Just before i began my exercise walk this morning, i was cleaning up my office before the cleaning ladies came to clean up our house, including my office. In fact, every other week on Thursday, we clean up the house so the cleaning ladies can clean up the house. It is a routine that i find totally illogical but cannot help myself to forge onward with the cleanup.

Regardless (a term i use regularly, which signals i am wandering off focus again, which is normal, and i flatter myself by calling it “stream of consciousness” because in my case, it is more likely a stream of unconsciousness), i was cleaning up before the cleanings of two types ensued, and in one of the extraordinary number of piles of stuff that somehow had been shuffled to an office desktop, the photo fell out. It was not labeled, but it must have been of a relative of a relative. A piece of cardboard was behind the back of the photo. It must have been a child dear to someone enough to have placed it in long lost small frame. An ulterior motive in posting it here is that some relative might know who is the beautiful, healthy infant in the photo.

The photo haunted me during breakfast and the cleanup. It kept haunting me through my walk. When i returned, i used my cool down period before a shower to scan it and place it here.

The child staring back at me hit me as gone. The past is irrevocably gone. Unless a relative actually figures out who this child is, which is an extremely remote possibility, this child is gone. Keeping the photo is a futile attempt to retrieve the past, and even if i do somehow find the name, the photo and the child in it are gone. None of us will know what the child grew up to be, if she or he indeed grew up, nor what he or she thought or did. i wondered if he or she played the piano, a curious thought. It strikes me as sad. Sad.

In spite of it being a perfectly beautiful, warm summer day in the Southwest corner, my walk, just over three-and-a-half miles in moderate hills, street walking unlike my favorite walk, a four-plus mile hike in the steep hill open space a block or so from our house soon to be cleaned after our cleaning up, my thoughts were tinged with sadness, in spite of some great music in my Airpods from my iPhone, something i would have killed for when i was mowing Fred and Ruby Cowan’s and J. Bill and Bessie Lee Frame’s yards back home.

That was probably a good thing. i wasted enough time singing the rock ‘n roll songs with the background music in my head while mowing and then sitting on our den floor across the street to take a “break” that somehow grew into an hour or so because i found something interesting to read and would have taken a longer break if they had anything on television back then other than the “Indian Head” (i knew it was a native American because of the headdress) nickel as the logo and only static for audio on the lone channel back until Kate Smith sang her heart out on her 3:00 show, which i had to suffer through to get to “Howdy Doody Time” in Lebanon, Tennessee back in those. years.

They were good times and i didn’t realize it. Gone. Sad.

And of course, i’m feeling guilty. Folks like me out here are always talking about leaving. Too many things not good going on. i’m a’thinking they haven’t been looking at the national weather or perhaps, even the news. i skip most of the news primarily it’s all bad regardless of where you live, but i do watch the weather. Better economic situation, they say. Better culture, they say. Better, better, better they say.

Now, i can’t say much about how it is elsewhere except for the weather. In spite of us complaining about it raining since January up until a couple of weeks ago and complaining about the marine layer elongating the May Gray and the June Gloom, keeping our temperatures in the 60’s to low 70’s for the last three months or so. i haven’t seen any place i’d rather be because of the weather. And then’s there’s calamities, natural disasters. Floods and blistering heat. Oh, we’ll get ours: wildfires primarily, but the threat of earthquakes and wildfires hang over us. But it’s still pretty good. As i have said on numerous occasions, i’ve been over a whole bunch of this earth, and most places have more “tens” on a ten point scale than San Diego. That’s because it’s relative, and when a good day comes in those other places, the occupants think it’s perfect. A ten in San Diego is very rare (we did have one last Saturday: No clouds, 72, slight breeze) because we have more “sevens,” “eights,” and “nines” than any other place on earth.

As for what’s going on in those other places, i’m a’thinking that’s because of that greener pastures thing. i’m sure the problems are different, but if politics is involved, it ain’t good anywhere, and a bunch of Californians moving there is just going to make things worse. We’ve already proved that in Washington State; Oregon; Austin, Texas; Nashville, Tennessee; name the next one. Don’t know the solution. Wouldn’t get involved. If i did i would be faced with the same political party pressure as anyone like Robert Redford’s character in the 1972 film, “The Candidate.” Too old for that kind of stuff, and no one would listen to me anyway because i’m no longer good in front of crowds. Sad.

i hope my family, friends, all Vermonters recover quickly from the flooding. i hope the South and Southwest get some relief for the heat from hell, especially my daughter’s family in Austin. Great places with troubles. Sad.

And i’m thinking of my brother-in-law. Danny’s recovering from heart surgery performed today. Nasty stuff. It looks like he weathered the storm. i’m thinking of so many other folks i know who are in my age arena and are dealing with similar problems or more, some who didn’t make it. Sad.

The walk felt good and most of the music scrambled today was blues, fitting.

As i hit the two-and-a-half mile mark, Crystal Gayle trilled into my Airpods. Remember her, Loretta Lynn’s sister, younger by 19 years. Never was a superstar. Saw her at Texas A&M with Judy McConnell, one of the best women i ever dated, Judy, not Crystal nor Loretta. Tiny woman with an incredible voice and long, long hair, Crystal, not Judy nor Loretta. And to close out my walk she, Crystal, sang, “Ready for Times to Get Better.”

‘Bout perfect. Logged my miles onto my walking-running sheet.

i’m not so sad anymore.

i was going to insert Crystal’s song “Ready for the Times to Get Better,” but being technically challenged, i couldn’t pull it off. Sad. Maybe later, when i am smarter…Nah.

This post is dedicated to Aunt Bettye Kate Hall. i ended up with several of her photo albums. My mother had almost duplicate albums. Joe and i went to Martha’s home in the winter of 2015 to sort through these albums and a few from my grandmother. We selected a representative number from the first one, taken sometime around the 1870’s, not counting some older daguerreotypes, tin types, ambrotypes, and possibly other types of old photography of relatives from Jewell and Prichard ancestries.

Martha has this collection and is scanning and organizing to make available for family members. i can assure you this is a monumental and time eating task.

Several years ago, i decided i would make the ones i have available to members of both sides of our family. i was pretty good for a year or two, but wore out. i am a bit reenergized and will try to follow this group with more frequent posts with family photos. These were taken in 1948, all but one in Orlando, i think. the ninth one shows the back of our home Castle Heights Avenue in its original construction. This is the one with Bill “Butch” Prichard on my tricycle apparently attempting to run over his younger brother Tim. i was probably upset Butch was on my trike my aside comments are in jest…just in case someone gets the wrong idea.

By the way, that porch in the photo was our magical fun place in inclement weather. We played there for hours, often with pieces of wood scraps provided by Uncle Snooks from his house construction business he ran with his older brother Ben Hall.

My inability to correctly align photos is demonstrated once again. Captions should be included…i hope.

For family, enjoy:

In my life, there have been three wondrous moments that have transcended most. Only one stands at the head of those three wonders. The latter was when i met Maureen. She and i have forged a relationship that is simply the way of a man and a woman should be for their lifetimes.

Tomorrow, the first of the other two occurred fifty-one years ago.

Now, i don’t think my life’s wondrous moments or my life itself are extra special. i’m sure most folks have their special wondrous moments as amazing as mine. But boy, mine sometimes whack me in the head with a magic wand. Other than meeting Maureen, the celebration of the one tomorrow was the first. But let’s consider the other two first.

Just over sixteen years ago, i winged from the Southwest corner to the hill country of Texas. My daughter Blythe gave birth to my grandson, Samuel James Jewell Gander. i arrived at the hospital around noon to hold him in my arms with his mother, father, grandmother there with me. i must point out again, Sam’s two middle names were to honor my father, Sam’s great grandfather. i said then and i repeat here, Sam was the forger of a beautiful relationship of a nuclear family. We all loved him and consequently loved each other a little bit more.

Then, on a cataclysmic fusion of events, November 30, 1989, our second daughter, Sarah was born. I’ve pretty well documented i had to leave the labor room to attend my Navy retirement ceremony and return for her birth. She has continued to be an amazing and wonderful young woman of whom i could not be more proud. Of course, i will write more of this wondrous moment in about four months. She and her moment remain one of the most wondrous events of my life.

The first of these wondrous events occurred fifty-one years ago tomorrow, July 7, 1972. It was a warm, humid day in Watertown, New York. i awoke, as usual for six days a week, around 5:00 am, quietly and hurriedly dressed, and walked just over two blocks from our upstairs apartment in a house on Keyes Avenue to the newsroom of The Watertown Daily Times. i arrived at my desk in the sports section and began to compose the pages for the afternoon sports section. i edited and sent all the copy to the linotypes and cold iron machines in the back room before deadline, followed it out, and with my crew, made up the lead type pages in the steel frames and checked the cold type pages for accuracy. i wrapped it up, had a sandwich and coke for lunch, made sure we were okay before press time and around 1:30 p.m. walked back to our apartment.

i asked my wife how she was feeling, and laid down for a nap when she said she was fine. About forty minutes later, she woke me up, calmly telling me she had broken water. i immediately went into a frenzy to take her to the hospital. Kathie calmed me down. She had packed her things for the hospital, made sure the house and our dog and cate were all in order, and was ready to go. i carefully walked her down the stairs and across the street to our car. i drove, er slightly faster than the speed limit, to the hospital and turned into the emergency entrance. She chastised me and instructed me to park in the regular parking. i obeyed and we walked to the check-in desk. They took us to the labor room. i stayed with her until they rolled her into the inner sanctum, where men, or at least the fathers, were not allowed. It was around 3:00 p.m. i found a pay phone and called her parents and mine, telling them of the pending birth of their grandchild — we had opted not to know the gender until birth.

i sat in this dark gray waiting room outside the delivery area for around six hours. i just sat there. i don’t know if i thought at all other than praying that Kathie and our child would be fine. It is possibly the loneliest six hours of my life. Finally, the doctor came out and told me i was the father of a beautiful daughter.

We had already decided on the name for a girl. Kathie picked a name from my family, “Blythe.” Her middle name of “Elizabeth” was connected to both sides of the family but primarily after Blythe’s grandmother, Nanny Bettie Lynch, and her great grandmother, Nanny Kat Lynch Hayes.

i walked in and, as usual, Kathie was her practical, no nonsense self. i kissed her and held my daughter Blythe for the first time.

She was, of course, beautiful, and she changed our lives radically. Kathie and i realized we needed more income to give her all she needed to grow up well and the surest way to ensure that was for me to forego my pursuit of a sports journalism career and return to Navy active duty. It was not easy but we did it. In just over month, we left a great place, and headed to Texas, so Kathie and Blythe could stay with Kathie’s parents while i went back to sea.

And to this day, i remain certain it was the right choice.

Her mother Kathie has passed too soon. But Kathie was wonderfully proud of her daughter and grandson. Blythe has become a success in every facet of her life.

And she remains one of the most wondrous things that has ever happened to me.

Happy Birthday, Blythe, oh daughter of mine. i love you.

dad

i claim it was the jacaranda that made me do it. Saturday loomed as the day to get done all i had put off all week. i arose with that intent, devoting the day to the never-ending, always growing to-do list as well as much needed exercises and a good swift walk.

i grumbled and felt badly. Most of our country was sweltering in unheard of heat and humidity. i had incredible Southwest corner weather: low 70s, slight sea breeze, no clouds. And the whipped cream was, because of the dour winter and spring, the jacarandas were still in bloom, usually done by mid-June. These kind of days have been rare this year out here. The weather guessers are predicting we are going to get the same kind of miserable heat elsewhere. i wanted loll about outside while it was possible. But i had vowed to get things done.

i decided to compromise with myself.

i chose to run my errands first. i headed down to Third Avenue in Chula Vista’s older city area. Currently, there is an effort to revive this older part of the city. It is a bit run down and does not feature The jeweler there needed more guidance on an old engine order telegraph to replace missing parts. i wanted it for memorabilia, knowing it would invariably be moved into my garage “workshop” even if was allowed inside the house before being relocated by a wife of mine — that was perfectly okay with me. My garage work space walls are line with my memorabilia. It is not so much a workshop, more like an escape. So i headed down the jacaranda lined streets to Third.

King’s Jewelry is a marvel in today’s world. It is a narrow space with counters on both sides to the reception table. the counters and the walls are crammed with clocks of every kind. Many are of the wood carved wind-up clock variety with glass fronts displaying the works and the gongs that can make you reel when they go off on the half-hour (one clang) and the hour (a clang for each hour, e.g. two o’clock = two clangs. Fortunately, none were wound. It is a private shop. These folks aren’t into uppity, high-end jewelry. i have the impression most of their business comes from repair of watches, clocks, and strange requests like some old Navy guy asking if they can come up with an arrow matching the one he lost for the Engine Order Telegraph repeater. They were not only courteous and helpful but were downright interesting in the project. i should have an update after the holiday tomorrow.

Man, it felt like old school.

Since i was on Third in Chula Vista (i will repeat a post with the poem i wrote more than a dozen years ago about Third after posting this one), i used the excuse of proximity to head to National City and Neiderfrank’s. It really isn’t that close and even more distant if the route is on surface streets. Since i avoid freeways as much as possible, i chose the longer route.

8th Avenue in National City is much like Third Avenue in Chula Vista. It is older, the chic upper class (they think) folks don’t go there much. No one is going to be impressed by their high-priced duds. You find working people there. The homes, mostly well kept, are modest bungalows from bygone days. Back when, i went there a lot, primarily for McDini’s. McDini’s originally was an amazing Irish pub, located downtown San Diego on Market Street, now a condo high rise haven with trendy restaurants. McDini’s shut down its operation and the National City restaurant became “McDini’s Baja,” a combination of Irish and Mexican fare. There is a post there all by itself. Later. It is shut down now. Sad.

But across the street on A Avenue stands Neiderfrank’s, truly an ice cream parlor par excellence.

The parlor was created in 1948. New owners took over in 1995 but retained the business in the exact way it had been run just shy of a half century. They didn’t change a thing.

That includes using an ice cream maker that is over 100 years old as well as the process that reduces the amount of aeration. They also have created or retained some great quotes like:

“We make our ice cream by some of the most antique, inefficient, outdated, and expensive process in the world,” and “We are so far behind in modern technology that we are about 100 years ahead.”

They are ahead of the world by retreating to a world i once knew. Neiderfrank’s is old school, my kind of old school.. The reason i went there was to get my fix of black walnut, my favorite ice cream since i finally realized my father was wise in choosing that flavor at Johnson’s Dairy on the corner of West Main and West End Heights some eons ago. i have had other black walnut concoctions but Neiderfrank’s is the best. As i was waiting for my pint, i noticed a hand printed add-on to the available flavors. Peach. When this affable and fun lady, whom i presume was the owner, returned with my black walnut, i added a scoop of peach in a cup.

i took my first taste as i walked back toward my car. Bells went off. Choirs sang. i called Maureen to tell her i was cutting my errand run short because i had something i wanted her to taste before it melted. When i got home with the one spoonful i had not eaten, she tasted it and shared my ecstasy.

i was back to the 1950’s in the back yard of our home on Castle Heights Avenue. We only ate two things in that backyard. One was slices of a whole watermelon long before they agronomists or whatever they are figured out how to reduce the number of seeds in a a watermelon. The children sat cross-legged on the lawn, take a bite, and spit the two dozen or so seeds that came with each bite before diving in again. Oh, oh, that sweet delicious taste.

But the best was when the ladies of the house mixed the ingredients for ice cream in with the sliced peaches they had picked from the trees. Those ingredients filled the small wood barrel of the ice cream maker, and closed with the churn handle on top. The whole shebang was covered with dry ice and that, in turn, was covered with old blankets. The children would take turns at the churn until they were worn out. Often the men in the family would finished the churning until the ice cream had hardened. The adults would sit on the lawn chairs and the children, again cross-legged, would sit on the lawn and feast in heaven on the home-made peach ice cream.

Fantasia. Neiderfrank’s peach was that good. i’m going back tomorrow to get a half-gallon.

You see, Neiderfrank’s is old school. There isn’t a lot of glitz, just perfect ice cream. Old school. Like me.

You can call it “Father’s Day.” if you choose. i call it “Daddy Day.” That is because i never in my life called my Daddy “Father.” As an aside, i never called my Mother anything but “Mother.” And i never called him “Dad” either. It was always “Daddy,” even when i last saw him in July 2013.

He was and is always “Daddy.”

i don’t know why.

But “Daddy” fit my father better than the alternative. “Grandpa” may have been a better moniker for him. He was that kind of man.

i’ve said enough about him in many posts, in many ways. i’m sure there are many others that feel that way about their Daddies. i think the best ones were called “Daddy.” So, i will simply note i miss him and always will and include the poem that prompted him to say, “Son, i didn’t realize you knew so much about me.

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.

God, i miss him.