i must be improving. By this time for the past five nights, i have been stuffed with pills and trying to figure out how i can minimize the crud from continual interruption of sleep. i feel that way now, but the urge to write — i was going to write “put something down on paper” and that remains the greatest joy of writing to me, but just too damn inefficient for one who is much like my mother’s description of my father as a “worm in hot ashes” — was strong, and i obeyed. So i think i’m getting better.

i could not talk to Maureen or my daughters tonight. The hoarseness is abating i think, but it’s still work to talk.

So i sit in my office thinking about lonely things. i guess that’s natural if you have been alone (except for Maureen’s cats) for two days. In my life, i have often felt alone and identified with lonely things. i don’t think that is terribly bad. It could be good.

In my world of growing up, i lived a full life, running through it like a bull hell bent to do everything one could possibly do. But in my way, i was lonely, just me. i was wild, or at least as wild as a Tennessee boy could be who had matriculated to the Southern version of Ivy (Vanderbilt) and had made what has turned out into a life-long connection to the Navy.  But i never seemed, at least to me, to quite fit in, anywhere. Even with the women i loved, there seemed to be a loneliness.

Perhaps that was because of the time. Regardless of what we thought then or now politically, culturally, religiously, we were mostly a generation of romantics in oh so many ways. Perhaps that uncertainty created by being romantics in a both practical and insane world we lived required us to identify with the lonely things. i did.

In 1966, there was this gentle soul who captured the imagination of many in my age range. He was the flower child of gentleness, not the in your face, wild-haired confrontational onslaught of the beatniks. Rod McKuen wrote some soothing stuff for romantics. Folks nowadays might call it sappy. Perhaps that is why when Sharry Baird Hager once called some of my writing “sappy,” i took it as a compliment.

He wrote a lovely romantic book of poetry called Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows (1966). i read it at sea in the Navy soon after my first divorce. i heard him recite it sometime shortly afterward. i was entranced.  He captured my sense of lonely things.

Then, there was this guy, a member of a folk trio, The Limelighters. He left his folk group to perform on his own and recorded an album “Glenn Yarborough Sings the Rod McKuen Songbook” in 1969. i bought it in 1970 in the Navy exchange in Sasebo, Japan. i listened to
“The Lonely Things” incessantly on my 22 trips between Sasebo, Korean, and Vietnam that year. i still have it.

After all, i was into lonely things.

Yarborough took the last verse of “Stanyan Street” and recorded that on the album as “The Lonely Things.” If you care not to listen to Yarborough’s version or McKuen reciting “Stanyan Street” on the web, then i offer the lyrics of those verses here:

The silent rain that falls, the meadowlark
the winter wind that calls the lovers from the park
the sad and bitter song December sings
these are the lonely things.

The sun behind the clouds, the starless night
when you’re alone in crowds the need for sudden
flight
the empty loneliness that parting brings
these are the lonely things.

A taste of love too soon gone wrong
the sad mistaken heart that heard the sirens song
and sang along.

The waves that drum the shore at morning light
the friends that come no more to try and make things
right
the hopes that fly too soon as though on wings
these are the lonely things.

And these lonely things aren’t really all that bad. In fact, they can be beautiful. If only you think about it in the right way.

i don’t think many would call my day today a good day.

i didn’t get a whole lot of solid sleep because of the persistent coughing and strange noises coming from my innards, not to mention the drainage, the head tightness, and the sore throat. Oh yes, for most of the day, i couldn’t talk, at least not well.

i continued to put down pills like peanuts at a baseball game.

Oh yes, it has been blustery, drizzly and sometimes rainy day in the Southwest corner, a veritable raging storm for out here in May. Cool too.

Then mid-morning, i put Maureen on her flight to Austin. My entire immediate family is 1300 miles away for five days when i get one back.

Not being able to sleep well, i dedicated the day to watching sports on television. i watched Vanderbilt lose to Missouri, 2-1 in twelve innings, the first time, ever. My horse, Battle of Midway (of course) showed, a 37-1 shot that held a lead for a while. Disappointed.

So i watched the Padres lose to the Dodgers, 10-2.  What once a long time ago across the country in Brooklyn was my favorite team (until my Pirates came along) is now my nemesis. i’m a Padre fan.

While doing so, i fixed me a grill cheese with some boxed tomato soup Maureen gets from Trader Joe’s. It’s pretty good and i make a mean grilled cheese, but it didn’t seem all that good tonight. Just something to get down.

It wasn’t the catfish dinner, my LHS ’62 class enjoyed back home. Theresa Wright kindly sent me some photos from her phone. i saw these people, my childhood friends, and i wanted to talk to them right then.

Oh, i could go on and on, but i need to go to bed for some more fitful sleep.

But you know what?

i feel pretty good.

i’m getting better. My childhood friends apparently had a great time. The weather is going to clear up in a day or two and be San Diego wonderful. Vanderbilt and the Padres are fun to watch. Battle of Midway showed well for those odds.

And back in Austin, i have five of the most wonderful people in my life enjoying themselves, enjoying each other. And they all have such wonderful promise ahead of them. Even if it is without me.

It may be strange, but that is a comforting, peaceful realization: they are mine and they are just fine without me. i think that means i’m okay.

Strange.

Right about now, i should be completing packing up my rental car at Berry Field (Nashville International Airport to those who do not remember).

In a few minutes, i should be on the road, I-40 East.  The first time i was on that road it was in the late winter 1964. I drove a 1959 Vauxhall i had coerced from my sister for my work car while at The Nashville Banner. My father followed me in the 1955 Pontiac Chieftain, his work car. He had come to usher me home so he could fix some problems with the Vauxhall.

Because of the car problems, Jimmy Jewell directed me to travel on the unfinished I-40, which turned to rock at the Davidson, Wilson County line. It was just about five miles on the rock road when the Vauxhall gave out. We parked it on the side where the next morning Daddy would bring the wrecker to haul it into Hankins, Byars, and Jewell on East Main. He would, as with all things automotive, get it running, and i would drive it back to Nashville. On US 70. Paved.

i planned to try and identify where we left it 53 years ago. It will be tough. i’m not even sure there was a 109 exit. i think there was an exit under construction in Mount Juliet. The only exit in Lebanon was at US 231. Four lanes all the way. Rock.

The problem is i’m not packing the rental car and searching for the spot that Vauxhall died. i will not be sleeping in the Harding’s guest room on Tarver and having a morning coffee out on the backyard patio with a discussion with Henry and Brenda in what has become one of my favorite things about being in Lebanon.

i am sitting in my family room chair watching the Padres and Rockies in a good pitching duel, 1-1 in the bottom of the sixth. i have just had a wonderful chicken, rice, and salad supper Maureen invented in the clutch. i wasn’t supposed to be here. The doctor confirmed i made a good decision. He loaded me up with enough meds to, as my mother would say, choke a horse. It’s mostly preventative, but i am coughing still. i think it will take an unknown number of days, hopefully two or three. But it was the right decision.

It sucks.

i am missing Lebanon and Nashville more than i can remember. The Padres are now leading 6-1 in the bottom of the seventh. i am not real interested and not likely to watch the whole thing, a cardinal sin since i can remember.

Doped up, i will sleep well. Hell, i am a champion sleeper. Been that way all of my life. Father trained. (Several other stories there).

i will wake up, early as usual i suspect, tomorrow morning and realize i will not be talking with Henry and Brenda on the patio. But at least, Henry got the guest bedroom cleaned up and saved some major bucks by not buying some liquor and wine for me (That’s another story in the goofy guy and Harding legends to be told later). i will not be calling my friends and family in Lebanon and from Vandy to solidify my schedule for the next ten days. i’ve got a clean slate…except for that small matter of beating this crap that left me at home.

So Blue Devils of 1962, tell your tales. Vandy and Lebanon friends, enjoy the golf we scheduled (if it doesn’t rain you out).

And Lebanon, don’t change too much more before i get back.

As i said, this sucks.

Maureen is in her usual place, lying on the love seat with one cat snuggling by her side and the other on her legs. She is purportedly reading but there is really more sleeping going on. She will soon give up and go to bed.

It has been one of those special evenings for me, quite accidentally i might add.

Today, i reengaged with fitness, of my determination i should qualify. i tired of being a slug. At some point about two months ago, i said the hell with it. After all, i’m 73, not an old 73 but still 73, ancient. i should be able to do what i wish for the remaining years. Right?

Then i thought about some things. My parents lived to just shy of 99 and 97 respectively. Good genes, right? But i have lived a much wilder life than they and don’t expect to make it to their age. However, my goal is to make it to at least 85. i want to see my grandson Sam graduate from college. Since i have been wilder, i need to work on lasting more than Mother and Daddy ever did.

Then, there are my friends and me. Several have had some major procedures concerning health issues in the last month or so. My concerns about my condition have continued to prove minor. i am about the only one of friends my age who can still run, albeit rather pitiful to how we all used to run. Dammit, i owe it to them.

So in the last two days, i started running again. Sort of. In my last Navy tour, i ran at lunch, from the Naval Amphibious School along Coronado’s beach to the security fence of North Island Naval Air Station. It was about a 48 minute run, roughly six miles. i did that every weekday from early may 1985 until the end of November 1989.

It was a good run: full of life, enjoyment.

So i decided to work up to running 48 minutes. Today, i ran (my interpretation) for 11 of those 48 minutes. Oh hell yeh, it’s only about half the distance i used to cover in that time. But so what? i’m 73. Feeling good. Oh yeh, oh yeh.

Then i worked on packing and arranging for my trip home. Yup. This is my home, but Lebanon, Tennessee is also my home…forever.

This evening, Maureen and i chose to fix our own fish we had bought at “Blue Water,” an incredible sea food diner and deli. Maureen chose sea bass. i got opah. She did one of her magic cooking jobs on hers. i did some swags on the marinade and grilled mine.

i grilled it in our new “egg” knock off.  We bought it about three months ago. It’s magic but requires me to cook rather than my previous guess and by-golly approach to grilling. i eschew any grilling without charcoal. If i’m not grilling with charcoal, why not cook inside?

It was a lovely twilight. Grilling fresh opah, one of my favorites. My world behind me, ahead of me, here right now. So i gave in. A martini with JJ Cale as the opah grilled to its glory.

As usual, we ate on dinner trays in the family room.

i had recorded the playoff in this weekend’s golf tournament. We watched. It was rather anti-climatic. But we enjoyed. Maureen even liked a taste of my grilled opah. We shared the Lanzarote. It’s a rose wine from the Canary Island of Lanzarote. We bought it at the wine tasting last Thursday in San Francisco. Thanks, Alan Junior. The meal was about as good as it gets for an evening meal. The wine was perfect, and i’m not a big fan of rose.

After the golf, we watched the end of the second Sherlock Holmes movie. Maureen decided she didn’t wish to hear bad so we didn’t watch the news, not even PBS. i’m all for that all of the time.

We turned off the television. i put Dvořák’s 9th, the “New World” Symphony on the portable whatever it is connected to my invaluable iPod. It is one of the few pieces i could hear over and over and over…again and again and again.

When Anton’s piece concluded, i took the whatever that new technological magic is into our bathroom to shower. i put the selection on shuffle. i finished the evening ritual and came back to this infernal computer. But i continued to play my iPod.

It occurred to me i have learned to appreciate all kinds of music. Tonight, i listened to JJ Cale, Dvořák, the Carter Family, Andrea Bocelli, Charles Mingus, Flatt and Scruggs, and Joe Williams. It’s pretty nice to be without prejudice.

Maureen is in bed now. She read out. i am checking all things internet, at least in my limited capabilities to check out all things internet.

Tomorrow afternoon, i will head for Tennessee. Nine days back home. i cannot wait to see my friends, visit places so dear to me, relish Tennessee May.

But as i sit here in the final hours of a Southwest corner day, i have to admit, they just don’t come much better than this.

i hope your day was as good as mine.

It is Monday morning. i am awake, waiting for Maureen and Alan and Maren Hicks to rise before packing.

It’s travel time. Back to San Diego. Home. The drive to San Francisco’s airport will take about an hour in traffic. The flight will be just over an hour, but the airlines have turned short trips into all-day affairs.

That’s okay.

It has been a glorious weekend with the Hicks.  Alan and Maren took us to Alan Jr’s wine shop, Arlequin over on Hayes Street,  for tasting wines from the Canary Islands — the wines were delicious and unique — after we arrived on Thursday. Friday, we spent several hours, i gawking, at “Monet: The Early Years” exhibit at The Legion of Honor Museum, a piece of art in its own right.

Following lunch at Alan’s Sausalito Yacht Club, we drove to their home in Sonoma. Alan grilled pork tenderloin. Maren and Maureen prepared vegetables and salad. i sat around.

We studied the stars in their backyard with the shadows of the grapevines in the abutting Sebastiani vineyard looming in the dark across the fence.

Saturday, the ladies went to book signing of a cookbook writer, featuring her new book on Middle Eastern cuisine (i think). Alan and i walked around Plaza de Sonoma and nearby streets with a late lunch.

Steve and Maria Frailey joined by their neighbor, Leslie Yellen flew in from San Diego midday Saturday. We met the Frailey’s and Leslie at Murphy’s Pub for a delightful celebration of Maria’s 55th birthday. Sara Petite and her band performed. Sara has been a long time favorite of Maria and they are friends. Sara is also a terrific song writer and singer. Her band matches her in talent. We sat up front. Except for some way too old yahoo playing the spoons, it was a wonderful evening.

Sunday, we met the San Diego threesome at the Buena Vista Winery. Then we ate lunch at “Sonoma’s Best” deli, truly more of a wine shop than a deli. It lived up to its name. The Reuben was great. The Shebang red wine perfect for a Reuben.

Nap time before dinner with the seven at the Depot Hotel, no longer a depot and no longer a hotel, but a great place to eat Italian al fresco, sorta.

Then, it was over. As usual, i woke early. Packing day. But first at first light, i walked in the backyard on the tan rock path. The day would be overcast. It was spring cool. Near the fence, i stopped to gaze at the irises, Tennessee’s state flower, you know. For some reason, it brought a neo-gospel to mind. i thought it came from slaves. It didn’t. Some guy named Tom Dorsey — no, not that Tom Dorsey — wrote it in 1947, and the country and rock singers, even Elvis rolled with it, even later, Little Richard. i liked it better when i didn’t know better and thought its origin was different. But it was still just right for the moment: the early morning moment next to a vineyard in the Valley of the Moon. Sonoma. Fit the weekend too.

As i looked at the flowers, i remembered the words:

i’m tired and weary but I must toil on
Till the Lord come to call me away
Where the morning is bright and the Lamb is the light
And the night is fair as the day.

There’ll be peace in the valley for me some day
There’ll be peace in the valley for me
I pray no more sorrow and sadness or trouble will be
There’ll be peace in the valley for me.

There the flow’rs will be blooming, the grass will be green
And the skies will be clear and serene
The sun ever shines, giving one endless beam
And the clouds there will ever be seen.

Where the bear will be gentle, the wolf will be tame
And the lion will lay down by the lamb
The host from the wild will be led by a Child
I’ll be changed from the creature I am.

No headaches or heartaches or misunderstands
No confusion or trouble won’t be
No frowns to defile, just a big endless smile
There’ll be peace and contentment for me.

Thanks, Steve, Maria, Leslie for sharing. And thanks, Alan and Maren for peace in the valley.