This Democrat column was written in 2009 after i learned my mother was one of the first inductees into the Lebanon High School Athletic Hall of Fame. i remain amazed at how this pint sized woman could so dominate a basketball court, albeit only one third of a basketball court. Back in 1935, when colleges didn’t have women’s basketball, let alone scholarships, the Nashville Business College sponsored an AAU women’s team. They recruited Estelle. She was tempted but then decided she didn’t want to spend her young life away from Lebanon for other girls had their eye on Jimmy Jewell. She was afraid she might lose him. Obviously, i am glad because had she decided to hit the basketball road, i might not have ever been.  A few recent events brought back my memories of her accomplishments on the hardwood (Jack Case, “hardwood” is for you).

SAN DIEGO, CA – Last Monday, Ms Denise Joyner, the Lebanon High School Athletic Director called and announced Estelle Prichard Jewell had been selected as an inaugural member of the Blue Devil Athletic Hall of Fame.

Estelle Jewell is my mother.

About a year ago, J.B. Leftwich, a weekly columnist here, a close family friend, and my mentor in journalism (which I have noted frequently), wrote a tribute to Estelle and suggested she might have been the best women’s basketball player in the history of Blue Devil Sports. For her size, his suggestion just might be a slam dunk.

In a 1935 district tournament semi-final, Estelle scored 33 points for the Blue Devilettes girls basketball team and was named to the all-tournament team. For the 1934-35 season, she scored 283 points in 19-games. This was during an era when most games were low-scoring affairs, rarely exceeding 30 points total. Her single game and season scoring records stood for a quarter of a century.

She will be inducted during a half time ceremony during LHS basketball games, December 14

I am elated. LHS’ Hall of Fame is honoring her just after she turned 90 in July.

I am anxious to learn of other inductees. Clifton Tribble, Don Franklin, David Robinson, Ann Lucas. Louis Thompson, David Grandstaff, Hal Greer, and many others immediately come to mind as probable selections. It bemuses me to think of my mother standing next to these heroes of mine and receiving her plaque.

Estelle Jewell today does not come across as a hall of fame athlete. Being 90 certainly belies her earlier skills. She also tops out at five feet tall. I saw her take a shot once. It was a two-handed push. She jumped and spread her legs when she shot. From fifteen feet, it hit nothing but net. I don’t think she could do that now.

In reflection, she laughs about her play. “I got 33 in the semi-finals,” she says, “but I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn the next night, and we lost.” I have never heard her brag about her accomplishments.

In her recollection of a game at Mount Juliet, she recalled how she would try not to drive for a lay-up on one end of the court because she might run into the Ben Franklin stove underneath the basket. The stove heated the entire gym.

Not considering the stove, it was a different game then with three zones with two guards on the defensive end, two forwards on the offensive end, and two centers in the middle who passed the ball from defense to offense. One dribble was all that was allowed.

Still, Estelle’s accomplishments remain exceptional.

Her shooting skills were probably enhanced by chores. Her grandfather, Joseph Webster, the retired Methodist circuit rider, would give her a penny for each fly she swatted and killed inside the farmhouse on Hunter’s Point Pike.

Her endurance and strength were likely abetted by other chores she and her two sisters and brother undertook while her mother was a care-giver, working day and night (Her father, Joe Blythe Prichard, died young and the family lived with their grandfather).

When her hall of fame career in sports was concluded, Estelle quickly put it aside and went to work. She learned secretarial skills at the County Court Clerk’s office in the old courthouse on the square. She worked for the Commerce Union Bank on the north side of the corner of the square and East Main Street. She married my father, Jimmy Jewell, in 1938, three years after she had graduated from LHS.

She is a reflection of all of the women of that generation whom I have known: practically feminine with a firm grasp of reality; frugal but willing to lavish gifts and love on her family and friends. She is a product of hard times (the depression), frightening times of sacrifice and victory (World War II), security produced by hard and loyal work, and change without end. They are strong, balanced, and loving women.

But every once in a while, basketball will come up in a conversation, and you can still see the sparkle in Estelle’s eyes.

When I called my mother for congratulations, her and my father’s excitement made it an unforgettable phone call. She was thrilled. The news was something to feel good about.

Thank you, Blue Devils for proving in a good place like Lebanon, good things do happen, especially for those who wait.

It is Easter.

A holy day. Regardless of your beliefs, you and i should reflect today, if only for a few moments between egg hunts.

i believe i’m not smart enough to really know about religious beliefs, which are true, which are right. i also believe there are some inherent things we all know are good, but we cast them aside for the more primitive ideas of self-protection, whether that be a group, family, or self-protection. i believe those who work to achieve the behavior we know inherently to be good will be rewarded and those who don’t will be tormented because they know inherently, deep inside, what is right and what is wrong. i believe this is an individual choice and how we deal with each other individually, not as a member of any particular group. i believe those inherent ideas of right and wrong have been most accurately ascribed to Jesus Christ in the New Testament of the Bible.

So in my way, i believe in Jesus Christ. i do not condone or condemn what others believe unless it hurts other people as a group, a family, or an individual. i am saddened when any religion (even if they claim they are “Christians) veers from the internal goodness, the teachings of Jesus Christ as i believe them, to spew hatred and fear of any other group, any family, any individual. i don’t think they are smart enough to know who is guilty and who is pure. i am absolutely, totally convinced they (or i) don’t “know” anything concerning belief.

i think that is what Jesus intended those many years ago. i hope my thinking is close to what is right.

Today is a day of a fulfilled promise according to the Christian religion. It is a day for me to somberly rejoice. Somber because our humanity chose to slay a man who believed in goodness. Somber because a political system put itself and its self-interest above justice for all, above freedom of men. Rejoicing because Jesus overcame such cruel insanity and rose from the dead, giving hope to all for peace and goodwill.

i reflected on that this morning when i went outside just past first light and heard the birds rejoicing. It is spring. It is time for renewal of hope. It is time to try again to work for peace and goodwill. It matters not what we believe, nor whether we accept the literal accounts of what happened this day two thousand and eighteen years ago.

Easter is a funny day. Non-practicing practicing Christians turn out in droves after not practicing for nearly all church services in the previous twelve months. Like that makes it all right. Funny. Most businesses normally open on Sundays remain open, unlike Christmas when the country shuts down. Business as usual for the fulfillment of a promise. Shut down for hope. Funny.

This Easter is a confluence: Easter Sunday, April Fool’s Day, my brother Joe’s birthday.

i will ignore the April Fool’s day part in this. i’ve never been real good at that sort of thing since we would “fool” Uncle Snooks Hall at dinner on April Fool’s Day with a sugar spoon with only a rim and the cup of the spoon being a hole. The three children would howl in delight when Uncle Snooks would look surprised when he tried to put sugar in his coffee. i’m over that now…except for the wonderful memory.

However, the other two events involved in this confluence are appropriate. You see, Joe Blythe Jewell, is the kind of practicing Christian i want to be. He believes. He doesn’t judge. He tells things they way they are. He loves. His ideas and mine are similar, but his beliefs are based on solid and never-ending

reading and contemplation. His knowledge is astounding, but he is not a “know-it-all.” He cares.

One of my greatest regrets is he and i chose opposite corners of this country to settle down (if what i have done can really be called settling down) — of course, this goes for my sister who is in yet another corner. i would like to spend time with both of them and their families on a much more frequent basis like our parents did with their families in Lebanon, Chattanooga, and even Florida.

Today, this Easter Sunday. Today, Joe Blythe Jewell turns 69. i write his full name because i searched for

“Joe Jewell” on the internet yesterday. One is an Phd in “aeronautics.” Now, Joe is smart enough to have been this guy, but i don’t think he is prone to work at the US Air Force Research Laboratory at Wright-Patterson AFB in Ohio.

Then, there is this Joe Jewell who is the lead guitarist of the Irish band Aslan. Although my Joe loves Ireland and visits frequently, i don’t think i’ll be watching him doing guitar riffs.

But maybe, just maybe. For you see, a third “Joe Jewell” is in San Diego.  The Joe Jewell Pscyhedelic Trio will perform at San Diego State April 13. We plan to be there

although we are pretty sure he’s not our Joe Jewell. Good guitar player though. i’ll think of our Joe a lot while i listen. You see, my Joe shared a room with me, upstairs for more than a dozen years. We got to know each other. He got the short end of that stick. i was into football, baseball, basketball, girls. That was about it. He was into everything and finding out about everything. Smart. Lots of common sense. Hard worker.  Oh, i could go on. Then i went to Vanderbilt. That story had been told. He went to Vanderbilt. Made it. He went to the Northeast, Boston specifically. Two masters. Wife, lifelong partner. Preacher, pastor really. Children. Grandchildren. And perhaps that is my Joe at his finest. Grandfather.

And that, appropriately, is where this birthday tribute ends. You see, i believe my 69-year old brother shows the beauty of him as this grandfather guy. Love, hope, caring. All in keeping with my beliefs of what Easter, today means, which just happens to be Joe’s birthday this year. A confluence of hope, resurrection, peace on earth, good will toward men.

Happy Birthday, Joe.

Happy Easter with reflections of what it really means.

It was a bit too early for her. The chair wasn’t fully exposed to the sun.

In fact, i did not intend to jog my memory when i placed the chair on the patio by the kitchen. i put it there last night while i waited for the knock-off egg grill heated up for the steak i was cooking for supper.

Then was the first moving moment i had with this chair. i was reading the Vanderbilt magazine and the tribute to Perry Wallace, a man, four years younger than me, who will always be a hero to me. Perry was the first black basketball player in the SEC. He was from the poor, black neighborhood of Nashville. He was a dreamer. He reached his dreams, and he cared. He overcame so much more adversity than i can imagine. i cannot adequately tell his story. Andrew Maraniss did in Strong Inside: Perry Wallace and the Collision of  Race and Sports in the South and then Andrew did it again in the article i read last night. i was impacted emotionally again.

Then this morning, i put out my sun tea to sun and took on yard tasks. i cleaned out the nice bushes lining our backyard en route to our sitting area (yes, Joe, where i sometimes sit though never enough; never enough), then i erected the garden box for planting roma tomatoes and strawberries for the first time in about twenty years. You see, i used to have some wonderful tomato and strawberry plants alongside our northwest fence, but Maureen wanted flowers there. My plants went away. So i’m trying again.

After completing the minor destruction and construction required, i started inside when i stopped. There was this chair there, too early for the sun to hit full force, but it was there. i swear she was there too.

You see, my parents traveled pretty much all of this country and Canada during their retirement. They began in a RV, towing a little Toyota truck and then a Volkswagen bug, and then they  upgraded to a fifth wheel and a full-sized pickup. They took off. Saw all of the continental states except Alaska, which they tried to reach but turned back due my mother’s first really serious asthma attack. They also hit, i think, all of the Canadian provinces. Pretty amazing really.

Then they got into a routine and left in front of the first winter storms heading West until they reached our home. 1985 to 2001. Every year. They would stay in a motor home place for seniors on the ocean in the South Bay and come to our house every day (unless they decided to explore for a day or two). They would do projects (god bless them), read, watch television, nap. He never stopped except for his naps. She did the projects, knitted, read, solved puzzles, cooked supper (Maureen’s thrill was to come home to my mother’s Southern comfort food), and then we would play bridge. Glorious times. As i said, i am a lucky man.

The time was January and February. My mother loved to stop all of the going on’s and go out into the Southwest corner’s winter weather. She would move a chair from one of the places we had placed them in the shade into a place where she could sit and face the sun.

i can picture her in that chair above, facing into the warm sun. Her head would be tilted back; her eyes were closed.

She was at peace. Tranquility. i have passed through. i have learned to meditate to some degree. It is a good thing for me, but nothing like my mother, her drive to do things only surpassed by her husband, sitting there facing the sun in total quiet. At peace.

i wish we all could achieve her tranquility in those moments.

You all should know by now i have a Wonder Woman.

She turns sixty-seven today even though she looks much younger.

For her birthday, i have planned to place something here in honor of her birthday. Sunday, i was going to write a photo essay with the pictures being her in various stages of her life. Monday, i was going to write the history of our relationship. Yesterday, i was going to write a love poem.

This morning, i thought of just expressing how much i loved her. You know, like Robert Browning counting the ways. Too damn many, i decided. Then i thought i should empathize the ONE thing i find most wonderful about her. That is absolutely impossible.

But there is this one thing about her which i always come back to think about her. Yeh, she remains beautiful. Yeh, she is sharp and many (but certainly not all) of our ideas about things are pretty well aligned. Yeh, she takes care of me, and i love her love for me. Yeh, i married my mother.

Yet that one thing is very clear. She cares. Maureen cares about everyone and everything. She not only cares, she attends to those who need caring. Sometimes it takes her a while to get to that caring stage, but she always gets there. A synonym for caring is loving, at least in my dictionary. She is the most loving, caring person i’ve ever known, and she does it with good sense, good common sense.

Oh yeh, i forgot to really say how much i love her. Can’t. Too much love there.

Happy Birthday, beautiful lady. We love you.

i have somehow retained a lot of stuff i’ve written. Some nonsense, some self-pitying, some never finished, some just ugly silly, some with promise, and one or two okay. This one is one of those categories above. i’m not sure which. These lines were written in what will always be the darkest time of my life, and reminders still make me cringe. i will let you judge the quality of this one. i have a hard time taking the poem out of the memory of what was happening.

sunrise

it was a beautiful sunrise
this texas morning;
i could breathe the spring,
smell the bacon in the air;
dog and cat were restless,
ready to go out, feel the spring,
feel freedom as they know it;
the dawn was pink-streaked;
on the sea, the sun would have been a blazing pink disk;
here, the trees hid its newness;
it first appears as a blazing yellow blast;

freedom is here;
i can smell it;
i must find it:
tonight, a cold front will pass through
this part of texas;
will i find it in tomorrow’s morning?