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.

Recently, i realized that a ten-day vacation (is it really a vacation when you are retired?) is really not ten days.

In fact, Monday morning was the “recently.” Our ten-day vacation, trip for retirees, took two weeks. It took two days to get ready, and if i get everything done, it will have taken two days to get back in sync.

We have turned the water on — this is not usually required, but our cat, Bruce Willis, has taken to playing with the kitchen faucet, turning it on when no one is looking. Now, Maureen and i are both cautious. So, we checked with each other to be sure the kitchen sink water was off when we left. As i was offloading our suitcases, Maureen turned it back on at midnight. About one o’clock (what an antiquated term), with only an hour of trip recovery organization remaining, i kneeled under the sink and turned the valve. The next morning, Maureen couldn’t get water out of that faucet and thought we had a major problem before realizing i had also turned the valve, which, of course, turned it off again.

This is becoming more common.

So, we leave on June first. Of course, we had to get all organized two days before — not really, but i am anal about being organized for a trip only to forget something — then we pack on the day before. We get up around 4:00 a.m. Why? Because i’m, as aforementioned, anal, and women in general and Maureen in particular takes a…er, ahem, a little longer to get ready than i do. Dear Karin Fink, takes us to the airport.

Flight’s on time. Good. The plane warms up. It continues to warm up and warm up. The pilot comes on the intercom. “We have a mechanical problem and working on it,” he says. Fifteen or so minutes pass. The pilot again, “We (who is this “we” bunch?) need to replace a part. We are looking for it.” About twenty minutes pass. The pilot: “We can’t find the part. We are going to have to deplane (what a unpleasant term: it sounds like some body part is going to be replaced). We will find a replacement aircraft.”

i’m thinking, “Do replacement aircraft just happen to be lying around somewhere?” The answer is no, but somehow Alaska Airlines knows a thing or two. When we — not the Alaska inclusive “we,” mind you, but the passengers only — return to the terminal and wait anxiously for some news. Maureen and i discuss the options. Canceling our trip seems like a choice if we don’t get to leave before the next day. Fun wait.

Then, they say, “We have found another aircraft. Flight 930 to Boston will depart from Gate 30 at …noon, or something near: my eyes were glazed over by then and i do not remember except i calculated time factors and realized we would get to our nephew’s Watertown, Mass. apartment ’round midnight and that ain’t a jazz tune.

So we made it. Might i say we were a bit tired.

* * *

The other end of this sandwich was the trip home. It went off as expected, but it was the only non-stop flight between Boston and San Diego. So yep, we get home at midnight. i unpack and go through the mail. Maureen collapsed on the bed about twenty minutes after we arrive. Me? Two in the morning.

Unpacking, getting the house in order, storing stuff, dealing with the three-hour time change took a while, like two days.

So, our trip was 14 days, not the advertised 10. Is that because i’m old.

Regardless, air travel isn’t what it used to be. i used to look forward to flying. Now i dread it.

And that was the old bread slices for our sandwich.

* * *

The filling of the sandwich was glorious.

We stayed at our nephew’s apartment. Zach Jewell has a great place in Watertown, Massachusetts. Even better, my brother was there. Good way to start.

Then on to Newport, retracing my steps in November, but this time with Maureen. Noreen Leahy and Emily Black enjoy Maureen’s company. Jim Leahy –he and Noreen put us up at their wonderful home on Tuckerman Avenue — was just the best host possible and he even laughed at my sea stories. My first apartment is about three lots away. Their home looks south onto the Atlantic.

Of course, nostalgia was coursing through my veins. Newport is one of the few places i would consider as home if we didn’t live in the Southwest corner. And we hit spots that were my stomping grounds: Fort Adams boasts a park where my Navy housing was in 1972. The house with my apartment in 1983 hasn’t changed. It is located at the beginning of Ocean Drive. Castle Hill Inn, where Noreen, Maureen, and met Emily and sat in lawn chairs looking out on the Narragansett Bay channel, which i traversed on the USS Waldron (DD 764), USS Hawkins (DD 873), and USS Luce (DLG 7) enough to have lost count.

A new place, which was wonderful, was a sunset of Hors d’oeuvres with wine. Perfect. We were joined by Diego, a Naval War College Student from Panama sponsored by Jim and Noreen, and their son Joe, who is attending the Prospective Executive Officer course en route to a ship. Of course, Joe had to endure words of wisdom from an old XO.

Then, there was the Black Pearl. i have somewhere near 250 tales about the Black Pearl. It was literally a shack on a pier in my day, established by the owner of the three-masted schooner with the same name so he had a place for a drink and sandwich after a sail. Today, it has expanded (so has the pier) with outdoor dining and a fine dining extension off of the original shack. But back then, i dated a waitress who was attending Salve Regina College. She remains a close friend.

Ahh, memories.

We toured the Tennis Hall of Fame where in 1973, Blythe’s mother and i watch Billie Jean King, Margaret Court, Rosie Casals, and Evonne Goolagong in a tournament. We sat at center court and our necks hurt for a week from turning our heads to catch the action.

i even spotted Hurley’s building. Hurley’s was my spot for jazz and what was called Rhythm and Blues back then but bears little resemblance to that genre today. On Sundays afternoons in the late 60’s, Hurley’s held a jam session, and every Sunday, they played and sang, “My Satin Doll.” Nailed it. The lady that sang was in her happy zone. So was i.

And Saturday evening, Jim and Noreen took us to the White Horse Tavern. Legend has it that it originally was a pirate’s home. It became a restaurant in 1673, the oldest operating restaurant in the country today.

i went with Blythe’s mom in 1973 for our second anniversary. i ordered the seafood combo. They brought out a vat about 18 inches high with a diameter of about a foot. They dipped some tongs in and brought out a whole lobster, then shrimp, then mussels, then clams, then potatoes, corn, carrots, and lord knows what else. i don’t recall what Kathie had, and i sure as heck couldn’t see it. We got home in time to see the Knicks beat the Lakers in the NBA championship game.

Then in 1983, ten years later, i took Maureen there with the intention to share the seafood combo. But it was upscale change. We had a wonderful gourmet dinner by candlelight and closed the place up with a long conversation with the bartender while sipping armagnac. Perfect.

Ahh, memories.

Sunday, with the Leahy’s headed back to NYC, Emily took us to something new. We blew glass Christmas ornaments. Now that’s unique.

Then, we drove to Joe and Carla’s home in Quechee, Vermont. It is in the woods. Of course, Vermont is in the woods. It rained on us pretty much the whole drive. It was rainy and chilly (for us, not Vermonters. Except for our day in Hanover, New Hampshire with Joe (think Dartmouth) and an incredible afternoon at Castle Hill Inn in Newport, it was rainy and chilly. The Canadian wildfires turned the sun blood red one day and we could feel and smell smoke for several days (nothing like New York City). But our entire time in New England, it evoked New England, sea coast (even though Vermont is not clo se to the Atlantic).

Maureen spent a couple of days with her high school buddy, Chris Davis, in Essex Junction outside of Burlington and toured a bit of Canada. This was good for her.

While she was up north, i visited my shipmate. Andrew Nemethy. Andrew’s history is rather incredible, but i will save that for later. He now lives out in the woods, which is out in the woods even for Vermont. History is breathed into my lungs. Andrew’s home on a farm where he snow shoes through the woods with his dog, Django. was built in 1730. The exposed beams are held together with wooden pegs, not nails. You see, nails weren’t available at Home Depot back then. Neither was Home Depot. Andrew’s home is what i often dream of as an escape from the world. Ethan Allen and his “Green Mountain Boys” frustrated the Redcoats here. Andrew is erudite, a talented pianist and guitar player, and his own man. Now that, my friends, is someone to visit. Oh, by the way, mobile phone coverage disappears about two miles from his home.

We found our way back to Boston in the rain naturally, and spent Sunday morning with Joe’s daughter, Professor Kate Jewell, her husband, Conor Hansen, and their three children. Joe and i put together a cabinet for Kate. It was an event in the dining room and working with Joe evinced the two of us working on projects with our father back home. It was one of the strongest emotions i had through the trip.

And so it is over. We are back in the Southwest corner. Sun actually broke out today. Summer is here. Weather guessers and local news talking heads are talking about the increased dangers of wildfires here for the summer and autumn, a familiar refrain: the rain has increased the amount of vegetation, which will dry out and exacerbate any fires. Heard it before.

i wrote this to record our journey for Maureen and me. i hope there is interest of others, not a boring travelogue. The meat and fixin’s between the bread slices was good, damn good.

Now, it is time for sea stories. i love sea stories.

Every year, usually a day later, i create a post to, hopefully gracefully, honor heroes, warrior heroes. When writing columns for The Lebanon Democrat for just shy of ten years, i attempted to do the same in my Thursday column. i did not wish either to be sappy or overly patriotic, nor to be acknowledged for caring about the tradition of the day. i certainly had no desire to use the holiday as some excuse for fun. i don’t denigrate those that enjoy the holiday, but i do hope they stop at least for a little while to pay respects to those who have died in military service to our country.

Last year, my thoughts changed a bit. You see, the ranks of the warriors with whom i served are being depleted, slowly, surely, and that surely is picking up speed. Memorial Day was not invented to show respect for warriors who completed their active duty service alive. But man, this is getting personal. i am losing warrior friends now.

One particular loss hit me harder last year. Al Pavich and i met on the quarterdeck of the USS Tripoli (LPH 10) at the Alava Pier on the US Naval Base, Subic Bay, Luzon, Philippines, January 1980. We were literally friends for life. But we were more than that. We shared a stateroom, we shared secrets no one else knew, we shared living, we shared golf, and we lived hard. Al retired as a commander, but he continued to serve, taking care of his fellow warriors and making a difference. His record is available. i won’t elaborate here.

So, to honor Al once more, i have copied and pasted last year’s post about Memorial Day below- it also paid my respect to the children and teachers who died tragically in Uvalde, Texas.

Understand, this is not just to honor Al. It is posted in the spirit of honoring those who died in military service, but also those who made it through and have passed away since. All of them served in the defense of our country.

Memorial Day, 2022:

Last night, i walked to the top of our hill, looked out over the gray Pacific, the term that means “peaceful in character or intent.” Magellan aptly named this vast sea because he thought it was peaceful, perhaps calm.

Four hundred and ninety-eight years ago, having just sailed through what is now known as the Straits of Magellan with four of his original fleet of five sailing ships, i’m sure that old Portuguese sea dog would have considered the Pacific as calm and peaceful. I’m sure Richard Henry Dana would agree with me.

Last night from my vantage point, the Pacific Ocean did appear peaceful. There was a faint glow of sun on the horizon below the clouds when, at 1948 GMT-7, i two-blocked my ensign.

My flag light makes this legal. I put that light up to keep the ensign flying 24/7 (as they say) because a number of my neighbors had complimented me for allowing them to see it as they got ready for work.

That little personal ceremony last night was to remember those children and teachers that died in Uvalde, Texas this past week. Our country’s flag being lowered to half mast was an appropriate way to grieve.

Tomorrow morning at 0800 GMT-7, i will be on that hill again to lower the ensign to half mast. Our U.S. Flag Code calls for our flag to be flown at half mast from 0800 to noon on Memorial Day. I will observe that.

This year, Memorial Day is particularly poignant for me. As i noted earlier, a close friend, a brother really, died May 10. Al Pavich doesn’t technically fit those we honor this Memorial Day. We honor those who died in military service to our country. Although Al retired from the Navy in 1998, he served his country and military veterans up until the day he died. And his passing too soon was directly related to injuries he suffered in his tour in Vietnam.

As i have mentioned here earlier and elsewhere, Al’s passing has hit me hard. We went through two deployments, good times, hard times, secrets between us, and understanding. Brothers. And through it all, i knew there were others, and those others kept growing in numbers, who felt that bonding with Al as i did. As i promised, I will write more of this hero here when i have a better control of me.

Tomorrow, up on that hill, Al Pavich will be one of the heroes i honor with my lowering and raising the ensign. It is good to have moments of silence in their honor.

There are other thoughts i have tonight, but we need a rest; we need to think about the good of this country; for a moment, we need to stop the asinine rock throwing at each other, and honor those who have died for our country.

Rest in peace, you warriors of honor. You too, Al.

Rest in peace.