He would have been 103 today. i can hear him laugh right now. i can see his hands. He liked the poem i wrote about his hands, asked me how i knew all of that stuff about him. i’m pretty sure i knew by looking at his hands. That poem is below. Above that and below this is a photo his granddaughter Kate posted the day he passed away. His not being here still hurts and always will. But it’s a good hurt. He was always good, above all else. As his friends told me time and time again, “Jimmy Jewell is a good man.”

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 hard times,
hands of hope,
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.

Bonita, California
September 28, 2009

If you are down and out,
feeling low…

Well, go to the San Diego night time zoo.

We ate at Albert’s, the restaurant honoring one of the zoo’s first and perhaps most famous star before the pandas. He was one big gorilla. The restaurant named after him makes you feel like you are in the heart of African jungle. i had an Alesmith .394, the Tony Gwynn Tribute pale ale. Good stuff named with Tony’s incredible season batting average, which might have risen to over .400 had the player’s strike not shortened the season by over a month. Good fish and chips too.

We wandered a bit, and if you have season passes, wandering a bit is a good thing. Went down paths i had not been before. Saw two incredible eagles (see a later Sarah post, i hope). Then we stumbled upon this one exhibit that took our breath away. Sarah has better photos with George’s professional camera of those snow leopards than i do . i took these with my iphone:

Then i got this below. It doesn’t do justice to the incredible speed, litheness, and strength of this boy. To be there was to have your heart pause for just a moment. Yet even this can take your breath away:

2017-08-13 19.34.4

Oh no, i can’t seem to get it to work here. i’ll try and post it on Facebook with this link and fix it later…maybe.

Oh, escape to the zoo to feel like the world with its humans and the animals is all right. A visit will put you in better spirits and make you feel good.

My brother Joe shared this link, http://observer.com/2017/07/unpacking-the-absurd-logic-of-cultural-appropriation-and-what-it-will-cost-us-media-robbie-robertson/ on Facebook this evening.

The article moved me greatly.

i am sitting, yes sitting, in the sitting area in our backyard long after sunset. The sitting area is located in the south corner of our backyard. We have never enjoyed it enough, choosing to stay inside. It is a bit worn down and the carrot wood tree on one side now spans over most of the area. In the Southwest corner, this is a problem as sitting areas require a heating device of some sort in the evening for most of the year. My choice of a wood burning chimerea is no longer practical because of the overhanging branches of the carrot wood.

Still, i recently vowed to pass on televised baseball games and sit out here more often to write or just relax, usually listening to my old music on a bluetooth device.

Tonight, i stopped my writing efforts and my contemplation to check Facebook and found Joe’s shared link.

i would like to expand on my thoughts about Robbie Robertson, and wish Joe had done so because Joe is so much more of an elegant writer and much deeper thinker than i am. Knowing him, i’m sure he would have expressed my thoughts much better than i would have.

i am tired. It is not terribly late. i try to stay up until 10:30 p.m. every evening. Why? Well, i grew up with my father who watched television’s network prime time shows in our den every evening until the Cinderella ending of prime time at 10:00 p.m. CST or CDT. Then he would watch the Nashville half-hour news show. Then he would go to bed. i like the pattern of that routine, the rhythm, and try to emulate it.

Of course, i’m terrible at it. Sometimes, i stay up later, caught up in reading, writing, or a TV show. Sometimes i say the hell with it and go to bed much earlier. But following in my father’s footsteps continues to be my goal in this and many other ways.

So i sit and think about “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down” and the “cultural appropriation the Observer’s  article addressed.

It seems sad to me we actually have to discuss things like this. It has also occurred to me our country has become schizophrenically Victorian in nature and speaking out for freedom of expression, for trying to be culturally, politically, racially, ethically, and religiously unbiased can make one a societal leper.

But it is late and i can’t expand on this right now. i am old. i have seen the world change, some things for the better and some things for the worst. i have found i no longer expect my thoughts to be accepted. Old folks like me have locked themselves into their roles, their convictions and will not sway. The younger set is out to change the world and know, unflinchingly know just like their predecessors of young, yep, the old folks of now, they, these new youngsters are right and not only are resistant to input, they resent it.

But you know, ole Robbie Robertson caught the feeling of those who are disenfranchised with a beautiful, artistic expression of sentiment when he coined the lyrics of “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down.”

Right now, i feel pretty driven down myself.

Apparently my sister-in-law had not heard of my encounter with a psychic. She was visiting us this afternoon when Maureen and Sarah brought up the subject. i had written most of two columns about the incident in my weekly column, “Notes from the Southwest Corner” in the Lebanon Democrat in 2009. i made copies of the two columns and gave them to Patsy. Considering i think it’s a pretty good tale, i have taken the parts of two columns addressing the subject. Here is the tale:

SAN DIEGO –I think I’ve found something in the Southwest corner, which is not available in Lebanon.

The only psychics I knew growing up in my home town were Gypsy fortune tellers at the Wilson County Fair over in the old fairgrounds on Coles Ferry Pike.

I never got my fortune read there. I was too skeptical and didn’t want to spend money when I could use it for another amusement ride or shot at winning a teddy bear.

A friend, who shall remain nameless, did have his fortune read. She told him he would soon have a relationship with a beautiful woman. They went to a local motel that night, perhaps validating her prediction.

When I searched the internet for Lebanon psychics, there was one in Mt. Juliet, but none in Lebanon. There were few folks who wanted to belong to psychic meeting groups, but no psychics were listed.

Psychic shops are plentiful in the Southwest corner. Several weeks ago, one finally opened in Bonita. My wife was driving to work when she spotted it and called me.

“I just passed an animal psychic office,” she related, “It’s a new business.”

I was not exactly sure how to reply. I’m an old Navy man and don’t put much weight on supernatural things, not even Davy Jones – I don’t care what Walt Disney, Johnny Depp, and “Pirates of the Caribbean” wants me to believe.

“Oh, that’s nice,” I finally responded.

She did not say much after that. I assumed she wanted me to take our dog there. After all, her sister had taken her dog to a “dog whisperer” years ago and claimed great results.

It was clear Maureen was thinking about doing something for our nine-year old dog Lena, who has developed digestive problems. I thought, “Why the heck not? After all, it could make an interesting column. Folks back home might like to read about a psychic adventure.”

Later, I went by the storefront, copied the phone number, and called to set up an appointment the next day.

When I told Maureen that evening, she denied having anything to do with it and then asked how much it would cost.

“You don’t want to know,” I wisely told her.

I did not say, “I know I don’t want you to know,” which is more accurate.

The next afternoon I took Lena and walked up the stairs to the psychic. The door was locked. I gave a sigh of relief thinking the saga had ended, but as we reached the bottom steps, a scraggly young man stuck his head out the door and motioned us to come back.

As we entered the sparsely furnished complex, the young man motioned again for us to go into a small room. There were two cheap outdoor chairs. A king piece from a chess set and a small dried flower were on a small wooden table.

Rosa, a young woman, introduced herself and asked quickly what I wanted for my dog out of the session.

“She’s an alpha female,” I told her, “and needs to be less aggressive with other dogs as well as people when they come to our door.

“She also has developed some digestive problems,” I added.

Rosa was scratching herself all over. I asked if she was all right. As Lena sniffed around the room, Rosa answered, “I just finished a session with two cats. I think I’m allergic. I thought it must be a tough job being an animal psychic if you are allergic to them.

“I can sense Lena has stomach problems,” she added, “I also sense she has a connection to King Tut.”

As I tried to digest this news about King Tut, she looked at me intently and asked, “Are you spiritual?”

Wondering why a psychic wouldn’t know this, I answered, “No, but my brother’s a minister. Does that count a little bit?”

She ignored my comment.

“I think we can fix Lena’s stomach problems in three sessions,” she explained, “It will require candles and a special green tea.”

She added, “It will cost $185…cash.”

I demurred. Then she said she would waive the cost of the initial meeting.

To be honest, I did want to pay the money, but I really wanted to know more about Lena being connected to King Tut…and after all, i wanted to write this column.

I did pay the $185 for the three psychic sessions for Lena.

I took Lena home, went to the bank, and returned to the psychic studio with the cash. Lena’s psychic was not there.

Another young woman gladly took my money and my telephone number.

“I’m psychic too,” she informed me proudly. “I was here when you brought in your dog. I could sense she was having stomach problems.”

I did not ask if she sensed it by reading the notes from Rosa.

On Saturday, Rosa called and asked if she could speak to my wife about her dreams. I demurred, “Maureen is not interested in pursuing this. Call me tomorrow.”

After several days of silence, I called Rosa.

“I’ve been trying to reach you,” Rosa informed me, but Sunday, I left my notes up north and could not find your number.”

Silently, I thought, “If you are psychic, wouldn’t you be able to discern it, or at least look it up in the telephone directory?”

Rosa continued, “My study of Lena showed me she was a cat in the King Tut era.”

I thought cats were sacred or something back then and maybe Lena was sacred for King Tut. This sounds like a movie to me.

“Two lives ago, Lena was human and had some terrible stomach problems,” Rosa interrupted my thoughts, “This is causing her problems now.

“She will die a painful death if you don’t resolve them,” she continued, “A vet would charge you at least $4000 for treatment, and they won’t know until it’s too late,” she predicted ominously.

“So what should we do,” I questioned hesitantly.

“If you can bring her in for about two hours daily next week, I will commune with her and do a special massage,” she detailed, “and you will have to burn candles around her and a couple of other things.”

Before I could ask about the “other things,” she continued, “It will only be $1100. We should be able to get everything worked out in about six weeks of sessions.”

I had reached my psychic threshold.

“You know Rosa I must clear this with my wife.” I’m sure Rosa understood. She’s a psychic.

I have not called back.

i awoke even earlier than usual. i went to bed early last night. In the depth of the morning darkness, i tried to go back to sleep to no avail because random thoughts kept filling up my head. Many of those thoughts seem to come from nowhere, not my experience, not from anywhere. They were pretty good, good enough to write about.

So i got up to do just that: write about those random thoughts. Of course, by the time i got to my desk and computer, i had forgotten damn near everyone of them.

However, there were a couple i remembered:

For about twenty-two years, my primary purpose in life was to meet the Navy’s Mission: “To conduct operations at sea in support of national policy.”

They’ve gussied up that mission statement since then. It now reads “To maintain, train and equip combat-ready Naval forces capable of winning wars, deterring aggression and maintaining freedom of the seas.”

In other words, the Navy has given itself more leeway to do other things besides support the national policy.

The new statement is much more political, bureaucratic, and undoubtedly modified with legal concerns.

i liked the old one.

i did that, meeting the mission, the old one. Twenty-two years or so.

It made life easy. Everything else fell in line with following that mission statement. It truly was the way i lived.

Then i retired. I bumbled around for quite a while. At first, it was easy. Sarah was born the day i retired. i didn’t write it out, or even qualify it in my mind, but my new mission for that period of time was to take care of Sarah. Then, we got a care-giver, Karen Escobedo. Perfect. Lived about three blocks away. She turned into more, giving Sarah a look at life with children across the board in race, religion, countries, and even children with disabilities.

It was time for me to bumble some more. Somewhere in all of that bumbling, i finally came up with my new mission statement: “To lead a good life, do the right thing, be a good man.” i can’t be the judge of how well i’ve adhered to that mission. i’ll let others do that after i’m gone. But i try.

Yet sometimes, i think it was easier with the Navy. i could be a good guy, sympathetic, understanding, fair, compliant, obedient, bad guy, tough, mean and angry, even unfair, cool, decisive. You see, i was to be whatever it took to meet the mission.

With my new mission, i often just sort of plug along being me, not adapting to meet my mission. Not good. It is hard to go against the grain, not modify my actions and behavior to meet my mission, especially when someone else’s interests and concerns are involved.

And in the Navy, my mission included driving large steam ships at sea.

It was glorious and easy compared to trying to lead a good life, do the right thing, be a good man.

One observation occurring after my Navy years. It never was an issue back then. After all, i had no time to consider such things when my primary goal was to meet the Navy’s mission:

Unconditional love and conditional love do not mix well.