Category Archives: A Pocket of Resistance

A potpourri of posts on a variety of topics, in other words, what’s currently on my mind.

Forty-One and Counting

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

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

Wedding Day 1983

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.

Thank you, Maureen, for being you and putting up with me for all of these years. You are my treasure i found (thanks to Bosun Ellis) while looking for office panels. i’m sure you did not think we would be together for 41 years. i still can’t believe my luck has been that good.

Cat Box

A Pocket of Resistance

This morning, Patsy Manning answered my request, and jogged my memory. She noted that the restaurant before Cat and Birdie was owned by the Winfrees. That is the name for the restaurant in my family. Thanks, Patsy.

i’m finding it a bit more difficult to write something meaningful about growing up in Lebanon. i mean between Lebanon Democrat columns and posts here, i’ve written a ton. Maybe i’m running out of material. Maybe i don’t remember as well as i used to remember.

The other day, while working in my garage, making the third parking space an even better work/play place for me.

My father and i turned it into a workshop when he and my mother were coming out every winter. We moved my father-in-law’s work table into one side, and Daddy built another workbench on the back wall. i hung my tools on the walls and filled up old organizers with nails, screws, and lord knows what. And then, of course, being me, i added some music machines that over the years have gone through a bunch of replacements and upgrades: there aren’t any newfangled things in that workshop. i added my LP albums and CDs. When Sarah left home, i moved the desk my father made for her out there. Over the years, i have added photos and art work that are no longer appropriate for Maureen’s beautiful and tasteful house decor.

It’s not a “man cave.” That’s too trendy a term, an excuse for men to create some luxury lounge with a iMax size television to watch sports and drink beer, or perhaps whiskey. If i ever finish the renovations, it will be my escape, my briar patch, where i can go and wallow in memories of growing up in a beautiful (and ugly sometimes) time and place, where dreams have turned into pleasant memories. i took some photos but decided i would wait until it’s finished to my satisfaction to post, which, of course, means there will be no photos here because it will, like an innumerable number of my pursuits, never be finished to my satisfaction.

And perhaps that is the nature of my life, and it is good to pursue, to chase satisfaction but unfulfilled. The chase. Ahh, the chase.

But i, as i often do, digress. In this new renovation effort, i relocated CD’s. Those memories i couldn’t remember came flooding back. i found a CD of an LP album Billy “the Agent” Parsons introduced me to almost seventy years ago. Some Nashville dentist, a folk music pursurer had gone up into the woods of Grundy County, Tennessee and recorded Hamper McBee, a moonshiner and folk singer and teller of tales. i remembered hitting the apex of I-24 headed east right after it had been completed and seeing the tavern. i was told that if a white mule was tied to the hitching post, Hamper was inside giving the folks a thrill of tall tales and good ole hillbilly music. i regret i never went in but loved listening to Hamper, something most folks nowadays would find politically incorrect.

But i loved Hamper, and i listened to the album with glee. Then, another one hit me in the head with memories. It was an Ernest Tubb, the Texas Troubadour, album. One of the tracks took me back. Ernest teamed with Loretta Lynn to cover Nat Stuckey’s song “Sweet Thang.” Ernest and Loretta’s version came out in 1967.

Back in the late 50’s, our family would dine out on Sunday’s after church. We went to a number of local eateries. The name of this particular one is causing a brain fart in my recall. i will remember it hopefully before i finish this post. i think it was on the corner of Nashville Pike and Winwood, although it could have been Blair Lane. Later, Jimmy McDowell sold cars there. For Lebanon, it was high end dining. (Okay, some Lebanon folks help me here: i think the name started with an “S”). Sometime in the early 60’s, it closed and became one of the few beer and sandwich diners in the county.

When i returned to pursuing a college degree in 1965, i was the night time FM disc jockey and engineer at WCOR FM five nights a week. i would close down the station at 10:30, lock up and head home. Except on a number of evenings, i would head to the new diner. i think they retained the old name, but Clayton and Katherine Birdwell ran the new place. We called it “Cat and Birdie’s.” They served beer, pizza, Stewart sandwiches, beer and sodas and beer, did i mention that?…as i recall. On the west side next to the wall was a shuffleboard table. i would have a couple of beers, play several games, listen the the good folks around the place before heading home.

And, of course, they had a juke box. One evening and then, for a whole bunch of following evenings, one of the most played tunes was…yep, Ernest and Loretta singing “Sweet Thang.” The song was about a man cheating around on his woman with someone else in a bar. One of my favorite lines of all time was when Mabel (Loretta) barges into this bar and sings:

Well, has anybody here seen my sweet thang?
I got a notion he’ll be headed this a way
‘Cause when my sweet thang is out tom cattin’ around
He’ll find a sandbox like this to play.

Listening to those two singing those lyrics nearly sixty years and about 2500 miles ago, i was back shooting shuffleboard in one of the best periods of my life.

Of course, just about every period of my life has been pretty good.

And if you are looking for me, just remember when i am out tom cattin’ around, i find a cat box like that to play.

Heroes

A Pocket of Resistance, Sea Stories

This past week, i have been occupied mentally emotionally with my loss of Marty Linville, friend and golfing buddy. The day he passed along that bridge, Friday, July 5, we had two visitors in the late afternoon.

Like Marty, they are heroes. Darryl Gunter and Chris Holtzman are heroes, success stories really.

Our two visitors stopped by because Darryl and i go back a long way. Darryl was a third class boiler technician on the USS Yosemite (AD 19) when i became the executive officer and deployed to the Indian Ocean. Darryl was one of the fireroom geniuses that used oversized burner plates for the boilers to get us to Rota as scheduled.

After twelve years, he left the Navy, graduated from Georgia Tech with a degree in mechanical engineering, and established Atlanta Boiler and Mechanical, a successful company. He is semi-retired and one of his sons manages the company.

Darryl and i reconnected on the Yosemite’s Facebook group. The reconnection has been good. i have noted earlier Darryl, out of the blue, sent me coasters with the Castle Heights seal, my graduation year, my rank and my name. They occupy a prominent place in our family room, and i use one every evening.

When Darryl told me he was going to be out here and would like to stop by, i was excited. i began to do a bit of research. In addition to starting and making Atlanta Boiler and Mechanical a success, Darryl has done some other things. He is the Atlanta “Chapter Commander” of the Combat Veterans Motorcycle Association. This is not a motorcycle club. This is an association of veterans who saw combat and enjoy motorcycle riding as a hobby.

The association’s focus is not riding bikes. They “support and protect those who have defended our country and our freedoms,” providing assistance and help to individual veterans, veteran care facilities, other veteran organizations and registered charities.

Chris and Darryl on the road.

The stories these two heroes, Darryl and Chris, told of how they saved an old aged disabled vet from having to do a reverse mortgage; how they mowed lawns, repaired homes for other veterans, and others, made me gleam with pride.

These two are also riders for escorting veterans to their final resting places in a motorcycle escort. Darryl is a senior ride captain for the Patriot Guard Riders, who honor their lost fellow veteran.

So these two heroes decided to take a trip. They got on their bikes and took a trip. i keep writing “heroes.” i should explain why:

Darryl was on the USS Sellers (DDG 11) which was one of our ships off of Beirut when our Marines were killed in the bombing. The ship was also in a confrontation with Iran in the Persian Gulf. He has developed spinal stenosis due to a shipboard accident.

Chris was in Iraq. He was the turret gunner in an Army armored vehicle. He received 100 wounds in the conflict and suffers from PTSD.

Heroes.

And they continue being good souls looking after veterans who have had a rough time and need help.

The trip. They took off from Atlanta and in four months, went through 22 states, one Canadian province, covering over 9,200 miles in four months. Their bikes make my Mazda 3 hatchback look small.

As this trip unfolded with my following it from the cloud and when we spent the afternoon with them, it occurred to me that this was the way it should be in our country. These two guys were two of the nicest guys i’ve been with in quite a while. They are patriots but they are loyal to the country and those who served with them. They were courteous, funny, loving life, and living that life to the fullest.

They are good people and folks should not throw them into some preconceived notion about motorcycle riders, veterans, or any other category they might choose to mislabel them.

These two guys are heroes.

Thanks, Darryl and Chris (Chris took this photo)

Just a Bit of a Vacuum

A Pocket of Resistance

Last night, Maureen and i settled into our usual routine of watching the Padres on TV, or at least Maureen watches to somewhere around the seventh inning when she heads for the bedroom to read before sleep. You see, the anxiety she suffers in close games is difficult.

This old sportswriter has a built in inability to leave a game before the ending. As Yogi said, “It ain’t over until it’s over.” A quote attributed to Dan Cook, a San Antonio sports announcer, but i like to think it was invented by Danny Murtaugh, the manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates in the 50s and 60s was “It ain’t over ’til the fat lady sings”. Those quotes and scorekeeping imbued in me to stick around. So i did.

Friday, i watched the Padres leading the Arizona Diamondbacks, 7-2, into the 9th, only to suffer a grand slam and two-run homer to fall behind 8-7. Then, in the bottom of the 9th begins with Jurickson Profar, an all-star, tie it with a home run, and then Manny Machado hitting a walk-off (he didn’t walk, he trotted) home run to win the game 10-8. Last night, i watched them lose in the “ghost runner” 10th inning, 7-5.

Throughout both games, i felt a vacuum. Jim Hileman and i shared Padre season tickets to Padre home games. Jim, like the preponderance of folks my age, has lost interest, not just the Padres but most professional sports — Jim still follows his Pittsburgh Steelers with a passion. The last guy around here who discussed Padre baseball with me was Marty Linville.

Marty was the subject of my short tribute Friday when he crossed the bridge. i kept feeling this vacuum of not being able to call or text him about a particular play or a particular call.

When Jim and i shared those tickets and Jim, Maureen, or Sarah couldn’t go, Marty was the guy with whom i most shared our tickets. We would sit and kibbitz over our beer and hot dogs for the entire game.

In the hospital room Friday, Rod Stark noted that he and Marty had been close friends for 40 years when Marty reported to the Naval Amphibious School Coronado in the Naval Gunfire department in 1984. i reported to the leadership department nine months later. That’s 39 years of a relationship with that man.

We drank together like the old sailor and soldier we were. We played golf together. We played softball together. We traveled on golf trips together. We dined with our wives together. We shared friends together.

i wrote to my daughter Blythe that i’m sure i will not ever again pick up a golf club, drink a gin and tonic, or have a martini without feeling like something was missing.

Something will be missing: sharing those things with Marty.

Ahh, stories about Marty will abound here in the future. He was a warrior. He was my friend.

Soldier Brave

A Pocket of Resistance

It is difficult for me as i write this.

There is this Soldier Brave who just lost his last battle. For this battle, he did not volunteer. He is a true warrior who defended our country, our constitution, our flag. Major James Martin “Marty” Linville, USA, retired, has defended you, me, and our country well. He passed away this morning.

The foes in his last battle were the afflictions to which he was exposed in defense of us.

i will undoubtedly write more, much more about this incredible man. But for now, i will take in a deep breath and try, try to behave and think in a manner i believe Marty would wish me to think and behave.

Along with his wife Linda, who was holding him, and his daughter Michelle, who was stroking her mother’s back in support, i was with him when Michelle had just put her phone to Marty’s ear, and his son Michael, over a thousand miles away, told him of his love for his father. When Michael concluded, Marty took his last breath.

He was a warrior, one with whom i played golf for thirty-nine years. He is one of my closest friends.

Rest in peace, Soldier Brave. You’ve earned it.