The promise of heavy rain didn’t quite meet the prognostications. We got enough to dampen the hardscape, maybe as much as a quarter of an inch. Boo. As much as i brag about the weather in the Southwest corner, lack of rain is a dangerous thing in the high desert. Then i wonder, as i have many times,  why we humans decide to take a place so charming it is almost perfect and ruin it by overpopulation.

Richard Henry Dana published Two Years Before the Mast in 1840. It remains one of Alan Hicks and my favorites. We discuss it, read it again, try to figure out what the West Coast cities were like in 1832-1834 when he sailed into what is now called Dana Point, Los Angeles, Santa Barbara, San Francisco, and San Diego. When he arrived on his merchant ships, the population of San Diego was about 200, everyone included. In Los Angeles was about 400, and  Santa Barbara had in the neighborhood of 600 souls. In San Francisco Bay, Dana and his shipmates found one deserted log cabin.

When Dana returned in 1874, thirty years later, San Francisco’s population had grown to 100,000; Los Angeles had over 10,000; Santa Barbara had grown to 2,000; and San Diego? Well, Dana reported it was pretty much the same, about 200. Why? High desert. That is about all the folks the water supply could support.

So we pumped water in from the Colorado River, came up with air conditioning to expand development into the hot of the desert, away from the coast, and Voila! We got about about three million in the county, about half of whom live in the city proper.

Ugh.

Yesterday, another of my friends took a swipe at California. It seems like everyone i know east of Yuma has this hate thing for anything Californian. Those knocks at California, by the way, doesn’t exclude me from the attack.

It was Lebanon High School’s Class of 1962 forty-fifth reunion, 2007. i was there for the second time having been included by those generous and caring folks because i grew up with them but attended Castle Heights Military Academy instead of the public high school (my mother got a deal; i bitterly opposed the idea but my pleas went unheard and going to Castle Heights was one of the best things that has ever happened to me: still, i felt very much a part of those high school contemporaries and was honored to be included). i’ve gone to all of the succeeding reunions except last year when i fell ill just before departing the Southwest corner.

Anyhow, i was there in May of 2007, when i struck up a conversation with the venerable Stratton Bone, someone whom i respect a great deal and who is married to the beautiful Marty Smith, one of my favorite women of our class and who, by some marriage twists is a relative.

Stratton was his usual congenial self until right at the conclusion when he seemed to find my choice of a place to live as bad. He belittled the state of California, its politics, its politicians, and by extension, its voters, regardless for whom they voted.

Since i’ve began using email and been on Facebook every so often, good friends put in some nasty comments about California and its policies. Some very recently. Some of these emails and posts make fun, but most are ugly and mean spirited, like the senders (or copiers and pasters) are superior and Californians are evil.

My initial reaction is to get angry and respond. i don’t like to be hated. i initially consider the rocks over the wall to be hateful, but then i just feel sad. Ignorance needs an outlet apparently and folks need to feel superior like they know the answer. Can’t say i’ve seen anyone come up with an answer that works yet.

i have, because of the roving nature i didn’t even realize i had, been to many places. i have spent significant time in my hometown of Lebanon, Tennessee. Newspapering took me to Watertown, New York, at the edge of a Thousand Islands and queen of the snow belt. The Navy allowed me to learn about Newport, Rhode Island; Norfolk, Virginia; Long Beach and Los Angeles, California; my Southwest Corner; College Station, Texas; Sasebo, Japan; and Jacksonville, Florida; Since the Navy, i’ve added Tri-Cities (Kennewick, Richland, and Pasco), Washington to the list. There are many other places i have visited.

You know what? i’ve found all of them to be places i could live. Yes, they had their faults, their drawbacks for my ideas about living and government, even weather — even the Southwest corner has some weather drawbacks; but not many — but i found really nice things about each of those locales, things i would enjoy like landscape, weather, attractions, and yes, even people. i could throw rocks at each of them, but i choose to remember them as good places to live with good people, and like everywhere some pretty bad human acts as well.

In this vagabond life of mine, i have been lucky enough to have wonderful relationships with a number of women before ending up with my soulmate, an incredible woman who has a few faults — she and i love each other and understand the nature of what each of us find are not particularly pleasing about each other. With those other women in my life, most have continued a strong bond with me. They are friends, not just friends, close friends, who remember the good times and the continuing good things about our relationship.

Back many years ago, a woman rejected me. i certainly wasn’t the best mate one could hope for, but i had tried to make the relationship work. i committed to it and i kept finding good things about this woman, in spite of some things of which i was not…er, enamored. She dumped me, professing not to love me. She then spent the rest of the time i knew her looking for, inventing, revising history, to prove i was something despicable, something to hate. She finally made it. We no longer have a relationship. It hurt. No, it still hurts. i’ve gotten smart enough in my old age to realize any attempt to reach out to be friends would only cause more negative, hurtful reaction. It ain’t worth it.

Sort of like people inventing and repeating negative things about where i live.

i have friends out here in the Southwest corner who are not thrilled, no, abhor the politics of California, not to mention the crazy costs of living here. There are a number of things i don’t like about California politics, just like there are a number of things i don’t like about any state’s politics (that i know enough about to have an opinion). Because of the financial climate, Maureen and i have often discussed moving. In 2014, we even scouted out homes in Middle Tennessee, and looked at homes for sale on Signal Mountain during many Christmas trips. My friends bitch about living here, some even have researched preferred places for relocation.

None of them have left, and i will be surprised if many do. We certainly have decided to live here for the rest of our lives, barring unexpected events.

You see, the Southwest corner is a nice place to live, just like all of those other places. There are good people here, even people with whom i disagree on several issues who are trying to do what’s right for all of our inhabitants. And yes, there are some pretty self centered, despicable characters who are only interested in themselves and amassing great amounts of wealth for themselves. Just like everywhere else.

The most surprising thing about this to me is so many of those folks who throw hate at anything with which, or anyone with whom they disagree claim they are Christians. Oh yeh, some of their stuff sounds like it came from the Bible, but just like the hateful group of people in the Muslim religion, they rely on sound bites, incomplete quotes, and a massive twisting of the words to come up with their hate. And that stuff the supposed Christians claim for support comes mostly from the Old Testament, like “and eye for an eye…” and slaying lambs, even sons to gain favor with the higher being.

i’m too old to try and change them. i’ve lived my life attempting to do the right thing. For everyone. Some people have interpreted that to fit their needs. Okay, i can live with that.

You see, one of my patron saints is Mose Allison, the Mississippi bred jazz and blues piano player who wrote many songs i found meaningful. i remember two of his songs when i get those nasty, uninformed generalized comments about where i live or even when someone finds my behavior or words lacking.

You got it, Mose:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G4olfgtgLp8

and:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lOWrsXDuwDE

i feel a bit better now.

This post has been produced from my aunt’s photo albums. i was going to post them in a Facebook album as i have been doing for quite some time, so relatives and friends of my family past and present could enjoy them and download if they were so inclined. Yeh, i know, all of you whippersnappers, i could have put them in “dropbox” and made it accessible to those folks. But that’s a lot of work. Even worse, it is a lot of technical work, and as much as i see the benefits, i am too old to get into that stuff…at least for now.

But when i scanned these today for the purpose of the Facebook album entry, something struck me  to lead me to putting them here first with my comments. i will post them there later for my original intent.

Our world was back then was this thing call family. It was tangible. It was constant. It was even tribal, i guess. It was beautiful. Perhaps it was because when it was. After all, there was a war going on. Perhaps it was because it was in “Brigadoon.” After all, it was a small town smack dab in the middle of Tennessee, and like most of the small towns at the time, people grew up there, most stayed or didn’t wander far from home. i’m not smart enough to figure out why or even how. But it was family beautiful.

There was this wonderful woman, who came up from the little hamlet of Statesville where her forbears had found sustenance among the fertile patches of land between the creeks and the trees and the bramble of the woods where game was plenty. Her husband, a man of strength and labor by fate, brought her into town so he could work at the pencil mill…well, not really town yet because they first moved out on Coles Ferry Pike and only later to town but even then there was a garden and a root cellar and a wood-fired stove inside and the family grew up there, and she hung on through the first seven years of my life, long enough for me to remember her caring.

And Mama Jewell had family, eight children, and i lost count on grandchildren, among of whom were my cousins like big brothers to me living across the street on Castle Heights Avenue. Graham Williamson, the fiddler who babysat his cousin while his band practiced in his home and let the young boy sing “Kaw Liga.” The family Jewell saw after each other and my father went with Graham to the West Side Hotel to get the body of Graham’s father, and Aunt Naomi Martin, nee Jewell, the older sister had taken Graham in when her younger sister Virda died in her twenties, and Naomi and George Martin raised Graham like he was their son along with their natural son Maxwell Martin who followed in his father’s footsteps being like a brother  to my father and they all, including me fished on the Tennessee lakes with a passion.

Then there was the maternal grandmother, the one who held her family together like glue and bounced around from house to family house to help take care of her grandchildren or work tasks for her daughter and son-in-law and Katherine “Granny Prichard had a rough life but still managed to enjoy it, her family and her friends. Like Daisy Lawrence who wasn’t Lawrence at the time (Susan Rockett, help me out here), still carrying her maiden name, and they lived across Clearview Drive on West Main Street from each other and became close friends, more like family for the rest of their lives, and more like family for all of us, and became the resting spot for Florida travel amidst the citrus groves.

And the man who took her from Lebanon to the citrus groves was a strong and intelligent business man, but his love of family, even the extended family seemed to have no bounds. And when Katherine “Granny” Prichard was tending to her young husband who we now believe suffered from asthma, she gathered up her family and went to the citrus groves where Euless, forever known as “Uncle Euless,” by all of us, and Daisy, forever known as “Aunt Daisy” by all of us, Lawrence took Katherine and her ill husband in and let them stay in the log cabin next to the big house until Joe Blythe Prichard wanted to go home for his final resting place and the family of six gathered in the ambulance-like van and headed north, back home to Tennessee.

But the Lawrence’s kept coming back to Tennessee, and the Jewell’s and the Prichard’s, and the Hall’s kept going to Gotha, Florida, and Uncle Euless seemed to like me and liked me until he too left us. And in this photo is the new Dodge, which remained a running usable vehicle for long afterwards, and there is no name on the woman resting her arm on that Dodge and i wonder if she might be “Aunt Ella” who was another extended family member.  And the roads to and from Gotha, Florida to Lebanon, Tennessee should have had a rut from all that back and forth: US 231 to Murfreesboro, US 41 through Chattanooga through Georgia until deep into Florida, cut across on US 44 to US 27, around 700 miles, but of course there was family along the way where we stayed.

And the bonds were strong. Then in the spring of 1962, i did not have a girl to ask to my graduation dance at Castle Heights, i just didn’t think those Lebanon girls liked to have more than one date with me. But family came through. My mother and grandmother talked to Aunt Daisy and her son, Douglas, and her daughter Juanita (Susan, did i spell her name correctly?) Browning. You see, the family ties run deep and the Browning’s daughter Susan was a year younger than me. We’d never met, but all parties agreed she would attend my graduation weekend with me.

And she did and she was beautiful and wonderful. Still is. i think about my feelings during those wonderful change of life days and how i felt about her. Sometimes i wonder…but she has a wonderful family in Georgia, and i have mine in the Southwest corner, and we are still family, and that is the way it should be.

It was just one of those days just about perfect in my mind. You know, like Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Our House:” two cats in the yard (except ours are in the house; predators, you see). And it was even better as we returned to a long ago (well, by my standards; by my daughters, it is more like ancient) ways we worked in the evenings…and yes, i lit the fire while she put the flowers in the vase.

But let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

It was cool and rainy, like the Southwest corner used to be in February. Not Tennessee rain, mind you, not at all. In fact, it really didn’t rain. It was more like heavy mist (but that is another story, a golfing story). Last night, we had about a quarter of an inch, more than we’ve had in about two months. More is predicted today. Our highs for this week proper are only touching 60, a veritable blizzard. But again, that is another story.

Yesterday for some reason, i was more productive than usual, on a bunch of fronts. i was proud of myself, and then came dinner. Maureen was at a meditating class. She says they are teaching her about history and the different kinds of meditateion. i declined to join her. Six Mondays of studying meditation just doesn’t quite strike me as fun. So going back to those old days, i once again cooked supper.

Once upon a time in the old west…well, at least in the old Southwest corner, i had some sort of control  of the kitchen. Or at least, i thought i did.

It was when Maureen’s and my marriage really began. My time on the Yosemite and our year in Jacksonville, Ponte Vedra Beach really, had been beyond magical.  We were married July 30, 1983 and then i was gone for nine months. You know, those deployments Navy folks just seem to get caught up in. So the really married stuff began in 1985.

We came back in late April. That’s when the real married stuff began and lasted for …well, i was going to say “a year,” but it really was for the rest of my life.

When we returned to the Southwest corner in 1985, i  cooked supper quite a bit when Maureen worked, but i then realized cooking was an escape for her, something she loved to do. She’s damn near a gourmet chef. When she cooks, which is nearly all the time now except for grilling, we have dinner. When i cook, we have supper.

Boy, did we have supper last night.

Here’s what we had:

Jim’s Stuff he makes with okra but zucchini substitutes for okra…or what is better known as “What the hell was that?”…and there is a story about that as well, but not for polite folks.

Ingredients:
Zucchini
Mushrooms
Diced tomatoes
Bacon/sausage
Yellow onions
Worcestershire sauce
Seasoning (critical but what strikes me at the moment)
Siracha sauce
Soy sauce
Bay Leaves
Mustard (doesn’t have to be the fancy kind, but it helps)
Molasses (sorghum, of course)

Cut it up,

Cook it slow in a cast-iron skillet

Serve with cornbread and rice or potatoes and red wine

It helps to have a martini while  you are doing it, makes you more creative. Bombay Sapphire up with olives in a chilled glass. But i gave that up a while ago. So i had a beer.

Maureen and Sarah loved it. Me too. i may get called on to cook supper more frequently, but not dinner.

Sarah retreated to her room. i lit the fire. Remember “Déjà Vu”? We never turned on the television. i did not write, i did not read. i sat in my chair next to the fire, propped my feet on the camel saddle Maureen had made into an ottoman, closed my eyes, and listened.

A rare moment.

i have a lot of music in my history. It’s sort of like my life. i like them all but i’m not an aficionado in any of the genres. But i do have my favorites. And last night it was my classical favorites: Handel’s “Water Music” — to this day, i remain thrilled my daughter Blythe chose that for her wedding music — and Dvořák’s “New World Symphony.” Cy Fraser introduced me to both back in 1963.

i listened quietly and thought:

The world ain’t all bad, and i am one very, very lucky man.

About two weeks ago, i began to post on Facebook daily “laws” from my now defunct “Murphy’s Law” desk calendars. My Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Pipey Orr sent me one of those calendars as a Christmas gift in 1979 while i was deployed to WESTPAC. They sent me one every year until my cousin, Nancy Schwarze, sent them while her mother still was alive. When my aunt passed, i began to get my own calendar and wrap it “from Santa” every Christmas until this past Christmas when they quit publishing the annual desk calendar. Fortunately, i cut and pasted the laws on my notebooks and scheduling paperwork for many years. i now share them on Facebook.

Then last week, one such post read:

From my “Murphy’s Law” desk calendar archives – “Pfeifer’s Principle: Never make a decision you can get someone else to make.”

i have an example of how this works out in practice.

Something happened a long, long time ago in a land far away, even farther away than my hometown from the Southwest corner. Watertown, New York, 1972. i had just taken over the sports editor job at Watertown Daily Times, living a dream i had since JB Leftwich taught me how to be a decent sports editor on The Cavalier, the Castle Heights Military Academy’s award-winning newspaper. A year before, i had concluded (i thought) my active duty obligation of serving three years as a Naval officer. My folks, Castle Heights, JB, a learning period (in many, many ways) of college and work, and the Navy, taught me well, especially my parents and the Navy about responsibility and accountability.

There are no guilty parties in this story. Every one of the characters were doing their job as best they knew how. They behaved in a manner they believed was best for their newspaper and protecting themselves. They were good people and good friends. Then there was me. The troublemaker.

One of the things really annoying to me then and just as much so now was the previous day’s results and scores of sports contests not being posted in the next day’s newspaper. This made me glad to have worked for afternoon papers. The Times did a good job posting national scores and any local scores covered by staff — at the time of this story, i was the sports staff; so only one sports event was covered live each day. So the results of a significant number of local events were reported a day late. The now ubiquitous answering machine did not become widely used until the mid-1980’s, and of course, voice mail, and mobile phones were the stuff of science fiction in 1972.

i wondered how we could get results in time to publish in the next day’s paper.

After some research, i discovered no one had charged local high schools to call in the results of their games and matches because there was no one at the newspaper to take the calls. Everyone went home when the afternoon paper had been put to bed. i myself, after getting to the office each morning between five and six, went home between two and three in the afternoon, took a nap, and covered a ball game about half of the evenings.

i puzzled over what to do. The local coaches seemed delighted, even anxious to designate someone to phone in their results. i went to my boss, the publisher-in-waiting, super friend, and college brother John B. Johnson, and asked if i could get some part time help, perhaps a high school student. John thought the idea was great and gave me permission. i think he suggested the young man whom i hired.

Before my help came to work, i laid out my plan. i would have him come to work around five, man the switchboard until around 11:00 so the designated person, even the coach, could call in results and statistics of their contests. My plan was to have calls forwarded to the sports desk, but the system could not automatically forward calls to an extension. So we would have to answer the calls at the switchboard. Obviously before this could work, he and i had to know how to operate the switchboard.

The morning before my assistant’s first evening, i went to the switchboard operator to learn how to operate the switchboard so i could train my man on his first night. It was a relatively simple thing, but when i asked the operator, she said, “I can’t do that without permission of the business manager.”

i thought she made a good point. And even if she had the authority to let me use the switchboard, the business manager should know the situation. i went to his office and explained.

He said, “I can’t make that decision. The general manager will have to give me the okay before we can do this.”

Good point. The general manager should know, i agreed. i went to the general manager.

He said, “That is not my decision to make. It’s the business manager’s area of responsibility.”

i left his office perplexed and stood in the hallway considering my options. i did not want to pull strings and go over their heads to my friend. That seemed a little awkward to me. Then i had an idea. i walked back into the general manager’s office and asked:

“If the business manager says it’s okay, then it’s okay with you, right?”

“Of course,” the general manager genially replied.

i trekked down the hall and entered the business manager’s office.

“The business manager said it was okay with him if it’s okay with you. Okay?” i suggested.

“Great,” the business manager genially, even enthusiastically replied. After all, the two managers were sports fans.

i went to the lobby and approached the switchboard operator.

“The general manager and the business manager both said it was okay for us to man the switchboard at night. So is it alright with you?”

“Absolutely,” she genially replied. She was a sports fan also. And with that i was trained and my man began his part-time job and scores of local high school sports event began to be printed in the next afternoon’s newspaper. It was a great success.

No one realized no one had actually given me the go-ahead, and no one was the wiser.

i’ve been whining to Maureen for about a month now, maybe longer.

You see, Satruday afternoon, in a magic place far, far away from the Southwest corner, magic took me there again, but not really. A bunch of two classes of my Kappa Sigma fraternity brothers gathered at that magic place of long ago. They call it Memorial Gymnasium. They call it “Memorial Magic.” Saturday, it was both.

i whined to Maureen about my not being there was her fault. She, of course, knew i was kidding. That i was the one who made the decision it was just too hard for my taking off to be there. But i needed to ease my pain. So Maureen caught the brunt of my whining, but shrugged it off.

i don’t think she has yet to appreciate “Memorial Magic” or even college basketball, which has always been my favorite sport to watch, even more than football because that was the sport i wanted to play, not watch, but i did plenty of watching that as well. i tried to make Maureen and Sarah Vanderbilt basketball fans and would have tried with Blythe, but she is not too interested in sport and certainly more for Longhorns than Commodores. With Maureen and Sarah, i actually took them to some games when were back home for Christmas, but the games were against teams like Northern Louisiana, the students were gone, the stands were half empty, the cheerleaders were from area high schools, and there was no spirit band. Hard to get the mojo going in that situation. i don’t think they understood.

Maureen, like today, will sit in the room while the Vandy game is on the air. She’s reading a book and will occasionally look up and ask a question about a play or a player, but more to make me feel good than to get into the game. i even mutter or yell suddenly when there is a great play or a bad play or a bad official call or a missed foul shot (i hate missed foul shots unless it’s the other guys missing). Then i realize i am yelling, muttering, even talking to myself.

Yet today, she got into it. We, over 2,000 miles away, had a whiff of the magic. This was in spite of announcers who think what they think is more important than focusing on the game and the producers who throw a bunch of junk on the side to promote themselves and upcoming events. But it didn’t matter today. We could still get that whiff of magic.

But my brothers were there. Flat, smack dab in the middle of it — i think that word “brothers” is often overused in fraternity talk. i am about as much as a brother to the Kappa Sigma Grand Master as i am to Hogan’s goat. But those guys in my five years of close association became more than friends. They became my brothers. i don’t know how to explain it. It even sounds a little hokey as i pen the words. But that’s what they are.

We were a bit different from the norm i think. We were somewhat a “pocket of resistance.” Like me. We made fun of the pomp and pomposity of the Greeks. We resisted being categorized. We were crazier than hell, and a couple of us, so caught up in all of it didn’t get to the finish line, but we were still brothers, still deeply, deeply enthralled with the magic.

A goodly part of that magic was  in Memorial Gym. Basketball. i didn’t miss a game. Even with exams the next day. Even with papers due, unfinished but put off until the game was over. And they were good back then. “Snake” Grace, Clyde Lee, John Ed Miller, Roger Schurig, Keith Thomas, Jerry Southwood, Kenny Gibbs, Bob Warren, Gene Lockyear, and on and on and on played like wonders.  Like winning the last five games in 1962-63, including an upset over Adolph Rupp’s Kentucky Wildcats, 69-67, in Nashville. Then, 1964. They beat #3 Duke, 97-92, in overtime and a legendary betting story was born; and they turned around and beat #1 Kentucky 85-83 in a good but not great season (19-6).

Two of the highlights (Well, maybe not “highlights” but i do remember them well) of that 63-64 season was when the South Carolina bench was giving Roger Schurig a real ragging throughout the game. Then towards the end of the second half, a Vandy defender stole the ball and passed to Roger on a snowbird. When Roger hit an easy, unopposed layup at the South Carolina end of the court (because of the elevated court, the teams sit at opposite ends of the court, not on the side as with most basketball arenas), he ran the baseline in front of the Gamecock bench and shot a bird and held it the length of the bench.

The second highlight when Vandy surprised the Wildcats with an upset in Memorial. The Commodore fans gave the Wildcats’ Cotton Nash a razzing throughout the game. When the clock ran out, rather than getting in a line and shaking hands with the opposing players, Cotton walked to the middle of the court, shot two birds, his arms high in the air and slowly turned a complete circle to let the fans know what he thought of them. i still laugh when i think of both of those moments. Maybe bird humor is a favorite of mine.

i should know about those seasons. i went to every home game. i might have had one of those papers due or even an exam the next day, but i wouldn’t let anything interfere with my watching my friends play basketball.

When the next season, 1964-65, rolled around,  i was not in attendance at the “Harvard of the South.” i was the cub reporter, office boy, bowling editor, and figure 8 auto racing editor for Fred Russell and the Nashville Banner  sports department. i managed to see most of the home games and volunteered for one of my favorite weekends ever.

Vanderbilt won the SEC season and was playing in the Mid-East regional. The Banner photographer needed a way to get the game photo negatives of the NCAA Mideast Regional from the new field house for Kentucky in Lexington back to the Banner’s office in time to run in the Saturday afternoon paper. i volunteered to drive up, watch the game, and then drive back with the photos. i had purloined my sister’s 1959 Vauxhall for the year. It could top out at 95 downhill, which was good because the ensuing shaking kept me awake.

Vandy had a close opening round game, but beat DePaul, 83-78. Back then, there were only sixteen teams in the tournament. The major conference season champions (they didn’t have the money-grabbing conference tournaments back then) were given a berth and the other teams of independents and non-major conferences were chosen based on their records. And believe it or not, the regionals were comprised of only teams from that region, the East, the Mid-East (Vandy’s region), the Mid-West, and the West.

The trip between Nashville and Lexington back then was about 250 miles and took a little around five hours (at the speed limit). During halftime of the DePaul game, i walked down to the sports reporters table on the other side of the arena to talk to the photographer and Waxo Green, who covered the Commodores. As i walked to the corner of the end court returning to my seat, i looked back at the photographer while the teams were warming up. i turned around to head up the stairs, and i was staring into a clothed belly button. Cazzie Russell (it was his belly button), Oliver Darden, and Bill Buntin, the Michigan stars had come out to see what their opposition might look like on Saturday. They seemed to be gargantuan. i thought i was going to have to circle the field house to get back to my seat, but they were courteous and let me sidle through the mass of humanity to take the more direct route.

After Vandy won in what was a surprisingly close game, i grabbed the envelope of negatives from the photographer — i do wish i could remember his name: he was a great sports photographer, a great guy, and took me under his wing — and took off in my sister’s trusty Vauxhall. Except for through the towns (i took US 62; interstates didn’t go between those two cities yet), i had my foot down to the floorboard of the chugging British bundle of bolts. i left the field house around 9:00 p.m. EST, arriving at the Banner office before 2:00 a.m. CST. Had the trip not crossed from Eastern to Central time, i might not have made it, but i did.

Being a glutton for punishment and basketball, i turned in the negatives, got about two hours sleep, went back to the office to see if all was okay and help Bill Rogers, the managing sports editor with the makeup. i caught another two hours and then headed back to Lexington, arriving in time for the championship game between the Commodores and the Wolverines.

It was an incredible game with Vandy losing, 87-85, on one of the worst calls ever. Many experts said (of course, there was a slight Vandy bias), the Commodores would have matched up better against the Gail Goodrich UCLA team, which easily defeated Michigan, 91-80, and had a better chance of winning the championship than the Wolverines.

i believe, i believe.

i also know, as in really know, the refs blew it. i think i have written of how i know earlier, and i will pass on that story for now.

But i was not required to bring the negatives back that night. The Banner was Nashville’s afternoon paper with no Sunday edition. i spent the night in Lexington (funny, i don’t remember where, but i’m pretty damn sure i didn’t pay for it as i didn’t make enough to pay for it). i headed back at a much slower race on Sunday morning. When i hit Bardstown, Kentucky just after noon, i decided to take a tour of the Jim Beam distillery. This was a long time before it was a chic thing to do.

A portly old man with white hair for what was left of it, finally opened the door. He took me through the distillery explaining the process. We were the only two souls on the property. i think he was the janitor.

As we neared the end, he stopped and looked at me.

“Be careful, son,” he admonished, “That stuff can do some bad things to you.

“I know,” he continued, “You see, I started out as a youngster, younger than you are, drinking white lighting, corn whiskey. Damn near killed me.

“In fact, have you ever heard about folks who drank too much seeing pink elephants?”

“Yes, sir,” i replied.

“Well, they are out there. I see them all the time. Not just pink either. All kinds of colors, these big elephants in my head. I see them all the time in my head. Terrible.”

As we neared the door, there was a small souvenir shop. i bought an ashtray etched with a bucolic scene with the Jim Beam logo across the scene. i kept it until i quit smoking almost forty years ago.

Just before the old man closed and locked the door behind me, he once more warned, “Be careful with that stuff, son.”

Of course, i didn’t pay too much attention, but i haven’t seen any elephants in my head…yet.

But that was long ago. A magic time. College basketball at its finest before it became a money game. Memorial Gym magic.

Yet Saturday, i sat almost 2500 miles away and watched my Commodores win a thriller with a Memorial Gym fandom raising the roof with “Dynamite” like yesteryear a half-century ago. i was there.

i kept looking for my friends wishing i could experience Memorial Magic again first hand. i never found them. Analysts and ads cut into the possibilities. No matter. They knew. Shortly after the ‘Dores had put the game away in the final minutes, i got a call. My friends were on the floor with the student body still celebrating.

It was magic, Memorial Magic, once again.

My friends included Alexis as one of the attendees. Alexis Stearns is the daughter of one Bill Stearns, one of our gang. The boys believe she brought them and the Commodores good luck. i got to thinking about it. Every time i have gone back for a game with my friends, my team took it on the chin. Yet this pretty young lady brought them luck.

Maybe next time, i should give her my ticket, stay 2500 miles away and watch on my flat screen. That should give Vandy double luck.

Regardless, the magic was there one more time Saturday.