Lord, oh Lord, 
take me to the open sea
where i can balance against the heel and roll 
of the steel deck covered with non-skid;
let me stand on the port bridge wing
in 20 knots of wind, a mug of hot coffee
brewed long enough ago to be as thick as tar,
strong enough to eat at the enamel from my teeth,
standing the evening watch in a sky so filled with stars
i feel the insignificance of me;
let me hear the gush of of the boilers steam,
the swish of the wave knifed into
by the blade of the bow
then rolling down the waterline;
let me hold the heavy, black binoculars up, 
looking for a contact hull-down on the horizon
i cannot see;
let me stand on the open bridge,
a cigarette dangling from my lip,
the drab olive green foul weather jacket collar
up, knocking the wind from my neck
as first light subtely takes the night from the sky.
Lord, oh Lord,
Take me to the open sea.

i arose after a good night’s sleep, a blessing for an old man. i had my usual list of chores to do around home: washing and storing clothes, washing and storing dishes, washing the patio cover. As usual, the preps and cleanup for the last chore required more time, primarily because i would return to my briar patch where tools are kept, mess around in there for a while, and return to the back patio, only to remember i forgot something.

But there was great pleasure in the outdoor work. i have picked up my walking both in frequency and distance and discovered my age-old tee shirt doesn’t cover a small strip around my neck and shoulder thereby giving me a sunburn. Well, i’m old and cheap and not going to get a high end collar to protect my exposed neck.

So, i went back home some 70+ years ago, evoking Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Bob Steele, and others. i donned a red bandana, tying it around my neck and…Voila, covered the sunburned strip. i played cowboy while, from a ladder, washing down and scrubbing the aircraft soot off the patio cover singing “Tumbling Tumbleweeds,” “Happy Trails,” and “Cool Water.” Great Day.

Then, i, of course, napped.

After my routine nap, which has been a staple since my father and i would repair to the two sofas across from each other in our den after lunch in 65-67, i forced myself to finish the chores.

As i said, a great day.

i consider most of my days great days now. One source of my feeling good is in my home office. i have had some old family portraits for a number of years. Two came down from my father through his oldest sister Naomi. The frames are gone. i have had them wrapped trying to determine what to do with them. In my latest attempt to organize all of this stuff i have to make it easier for those i left behind, i unwrapped the two portraits.

Hiram Carpenter “Buddy” Jewell was my great grandfather. His wife, Sarah, was my great grandmother. Each morning as i go through my routine. i look at those two. The portraits are not framed. i may eventually frame them. Right now, the portraits sit next to a photo of my golfing buddies, Jim Hileman, Pete Toennies, Marty Linville, and me.

Buddy Jewell was an interesting man. At 18, he enlisted in Smith’s Tennessee 2nd Calvary in 1861 for a year and re-upped for three more years as a corporal in Smith’s Tennessee 8th Calvary, D Company while stationed in Bardstown, Kentucky. After he was paroled at the end of the war, he returned to Statesville and married Sarah. They had three sons, one dying as an infant. One of the other two was my grandfather Hiram Carpenter Jewell.

Sarah Jones Jewell was an angel. i remain awed by her caring. After they were married, they received a letter from Mary Jane Sutton. She had become pregnant from Buddy when was in Kentucky. Mary had John Jay Jewell in 1862. Family lore tells us William Carpenter Sutton married her after she became pregnant and John Jay was born after the wedding.

Regardless, the letter told Buddy and Sarah that her husband had died, and she was in poor health. She requested that John Jay come live with them. Sarah directed Buddy to go to Kentucky and bring Mary Jane and John Jay back to Statesville. He did and Sarah nursed Mary Jane until she passed away and raised John Jay as one of her own.

Now, each morning i look at those two portraits, dwelling on her. She is a powerful source of inspiration for me. i spend a minute wondering what life in Statesville, Tennessee would have been like for them. It is my quiet time before beginning my day.

Things like cleaning patio covers don’t seem so bad after that. Besides i wore my red bandana.

The Southwest Corner, Sunday, June 22, 2025. My dear bride of forty-two years has had a good day going to an art show in North County with two friends. The show featured the artwork of Jaci Springfield, another friend of the group. They had a great time, and fortunately, Maureen didn’t buy a great deal of stuff.

i too had a good day but it was at home getting things done i’ve intended to get done for about…oh, let’s say five years to be safe. Of course, i took a nap. After the nap and a few more chores, i repaired to our patio and called my friend of all friends, George Henry Harding, V, perpetually a resident of 218 South Tarver, where i spent more time than at my home. We were christened together in May of 1945 at the Lebanon First Methodist Church, then on East Main.

As i have noted here frequently, talking to Henry every month or so is simply resuming where we left off before. It always amazes me how two guys from the same place who went on to completely different life experiences still think the same about everything, everything. It’s sort of like looking in a mirror.

When we hung up, i got a little nostalgic, a little sad. My old hometown isn’t old anymore, and isn’t a small town anymore. It’s changed, but i still miss it and my friends there who are still around. Especially, i miss not talking with Henry every day. He and Brenda have a great back porch for talking to old friends — the porch wasn’t there when i romped with Henry and his brother Jim (i still call him Beetle) in that backyard.

Yeh, a little sad i felt. Homesick, i guess we could call it. For a few moments, i was down. Then, sitting on that patio as the patio, looking up at the landscape and the sun as it set over the slope toward the Pacific. i reached over and turned on the bluetooth speaker for my music library. i set it to listen to only Otis Redding.

My Vanderbilt Kappa Sigma brothers who loved Soul music as much as i, led by Cy Fraser, went to concerts in the old Nashville Municipal Auditorium to see Otis at least four times. Then, on a magical Saturday night, actually Sunday morning, Cy and i went to the Club Baron, a black night club on Jefferson Street in North Nashville. It was our place to go when it was quiet around campus. Otis had been the headliner for an earlier show downtown. We were there to watch the really superb artists that were regulars when around 1:00 a.m., Otis comes in with several members of his bands and puts on an impromptu show for about 45 minutes. i was in heaven.

After that night, when i was working to pay my way through MTSU, i played Otis as much as i could when i deejayed at WCOR in 65-67. i played his records at home even more.

When that wonderful phase of my life concluded, i packed up and headed to Newport, Rhode Island for Navy OCS (September 1967). i don’t know how i did this, but i somehow managed to secret a small portable record player in the locker in my barracks room, shared with the legendary Doc Jarden. On Thursday, December 7, we learned Otis had died in in a plane crash the night before. Doc was as big a fan of Otis as i was and equally saddened by the news.

In an even bigger mystery today, we pulled out that record player, and a record i had also brought and smuggled into the barracks, “The History of Otis Redding.” We started playing right after taps and finally turned it off around 2:00 a.m.

Listening to Otis, now on a bluetooth with Apple music playing all of his songs, my homesickness dropped off. i put my phone aside and looked out on my world in the Southwest corner. All was well.

After all, i had Otis Redding songs for listening, and i have Henry to lean on.

Our new next door neighbors, Vincent, Judith, and their son Vincent will move into their home in about a year

They are doing significant renovations to the acre-plus yard and the house. i have watched with interest and have established a good relationship with the site managers, bulldozer and back hoe drivers, and the other workers of which there many: hard working men. There are no accountants back there, no finance folks, no insurers, not computer wizards, just hard workers. It is fun to watch. i do.

Of particular interest to me in the past few days have been the stone masons (i guess they are still called that). They are putting a facade of stone on the chimneys and perhaps the entire exterior. It looks as though it will be beautiful when finished. It also requires unique hard work and art. The scaffold rises about forty feet to the top of the chimney. The stone cutting saw sits on the top rung of the scaffold. The worker hauls up the stone pieces in a bucket with a pulley. He measures and cuts the stones to fit closely together, fits them, and then uses mortar to glue them in place. It is fascinating.

i became more and more enamored with the requirements to do it right and the rigorous physical requirements to get it done.

Then around 10:00 a.m. this morning, i went to the kitchen to clean out my coffee French press. As i began to rinse it out, i looked toward the chimney. There, this hard working mason was taking his mid-morning break. i kept fooling around in the kitchen as i watched him eat at least three tamales. Then after finishing his break meal (snack?). He laid out on the fourth level slats of the scaffold and took a half-hour nap.

So much for hard work.

i could post several hundred more photos of him and still not capture his essence. i miss him every day. He was loved by everyone who knew him, especially his children, his grandchildren, his great grandchildren, and lord knows how many children he claimed and loved. Happy Fathers Day, Daddy…and Thanks.

And then there was this o

And then there was this other father of mine. Thanks, Ray.