It is time for me to rest from my miseries for a few moments.

In the midst of chaos, a double-whammy chaos brought on by a computer and a credit card –What else could it be? — i have stopped to catch up on me and tell a good story.

You see, my laptop, my source to the outside world, all things good and bad, an infuriating root of easy attached to an even more infuriating Rube Goldberg maze with no end of security gone bad world of passwords, user names, account keys, secret codes, and some dark side of energy that saps our lives from normal existence, went down. Hard. So hard that when i confronted the laughing repaired laptop, i discovered my latest backup was corrupt and good to no one except the lord of the dark and unknown.

The double-whammy came when i complained to my bride of great wisdom that the United States Postal Service, which we used to call the post office, was now charging me for redelivery of a package that did not reach me nor what contents lie therein. Her antennae stood up and she found i had just been scammed. This, of course, required me to contact my financial institution in its greatest example of security inflamed entry through user names, account id, passwords, magic codes, and several incantations to the financial gods, and cancel my credit card. Which i did. Head shaking-ly sadly.

So now, while retrieving all of my accounts and all of my data on my computer and updating all of that security gobbeldy gook — i really thought “gobbeldy” was a word — i am also updating all of my accounts with new credit card information.

i think this is what hell looks like.

But i stop.

You see, in the midst of my frenetic scrambling yesterday, i took a break to watch Vanderbilt play Florida in a cold First Bank Stadium where good ole Dr. Dudley has taken a back seat to money.

i figured the Gators would chomp on the “Dores early to the point i not only could, but would happily, turn off somewhere around the turn of the first and second quarters.

i was gloriously wrong. Vanderbilt jumped on the Gators and rode them to the finish just like old Paul Bryant jumped on that bear in the carnival contest and beat that grizzly to earn his nickname “Bear.”

Vanderbilt beats Florida, 31-24, the first victory for the Commodores over the Gators in the newly named First Bank Stadium since 1988.

And through my amazement, my happiness, my plans to exchange joy with all of my Vanderbilt friends, i kept thinking of one person.

Mike Dixon.

For those who might not have caught about two dozen or so of my posts here. Mike Dixon and i were fast friends. He passed away just about 14 months ago. i no longer wrestle with whether i should take my golf clubs when i go back home, or my baseball glove, or my basketball.

Mike was a major, major fan of Vanderbilt sports, especially the three sports that dominated our youth: football, basketball, and baseball. He had season tickets to all three. He wanted the Commodores to beat the world, and especially the Vols at the school, University of Tennessee, which he once attended.

Mike and i played basketball and baseball together at Castle Heights and baseball against each other and then with each other on Lebanon’s American Legion team that won the mid-east regional and played in the state tournament. And we not only played together, we went together to see basketball games all over Middle Tennessee. i clearly remember he and i sitting on the hillside down the first baseline of Hawkins Field, watching Vandy play someone on a perfect spring sunny afternoon under the shade of Dudley Field. Prophetic perhaps.

Mike and i played whiffle ball endlessly in my backyard when we both were developing into almost fanatic Pittsburgh Pirate fans. A single was beyond an imaginary line between an imaginary first and second base. We played honest. A double was against the garage wall in right or the house steps. A triple was down the left field wall into the side yard or in the left center against the house again or to the driveway in right center. A home run was a fly into the Padgett’s field next door in right or past the yard to left or against the house in left. If the ball hit the small pecan tree down the third baseline or the Japanese elm just past the shortstop, we estimated the distance it would have flown. Each player had to throw in the manner of one of the Pirate pitchers. And each batter had to take the stance of one of the Pirate hitters. Favorite pitchers were were Harvey Haddix who pitched 12-innings of perfect baseball only to lose 1-0 in the 13th, Elroy Face who won 18 games in a row as the archetypal closer with his famous fork-finger pitch. On the hitting side, we liked the circular warmup swing with the head turning to the side of Roberto Clemente, my all-time favorite baseball player.

The only thing we played longer were our pick up games in the old Heights gymnasium. We played after the noon mess in our uniforms and socked feet. And we played after football, basketball, and baseball practice until Mrs. Fahey, the mother of all cadets who had an apartment in the front of the gym, would run us home where we were in trouble for being late for supper.

Then we went our separate ways to college, seldom seeing each other until we connected when Mike was out on a sales mission in Anaheim. i drove up and we talked for a couple of hours over drinks. That resumed the relationship. i would see him every time i went home to Lebanon, and if the weather allowed, one or two rounds of golf were included, many with Wayne Dedman.

Every time i came home and needed help in rides to or from the airport or a place to stay, Mike, Henry Harding, and Eddie Callis were always there for me. With Mike, a Vanderbilt game was included if the schedule fell right.

Mike ached from wanting Vanderbilt to win so badly. He was a critic, but a loyal one. He married Gloria Mallory, the light of his life after Brenda, his first wife, succumbed to cancer. Gloria and Mike shared their love of Vanderbilt sports and were one of the few couples from home who visited us in the Southwest corner, one of our favorite weekends.

Mike fought through some significant major illnesses until his heart, the one that beat so hard for sports, Vanderbilt in particular; his religion, and his wife Gloria, finally struck out swinging.

i miss him, terribly sometimes, especially in his analysis and insider dope of Vanderbilt football, basketball, and baseball.

Yesterday, somewhere up there, i am sure he was jumping up and down with joy when the Commodores held off the Gators, just like we did (and got caught skipping the lunch formation when the Pirates beat the mighty Yankees on Bill Mazeroski’s home run over Yogi Berra in left field of Forbes Field in 1961. And he will be by my side when the ‘Dores take on the Vols next Saturday.

Rest well, my friend.

It wasn’t planned. Not at all. It was a weekend i had been looking forward to for at least six months, if not a year. i had kept the weekend free from obligations for marketing my book to ensure this weekend was free: Thursday for travel, two days of golf with folks with whom i have golfed for two and a half score years, with Sunday free for recovery.

It didn’t turn out that way and, as with many things in my life, even the turn of events surprised me in a different way from what i expected.

Damnable arm.

Last Monday, the dermatologist looked at my arm and studied my record he held in front of him. “Don’t think we should wait,” he said authoritatively. When i got the biopsy report about a month ago, it didn’t sound bad, like melanoma bad. Some annoying little skin bump with a fancy name i told myself. i delayed the procedure until i returned from my wonderful trip back home with wonderful experiences at Vanderbilt and the Naval War College in Newport, Rhode Island, ending with a great weekend with my brother and his family in Boston.

So the doc’s reaction rather surprised me.

“Well, i’ve got this golf tournament out in the desert next weekend.” i explained, “It is a group with whom i’ve played golf with for a long time, and it is in honor of the guy who ran the whole things for years before he died several years ago. Couldn’t we wait a week?” i pleaded.

“Being a golfer, I understand,” Doc Hardy responded, giving me a glimmer of hope. “But,” dashing that hope glimmer, “It’s already been put off longer than it should have been,” sealing my fate.

Now concerned, I asked what i did not wish to hear answered, “Can i still play?”

Doc went into a detailed explanation comparing my situation to a twin-screw ship losing an engine. i knew, in spite of holding a thread of hope, the next exchange was not going to turn out well for golfing. After his explanation, he gave me a chance, “We’ll move up the change of dressing to Thursday morning. We can make a final decision then.”

i was not overjoyed.

i conferred with the rest of my foursome. They reassured me i should do what is prudent, something they and my wife knew was not a forte of mine. The new leader of the group, Jim Hileman, who shared Padre season tickets with me for twenty years or so, told me they could work it out if i didn’t play, but i should attend regardless. i thanked them all.

Thursday morning. The medic , Edward Perez, a retired submarine riding corpsman, took the dressing off my arm. Now, mind you, the cut was about the size of a quarter but pretty deep — i chose to not to look close enough to know just how deep — the sutures seem to crisscross several times, the bandage applied ran from the base of my hand to my elbow. When the elaborate dressing was removed, it looked as if we had somehow been teleported from the Mohs surgery room to a butcher shop.

“You can chip and putt,” Doc said, “But no full swings. Too much stress on the wrist. Could pull the stitches out. We would have to start over,” he said with his best clinical face on.

i said, “i want to do what won’t make the situation worse.” i’m thinking, “These guys are very conservative, as they should be, but when i get there, i can try out a few swings and check it out.” i didn’t tell them, but they both knew. i knew they knew.

Friday morning came, and i had not made a final decision until i was walking down the stairs from the pro shop to the carts. It hit me the stress would come when i cocked my wrists at the top of the backswing. That is when i decided i wouldn’t play.

i informed the group. They, again, were supportive. i putted a bit before they teed off. i fore-caddied, i pin tended, i looked for lost balls, i held clubs while our three players chipped or putted. i laughed with them. i cheered for them. i drank a few beers.

We finished respectfully, winning a few, losing a few.

There were six groups, two with just three players. In its heyday, the San Diego Telephone Company Golf Association, loving referred to as San Diego TELCO, had to limit members to 100. Year ending tournaments were first class, big prizes, lots of door prizes, big tournament dinners at the conclusion. Members retired and moved. Some experienced accidents or illness and could no longer play. Some passed away. A few new folks joined but not enough to stem the tide.

Art Fristad and others like Marty Marion, Phil Greco, and my friend Jim Hileman, kept it going: monthly tournaments at different courses in the Southwest corner. The numbers continued to dwindle. Monthly tournaments went away. The association remained an official entity. And yearly, those that remain are out in the desert, playing fun games for two days.

The tournament is now named The Art Fristad Desert Classic. That is as it should be. It is really a statement about a group of men from an accomplished, successful past. We are not politically correct. We are together. Politics, religion, and other differences do not matter. Friends. Competitors together. Laughter. At each other. At ourselves. Good stuff. We are what i hope is not a vanishing breed.

And Thursday and Friday, i experienced zero stress free golf. i did not have to worry about my next shot. i did not think about what i should or shouldn’t do. i’m not a very good golfer, but i love to play. i don’t have a lot of interest in walking around a course with a bunch of guys hitting the ball that is beyond my limited capability. i’d rather be banging it around a course myself. But this weekend, i found watching my friends play the game i love a great experience. i rejoiced at their good shots. i moaned at their miscues. i laughed at their really goofy moments.

It was a great and different experience. You should try it sometime.

Thanks, Jim Hileman, Pete Toennies, Jeff Middlebrook, and all of those in San Diego TELCO Golf Association.

When i woke early this morning, which is my custom, it occurred to me:

One the best things about being old is you can go to sleep whenever you wish.

One of the worst things about being old is you are always sleepy.

And another one of the worst things about being old is you never can sleep when you want to even though you have the time.

* * *

i hope my death is not untimely.

i’m not too keen on my death being timely either.

As my father said, “i’ve had a good life. Now, all i want is to go quick.” (He did just shy of 99, 11 years later.)

* * *

Bob Seger sang “I wish I didn’t know now what i didn’t know then.” i agree.

But i add, i wish i knew then what i know now.

This is a bit late. i played golf with friends as he used to fish with friends. Afterwards, i took a nap as he and i had done together for a countless number of times on the couches across from each other in the den. Then i chased my newfound and unexpected work with marketing my book. He would not only understand but would approve.

Today is his 108th birthday. i still miss him terribly. He would chastise me for that. i have written volumes praising him until he told me to stop.

After he passed just shy of 99, i have praised him again, often. i don’t think i can add to that. Below are two items i wrote about him that he liked. i don’t think i need to add anything.

An Incredible Man (2000)

There is an incredible man in Lebanon. He was born September 28, 1914.

The first record of his family in America dates to 1677. His great, great, great grandfather came over the Cumberland Gap to Kentucky with Daniel Boone and apparently was Daniel’s brother-in-law. His great, great grandfather moved to Statesville in southeastern Wilson County in the early 1800’s.

He had three brothers and three sisters. He is the only one left.

He has lived through two world wars, fighting as a Seabee in the southern Philippines in the last one. He has lived through the depression, the cold war, the Korean War, the Vietnam War, and the Persian Gulf War.

He had to quit his senior year at Lebanon High School to go to work when his father contracted tuberculosis. He started as a mechanic, shared a business with his brother-in-law in the 1950’s, and then became a partner in an automobile dealership and a gas and oil distributorship. He retired in 1972.

He and his wife have been married for 62 years. They remain infatuated with each other. The first home they owned was a one-room house, adjacent to his wife’s family farm on Hunter’s Point Pike. They bought their next home on Castle Heights Avenue in 1941 with the help of a $500.00 loan from a friend. They have lived there ever since.

He and his wife put three children through college. They have five grandchildren. They have visited every state in the Union, except Alaska, where they were headed in 1984 when his wife’s illness forced them to turn around in British Columbia. Nearly all of their travel has been by RV’s, most in a twenty-eight foot fifth-wheel. When he was 87 and his wife was 84, they made their last cross-country trip to San Diego where they spent winters since 1985 with their eldest son and his family. They have made several trips up and down the east coast since then, and the fifth-wheel is still ready to go in their backyard.

They live comfortably in their retirement. Most people guess his age as early 70’s. Last month, he painted their master bedroom and sanded and painted the roof of his two-car carport. When he can’t find anyone to go fishing with him, he hooks up the boat trailer and goes by himself. Now he usually throws his catch back in. When he used to bring the catch home, he would clean the fish and give them away. He doesn’t like to eat fish, just catch them.

For years, he had the reputation as the best mechanic in Wilson County. He can still fix anything except computers and new cars because he has shunned learning the electronic advances.

All of this isn’t why this man is incredible.

He is incredible because he is such a good man.

He is a willow. He bends with the winds of change and the changes of “progress.” Yet he never breaks. His principles remain as solid as a rock. He is extremely intelligent but humble.

He seems to always be around when someone needs help. Everyone considers him a friend and he reciprocates.

He is not rich, financially. But he is one of the richest men around.

My generation’s fathers were family men. They lived through hard times and hard work without a whimper. They believed in giving a day’s work for a day’s pay. They kept their sense of humor. Their sons wish they could emulate them.

Jimmy Jewell, or James Rye Jewell, Sr., this remarkable man, remains my best friend. I am his oldest son. I have worshipped him since the first recallable thoughts came into my head fifty-three or so years ago. I still find myself wishing I could have his strength, his kindness, his work ethic, his love, his faith.

My father and I have had enough talks for him to know how I feel. But I’ve seen too many people wait until someone was gone before singing their praises publicly. I figure he’s got a good chance to outlive us all, but I wanted to acknowledge how much he means to me and how great a man I think he is.

Happy eighty-sixth birthday, Dad.

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 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.

Happy Birthday, Daddy.

i’ve got snorts and grunts and wheezes;
i’ve got coughs and hacks and sneezes;
Docs check my skin, my ears, my eyes;
Docs check my back, knees, hips by my thighs;
Everyone tells me what i shouldn’t do:
“Don’t drink or eat what you want, and don’t run, too.”

i’m an old man now and to keep getting old
i have to do things on which i’m not sold;
i must decide what is best for me
Without a clue: just let me be.

But then i fart, and then i chuckle.

…suddenly, i feel young again.