Last weekend, Maureen and i had wonderful time in Las Vegas. We didn’t stay at one of those over the top fancy casino hotels. As a matter of fact, we did not go to any casinos. i didn’t place one bet. We did go to the strip, but that was to go to The Mob Museum, which was entertaining while smashing any idea of this place beginning with a good history.

As we flew from San Diego to this city created from a desert, i, in a rare window seat for me, looked down on the terrain. Las Vegas water comes mostly from Lake Mead (which is drying up) fed by the Colorado River. Other water comes from several large aquifers under the city. But for miles and miles around from horizon to horizon, even on an aircraft at 35,000 feet, i could only see desert. This is a strange place to have an adult playground, i thought, but it is a getaway, far away from other civilization.

Our trip was not to party or gamble in Vegas. Maureen does not like Vegas. i used to go occasionally to see a show or watch the people. No, i’m not innocent. i did gamble a bit, i’ve concluded i’m possibly the worst gambler in the world. i did win about two bucks in a late night game in the 60’s. Henry Harding, Charles “Fox”Dedman, and i played “Mexican Sweat” late into a Saturday night. i also won in the game room of the Navy Officer’s “Town Club” in Sasebo, Japan, enough to pay for my flight to and from Osaka and Expo ’70. But slots were still one-armed bandits. They have gone far beyond that now.

We were there to spend time with daughter Sarah and her husband Aaron and meet his family. It could not have been much better. Aaron’s mother Deborah, his sister Alicia and her husband Kobe were just flat great. They are great people. It was such a great feeing to see them all loving life and Sarah being an integral part.

Driving around or going for a walk beyond the strip, i marveled how this place just rose from the sand. How the streets run straight without any rocky hills to require curving them. The buildings are almost identical to those in strip malls every where and those chain stores seemed to have popped up by just adding concrete. It seems very strange to me, but of course, the Southwest corner would be strange for those of you in the east.

Bottom line: it’s a wonderful place. After all, our daughter is happy there, and she has a wonderful husband and another great family.

i’ll bet on that.

In 1985, i resumed my San Diego golf playing when i reported for my last tour at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. My first playing partners were Marty Linville and Rod Stark. i also played with Ray Boggs, my father-in-law. Soon, Ray frequently joined our group. We played the Navy’s three courses: the Navy’s large recreational park in Mission Valley, Admiral Baker; Naval Air Station, North Island’s Sea ‘n Air; and Naval Air Station, Miramar’s Memorial golf course.

Over the years, Ray and Marty developed a special bond. While Rod completed his active duty and became the club pro at the North Golf Course in Sun City, California, Ray became a constant third in our many golf outings. Rod came back in the mid-90s and became part of constant threesome after Ray had crossed the bridge in 1992.

Ray, being a quarter of a century older than Marty or i, did not hit the ball as long as we did then (now, i understand the frustration, hitting my shots twenty yards or more shorter than i used to hit them). This was before they had come up with the forward tee concept for seniors. Ray was constantly complaining about hitting from the blues as Marty i did in those days — except when we went to the desert and foolishly played championship/difficult courses from the blacks, the longest tee placements. Finally, we went to the Sea ‘n Air course and before we went to the first tee, Ray announced he was playing from the whites. Marty and i agreed that was a good idea. That day, the greenskeeper, had somehow placed the tee markers where there wasn’t five yards difference between the longer blue markers and the shorter white markers.

Marty and i laughed as we arrived at all 18 tees.

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For a while in the late 80s, we frequently played at Mirarmar, which was then a Naval Air Station and home of “Top Gun.” It is now Marine Air Station, Miramar. Ray was supposed to meet me around 0600 at the east gate in order for me to escort him past the marine gate guards. But every time i arrived at the pickup spot, Ray’s car would not be there. The first time, i waited for him to show up but with time running out, i finally drove through the gate to the course. Ray was already there. He had somehow talked the guards in letting him through even though he had no military ID. Ray had arrived early enough to have the 19th hole’s SOS (chipped beef in gravy on toast, called “SOS” for “Shit On a Single” by military folks). He continued to get through the gate every time we played Miramar.

When we played Admiral Baker, which was a recreational park and had no gate, Ray would there early enough to have two servings of SOS.

After that first time at Miramar if his car was not there, i just went to the course.

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It was at Mirarmar after Ray had played with us a number of times that Ray admired Marty’s golf after the round. Marty was an exceptional self-taught golfer before injuries curtailed his swing — he was still a remarkable golfer up until his last round with us. Over our beers at the 19th hole, Ray complemented Marty, “Marty, i admire how you play within yourself.”

Marty had problems hitting good shots for about six months after that.

When his game was coming around again, we had played Miramar again and were sharing another pitcher of beer. Marty was one of the best short game players i have ever played with (more stories about his chipping and putting later). That day, Marty had putted extremely well.

Again, Ray attempted a compliment, “Marty, you are a terrific putter, but you still stand funny.”

Again, it was nearly six months before Marty’s putting got back to normal.”

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Those two were great friends, and i treasure the rounds i had with them. Rod and i still share their stories.

i am an old guy with old ways that don’t necessarily jive with the way we live and think today. Every once in a while, i discover some of my thoughts make some sense…at least to me.

Thursday’s birthday dinner for Maureen’s birthday was high class. She was elegantly beautiful in a French restaurant with a French country setting, incredible food, and great service. Me? i kept thinking.

i thought about how she touches all of the bases. In addition to being beautiful, especially for her age, looks younger, maintains our beautiful home, a product of her design and choices, without fail, keeps the books because she thrives on such an exercise, has many friends she enjoys, including mine, is a cook of chef quality, and a textile artist in sewing and felting.

And then, in such a wonderful setting with a fantastic woman, this song came into my head. i won’t include a Youtube of it here, but the lyrics go:

Always the life of the party
Lots of wine, women and song
But suddenly I feel so downhearted
For the first time I feel all alone
The wine don’t taste too sweet now
All my women can go just to the moon
And I don’t like the song I’ve been singin’
Maybe true love can change that tune.

I don”t want a part time lover
That only wants to rock my soul
All I want to do is discover
The one love that never grows old.
I’m tired of being a playboy
I want to throw away my little black book.
I know its not too late to find somebody
Who likes to sew and cook.

That’s why
I’m reaching out,
Reaching out for that someone;
I’m reaching out for that someone.
That special someone.

Always. the life of the party,
Lots of wine, women, and song;
But suddenly I feel so downhearted;
The wine don’t taste too sweet now;
All my women can just go to the moon;
And I don’t like the song I’ve been singin’;
Maybe true love can change that tune.

That’s Bobby Moore and the Rhythm Aces’ song recorded in 1966. i know because i was the weekend “Top 40” deejay at WCOR AM in Lebanon, Tennessee when it came out. i knew of Bobby Moore. His group performed for Vanderbilt parties at the Kappa Sigma house, my fraternity, several times, and i actually sang witht him and his band at a Sigma Chi party in 1963 — we were invited because we had put on “social probation” for our antics (remember “Animal House). The “B” Side was “Hey, Mr. DJ,” an instrumental that i used for my closing tune over dubbed with my program farewell.

When it hit me in the head Friday night, i got to thinking about it (a dangerous proposition). Bobby and i were from a different era. Looking at this from our perspective, talking about looking for a woman “who likes to sew and cook” made perfect sense AND was in no way putting women down. We, at least Bobby Moore, my friends, and i respected them for those skills and needed them.

Then, i imagined today with hordes of women descending with fangs out, foam around their mouths, screaming expletives against such foul, backward, abusive men like us daring to say such things. Going even further off track, i recalled that training session in Detroit when three men, myself among them, shrinking down into their chairs attempting to become invisible while the 21 women in the group went ballistic about whether they should be called “ladies,” “Mrs.,” “Miss,” and Lord knows what else.

Now, don’t get me wrong. i think women should always, always be on a equal standing with men. i think i’ve proven that is my conviction during my Navy career.

Then i thought again about Maureen. She is a modernist. She is all in for women’s rights. The amazing thing she, as Bobby Moore was searching for, is a woman who likes to “sew and cook.” It’s certainly not the kind of sewing and cooking i was thinking about back then, and i’m pretty sure Bobby wasn’t thinking that way when he intoned those words. Today, saying, singing or thinking those things could get us into a whole lot of trouble.

Now, Maureen is all in on causes for women. She is as “feminist” as she could get. But you know what? She loves, loves to “sew and cook.” Of course, her sewing of the “textile art” quality, far beyond hemming some pants. She doesn’t even deign to hem my pants. i have to take my pants to the tailor when i want them hemmed. That’s okay.

And cooking? Many chefs would be proud to cook as well as Maureen. No bad meals in this house, and they are all healthy. i only get comfort food when i sneak out to a pub or cook it myself.

Sitting there in Bleu Boheme, that wonderful restaurant, Thursday night, they brought out a chocolate mousse with a lit candle on top for her birthday. i thought who cares? We love each other and that’s enough.

Above: Maureen and i together for our second Christmas, 1984, in Ponte Vedra, California — i was in Diego Garcia for our first one.

It was a good day, quiet except for family and friends calling and texting Maureen. We went to our favorite French restaurant, Bleu Boheme, just the two of us.

It was Maureen’s 74th birthday. Hard to believe she thought enough of me to marry me.

i wrote a note to her this morning that said, “You are the most beautiful 74-year old woman in the world, inside and out.” She is.

i won’t be as bombastic as i usually am. i’ll just say i am a very, very lucky man.

This is the two of us in 1988. Like i said, she is beautiful, a wonderful woman.

Happy Birthday, Maureen…and thanks.

i am a mere small parcel of land
pocked marked with flat sandstone slabs
like an infant’s skull coming out of the womb
poking out of the dirt
sprouts of weeds claiming their space
dandelions
sprigs of grass in clumps
non-productive dirt
barren
useless
but
unique
some might say
a pocket of resistance
to progress as we know it
a relic which has outlived its time
hanging on, hanging on
for the next step
then
the small brown ground squirrel
emerges from the acacia
to nibble on a morsel on one of the slabs
the gray falcon alights from the street light standard
diving, sweeping, looping
gaining speed
for the kill
but
some noise
some instinct
leads the squirrel
to bolt underneath the acacia again
small flowers, weeds really
bloom in the parcel
hard to see unless one bends over to get close
a plant in its cycle of life
attempting to live for the next phase
there is merit here in my parcel of land
for what is unknown
but
it’s there.