In June 1964, i received the form letter in my mailbox. My dismal grades from being in the wrong major and raising cane far too much…and perhaps not being bright enough, my NROTC scholarship was defunct. and i would have to go into the Navy as an enlisted sailor or enter the Naval Reserve.

Still not ready to accept defeat, i, with my parents financial support, signed up for the reserves in Nashville and would try to bring my grades up to a “C” average at Vandy in order to resume my college career. At the time, a flunkie had to wait an obligatory six months, the standing rule at the time, at least in Tennessee.

In August of that year, the second shoe stomped on my head. i had done well in the summer session taking drama, philosopy, and one of the best courses i ever had, British and American Fiction under Dr. Sullivan.

Unfortunately, i was required to take Statics, the engineering course i failed in the spring. i got it up to a “D” but the time i spent on that final exam pulled the other exams down just enough to miss my goal of a “C” average. This head stomping shoe was a letter was from Vanderbilt informing me i was no longer welcomed as a student.

The letter did not note that i had just missed making history of the dubious sort. That one “F” in Statics was the only “failed course” on my record. Had i made a “D” that spring rather than a retake, i would have been the first person to flunk out of that prestigious school without failing a course. Of course, i had chalked up 14 “D’s” over those four semesters. Oh, well.

It was time for me to look for a job. Then Major JB “Coach” Leftwich pulled out his magic wand and with the relationships he had established with The Nashville Tennesseean and Nashville Banner, i became the cub reporter and office boy in the Banner’s sports department.

Those nine months was an incredible school for sports writing, already my dream. Fred Russell taught me so much and became a big supporter for me. Waxo Green, George Leonard, and Mike Fleming escorted me through sports journalism. Bill Roberts, the crusty, old style, managing sports editor, took me through the mechanics and technical side of the business.

After those nine months, i was locked into pursuing sports journalism as a career.

Note: i have written of a great deal of this here before, but feel the info was a necessary preface to the rest of this post.

Then, i needed a place to stay. My previous time at Vandy had been in the dorms except that summer when i commuted from my parents’ home in Lebanon.

Fortunately, there were four Kappa Sigma brothers also looking for a place beyond dorm living. i think Gerry Peeples found the place. We moved into the 1920’s home near Vanderbilt in September 1963.

The house was huge with a winding staircase to the second floor with four bedrooms, two heads, and a kitchen, also unused. There was an unused large room on the story above where we once showed some movies. The basement was huge and where Terry led the effort to make beer, a lot of bad beer.

The four Vandy students had the upstairs bedrooms.

Since my new job required me to leave around five each morning, my bedroom was what once had been the study behind the formal dining room. There was a small bath in the hall with a shower. All of the doors downstairs were pocket doors.

The living room or salon in the front held our television. It became a gathering place.

Maple Manor became legendary. We would have parties after campus parties. Folks would come over and stay overnight, some because they shouldn’t or couldn’t leave. It was usual to find guys sleeping on the living room couch or the rug and even on the floor in the dining room. Once, there was a couple of guys sleeping on the dining room table.

It had been lived in by two old sisters and their mother for years. It was to be torn down the next year. It had a sparse maple tree in the small front yard. Naturally, we named it “Maple Manor.”

Oh, the stories that old house could tell. Fortunately, it is gone now.

So when our fraternity had its annual Star and Crescent Ball in early may, we had to have a formal photo of the Maple Manor gang of Johnny Henderson, Gerry Peeples, Terry Lindsay, Tom Chase, and the goofy one — the shorts were a tradition for the Kappa Sigmas to wear at the annual gala.

A month after this, i restarted my college. i went to Middle Tennessee State College (it became Middle Tennessee State University while i was there). i majored in English and excelled, going straight through while commuting with mostly Jimmy Hatcher and several others, getting home at noon, and holding down three jobs, mostly as a deejay for WCOR AM & FM and as a county and sports correspondent for the Banner.

i think the photo shows i hadn’t grown up. i am not too sure if i have reached that level of maturity yet.

That man on the left walking with his great grandson Sam James Jewell Gander was a man among men.

He died on this day eleven years ago. He was born in a country town with only two paved roads and a coal-fired electric plant that served 500 homes. He stoked his father’s steam engine boiler with slag wood when he was six years old. He contracted yellow fever when he was seven and was in bed for three years in his home on West Spring Street in Lebanon before returning to school.

He quit school before his senior year in high school to help his family when his father developed tuberculosis and could not work. He began as a novice mechanic changing tires to become the best (and most forthright and honest) auto mechanic in Wilson County, finally becoming a partner in a Pontiac dealership, Pan-Am oil and gas distributor and commercial business properties.

He married his high school sweetheart. They remained that way for 75 years.

He went to war as his son was born — me — and served over two years, mostly in the Southern Pacific as a Seabee.

The list goes on and on. He was loved by anyone who met him. Men gave him their highest compliment to him as a “good man.”

And i miss him every day.

Happy 111th birthday, Jimmy Jewell, my best friend.

The story of how we met on Monday, March 15, 1982 has been told several times before, but it is my way of recognizing what a wonderful meeting and great results occurred from that day. As i have said many times before, i am one lucky man.

The pastor who married us forty-one years ago just left with his wife to catch a plane back to New England. My brother Joe and his wife Carla have been here since Friday. Their daughter Kate, son-in-law Conor and children, Leo, Oona, and Niamh, came the next day. i gave the men a tour of Navy ships and we joined the women in Coronado on Sunday, and yesterday, we went to the zoo. Great fun. This old man is tired.

So today, often filled with celebratory dinners, will be quiet, rest, reflection, and turning the house into a two person affair. That affair has be going on for longer than 41 years, but that wedding my brother performed was forty-one years ago today. We will have a quiet small dinner and an upscale one later this week.

i won’t belabor the subject here. i will just repeat the great story i’ve told many times about how we met:

It was early March 1982. i was the Weapons Officer of the USS Okinawa (LPH 3) home ported in San Diego. The Weapons Officer billet was titled “First Lieutenant” on other amphibious helicopter carriers. Regardless, it meant i was charge in pretty much everything not aviation, engineering, operations, or supply related.

One of those responsibilities was being in charge of the quarterdeck where all visitors entered the ship. From previous regimes, we had a large red torah that spanned the entrance into the helicopter deck below the flight deck. It was impressive, but Captain Dave Rogers called me to his cabin one afternoon. “Jim, I want our quarterdeck to be the best quarterdeck on the base. I want it to be the most impressive and known to be the best by everyone home ported here.”

I, of course, replied, “Aye, Aye, Sir!”

i discussed how we could make the quarterdeck renowned  across the waterfront with my division officers and Boatswain Warrant Officer 4 (CWO4) Ellis. The Bosun had a bit of a beer gut. He was married to a wonderful Filipino woman who created a lovely macramé lanyard for the boatswain pipe the bosun gave me when i was transferred. She was about 4’8″ and almost that wide. Great lady, just a bit wide.

My team came up with the idea of a sitting area next to the quarterdeck. At the time, when guests or visitors came aboard, they had to wait for the watch to contact whomever they were there to see. That sailor or officer would have to come to the quarterdeck to escort the visitor. Often, the time it took to get to the quarterdeck was lengthy.

So we decided we could create a sitting area with panels, some chairs, maybe a sofa, and hang framed photographs about the Oki on the walls. That way, the visitor wouldn’t have to stand around in the working bay of the helicopter deck. Great idea.

We had to decide where and how to get panels. Since the Bosun and his first class were going to make a supply run Friday, the next day, i asked them to check out panels while they were on their run. Liberty call was early and the Bosun and his first class left around 1300. They were dressed in their standard liberty civies. The Bosun had on Levis with a blue tee shirt with his thick black hair combed back as much as it could to resemble a ducktail. His first class had on his biker’s jeans, white tee shirt with a leather jacket and a silver chain dangling down from the jeans. He had straw blond hair also combed back and the gap of a missing tooth was the final touch. They left for their mission.

i had a bunch of paperwork to work through and continued on after liberty call. The bosun came into the office with several boxes of toilet paper (i never understood why he didn’t get it through supply).

“i didn’t think you would be coming back to the ship, Bosun,” i remarked.

“Well, i didn’t want to keep this stuff at home over the weekend,” he replied.

“Did you find any panels?”

“Well sir, we went to Dixieline (a local lumber and home center). They didn’t have them, but they told us to go to Parron-Hall.”

“Parron-Hall?” i puzzled.

“Yes sir. They’re an office furniture place downtown across from the county admin building. We went there, but that place was way too classy for us. They had desks in the showroom worth more than my house.

“You are gonna have to go down there and see about them panels.”

Aww, come on, Bosun, i have a lot on my plate.”

“No sir, you are gonna have to go down there. It’s on Ash Street.”

Then he added, ” You know sir, the woman who waited on us was really pretty. i noticed she didn’t have a ring on her finger. i’m pretty sure she’s single.

“And she’s way too skinny for me.”

Epilogue

Midday on the next Monday, i drove down to Parron-Hall Office Materials. i asked the receptionist to see the person who had given her business card to Bosun. i stood at the entrance to the showroom. Maureen came walking across the show room with the sun shining in the window behind her (think Glenn Close in “The Natural,” only prettier). She claims i had my piss cutter on my head. That, of course, is not correct: i am a country boy from Lebanon, Tennessee raised correctly by my parents, Army ROTC at Castle Heights, a Naval career and, by the way, an officer and a gentleman. My hat was off.

We had numerous discussions about the panels, which required about four or five “business” lunches over the five or six weeks for the panels to arrive. When the deal was done, i asked for that date to see John Lee Hooker at the Belly Up Tavern. We attended several events over the summer including sailing with JD in the “Fly a Kite” race where we became (or at least JD became) a legend. We went out to dinner too many times to count.

Then, on July 30, 1983, we were married in her father’s backyard.

This was written in 1971 when i was working as a sports reporter for The Watertown Daily Times in upstate New York. i was a champion of traditional (and the right way to write a news story as taught to me by “Coach” JB Leftwich at Castle Heights and Fred Russell at The Nashville Banner). A young and new reporter wrote the story about a man who had epilepsy and struggling had committed suicide by jumping from the fifth floor of the Watertown YMCA.

i was irate at the article because it violated the rules that were my bible for print journalism. When i complained, my great friend John B. Johnson pulled me aside and calmed me down. He was right, of course. i was out of line. When i got home that afternoon, i sat down and wrote this:

no one heard
his epileptic call of delight;
later, no one would even know
the crass and un-smiled-upon disease
had crashed his brain
as he leaped
from his fifth floor room window
with that call of delight
but
his mind raced onward
into the ecstasy of madness
as he dwindled toward oblivion
but yet,
not quite oblivion
as his wish for recognition
would also be buried
amidst the headline of
“Man Killed In Fall Out of Window;”
even his name was plummeted
into the obscurity of
second paragraphville;
his falling from grace, even in his delight
from the YMCA’s fifth floor,
past the gym of happiness
and
showers of cleanliness
against the cobbler’s sign
(which should have been symbolic
but
even that as coincidental)
onto
“the concrete of the sidewalk below”
according to the newspaper reporter,
but
did little to shatter
the stillness of early morning when
the milkman continued to drop his bottles on the doorsteps
and
the bicycled paperboys thudded their paper missiles
against the walls of the porches
long before the sun rose
to meet the day,
refusing to yet relent
to storms of winter;
the elevator even disregarded
the sacrifice of delight,
carefully coasting down and up
under the auspices of the new elevator man
whose name no one knew
and
who would move into the YMCA the next day
so he, that man whom epilepsy had possessed
to end it all with a yell of delight
passed on
in his fit;
not one soul, not even the newspaper reporter,
acknowledged
it was the disease of Caesar.