It is a drizzly, dour, Saturday morning. i feel blessed to be in the Southwest California for the rest of California is getting smacked in the face with snow and rain. This little section of the state, nay, the country is usually like there is some kind of invisible shield.

The shield was admittedly down back around my January birthday when the lower areas od San Diego were flooded. Most of the time, those big storms veer around the Southwest corner.

Still, today is not a good day for tromping around a golf course, or long walks, and, although this is the kind of weather i enjoy for walks on the beach, it is not an attractive activity except for old salts, crazy ones like me.

So i arose for dreary day work stuff. Then my day changed when i read a sports article on line and got…Hope.

For the last several months, really stretching into a year or two, my buddies and i have had a running discussion on the state of college athletics, especially the major sports, and especially Vanderbilt. Including is this group are two former Vanderbilt basketball stars from my era. Jerry Southwood and Kenny Gibbs played on the Vanderbilt teams that excelled (and would have been in the NCAA finals in 1964-65 except for a horrible call in the last two minutes against Michigan — but i’ve sang this song before).

Our discussions have centered around recruiting, the Name, Image, Likeness (NIL) rules (which in my mind, makes the college athlete a professional athlete), the transfer portal (which, in my mind, throws loyalty and team spirit out the window). Then a month ago, Vanderbilt’s Vice-Chancellor for Athletics, Candice Lee, asked supporters to encourage their congressmen to look into the current practices in the NCAA, especially the NIL.

i forwarded that request to my brothers and several others. It struck me as appropriate Jerry and Kenny were more skeptical because, as Jerry, said, that horse is out of the barn. We also have been discussing something a late brother, Joe Francis advocated years ago: Vanderbilt, Northwestern, Stanford, Rice, Tulane, Wake Forest, and other good academic schools form their own conference and have true college athletics.

i have been a strong supporter of Vanderbilt succeeding in the SEC, even against very strong odds. A good deal of that comes from my belief in the late David Williams who preceded Candice as head of Vandy athletics, and Candice herself pursuing college athletics the right way or as David Williams coined, “the Vandy way.”

i have been losing faith in the possibility of success in the SEC.

This morning, i read “The Athletic” story on Ray Davis by Zak Keefer entitled “Ray Davis grew up homeless, now he seeks to be a ‘name you’ll remember forever.

My hope is restored.

i can’t come up with numbers of success stories that would make others feel Vanderbilt doing it the right way is worth staying the course, but i think Vandy being part of Ray Davis’ story is worth it.

Unfortunately, i cannot embed the link in the post. i’m sure this is because one must have a subscription to read. i hope you can find it. It’s worth it.

My only snarky comment about this afternoon…okay, okay, i’m likely to be unable to resist and make a couple more before this super bowl (no caps because it ain’t) is when i first came in for the evening, the game was about six minutes old. The color commentator described the 49er back as “running downhill.” i have bitched about this terribly bad description since the field is level for a long time. And then i wondered has anyone heard one of these talking heads say a runner “ran uphill?”

i came in to be social. Maureen is interested in the game, but she wants to watch the commercials – she has mixed reviews thus far.

When it began, i went outside, not sure i would return until the game was over. i am, admittedly, a curmudgeon who disdains hype of which this super bowl extravaganza is about 95% hype. Hey, it’s everyone’s thing. The deal of the hour we have to watch. i have dedicated Chiefs and 49er fans on both sides of my family. i’m happy for them. i’m happy for all the folks who are stuffing themselves with food and drink at the parties. After all, i remember when the NFL championship ended in early December. There was one college bowl game, the Gator Bowl, on New Year’s Eve, and four, in order, the Sugar Bowl, the Cotton Bowl, the Rose Bowl, and the Orange Bowl — note not one had a company name in their title — on New Year’s Day. It was just as much an incredible array of food and drink across the country. So i’m not claiming it was better. But it wasn’t as commercial. AND it was over on January First.

Outside, i sat down with martin and patio heater, and a book, a marvelous book. Shortly after i settled in, i heard this rustle in the sky. Winging low was a raven — it has taken me a long time for me to differentiate between a raven and a crow. i’ve finally figured it out. The wingbeat was impressive. i don’t think i’ve heard it before. Then i wondered how Edgar Allan ascribed “Nevermore,” such a beautiful lyrical word, to the “caw” of a raven.

i took my moment and connected the raven to Poe and felt connected, peaceful.

While the event of the day was beginning, i turned to my book. i have some surprises for several friends, so i won’t reveal all about this book, but i will quote a passage from the southwest Pacific 125 years ago:

When I came to a Samoan village, the chief did not ask the price of gin, or say “How will you pay for roast pig?” but “Dollar, dollar,” said he; “white man know only dollar.

“Never mind dollar. The tapo has prepared ava; let us drink and rejoice.” The tapo is the virgin hostess of the village; in this instance it was Taloa, daughter of the chief. “Our taro is good; let us eat. On the tree there is fruit. Let the day go by; why should we mourn over that? There are millions of days coming. The breadfruit is yellow in the sun, and from the cloth-tree is Taloa’s gown. Our house, which is good, cost but the labor of building it, and there is no lock on the door.”

So, i sat there in the Southwest corner, wishing i could have visited the Southwest Pacific two score and a century ago where the world was pacific and the wild, enjoyable, commercial event was raging inside.

Now, i’m not immune. i am watching the end, the playoff is about to begin. But i do wish the world was a little bit different where we could “never mind dollar” and have “Our house, which is good, cost but the labor of building it, and there is no lock on the door.”

the land was parched from the drought;
the skies held nary a cloud;
the crops had died;
the vines were withered;
dust filled the air;
it was his land, his fathers’ land,
dying without the rain;
nearly all of the folks around
abandoned their land;
his wife left with his son
to go back east to her family
where the land was wet and ripe
for living;
at dusk one day,
he walked down to the river,
about a mile and half away;
the old dog followed him,
as much to drink
from the shrinking river flow
as to be by his side;
he sat down by the riverside
on a log from an old dead tree;
he thought of praying,
but
gave it up:
he didn’t know what to pray;
he sat silently in the dust of twilight
and
then
he began to cry;
he was not sad;
he was not angry;
he just began to cry;
something unlike him,
he just began to cry;
he did not know
how long he cried
but
when he stopped
the land was dark,
the skies had clouds
and
he found his tears
were joined by rain,
the precious rain
running down the banks
to the river,
muting the dust,
irrigating the fields,
giving the land a breath of fresh air;
and
hope.
he rose and began his walk
back home to the small farm house;
the old dog followed at his side;
he slept on the swing
on his porch that night
to smell and feel the rain
and
wondered if his crying
had made his world all right.

Begun several weeks ago. Finished tonight — it took me a while to really escape.

i got footballed out this afternoon. To be more precise, i just got tired of sports today being determined more by manufactured rules, bad officiating (although their job is impossible with the subjectivity of vague rules), and penalties real or unreal.

Once again, i find myself out of touch with the way things are today. No, i didn’t walk to school for five miles in snow, but when i played sports, even golf today, i not only tried to avoid penalties (and i still believe that it is cheating to commit a penalty on purpose. — lord, lord, lord, does anyone use the phrase “on purpose” anymore). And if my team won because it cheated, to me it was an empty win, worse than losing.

Roy Rogers, Trigger, Gene Autry, Champion, Hopalong Cassidy, Topper, and Bob Steele would be proud of me. But today, i feel out of touch, behind the times.

Before the football extravaganza of inequity today, i did some work while Maureen lunched with a bunch of her friends. i actually put a dent in the to-do list, an anomaly, before watching the macho men act like whiny little cry babies. That’s when i said to myself i was done.

i decided to do something i don’t do often enough. i made a martin, took the fixings, and climbed our slope to the top. There, i looked out to the Pacific horizon. The setting sun splashed off of the San Diego skyline, Navy ships were silhouetted below. Point Loma loomed as a guide to sailors seeking refuge. Behind me, Mount Miguel loomed in the descending shadows as majestic.

The inclined path to our chairs will be more daunting in the future. Tonight, it was relative easy ascent. i wondered about the strange indentations in the path, paw prints. What kind of new breed of wildlife was now encroaching on our slope. We’ve had red-tailed hawks, owls, coyotes, bobcats, Southwest rattlesnakes, king stakes, groundhogs, polecats, tree rats, and even a fox or two over thirty-four years try to claim that territory. Their kind have backed off recently.

But these tracks were none of those.

Then i remembered. Right before i celebrated turning old, i heard a noise at the top of our hill while i was working on a project in the backyard. i looked up to see a slender young woman walking on the old hiking trail. This used to be a common sight. Hikers and horse riders would even stop and rest in my little sitting area at the top, enjoying the views. But the open space maintenance boys let the path through a grove of manzanitas down the hill from us grow over — damn near killed myself about eight or nine years ago, like the bozo i am, trying to struggle through the thick limbs and overgrowth. i surmised she must have come up along the neighbors’s fence lines, she had what i thought was a goat on a leash. Another pranced, unleashed, behind. i thought they were goats. Upon reflection, i realized they were too large to have been goats. i am pretty sure they were llamas. They were gone by the time i got Maureen and Sarah to look. There is something in that moment, i think is an important message to me. i don’t know what it is.

It has been a couple of weeks ago since i started this whine turning into an appreciation of where i am. Many things have changed. i turned old and celebrated it. Maureen and i have dined in serveral new wonderful places. We have reconnected with friends. The storms came in rolling, rolling, rolling. Our choice of a home, which never included location in concern of rain was made 34 years ago. It certainly was a good choice in that regard. For all of the folks who have expressed concern, thank you, but we live on almost the top of one of the tallest hills in the area.

Our concerns about such storms are mud slides, which Maureen mitigated with bougainvillea, ice plant and mulch, and we’ve greatly improved our yard drainage system. So we are in pretty good shape. Then midday, we got that cannot-be-ignored warning alarm on our phones that told us we were in a tornado watch. A what? A tornado watch in the Southwest corner has never, ever happened. But it did today. False alarm. It went away — oh lord, would i like to go on a rant here about folks taking sides on what the weather is and what causes it instead of working together to minimize the negative, or at least as much as we can, but then, i just can’t bring myself to that right now.

Bottom line: we are okay. The weather is breaking but we ain’t out of it yet and folks at lower levels and to the north of us have been hammered. We are mulling over how we can best help out.

About ten days ago, Craig Augsburger, who worked with Maureen during her career, loaned me a book, a special book. Joshua Slocum wrote it after circumnavigating the world on a sailboat he rebuilt in the late 1800s. i am entranced. i am connected. i have escaped. And later this week, i’m hoping to see that young woman walking her llamas on the riding /hiking trail on the crest of our slope.