i awoke, did my morning chores, and i was taking the cat litter box leavings out to the trash when it hit me:
i am not going to root first for any particular teams in the major league baseball playoffs. My number one rooting platform dawned me this morning as i scanned the sports headlines and learned all four playoff series were sweeps., i.e. four wildcard teams had swept the other four. That meant the owners and the networks lost four games of revenue. i then added up how many games would not be played if all of the series were sweeps. The total number is twenty-one games would not be played.
i’m rooting for every series in the playoffs are sweeps.
That’s what i’m rooting for: that the four division series are won in five games series, the two league series are won in four games, and the world series is one in four games. Along with the four games already not played that number is twenty-one. 21!
That my friends is a chunk of change lost.
i think these owners and the networks televising the playoffs don’t need anymore money, and might consider quit changing rules of what was once a beautiful sport for four to seven games in October. Nah, that ain’t gonna happen. Those coin counters aren’t going to let that happen.
Wednesday, October 4, 2023. the sun had obeyed the meridian and was rising later; the sky was dark, well before first light; there were no clouds: only the street light and next door’s outdoor light impacted my night vision slightly and there were more stars than i had seen in at least a year. Venus, Regulus, Sirius, Jupiter spoke to me and i returned to when the skies filled the heavens like lights on a Christmas tree only doubled or tripled up, a wonderful sight i only saw at sea like the Indian Ocean oh so many years ago when i would take a break from my tasks as number two, walk out to the weather decks, stand at the safety rail, looking skyward thinking not of the stars but of you, glorious, beautiful you so, so right for me.
“Ah! The good old time — the good old time. Youth and the sea. Glamour and the sea! The good strong sea, the salt, bitter sea, that could whisper to you and roar at you and knock the breath out of you.”
i sat in the dark in my comfortable non-reclining chair, reclining…sort of. It was in what is called, i think, the “family room” after being a “den” for as long as i can remember. Either took the living out of the “living room.” Blythe’s mother and i once owned a home in Bryan, adjacent College Station, Texas which had a “great room.” It was a living room and den/family room combination. Cool idea, but it wasn’t particularly “great.” Good plan, though.
But i digress.
i’m sitting in the darkened room with only a night light on the other side providing any light at all. You see, we’ve had smatterings of rain through the day, and some more serious stuff, like may a quarter of an inch predicted through the night. Kidding, right? Rain in the Southwest corner at the end of September. RAIN! Folks, this is Santa Ana season, when the highs sitting over us brings desert hot air, zero humidity, and high winds we call “Santa Ana’s” after the long ago Mexican egotist who killed Davy Crockett at the Alamo and eventually got his just due from Sam Houston: Tennesseans, you see. It is supposed to be wildfire season and the weather guessers keep playing it up while wearing rain gear.
But i digress. You have probably figured out by now that i digress a lot.
Because i sat in the darkened room and simply let my mind rest and roam, thinking about all of the things on which i could digress.
But i digress.
The Padres penultimate game in a season disappointing to most was long over. Maureen had gone to bed so she wouldn’t have to watch the end as that as been a continuing depressing couple of innings nearly all season long. i, being a contrarian and an old, old sports writer, take a different slant. This has been one of the most interesting teams i’ve ever watched in any sport. i found the drama interesting. And the old sportswriter remained true to his rule of watching all sports events to the end, because as Yogi Berra said, “It ain’t over ’til it’s over,” and what i thought was generated by Casey Stengel but, in fact, was first uttered by Ralph Carpenter, the Texas Tech sports information director when Texas A&M came back to tie the to tie the Red Raiders in 1976 for a 72–72 tie late in the Southwest Confernce tournament finals in 1976. The Red Raiders won 74-72, but Carpenter’s comment has become legendary, but Carpenter hasn’t gotten the credit he deserved.
But i digress.
For you see, in the dark of night, i closed my eyes and i saw things i could not see in the light.
After that ball game, i returned to Joseph Conrad, reading his “Youth: a Narrative” of a sea story of the 19th century gone south, about as bad as it could get. In years past long ago, i was close enough to understand.
i could feel it. Feel it.
As i read with intensity as the old hulk of a ship was meeting its demise. i could feel it intensely, intensely enough to stop reading for the night.
i closed the book, the short story would be completed. But not tonight.
When you are my age and not an abject politician, i think most of us spend a great deal of time in reflexion of our past.
Sitting here in the dark, Joseph Conrad and i reflected. Mr. George Dickel of Tullahoma, Tennessee helped us along. And i thought of Conrad and how he could conjure up tales of disaster in the Gulf of Thailand. i wondered how close he got to the dangers of those years with wooden ships, sails still competing with steam, and peril. My peril in my sailing days was slight compared to Conrad’s but when ti happened, it was real, very real.
i think there is a bond with sailors and the sea. i feel it when i read Conrad. i live with it as a part of me.
Thank you, Joseph. i think of you now. i thought of you when i was in Singapore in the old Raffles Hotel, your hangout. Because of you, i ordered the original Singapoer Sling in that bar where you sat with the one leather belt driven fans with arms of bamboo gently rotating quietly while the waiters in sarongs wandered about. Did you like these things that taste like sweet cough syrup?
Think i’ll stick with Mr. Dickel and gin martinis.
That is the number of the Tennessee State Highway that cuts through Gallatin almost directly south to US 70, more commonly known back in his and my days as the Nashville Pike. 109 has changed and grown enormously since my days back home. i’m not sure if that is good or bad. It’s changed. Change is inevitable. I like many changes since my youth. There are also a lot changes i don’t like, but i try to deal with the good and bad.
i think he would approve of my approach. He might even chuckle at my comparing TN 109 to his age. September 28, 1914 was when he was born, the fifth of seven children of Hiram Culley and Carrie Myrtle Orand, who moved a whopping 26 miles around 1900 from the farming community of Statesville to the big county seat of Wilson County, Lebanon, Tennessee, population 1,956. When he was born, i doubt TN 109 was nothing more than a country lane. The big town of Lebanon had two paved roads, a coal fired steam plant that provided 500 homes and businesses electric power.
To say it was a long time ago is pretty much redundant. i just wish that the powers that be had kept him around for the rest of my lifetime.
But that isn’t the way life works. i know from my discussions with him, he is perfectly okay with that. So am i.
i was just going to repost the one i wrote last year about his birthday, but i had to add how much i miss my best friend. The below is a revised version of that post. i can’t add much to that.
Happy 109th birthday, Daddy:
…i still miss him terribly. He would chastise me for that. i have written volumes praising him until he told me to stop.
After he passed just shy of 99, i have praised him again, often. i don’t think i can add to that. Below are two items i wrote about him that he liked. i don’t think i need to add anything.
An Incredible Man (2000)
There is an incredible man in Lebanon. He was born September 28, 1914.
The first record of his family in America dates to 1677. His great, great, great grandfather came over the Cumberland Gap to Kentucky with Daniel Boone and apparently was Daniel’s brother-in-law. His great, great grandfather moved to Statesville in southeastern Wilson County in the early 1800’s.
He had three brothers and three sisters. He is the only one left.
He has lived through two world wars, fighting as a Seabee in the southern Philippines in the last one. He has lived through the depression, the cold war, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and the Persian Gulf War.
He had to quit his senior year at Lebanon High School to go to work when his father contracted tuberculosis. He started as a mechanic, shared a business with his brother-in-law in the 1950’s, and then became a partner in an automobile dealership and a gas and oil distributorship. He retired in 1972.
He and his wife have been married for 62 years. They remain infatuated with each other. The first home they owned was a one-room house, adjacent to his wife’s family farm on Hunter’s Point Pike. They bought their next home on Castle Heights Avenue in 1941 with the help of a $500.00 loan from a friend. They have lived there ever since.
He and his wife put three children through college. They have five grandchildren. They have visited every state in the Union, except Alaska, where they were headed in 1984 when his wife’s illness forced them to turn around in British Columbia. Nearly all of their travel has been by RV’s, most in a twenty-eight foot fifth-wheel. When he was 87 and his wife was 84, they made their last cross-country trip to San Diego where they spent winters since 1985 with their eldest son and his family. They have made several trips up and down the east coast since then, and the fifth-wheel is still ready to go in their backyard.
They live comfortably in their retirement. Most people guess his age as early 70’s. Last month, he painted their master bedroom and sanded and painted the roof of his two-car carport. When he can’t find anyone to go fishing with him, he hooks up the boat trailer and goes by himself. Now he usually throws his catch back in. When he used to bring the catch home, he would clean the fish and give them away. He doesn’t like to eat fish, just catch them.
For years, he had the reputation as the best mechanic in Wilson County. He can still fix anything except computers and new cars because he has shunned learning the electronic advances.
All of this isn’t why this man is incredible.
He is incredible because he is such a good man.
He is a willow. He bends with the winds of change and the changes of “progress.” Yet he never breaks. His principles remain as solid as a rock. He is extremely intelligent but humble.
He seems to always be around when someone needs help. Everyone considers him a friend and he reciprocates.
He is not rich, financially. But he is one of the richest men around.
My generation’s fathers were family men. They lived through hard times and hard work without a whimper. They believed in giving a day’s work for a day’s pay. They kept their sense of humor. Their sons wish they could emulate them.
Jimmy Jewell, or James Rye Jewell, Sr., this remarkable man, remains my best friend. I am his oldest son. I have worshipped him since the first recallable thoughts came into my head fifty-three or so years ago. I still find myself wishing I could have his strength, his kindness, his work ethic, his love, his faith.
My father and I have had enough talks for him to know how I feel. But I’ve seen too many people wait until someone was gone before singing their praises publicly. I figure he’s got a good chance to outlive us all, but I wanted to acknowledge how much he means to me and how great a man I think he is.
Happy eighty-sixth birthday, Dad.
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 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.
