pears were sticking through the jeans and lodging into Nancy’s rear end.

We spent the rest of the afternoon in the living room. Nancy lay across Aunt Corrine’s lap in the chair by the side window (more light to see). With her mother hovering over the two, Aunt Corrine, with her tweezers poised, was picking each barb from Nancy’s rear end.

She cried then from pain, but we laughed a lot about that incident later.

◆◆◆

Nancy was legendary for wrapping presents, whether it was Christmas, birthday, or other special events. The decorative exterior was not out of the ordinary. But inside, ahh, inside, was a puzzle. Nancy used more scotch tape than most people keep in their household goods. Every seam, every flaw in the packaging, even the tape itself had been covered with scotch tape. It would take extra time just to get inside.

Her scotch tape was a family legend.

◆◆◆

i wish everyone could have seen Nancy and her brother dance. When we visited Red Bank while we were in high school, i went to several of their school sock hops. The two of them could do any dance together. They flowed across the floor. They danced at the hop and were often the center of attention. i wish i could have danced like that.

◆◆◆

i have a special first with Nancy. She had married and moved to St. Augustine, Florida where her husband worked for the telephone company. i was a junior at Castle Heights Military Academy. On spring break, i chose to take a bus to Jacksonville to spend the week with my aunt and uncle. But one day, i went to Cape Canaveral for a day with Nancy and her family.

She cooked her first meal for a guest. Me. It was a six-course extravaganza. She was learning her timing on how to have a meal: first course, the salad; second course, the bread, it had not been ready for the salad, and the rest of the meal wasn’t cooked yet; third course, the potatoes and beans, the meat wasn’t ready yet; dessert was served without a hitch.

It was all delicious. i guess she had grown up. She didn’t cry. But we did laugh that evening and many times afterwards.

◆◆◆

When her mother became ill with Parkinson’s Disease and eventually dementia, Nancy was a saint. She took care of that wonderful woman in spite of many in conveniences to herself. She was with her whenever she was needed. She loved her mother.

There are many other Nancy stories that are part of our family’s lore. i will keep paving those pop into my head at unexpected moments.

Did i mention she was beautiful? She was. Growing up, she resembled a young Elizabeth Taylor.

Nancy was one of my closest relatives. i never spent enough time with her.

i miss you, Nancy.

Rest in Peace. You deserve it.

The second day of Marty’s and my golf trips to the desert, we played Desert Falls in Palm Desert.

The course had just opened. It was a great deal. It remains my favorite course in the desert. It is now private. That day was incredible in spite of the 120 degree temperatures. We parked our cart next to trailer serving as the pro shop and unloaded our bags into my car. They had another, smaller trailer that served hamburgers, hot dogs and beer. We shunned the food but sat on the bench in the shade to drink a beer.

Marty had come out of the pro shop after turning in our cart key.

“Hey, i just read a flyer posted on the board in there. They are offering a life-time membership to their club for $10,000. They say it would give us fee green fees for our lifetime, no monthly fees.”

And we dreamed.

We both knew our wives would go catatonic if we did that. We acknowledged joining would require us to get a second home in the desert. We also knew a retired Army Major working in a second career in military contracting and a Navy Commander still on active duty didn’t come close to being able to afford that kind of expense.

After that, we play Desert Falls when we went to the desert. And we laughed as we saw the houses and condominiums rise from the sand until the course was rimmed with stucco and went private. We continued to laugh for the next thirty-plus years.

i don’t know if those desert golfers would have appreciated these two golfers.

She is elegant with a beautiful smile. She is tall. Her skin tone is darker than mine. She is thoughtful, courteous, and caring. She is athletic, athletic enough to star in college basketball, and play in the Women’s National Basketball Association. She is intelligent, smart enough to get a masters and a doctorate from a prestigious university. And she is dedicated to doing it the right way.

♦︎♦︎♦︎

Yesterday afternoon, about 2500 miles and two time zones from me, i watched a football game. When it concluded, i was a happy but nervous wreck. i was exhausted. i had found myself twitching with a run, yelling at completed pass, cussing when the opponent made a great play, grimacing when the officials made a call against the team, reluctantly admitting the call was correct while watching the replay.

The game took me back to the autumn of 1963. The colors were crisp in Nashville, the temperature at game time was perfect with little wind. Sitting in the student section, which then was situated in the north end of the east side of the stadium…and was always full regardless of how the team fared. The runner sprinted up the west sideline, the defensive back made a classic tackle. The runner’s helmet came loose and rolled on the field.

i thought then, “This is a whole different kind of football.”

Alabama beat Vanderbilt 21-6 that autumn afternoon. The Tide has ruled the roost for the past half-century, losing to the Commodores only twice.

To be honest when the ‘Dores beat Bama yesterday, 40-35, my emotions were pretty much in a vacuum. After all, it is rare when a team that was predicted to be last in the Southeastern Conference to beat the number one team in the nation. i was exuberantly happy for many of my friends and family who had ties to Vanderbilt.

i wanted to, and will later today, let one of my best golfing buddies for the last forty years know about a fact i caught from the commentators yesterday. Tim Beck is the Commodores offensive coordinator. As head coach of the Pittsburgh State (Kansas) Gorillas, Tim won the NCAA Division II title in 2011. Rod Stark; Marty Linville, who left us too early three months ago; and Marty’s father, Big Don Linville all played for the same coach, Carnie Smith who coached there from 1949-1966. It was an unexpected link to me and my pals.

i wished i could just sit down with Clark Lea, the head coach, and talk for a while. As a matter of fact, i would like to talk to all of Vanderbilt’s head coaches. i would like to hear them, individually, articulate their vision of their sport at Vanderbilt and where their sport is headed, hopefully learning how their vision aligned with the school’s vision of athletics.

i learned of that vision when i went back to Homecoming, my class’ 45th reunion, in 2011 (not wishing to pose as an academic wizard, i point out that i didn’t graduate but have been a loyal supporter. i graduated from Middle Tennessee in 1967). Alan Hicks and i went to a presentation by David Williams, the Vice-Chancellor of Athletics.

At the Q&A, some ardent fan asked Williams why didn’t Vandy have separate dorms for football like Florida. Williams replied Vanderbilt didn’t do things the Florida way. Vanderbilt did things the right way, the Vandy way, explaining further that the university wanted their athletes to experience college life and mix with the other students.

Williams comment became a guidepost for athletics. His assistant and the resident writer for the sports department became keepers of his watchword.

Andrew Maraniss remains the resident writer in the athletic department. He and i became friends after he wrote the book Strong Inside: Perry Wallace and the Collision of Race and Sports in the South. He has helped me in my writing efforts and reflects doing it the right way in all he does.

i thought of David Williams and imagined him smiling beyond that bridge he crossed.

i thought of Andrew and decided i would speak to him later about his impressions of the win yesterday. i suspect he is busy responding to all sorts of reactions to the win.

♦︎♦︎♦︎

i decided the person for whom i was most happy was Candice Lee, that lady i wrote about in the first paragraph above. She has carried David Williams flame high up the mountain. She has done it in the swirl of crazy major college athletics. Vanderbilt continues to improve and be competitive in all of their sports. Yesterday’s victory over Alabama signals they are truly competitive in major college football.

Candice Lee is most deserving of the victory and ensuring it was accomplished the right way, the Vandy way.

i worry he might not approve of my homages to him. But he deserves so much more. After all, he was my best friend in addition to being the best father and grandfather there could be.

Hands

When most folks meet him,
they notice steel blue eyes and agility;
his gaze, gait and movements
belie the ninety-five years;
but
those folks should look at his hands:
those hands could make Durer cry
with their history and the tales they tell.

His strength always was supple
beyond what was suggested from his slight build.
His hands are the delivery point of that strength.
His hands are not slight:
His hands are firm and thick and solid –
a handshake of destruction if he so desired, but
he has used them to repair the cars and our hearts;

His hands are marked by years of labor with
tire irons, jacks, wrenches, sledges, micrometers on
carburetors, axles, brake drums, distributors
(long before mechanics hooked up computers,
deciphering the monitor to replace “units”
for more money in an hour than he made in a month
when he started in ’34 before computers and units).

His hands pitched tents,
made the bulldozers run
in war
in the steaming, screaming sweat of
Bouganville, New Guinea, the Philippines.

His hands have nicks and scratches
turned into scars with
the passage of time:
a map of history, the human kind.
Veins and arteries stand out
on the back of his hands,
pumping life itself into his hands
and beyond;
the tales of grease and oil and grime,
cleaned by gasoline and goop and lava soap
are etched in his hands;

they are hands of labor,
hands of kindness, caring, and love:
oh love, love, love, crazy love.

His hands speak of him with pride.
His hands belong
to the smartest man I know
who has lived life to the maximum,
but in balance, in control, in understanding,
gaining respect and love
far beyond those who claim smartness
for the money they earned
while he and his hands own smartness
like a well-kept plot of land
because he always has understood
what was really important
in the long run:
smarter than any man I know
with hands that tell the story
so well.