i have been away for a while. It was caused by something strange to me. Hi. i’m back, at least for now.

You see, i had been planning to pick up my rapidity in posting — somehow that phrase makes no sense to me — when i completed the writing part of the book. That has been done: the manuscript has had its final edit and in the hand of the designer for layout. i also finished assigning photos to where they belonged in the manuscript. Essentially, all the real work of creating is completed. There will be more work with my editor (Bless you, Jennifer McCord) and the designer (Rudy Ramos, i’m excited with your work so far and wish i could make up an excuse to meet you in Flagstaff). We will be making the manuscript and photos into a finished product for printing. i’m also working with Susannah Greenberg, a public relations consultant to let people know the book is out there.

Right now, the plan is for the book to be published in May. Susannah will be sending out announcements about the availability to buy, and you, my friends, may get  some duplications in the announcements.  My intent, as it originally was, is to make it available to those who want to read it, to give some folks something to consider when they might deal with similar situations, to champion our women in the military, to provide landlubbers a glimpse of what a life at sea is like, and hopefully, to not lose money on the effort.

But it’s done. i launched into a handful of my tasks on the to-do list, now filling about six pages of a spiral notebook.

Then, i stopped. It’s been rather weird lately. It was like being in a vacuum. i don’t remember being in a vacuum. Ever. i started working at something, not necessarily of my own will, somewhere around six years old. Now some 72 years later, i didn’t have to do anything. i wanted to do a lot of things, i wanted to write. Hell, i’ve been writing for me since  sometime at Lebanon Junior High. i’m a storyteller. i wasn’t in the mood to tell stories. For a bit more than a week, i did essentially nothing (bad golf doesn’t count).

Oh, i’ll come out of it. i’ve learned to just keep on doing, mostly what’s necessary, and i’ll get by. It was just a weird two weeks or so, being in that vacuum.

Then i realized the problem just might be sewing machines are now smarter than me.

i figured that out when one of my sister’s sewing machines began a conversation with me.

It was in her work room where she sews, which is apart from her weaving room — Now, folks, my sister is a marvel, her art in weaving and sewing will blow your mind. But her creme de la creme of sewing machines communicated with me. Martha has several. My wife has two, one of which is squirreled away in our garage attic. All of Martha’s and both of Maureen’s sewing machines are smarter than me.

It was in my conversation with that sewing machine on Signal Mountain i realized the sewing machines were working on taking over the world. They are setting into action a plan to overtake all of the world’s government computer systems, all of social media, and the, gasp, cloud, to control our mines. i do not know their purpose, but i am sure they are soliciting the help of women to gain their objective.

Thinking about it, i initially concluded it was not always that way. My mother had a Singer sewing machine. It required pedaling to make it go. No electric wire to an outlet. No batteries. Foot power. i wonder where it was before my parents added the den onto our cottage on Castle Heights . i’m guessing the living room. i just flat don’t remember (my sister informed me after i first posted this is was in the downstairs bedroom). But i do remember that pedaling Singer sitting next to the pine paneled wall in our den after they added on.

That old Singer was a marvel. It had an oak wood cabinet with little drawers on each side, i guess for the spools of thread. The foot treadle was black with metal grill work. My mother and grandmother could make that Singer sing.

i was thinking it wasn’t smarter than me. Then i remembered the bobbin. So, maybe not. And maybe that old Singer and its friends were the beginning of the takeover.

Those days when that old Singer Sewing Machine was around were golden days for me. i’m now out of touch. i’m not upset or anything. When one gets old, one clings to what one was where one was and hardly ever thinks about the dark side of those times. Simultaneously, one now not only complains but fears the present and how today’s folks are dealing with it all.

We didn’t have air conditioning. Didn’t seem to bother us. Funny. Maureen and i don’t have air conditioning in our home now, but, of course, we don’t live in Tennessee but in what i consider the best climate on earth. We played outside, even after supper (not “dinner”). There were lightning bugs (fireflies). There were also mosquitoes and nobody made us come in because a mosquito bite was going to kill us (unless we were in Africa where they had tsetse flies). We had bees. Even though their stings hurt like heck, it didn’t keep us from going barefoot. We were tan and no one put on sunscreen. We had cap guns and BB rifles and one-speed bikes with a metal basket hanging from the handle bars, and we rode them like maniacs but not to school, but we did walk to school by ourselves, and would see how fast we could get the metal go-round thing on the playground at recess (do they even have recess now?) to go round and round faster and faster while hanging on for dear life unless we lost our grip and went tumbling in the dirt. And we fought each other and played “King of the Hill,” and would come home for dinner (not “lunch”) with mud and bruises all over us to eat baloney and cheese with mayonnaise on white bread, Wonder Bread.

And we played “mumblety-peg.” i’m thinking anyone under 50 is not likely to even know what that is, and if some boy tried to play it today, there would be protests of millions of people marching on his parents’ home and demanding they be thrown in jail and he be sent to a foster home.

And we didn’t need freeways. In fact, if someone had said “freeway” to me i  would have  been puzzled but curious. Of course, even out here in the Southwest corner, there weren’t twelve vehicles for each family, and there were only pickups, sedans, coupes, and convertibles, max two per family, no SUV’s and no pickups looking more like Tonka toys than work trucks.

And we went to church. In coats and ties, and dresses. And we went to Sunday School, then church, then again that night and on Wednesday. And we sang and prayed for real. But even though we thought the others: Methodists, Baptists, Presbyterians, Church of Christ — and there wasn’t a Catholic Church in our town, so they had to hold lay services at their homes — were a bit odd, their sect was of no matter when it came to having friends.

And we wondered about sex and held the girls up on pedestals, apparently even when some of them didn’t want to be on a pedestal.

But you know what? It’s different today. But it’s the same. Folks are folks. It’s the times, “The Times They Are A’Changing.” If i don’t understand them, the time or the folks, then they don’t understand me.

i’m okay with that. Seems like that hasn’t changed.

My cohort, Jennifer McCord, and i are in the final steps of publishing my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings: An Executive Officer’s Memoir. There is a lull for me until i hear back from Jennifer, and we start the process of getting the manuscript ready for printing with Rudy Ramos, the designer who will develop the layout and design of the book, including the cover.

So, i have taken to reading my brother’s book, The Elements of Prayer: Learning to Pray in Real Life. This is my fourth read, eclipsed only by Tolkien’s The Hobbit, Faulkner’s “The Bear” in Go Down Moses, and Warren’s The Flood and “The Ballad of Billie Potts.”

This time around reading Joe’s book, it occurred to me Joe Jewell is a polished writer with meaningful and impactful things to impart while i am a storyteller who has something pretty close to addiction when it comes to writing.

In my opinion, everyone should read Joe Jewell’s The Elements of Prayer. He provides thoughtful and instructional guidance on not just prayer but also on how to approach living. Regardless of your position on religion, even those who proclaim to be agnostic or atheist, Joe’s take on praying should give everyone a guide to introspection, meditation, and even public speaking.

He titled his book after Strunk and White’s The Elements of Style, a bible in the literary section on how to write effectively. Joe uses their format to succinctly follow William Strunk Jr. and E.B White’s dicta in getting his points across.

To me, Joe’s points are impactful. I don’t think that is because he is my brother.

I’m about three-quarters through this read, once again finding something that strikes me as a universal truth we all should consider in our thoughts and actions:

This brings us to the dichotomy of discipline and freedom…Because discipline and freedom are two sides of the same coin. Freedom without discipline produces chaos; discipline without freedom is tyranny. Discipline is the exercise of freedom. Freedom is the exercise of discipline. Discipline is only effective when one can freely choose to act in a certain way. Freedom is only real when one determines and adheres to a certain set of actions. Again, freedom and discipline are inextricably linked to each other…

 As usual, i was set to go on and on about Joe’s writing, my story telling, life in general, and many other thoughts i have running spasmodically through my head.

But i really don’t need to do that. Reading the above passage made me stop and reflect on my praying – i’m not formally “religious” anymore, but i have taken to reciting the Lord’s Prayer in my head each night before going to sleep – and how i live my life and how i relate to other people.

I won’t go on as i usually do. I will tell you Joe’s book is still available on Amazon. I am not trying to sell it to you, but i believe it will help you in your life if you do.

My brother is my friend as well, and i thank Joe for his book and his being Joe Jewell.

It is Sunday afternoon. The “Super Bowl” has just begun its (for Anne Donnell) telecast.

i am not watching, not for all of the political positions that have been taken to not watch, nor for my own curmudgeondry (yes, Anne, i made it up), but because i don’t think there is anything “super” about it, there is no “bowl” in sight, and i am not enamored with any half-time show that doesn’t have marching bands, especially if half-time runs longer than normal games.

So i had to have something to do…since i’m not watching the non super non bowl (sounds like an Asian dish). You see, i completed my penultimate review of my manuscript for Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings: An Executive Officer’s Memoir last night, and moved the photos to a thumb drive to forward to my editor, the wonderful Jennifer McCord, tomorrow. All the rest of my work will be on getting it published and sold to the amount i don’t lose money.

i have about 7,896, 431 tasks on my to-do list. Yet today, i feel like i’m in a vacuum with nothing to do. When i finally took on one of those tasks, i went maximum lethargic. Just not into it.

So, i went into my office to find a book on Ulysses S. Grant for Maureen. As i reached for it, i noticed on the shelf directly above it proof. Sunshine.

The cover is gone. i had scotched taped the entire cover, but it is a bit old and the cover disappeared in those 64 years. Still, it’s proof: Sassy and i were twins.

And on the next page, Mrs.Burton, i think, wrote the names of each actor by their character on the cast list:

i find the descriptions of the characters amusing:

Jim Jewell: Gabby Robinson
…………………………………………….proof that trouble never comes singly
Sarah Ward: Connie Robinson

i understand how i was selected for Gabby but i’m also proof trouble sometimes comes singly; i don’t think Sassy has ever been trouble for anyone.

Marcia Emmert: Mrs. Robinson…a bundle of nerves.

i cannot imagine Marcia with “a bundle of nerves.”

LeRoy Dowdy: Glen Robinson…true blue, though slightly “red”

If there was ever anyone who is true blue, it would be Lee Dowdy; “Red” is certainly off base.

Elaine Davis: Mrs. Ellis…has a nursery for sale.

i wonder where Elaine is. After all, she wore my ring around her neck.

Sharry Baird: Norma Robinson…hollywood bound.

She could have been had she wanted to.

Henry Harding: Clint Robinson…head of the clan

He was always my father in plays, dos amigos who called each other to ensure our outfits matched.

Beverly Hughes: “Bebe” Prather…who refuses to stay put.

But she did and Buddy Phillips was glad she did.

Andy Berry: Vail Porter…whose money gets in the way

i don’t think anything ever got in Andy’s way enough to stop him, and he broke the curve in Vanderbilt Chemistry 101, which gave me a “D” instead of a “C.”

Clinton Matthews: Leo Prather…a lamb who learns to roar

Clint roared on the basketball court like a lion, and it was so much fun to pass him the ball on a fast break and watch him go to work.

Laurene Smith: Pauline Doyle…a talent scout but a “good scout” nevertheless

Always pretty. And yes, Laurene was a good scout.

Yeh, i think i prefer my memories of The Sunshine Twins to a not so super not so bowl, even as Maureen watches in the other room, primarily for the commercials and half-time show. Now if the Texas A&M Military Marching Band or any band with Townley Johnson as the drum major and i would be all over it.

But where is Alan “the Horse” Ameche when i need him?

In 1958, although it could have been in the autumn of 1957, there was this neat young girl who was a “Sunshine Twin.”

Somewhere i have the playscript to prove it. i couldn’t find it in my bookshelf tonight, but i know it’s there somewhere.

It all happened in the second year of Lebanon Junior High School in the old high school building. Mrs. Burton, the new principle and one of the sweetest ladies i have ever known, decided the to put on the 8th Grade Class Play. She picked “The Sunshine Twins,” which was long, long before Blaine and Brittany, whoever the hell they are.

Sarah Ward was the female twin. i know because this goofy guy, even then a goofy guy, was picked to be the male twin. We were a hit, at least in my mind. i laugh when i think of Henry Harding and Marcia Emmert being cast as our parents.

Nobody knew Sarah as “Sarah.” She was a sassy “Sassy:” smart, cute, fun. Her twin? Well, i think sometimes he was fun. Goofy guys running around with Sassy Ward must have had a bit of fun in them.

Sassy returned to “Sarah.” She is Sarah Ward Jaeger and lives in Huntsville, Alabama. She caught up with her twin today, turning 78.

Now, there are a whole lot of things i’ve done in my life of which i’m proud.  Then there are some things  i’ve done that don’t quite fit in that category.

But let me tell you, being the Sunshine Twin of Sassy Ward, remains one of the highest compliments i’ve had in my time.

Happy Birthday, Twin.

i’m pretty sure most folks who read this stuff have had dark times. After all, most of you are either in my generation or immediately after my generation. i won’t say old but for most of us, it means we’ve been around long enough to have seen some dark times. i learned a long time ago, dark descends upon us, not necessarily through a fault of our own. We have no control over it except for how we deal with it. It happens. It’s life.

Lately, we’ve had our time in  dark. We tried to control it, but once again, that was not to be. It happened. It’s life.

Sometimes we don’t deal with it very well. i was real close to not dealing with this spell of dark very well. i have this propensity to try and fix things, help people. It doesn’t always turn out well. Sometimes it does. i realized helping others and fixing things are dependent on the other folks involved. Not me.

So, i’m wrestling with the dark this time around, and i remember. Oh yes, i remember.

i began to earn money when in i was nine. i never got an allowance. Being the oldest of the three Jewell children (and by far, the goofiest), i was the first do be charged with all of the home duties: washing windows, stripping and waxing the wood floors, cleaning the cinder clunkers out of the crawl spaces in the basement, and as soon as i could handle it, mowing our lawn. So, it was a moment of great freedom when i began to make money, my own. Somehow, my parents, the Frames, and the Cowans came to the conclusion i could mow the Frames and Cowan’s lawns, which were across Castle Heights Avenue from our home.

The two yards together were almost two acres. From April until October or so, I mowed, trimmed with hand clippers (okay, okay, that was odious work, and i skipped it quite a bit, especially when i got blisters on my hands, which was often), and raked leaves almost continuously in September and October. It was a weekly task except in the winter months.

It began with a reel lawn mower. It was powered, not pushed. After several months into my first summer, Daddy moved up to a rotary mower. But you had to push it, mind you. Still, it was an incredible step up from the rotary version.`

Ten bucks.

Even in the 1950’s, that was not a gold mine. My father began working for pay in 1934 as a mechanic for $12, not an hour, a week. My mother went to work after graduating from high school in 1935 for $20, not an hour, not a week, but a month. They were still earning in that area when they married in 1938.  i often wonder what they thought about their nine-year old son walking away with ten buckaroos for essentially a day’s work.

More enterprising youths would have grown the business, taken on as many lawn jobs as they could, maybe five or six or ten or twelve. That could have brought in as much as $120 a week in the summer.  We’re talking 1950’s high finance. But not moi.

Nope, i was content. i didn’t want making money to take up my baseball time or my time with friends, especially, even at nine, the female kind. And those ten bucks every week were not squirreled away. No, siree, Bob. When that ten bob was in my hand, it did not go into my savings…er, savings?

i went down past the square, nearly always on my one-speed Schwinn bike with a basket hanging off the handlebars, a block beyond and then turned south on South Cumberland. There was a slice of heaven: Simm’s Motorola and Record Store (Hmm…was that really it’s name: i just called it Simm’s). There were radios and record players and consoles up front and on the sides, and there were bins and bins of slices of gold. 45-RPM records. Rock ‘n Roll. Oh, lord. Heaven for a nine-year old nutcase.

i was into teenage Rock ‘n Roll. So, once a week, i would pull open the choke, open the fuel line and yank the pull cord on that mower’s engine about forty times to get it to start. Then, i would spend the next four hours or so mowing, singing those songs i had committed to memory from those 45’s. After all, the motor’s two-cycle engine made a lot of noise. i was pretty sure no one could hear me over that roar.

So, i sang with no restraint. Ray Peterson’s “Corrina, Corrina.” Chuck Berry’s “School Days.” Johnny and Joe’s “Over the Mountain.” Chuck Willis’ “C.C. Rider.” The Everly Brothers “All I Have To Do is Dream” and “Bye Bye, Love,” and Carl Perkin’s “Blue Suede Shoes,” and Marty Robbin’s “A White Sport Court and a Pink Carnation,” and The Coaster’s “Gee Golly,” “Poison Ivy,” “Idol with the Golden Head,” “Searching,” “Young Blood,” and “Charlie Brown,” and Laverne Baker’s “Jim Dandy.” And of course, every Elvis song in existence at the time. Singing at the extent of my volume, faking the falsetto.” Dreaming with the sweat rolling down my face and my bare back without a care in the world.

Then somewhere in that world of teenage angst, i found WLAC AM late night programming. On my small desk top radio. In our shared room on the second floor, My younger brother Joe and i would listen to blues, the real blues of Jimmy Reed, Howlin’ Wolf, Sonny Boy
Williamson, John Lee Hooker, Eddie Burns, Eddie Collins, Muddy Waters, Bobby “Blue” Bland, James “Baby, You Got My Mind Messed Up” Carr, and so, so many others.

And those ten bucks would go to Randy’s Record  in Gallatin, Tennessee, and i would get vinyl gold from Excello and Nashboro  that most folks would never recognize like Tarheel Slim and Little Ann.

All told, i ended up with about 300 45-RPMS. Drops, scratches, and other forms of abuse have reduced the number to about 240. There are some that were never saved in archives, like Tarheel Slim and Little Ann with “It’s Too Late.” They are special.

I digitized them.

So, after being in my dark for a day or two, i walked into our bedroom that afternoon. i hooked up my antiquated iPod to a bluetooth speaker and went back in time, a long, long time ago. i have a playlist i titled “jim’s 45s.” My music took me to a different place where there was some light. It wasn’t quite as dark.

The next morning, i did my perfunctory morning routine. Just before first light, i went out to retrieve my dinosaur version of the news: a newspaper. Almost dead south, over Mexico,  hung the Morning Star. Venus. The Greek goddess of love, victory, and beauty. She was the only heavenly body visible.

And then, the dawn. As that old spiritual proclaimed: i saw the light.

Now i ain’t gonna tell you how you should deal with being in your dark if you happen to run across it. i know you will be there some time. How you deal with your dark is up to you. i only hope my way of dealing with dark may give you some idea of how you might find light.

“i saw the light.”

It’ out there. Find it your way.