and just who is this man in time?
he is older than the wind;
he is younger than the breeze;
he is then; he is now;
but he never is what will be
because what will be is never what it was;
he is vast and deep as oceans;
he is as wide and high as the sky;
he is as small as the smallest pebble
in a mountain stream up high.

and just who is this man in time?
he does not make the headlines;
he does not wish for fame;
through all the struggles
through all the gaiety,
he just keeps moving
underneath, over and throughout the brouhaha
relentlessly demanding an obedience
from all who question his might.

and just who is this man in time?
he just keeps moving irrevocably along,
not speeding, not even changing speed
a slow freight train on rails to nowhere;
although the world and the creatures therein
keep changing because of him,
but not him;
he just keeps plodding along
no one, nothing can stop him,
not humans, not the world, not even the universe,
perhaps not even god,
or perhaps he,
this man of time and god are one.

he sits in his residence splendor
in the dark toward the turn of the day
his woman’s garden roses about the house
he muses with the muses of Zeus
to find the meaning of it all
wondering why
he should consider
irresolvable considerations
in the dark
of night and his life
with roses in the room
when the former years
were living with no such concern
running full bore towards nothing but
living, loving, getting it done
moving on
moving on
passing through life with passion
without musing
without concern
when it might have mattered
might have been
something, something
while now musing is
merely ruminations with the muses
in the residence splendor
in the dark of the room
toward the turn of day

This morning, i thought about what “Good Morning” means…not just the definition.

Today began with a good morning.

Yesterday, our grandson, the grand Sam James Jewell Gander, turned sixteen. He was a bit grumpy as he wasn’t allowed to skip school (is that a new tradition started by fifteen years ago like “Mule Day” in Lebanon, Tennessee was a high school holiday, a tradition by some of the boys, including my father who might have been a ringleader with his buddies, H.M. Byars and Jim Horn Hankins, at Lebanon High School around 1934?). But it is a right for sixteen year boys to be grumpy. Perhaps the testosterone levels are kicking up. Although i am unwise and very disconnected to the current teenageism, i’m pretty sure the gamut of emotions running through a just-turned sixteen teenage boy, remain a controlling factor. Sam’s fine. He just turned sixteen yesterday. i’m proud of him…and his parents.

Yesterday, we played golf at Bonita Golf Club with the Toennies and shared an early supper there. Maureen is getting better and better. It’s fun to watch. i improved slightly from awful, and better yet, the old age biting of back and knees stayed away, hopefully a new trend.

Did i mention the Southwest corner weather was perfect for a late morning tee time? It was, cloudless with a slight breeze and temperatures in the high 60’s, low 70’s. Southwest corner spring weather. The drear of damp, cloudy, and chilly (for San Diego) apparently is finally run its course (the least wonderful of any Southwest corner winter i’ve experienced. We seemed to have missed the April-early May bonanza of perfect as May Gray has started early, which will lead into June Gloom. That’s okay. It’s seaport weather, and in spite of having to add and subtract clothing layers as the marine layer goes through its cycle, it is always comfortable.

And last night, my Padres beat Tommy Duff’s Cubbies. ‘Bout time, the gazillion dollar team came through.

Those things led into my appreciating the deeper meaning of good morning. i arose a bit later than usual, still early for my bride and turned on the kitchen light. The breakfast room looked like:

“Lucky,” i thought, “It’s a good morning.” The scene reflected my thoughts. The table was my great aunt’s. The secretary was my parent’s. The roses on the table and the orchid on the stand are Maureen’s. The arty cookbook is gift from Maureen’s brother. the teapot on the table is one Maureen got a while ago. The woven basket under the window is a Filipino wedding basket i bought during one stop at the Subic Bay Naval Base on Luzon. The Mexican sage outside the window is the menu for hummingbirds who breakfast with us. The flagstone path is to our patio sans top (my brother pointed out the silliness of calling it a “sitting area”). The secretary holds an old ink well from my parents, Maureen’s Dutch teapot and cookie jar. The secretary’s book shelves and drawers hold cookbooks, lots and lots of Maureen’s cookbooks and two of mine.

In short, this is the story of Maureen and me we enter into every morning.

When i have retrieved the paper, made the coffee, put up the dishes in the drying rack, and set the table, it looks like this:

Maureen’s prepares another wonderful breakfast. We dine, say hello to the hummingbirds, and read the paper, repeating the tradition of both sets of parents sans the newspaper (they both got the afternoon paper, the Nashville Banner and the San Diego Tribune). It is a nice connection for me a wonderful way to start a “Good Morning.”

And i think of everyone else who hopefully are having a good morning. All of the connecting stuff is great for us but not necessary. i just hope that as many as can are having as good a morning as we are, and those who can’t because of the conditions they are facing will soon be able to have a good morning as well.

Good Morning.

For a couple of weeks, i’ve been happily wallowing in college academia, a place that provides me with good feelings about myself…from a long time ago. It was something, decent work, for me to do. While doing so, i have been escaping to other yesteryears.

And, my music, claimed by Apple but my smart phone and i still resisting, put on my 45’s and LP’s from a forgotten era. Jimmy Reed dominating my “shuffled” songs originally heard on late night, early morning WLAC with Big John R, Gene Nobles (a Vanderbilt professor of all things), and Hoss Allen.

Bob Seger’s line from “Against the Wind,” “…wish i didn’t know now what i didn’t know then,” keeps resounding in this old empty head.

It is, here in the Southwest corner, the first real San Diego spring day. In other words, perfect. i am grilling a steak outside after sitting down in the late afternoon sun and sipping a “Martin.” Not misspelled by the way. That term came from yesteryear, from a spectacular chemist out of Washington, D.C. and VMI.

My recent email to closer friends involved with my recollection from yesterday retold my recollection:

Last evening, i had forgotten we were going out to dine. i was preparing my martini, when i realized that would not be a good thing to down since i was driving and would imbibe during our evening out. i pondered on what to do with the gin i had poured into my glass mixer with the spritzing of vermouth.

And then i remembered that classic man of Old Hickory fame, Cyril Vaughn Fraser, Jr. i took the glass mixer and put in the freezer.

Tonight, i pulled the concoction out of the freezer and poured it into my chilled martini glass with a couple of olives. Before i took my first sip, i toasted the man. You see, the elder Cyril would take his bottle of gin, infuse it with a small dousing of vermouth and put it in the freezer to store. When he pulled it out and poured his drink, he called them “Martins.” As i recall he made his with Beefeater and i make mine with Bombay Sapphire, but we will let that slide.

As i drank my Martin tonight, i realized that wonderful man had it right. They are much better the way he did it. i will resume that practice in his honor and to my benefit.

The addendum to that is a doozy.

Across the street on the corner was the home of neighbor friends of Cyril Jr.: Cyril, III, and Walt, or “Whitz” his family and i called him. The neighbor’s dog was a Saint Bernard. One summer afternoon, Norma, the distaff side of the neighbors, came across the street with her Saint Bernard to visit with the elder Fraser. He offered Norma a “martin” as they sat on the front porch, discussed all things important in the world and the neighborhood. One “martin” led to another, and another. Then, it was time for Norma to go home. Trying to get up (which i’m sure anyone who has had too many martins or martinis including me, have found to be an enormous challenge), Norma just couldn’t make it on her own. So, she fell across the back of that old faithful Saint Bernard who carried her across the street and to home.

This is a Fraser legend, which i do not doubt at all.

By all expectations, we weren’t supposed to be close, to even know each other.

She is nine months older than me, give or take a few days. But that’s about it. She was born and raised in the San Diego area, lived a couple of years in Detroit, but has been back here in the Southwest corner since then, a long time ago. i think you know enough about me to know i’m from a small town in Tennessee, about 2400 miles away.

She has been a waitress for most of her life, a superb one. i have kicked around in all sorts of things with the two defining pursuits being writing and the Navy. Other than baking the tortilla chips in the kitchen of Bilbo’s Restaurant on Orcas Island in 1980 that lasted oh, about twenty minutes, i have never been involved in restaurant work.

Yet Patsy Boggs and i have become close. i’m glad.

You see, i found this magnificent woman who, for some strange reason, agreed to marry me. That’s when i discovered the whole package included her sister. Yep, Patsy is Maureen’s older sister.

i’m a lucky man. These two top out on sister love. They have taken care of each other since i have known them. They care for each other and everyone who is connected to the other. Patsy is curious like her father, wanting to know how and why things work. She reads extensively and deep. She follows the events of our day with enthusiasm and has an independent spirit. She is a major San Diego sports fan. That makes conversing with her a pleasure.

Did i mention she’s fun and funny?

But best of all is she allows me to be around one of the strongest and best relationships i have ever witnessed: two devoted sisters caring for each other.

i care, too.

Thanks, Patsy, for accepting me and allowing me to be part of your life.

Oh yeh, Happy Birthday with love.

Patsy and Maureen, circa 1983: