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.

This year’s “May Gray” in the Southwest Corner has doubled down. Almost the entire month has closed the window of perfect weather. The marine layer has come in earlier, stayed longer and returned earlier. We’ve had numerous May days with no sun burning through the clouds. Clowns like me have lived here long enough to recognize our complaining about Southwest Corner weather is akin to complaining about the opposition scoring a run when your team just won a national championship.

Still, not being used to this, we can get down. Quick. So as i walked out today as the sun was rising even though i could not see it, i stopped my morning routine to look at Maureen’s roses in the front side yard:

i continue to prove i am not a graphics guy, but i think you get the picture, in this case pictures. Regardless, when i looked at Maureen’s roses, i pretty much quit complaining about May Gray.

May of a seacoast town
is dark, gray and dank until
the sun burns through
the marine layer;
morning is the time
to visit the coastline
gray and dank before
the sun burns through;
nary a soul but you
walks the beach;
a large black dog runs
up to the incoming tide,
barks furiously at small waves
crashing down,
then retreating fast away
to repeat the frenzy
again and again
while you walk away
along the south facing beach
toward the west
and the sea,
always toward the sea.

Begun Thursday, May 18. Finished this afternoon.

i should be finishing up Chapter 2 of my serial A Tale of the Sea and Me (For Sam). i should be posting a Democrat column from my “Notes from the Southwest Corner.” i should be posting another “Murphy’s Law” guffaw. i should be activating my new bluetooth transponder so i can play my ancient non-bluetooth devices, like phonograph players, CD players, cassettes, and eventually reel-to-reel tapes — as i disdain using Apple music or others because i want to listen to my music, not what they think i would like to hear. i should be organizing stuff in my garage, clothes closet, and garage. i should be cleaning and polishing my shoes. i should be cleaning the interior of my car, close to the last U.S. non-sports car with a standard transmission.

But no.

The seemingly unending string of curmudgeonly thoughts loosely tied together kept coming. It began when i saw a beautiful young woman…except she had fake eyelashes. To keep it nice, i will say like she looked like an anime from some video, but not pretty. Definitely not as attractive as she would have been with her natural lashes.

From that thought, it was easy to move to my great dislike of women, young or old, wearing jeans that cost absurd amounts of money with torn sections, which my mother would have fixed with patches. But i’ve ranted about that enough.

My travels took me to the cleaners, a return trip. A day earlier, i had retrieved two pairs of dockers pants, one blue and one khaki. When i got home, i discovered the blue trousers had been pressed with the crease in the traditional front, but the khakis had been pressed with the crease, if you can call it that, along the seam. i queried the woman at the counter. She explained the khakis were considered “casual” and that meant they should not have a crease.

i noticed a bunch of folks, young and old, but not as old as me with hair different than what was natural. Men had corn rows, toupees, or shaved sides, or shoulder length, or, heaven forbid, man buns. The women expanded on that and both had the colors of the rainbow, their choice. Remember when hair was black, brown, blonde, or auburn (remember auburn?). Nearly all had tattoos somewhere, often many wheres.

i was about to explode into damning all artificialities on or added to our body parts. Then i thought about my teeth and my friends.

You see, when i was nine, i took a header off my bike onto the sidewalk while on the way to a baseball game. That is a long story, but the short story is half of one of two front teeth was no longer part of my dental makeup. At the time, dental cosmetics had not reached its zenith and for about seven years or so, i had one silver front tooth — why am i thinking of “The Ballad of Cat Ballou.”

But my best friend, and my second best friend growing up fixed that in the winter of my junior year in high school. Henry and Jim, aka Beetle, and i went out to a frozen pond in February to skate or something, without skates of course. We would run through the snow to the pond’s edge and jump with the goal of making it to the other side standing up and unscathed. Somewhere in this endeavor, i did not make it to the other side and took another header, this time on the rough ice of the pond.

i got rid of that silver tooth…and what remained of the original one. Henry and Beetle deposited on the front steps of my house. i think my mother realized the real culprit and never chastised the Harding boys. The good news i got a bridge with a tooth that looked pretty good. For someone totally void of compassion, i delighted the next week when playing in a JV basketball game, the kid guarding me left the court to throw up because he was staring at a face with a tooth missing and scars that arched from his mouth up to his ears on both sides, looking like a small version of “The Creature from the Black Lagoon.”

Then, this guy pulled out into an intersection, ignoring the stop sign around midnight and i caught him flush with my Volvo, Another front tooth bit the dust…or rather bit the steering wheel, and the bridge was then for two.

And while i was executive officer aboard USS Yosemite, a cook from the wardroom mess brought me a fresh pear. i was pleased, leaned back in my office chair and took a bite. The pear was so fresh, it was hard. When i bit into it and tried to pry it from my front teeth, i was successful in pulling out the bridge and one of the anchor teeth along with the pear.

That’s three.

Then after retiring a piece of food, in spite of my flossing, hung up in crevasse next to an anchor tooth. the anchor tooth eroded.

So now i have four false teeth in front, held in place by that bridge.

i then considered all of my friends. There are very few who haven’t had some body part replacement, knee, shoulder, hip, ankles, etc.

Therefore, i think it might be a tad hypocritical for me to rant about artificial body parts. Because without such medical marvels, i would make Billy the Kid look like a dentist office ad.

During all of this deep thought, i picked up my pants at the cleaners. When i got home i discovered they were pressed along the seam without a crease in front. When i returned to our cleaners, i asked why. It seems my pants are “casual pants” that do not get a crease in the front. i’m guessing i’m supposed to go out with women who wear torn jeans that cost around $200.

It is not happening. My wife will not wear torn jeans.

And so, i must admit, i am a relic. i no longer can fit in. i am fine with that. i don’t recall any phase in my life where i really fit in.

But i do regret what we have lost. Remember back when (for those that can). We dressed up every Sunday and for any big event. We wore shirts and ties and no one, no one wore sneakers — in fact, you only wore sneakers on athletic courts. We didn’t go out without our shirts tucked in. Women wore skirts and looked great, attractive but not suggestive.

I think we took more pride in how we looked. We didn’t go for easy and relaxed. We went for pride in ourselves…i think.

Either is not bad i guess. But i am from a different place and a different time. i’m sort of glad my momma sewed patches on the torn parts of my jeans, that i don’t look like Billy the Kid with fewer teeth, and folks, i gotta let you know you will never see me with false eyelashes.