i climbed up our hill
to get away, reflect;
news today had not been kind;
i wished to reflect in the quiet
before sunset.

the sun, reflecting through the mist,
set above the Pacific
with about a quarter of an hour
before descending below the horizon
gave me the quiet
i desired for reflection.

wisps of cirrostratus clouds
were haloed in white brightness
turning pink and gray
as twilight beckoned
while Lupus the wolf
along with
Scorpio the scorpion
waited to pounce on their prey
just below the horizon
with Venus viewing the beauty
of it all from above.

the light and colors constantly
changed their makeup
as the lucky ole sun
began to sink;
she had joined me
to share my sadness;
she was needed support.

i smiled a faint smile.

i looked where the sun had gone
along the Pacific horizon
which was indifferent to
Magellan’s order to halt its tide
several years ago.

my world was changing
in my view
with time marching on
I was struck that
in many ways,
we all are alone
and
must answer to ourselves
how well we have lived,
are living,
and
will live
until.

just like the sun.

The other morning, i retrieved the paper in the dark, about a half-hour before first light as it is in winter in the Southwest corner. In winter here, Venus is below the horizon. She, the morning star is magical to me, and in other seasons when she is visible, i say good morning to her as i stand on our driveway near the end of the cul-de-sac.

But when she is gone, i turn my attention to Vega, the second brightest star in the northern hemisphere. Vega shines upon me above the airlines flight path to what Lindbergh Field used to be called. She sits in the highest end of the arm of Lyra, as her constellation is called, or lyre. This one was Orpheus’ lyre, which was placed there when he was stoned to death by jealous women, whose clamoring and noise blotted out the music Orpheus made that charmed women and about everything else due to the beautiful music Orpheus played with the original lyre made by Hermes, the “herald” Greek god…or so it goes.

Now, i can’t, nor have ever been able to charm women, especially with my limited musical talent, but i do love music. Vega and Lyra are a good way for me to start the winter morning.

i don’t think Orpheus ever played “Honky Tonk,” although he could have been playing it along with Bill Doggett at the Hazelwood swimming pool in 1956 Lebanon, Tennessee. i was sitting on a blanket in the poolside grass after a dip when it played. It was blaring over the speakers of the rambling recreation structure at the shallow end of the pool.

i moved then to the the guitar and the saxophone just like this morning. Inspired by Lyra, i put it on when i came back into my home office. The door was closed. Maureen was still asleep. i moved again, swaying to the music.

Enchanting? It certainly is to me.

i’ll let you judge for yourself.

If you would like to listen to another splendid version and move some more, i reckon you should look up Jimmy Smith’s version on YouTube. Jimmy, who also ran a Cajun restaurant in San Diego, could make magic out of anything he played.

i’m sure Hermes and Orpheus would be pleased even if there isn’t a lyre in either orchestra.

Well, it’s one hell of a way to start a new year, somewhere over Arkansas…almost a week late.

i can understand how the meltdown of Southwest Airlines could occur and shall not complain except it would have been easier if they had let us know our Tuesday morning flight home was cancelled.

We would have likely remained on Signal Mountain and had Christmas with the Duff family. They had moved the celebration because Mama and Papa Duff had another round of COVID during Christmas proper. We got a limited time with Allie, Max, Culley, and Olivia, then headed to Nashville on the shuttle with no notice we would be stuck. But no notification. Nothing. i found out as we checked into our Nashville hotel, preparing for our morning flight home the next morning. Not.

It worked out, once again bailed out by Henry and Brenda Harding, who put us up. They remain home away from home, a status Henry has had for at least 73 years.

We got our meat and three, although we narrowed it down to a meat and two at Snow White, an erstwhile replacement for the defunct Sunset Restaurant, a staple of mine since the 1950’s. We visited four of our favorite haunts in Nashville: the Frist Art Museum, where we wished my sister Martha had been with us as the Asian textile art exhibit was jaw dropping fabulous; the lobby of the old Union Station, now revived as a Marriott Hotel to the point that even a draft beer at the bar is elegant; Barcelona Wine Bar is one of our favorite tapas bars including its namesake on the Mediterranean coast of Espana (oh, where or where is that little symbol, the tilde used on Spanish “n?”); and Darfon’s in the center of the airport hotel area is a great place for a traveler’s break.

But now, we are almost home. The three-forty five start will likely put us in bed before the bewitching hour. That’s okay. As Martina Clarke responded to my plans during the overlay, we made “lemonade out of lemons.”

Well, we hit Dallas, made it to the Southwest corner in the drear and mist. Luggage is unpacked. Mail and packages are opened. We ain’t gonna make wake until midnight.

Now, onto another year. In twenty days, i will be one year shy of 80, i.e. 79. To be honest, i am running down the last runway. That runway could be pretty long. If i match my parents, i will have about twenty years remaining. But i’ve lived a bit wilder life than they did. So even though it looks alright right now, it could be short.

Therefore, i’m getting ready. My first task is to get my “kick the bucket” business in order. This is to make a guide for all the paperwork and folderol required for those left behind: trusts, wills, cleaning out my stuff, designating what i leave goes to whom (if they want it) and how other affairs should be addressed. i’ve seen too many folks and even been one myself to have to deal with some pretty big messes.

i’m even writing my own obituary. And then, i’ll go back home in a small urn buried next to my parents. Home the sailor will be from the sea.

Gotta tell you it ain’t likely all is gonna be done before i go, even if i live to about 236 years old.

More immediately, i’m backing off my full court press on marketing Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings. If someone wants me to talk about the book, i’ll be glad to do so, but i’m not going to go chasing such things. It’s work.

Instead, i plan to do what i enjoy most. Writing. Here. i only see possibly one book in the future, at least in the near future. i hope to repackage my poem/stories about “Willie Nod” with the illustrations my daughter Sarah has drawn. i initially began writing them for Blythe when she was five years old. i continued to write them for Sarah when she came along and then again for my grandson Sam. If any of. you reading this indicate you would like to have one, i will reassess what path to take to make them available.

i have several projects in mind in addition to posts that pop into my head.

Several folks have inquired about my putting a book together of my newspaper articles and columns. i plan to go back and republish them here on a periodic basis. Hopefully, the first will be tomorrow. You know, the first day of 2023.

Next, i’m going to pretend to be Charles Dickens. That man published most of his novels in serial form in his magazines. i am thinking of doing that right here, folks. i plan to start with my tale “A Tale of the Sea and Me,” a history of my time in the Navy. Being the tale of a mariner, it is a bit too salty for number of my friends, but it is me, it is my time at sea. All lines clear. Underway.

The number of my friends around my age are dwindling. It is the way of life. One of the certainties in this world is if you live, you will die. It’s just damn hard to accept when it happens to others before it happens to me.

So, for all of you, live it to the fullest.

For friends from one to ninety-three, have a wonderful, incredible, awesome, healthy, and bountiful 2023.

Good night, 2022. We hardly knew you.

The below was written last year, the day before the big eve. We are not “home” this year but home for Christmas. We’ve been in this home for Christmas almost every year since 1992. Mr. Mean COVID kept us away for two years. it is good to be back. My sister Martha and her husband Todd Duff’s home looks like a Currier, and Ive’s scene for the big day, and the big eve like today.

There is even a skiff of snow on the ground. It’s colder than any Christmas we’ve experienced here. Yeh it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.

i just finished reading today’s lead story in The Wall Street’s Journal (of all things) Art section about “The Annunciation.” It is an extremely wonderful piece of journalism about the meaning of Christmas, a meaning i can buy into…lock, stock, and barrel.

And what i wrote last year back in the Southwest corner seems so appropriate:

The fire in the hearth was really not needed. It was in the low 50’s outside, high 60’s inside. A rain storm was moving in for the weekend. The rain, the fire, the decorated and lighted tree in the corner evinced the feeling of Christmas.

Handel’s “Messiah” was playing. We read. No television. No movies. The heat was off and the interior temperature was moving lower. The fire was good.

i felt still. Quiet. The beautiful and amazing work of Handel filled the sir. The fire’s heat warmed me. i looked at the tree and thought about how this holiday thing has morphed over the years. With all the lights, commercials, decorations to the hilt, Hallmark tear jerker movies, movies upon movies, this idea of Christmas seems to be hidden behind the decorations on the tree.

Lots of folks don’t believe, don’t care about the meaning. Some question the veracity of Jesus’ birth. Some, especially the older ones, don’t believe in Santa in spite of what Francis Church wrote to Virginia.

You know what. i don’t care.

Not true.

i don’t care if people spend too much, emphasize the giving , the meals, the church services, or the decorations too much, or even the plethora of sports around and even on Christmas Day.

Sitting in my chair, that quiet, still feeling gave me hope, hope that even with all that distracting stuff, all of us would stop for just a second and hope along with me that there would be:

“…on earth peace, good will toward men.”

That is what i care about. i think that covers it.

Merry Christmas.

…and i add once more: Peace on Earth.

Below is this year’s edition of my NOEL sign story with additions from years past. The sign is unchanged from last year. Next year, i plan to rearrange the lights to more closely align with the letters.

Christmas decorations are going up a bit early again. It seems to me back home growing up, we cut down our tree on Wynn “Papa” Prichard’s farm about a week before the big day, decorated it that evening, hung the stockings, hung a wreath on the door, put some lights around the door, and took it all down the day after Christmas. In our neighborhood today, about one-quarter of the houses have blow-up dolls, reindeer statues, lights enough to provide electricity for a small city among other amusements. The decorations here went up a week ago and many will likely remain well after the New Year.

Considering all that because i wanted to get it out of the way. And so begins the Christmas season. And with that, i offer my traditional repeat of a column i wrote for the Lebanon Democrat about a gazillion years ago. Merry Christmas with this year’s version of Noel:

Have you ever had one of those days when everything turned into an embarrassment? I had a champion day like that several years ago.

It started innocently while I hung our outdoor decoration, a home-made “NOEL” sign from the eave of our garage, hoping to get it up before my wife’s friends arrived for their Christmas dinner.

Maureen and her six friends have been meeting monthly for dinners for 15-plus years. They had this December dinner catered, did it up right. It was Maureen’s turn to be hostess.

It was dark when I began. I was at the top of my step ladder attaching the second of two wires from the sign to a hook secured to the eave when the ladder lurched and toppled. I grabbed a metal ornamental grating above the garage door.

There I hung, my arm intertwined with the “O” of the sign. If I tried to drop, the sign could catch my arm and do some pretty bad stuff.

I yelled, but Maureen had Christmas carols at top volume and didn’t hear. I tried to think of what to do while simultaneously wondering how long I could hold on. The dog wandered underneath, occasionally looking up as if I was a very strange person hanging there.

After several minutes, a neighbor’s son and friend pulled into the driveway several houses away. As they emerged, I swallowed my pride and yelled “Help.”

At first, they could not discern who was calling. Then they spotted me and came to help. The dog decided to protect me and began barking threateningly. The boys hesitated. I assured them the only danger was being licked to death. They finally righted the ladder and helped me down.

I thanked them profusely and then studied whether I should tell Maureen or not. Now that I was back on solid ground, I decided it was too funny not to tell her. She was incredulous and not particularly amused.

I did not realize my embarrassment for the night was just beginning.

While Maureen made final arrangements for her dinner, our daughter, Sarah, and I went to a local spot for supper. The little place was an oasis of sorts in Bonita, where there were only Mexican, Italian, and fast food restaurants. The attraction was different, having a wide-range of ales and beers for golfers finishing a round across the street.

When we arrived, two couples were at tables and three guys sat at the bar. As we neared the end of our meal, the largest of the guys at the bar walked to the door and then turned back. I noticed his eyes seemed glazed. Then he walked back to the bar.

Suddenly, this guy and the one on the other side grabbed the guy in the middle off his stool, slammed him into the wall and started pummeling him with their fists. The three male diners, me (instinctively) included, approached from one side and two cooks approached from the back. Sarah had retreated to the door with the two lady diners. I grabbed the big guy. He spun and fell backward, slamming us into our table, knocking it over with shattering glass. It gave me some leverage, and we spun to the floor with me on top and knocking the wind out of the big guy. The other two diners helped me hold him until he calmed down. The cooks had quelled the other assailant. The two left quietly.

Even though the waitress wanted us to not pay our bill, we paid and left for home. On the way, I talked to my daughter about what I should have done (directed her outside before joining the fray) and what she should do the next time if she were ever in a place where a fight broke out (get out and away and not come back until she was sure it was over). i admonished not to spoil her mother’s dinner party, adding i would tell her mother after the guests had departed. Sarah nodded.

I was feeling pretty good as we arrived home. Then Sarah dashed out of the car, ran into the house and yelled to her mother in front of the caterer and her six friends dressed to the nines amidst fine china, Christmas decorations, and haut cuisine, “Mom, Dad got in a fight in a bar.”

Some days, I just can’t get a break.

May your holiday season be embarrassment free.

Later this week, we will head back for a beautiful, albeit cold, Christmas tradition on Signal Mountain. i’ll think of all my friends as we fly east, sit by the fire, enjoy the children enjoying Christmas, having a scrumptious Christmas dinner, opening gifts of course, and being hopeful for peace on earth. As i have done in the past several years, i send you my Christmas greetings. May all of you have a most wonderful and amazing Christmas Season, and “Please, Please, Please (as James Brown once sang remember the reason for the season,