Occasionally, Maureen will find some packaged watermelon at Ralph’s, which is what folks out in the Southwest corner call Kroger’s.

She likes to serve it with prosciutto and some fancy garnishes to guests for an appetizer before dinner. Ain’t bad. She also has been known to chop it up into cubes and serve it other fruits, even at breakfast. Ain’t bad.

There are a couple of other things she does with it, and…it ain’t bad.

Ain’t watermelon to me. i don’t quite know what to call it.

Watermelon has a history in my family. i have a photo to prove it:

Those two folks chowing down are my grandmother, Katherine Webster Prichard and my grandfather Joe Blythe Prichard in their yard off of Hunter’s Point Pike. Judging my Aunt Evelyn’s age looking upon this feasting, i’m guessing this was about 1920 (the photo comes from a bunch my cousin Nancy Schwarze sent me several years ago; Nancy is Aunt Evelyn’s daughter).

My father got involved in watermelons. When he was in high school, he and a bunch of his buddies, and knowing those guys, albeit much later, i wouldn’t be surprised if Jim Horn Hankins was in on it, although Mister Hankins was a year or two ahead of these two. i’m betting the ring leader of the escapade was H.M. Byars. Only H.M. was mentioned by name when my father told this tale to me. He did not divulged the names of the others. It was watermelon season, probably September when they drove out to the Bostick Farm at the corner of Hickory Ridge Road and Blair Lane, coincidentally across Blair Lane from the farm of my great uncle and aunt, Wynn (“Papa” to me, siblings, and a bunch of cousins) and Corrine Prichard.

The gang parked their vehicles far enough away they would not be detected by the Bostick’s in their farm house. They made their way to garden and plucked a bunch of watermelons. They carried their stash into the woods, sat down, cut the melons with their pocket knives and dug in. Bad idea. They misjudged the state of the watermelons in the dark and the meat was still green. They had ruined a substantial bunch of ripening but not ripe watermelons.

The only good part of this story is they didn’t get caught.

When i was growing up, i don’t think packaged watermelon slices existed, and i’m sure they weren’t wrapped in plastic if they did exist. And they certainly weren’t available all year round, nor to my knowledge was there a seedless watermelon on earth.

When we ate watermelon, the whole melon was all that was available. So someone would slice the melons into wedges like the ones in the photo of my grandparents. The diners would head outside because you didn’t eat a watermelon in the house. Why? These babies had seeds up the gumpstump. Lots of seeds. And my mother was not going to have a bunch of kids spitting watermelon seeds all over of her house.

Therefore, we would grab our slices and head outside. We sat on chairs or blankets or the ground like my grandparents. We passed the salt shaker cause we ate our wonderful juicy watermelons with salt to taste. My taste of salt was always plentiful, and i would beg for another slice, with salt of course.

So when Maureen prepares some of those fancy watermelon things, i hope she doesn’t notice my raised eyebrow like my father would raise his when he was exposed to something questionable in his opinion. My mother’s raised eyebrow is the stuff of legend, and i would try to shrink into the wallpaper if her raised eyebrow was directed at something i did or said.

But after my clandestine eyebrow raising goes unnoticed (hopefully), i dig into Maureen’s watermelon extravaganzas. They really are good, tasty. But i long for those that came as whole melons and i want to go out in the backyard with a slice and chomp down.

It still wouldn’t be as much fun: no seeds to spit.

Easter has changed for us.

No more egg hunts. We didn’t go to church.

The three of us went to our wonderful French restaurant, Et Voilà, for a late brunch. They have done a great job taking a small parking lot in the back to give off the mood of an outdoor French café. COVID you understand. Bloody Mary for me, fu fu drinks for Maureen and Sarah, coffee. Short rib hash for Sarah, Lamb hash for Maureen. Being less capable in French than the two of them, i ordered quiche lorraine because there is no way i would properly pronounce “croque madame.”

Wonderful. Just flat wonderful.

En route, we passed several churches holding services outside. You know, that COVID thing. It engendered my recall of past Easters back home.

For Sarah, i recalled the community joint churches Sunrise Service, created by the Kiwanis Club as George Harding admonished me to get right when i omitted that detail from a Lebanon Democrat column. 7:00 a.m. Sarah wondered why it wasn’t at sunrise. i opined they probably couldn’t get all the church goers up for sunrise. Castle Heights. McFadden Auditorium. The Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, and Church of Christ ministers were arrayed on the steps behind the speaker’s platform. That’s the way i remember it, but hey, it was 1950. i was six years old.

And this six-year old was dressed to the nines. He had on a white suit with shorts and a white shirt with an open-neck collar. His hair was slicked and parted perfectly. His four-year old sister Martha was in his father’s lap. His year-old brother Joe was in his mother’s arms. The metal folding chairs were white.

He remembers that all of the preachers participated in the service. Ergo, it was a long service. He remembers they sang those high falutin’ hymns like “Holy, Holy, Holy,” not the gospels he already had come to love. But most of all, he remembers how cold those seats were on his legs not covered by the shorts. It was almost painful. But it was a beautiful service in the cold sun of Easter morning.

After we returned home this morning, i thought about that incredible man, the Son of God, and how we have manipulated his messages of peace and good will toward men into many other things that ignore our relationships with other humans.

i said a prayer. Just me. Just mine. No holier than thou stuff. No claim to being right. Just praying for what i think Easter is all about. Really.

But then, i went back to work. Editing. A pain. Sometimes scary. Sometimes too revealing of me since it’s a memoir. Over six hours all told today.

But i stopped, worked on some menial tasks. i like menial tasks. Sometimes when i do one well, like cleaning the outdoor furniture or washing the dishes or tightening some screws on some new electronic marvel that abjures the essence of quality for a quick sale at a price determined for lining the pockets of the manufacturers or their angels, now called entrepreneurs or middle men, i feel as i have reached Maslow’s highest level of self-actualization.

Silly me: it’s what makes our world go round.

But i am an old curmudgeon. And somewhere in the middle of this, i realized i was cultivated for rebelling against planned obsolesce even while i am a living example of it.

You see, i remember that time back on Castle Heights Avenue about the time i went to that community Easter Sunrise Service. It was before the folks built on with a breakfast room, a den, an upstairs master bedroom, and a grand carport. Back then, it was a back porch, small i grant you, screened in. Now, if you haven’t heard, it rains back home. Did then too. So on rainy days when we couldn’t go out in shorts, shirtless, and barefoot, we played on the porch.

And on that porch was my little wooden red wagon, not filled with windup or battery powered plastic toys. Not even the teddy bear whose head was sawed off with my toy carpenter tools. No, that little wagon was filled with…blocks of wood, waste from Uncle Snooks construction business with his brother, Ben Hall who lived on a magic farm out on Trousdale Ferry Pike.

The blocks were just small chunks, pieces cut off from studs and assorted cuts from house building. But they were a world of imagination for us.

We built the Tower of Babel. Must have been: we never finished it; it would always fall down. We built forts, ranch houses with fences for the corrals, we built railroad stations. And of course, with Martha there, we built doll houses.

Of course, i don’t remember how many times we played with those blocks of wood, or how long we played on that little porch in that little piece of innocence it that little town. But it was, no, is magic. Uncle Snooks, a farmer in the war, stayed at home and treated me (and others) like the son or daughter he never had. He gave me my first football. He gave me the gift of his laughter and allowed us to make fun of him.

But the greatest gift he ever gave me were those blocks of wood, which we turned into fairy tales on that back porch in the rain.

Sitting under the shade umbrella in the late afternoon of the Southwest corner, my ruminations made Easter seem just right.

have you happened to see
my dreams wandering by
recently?
i lost them somewhere
sometime ago
although
i really don’t know why or when
they went on their own way
perhaps
people took them away
from me
showing me
my dreams did not exist
because
those folks would not allow
goodness
humanity
to overcome
fear greed hate
perhaps even the do gooders
took them with their own kind of hate
victorians in disguise in the new times
wanting to make all is well
when it will never be all is well
or
perhaps
my dreams just got tired
of an old man
knowing too much
learning through the years
his dreams could not exist
knowledge would not allow them in
so
they went away
somewhere
someway
somehow
sometime ago
but
if you happen across my dreams
please send them back to me
i need them for my sanity.

Today (begun last night, Sunday, March 21, 2021) on the “If You Grew Up in Lebanon (TN)…” Facebook group, Elizabeth Spears asked about that wonderful mansion on the corner of Castle Heights Avenue (now with “North” added) and West Main. Responses explained it was the “Mitchell House” and one included a photo of the majestic place.

i could not help but respond. Now when i should be finishing some editing on my book or closing up shop, i am compelled to meet the obligation i created in that response.

My response:

A number of years ago when Danny Evins had bought the Mitchell House and made it the titular headquarters for Cracker Barrel, my mother, Estelle Jewell, wrote a brief essay and i took it to one of the PR folks with an office there. i just ran across her essay. i intended to give it to the City of Lebanon and the Wilson County archives but was not looking for it when i found it, just ran across it while shuffling papers. She played with David Mitchell when they were around five or six years old in that house in the early 1920’s. She also points out that her mother, my grandmother, Katherine Prichard, was a Heights housemother who had up to 20 goobers under her charge from 1958 until around 1971. i will post the link to my comments and her essay on my website soon.

And with no further ado, here is Mother’s essay:

Memories of the Mitchell House
by Estelle Jewell

As I go down West Main Street and see the restoring of the Mitchell House, it brings some vivid memories of my attachment to that house.

I was about four or five years old and David Mitchell was about a year older. After his mother died, his father brought his grandparents here to live and look after his children. They were Rev. and Mrs. Arthur Smith and had lived in Florida. Mr. Mitchell travelled a lot on business and the Smith’s live in the Mitchell house. I don’t remember much about the sister.

The Smith’s came to our church, and in those days people did visiting. My Grandfather was a retired Methodist minister and so was Rev. Smith. My grandparents lived about a mile from town on Hunter’s Point Pike (their farm was on the southwest corner of where Castle Heights Avenue now intersects with US 231 and is where Al’s Foodmart is now located). He decided one  day to go visit the Smith’s and asked me to go with them as they had this grandson about my age. My grandfather, grandmother, and I went in the horse and buggy to visit. David and I had a good time playing. Then, the Smith’s asked me to come back and spend the day after that. David had a “Nanny” (I think her name was Mrs. Lawson). I went back to spend the day and the “Nanny” took us up to the play room on the third floor. I had never seen that many play things (even in a store). Most any thing you ever heard of he had. I can’t remember much about lunch but I did have to go to the bathroom. I think they had one for every bedroom and it amazed me because they all had standup bathroom scales. The “Nanny” took us to the library to read to us. Then she let us bring a car (the kind you pedaled with your feet) and a tricycle and a scooter down to the front porch to ride. Of course, I had never ridden any of them before but David let me try and I had a good time.

Later on the Smith’s wanted to move back to Florida and I guess they took the children with them. I wish I could have met him when he came back to Lebanon, but in 1954, I was working and had three children and a husband so was too busy to get there. When he returned in 1994, I was either out of town or was sick and didn’t get there then. But that house and all it’s grandeur and those play things I have thought about many a time.

And then, in 1958, Col. Armstrong hired my Mother as a house mother for some grade school boys, and she lived on the second floor of the Mitchell house with about 20 – 6th, 7th, and 8th grade boys. So I was in and out of there two or three times a week. She worked for Castle Heights for about 13 years.

This may not interest people, but for a small girl it was a wonderful experience.

Also part of the Castle Heights history, both of my boys attended their high school days there.

//Estelle Prichard Jewell//

My thoughts:

That wonderful place, Castle Heights Military Academy, on the Hilltop is gone, quietly faded away in 1987.

Only a few of the buildings remain: Main is now the city’s administrative office. Colonel Ingram’s home as Commandant is owned by the Castle Heights Alumni Association, i think. The superintendent’s home is now Sammy B’s Restaurant.

The Rutherford Parks Library (where i spent an incredible amount of time in the stacks on the second level reading everything that wasn’t a homework assignment and still remember how moved I was by James H. Street’s The Biscuit Eater and Mika Waltari’s The Estruscan) is now the Castle Heights Military Academy Museum and Archives.

And of course, there is the round guard house  near the Mitchell House. Danny Evins had a circle nearby with the name of graduates and their graduation year on the bricks of the circle.

A goal post and a scoreboard in the back of the lot where Wilson County Bank and Trust’s Operations Center now stands is all that remains of the football, soccer,  and track field which was also the parade grounds where the cadet battalion would march down from Main on Sunday afternoons (along with other big events), march onto the field. The band would perform and then the drill team would put on a show with the parade concluding with the battalion “passing in review” before the gathered guests on the commander, his staff, the honored guests on the large podium, and friends, family, and town folks in the stands.

(i must admit i am in the Southwest corner and haven’t been home in more than two years. So my recounting of what remains of Heights is somewhat spotty. i hope i have gotten most of it correct.

i should add my only regret my sister Martha was not able to attend because it was a boy’s prep school when we were in school. i, like my brother, and so many others profited from the learning, the discipline, and the camaraderie of the corps available there. i wish Martha had the same opportunity.

As we have said many times: “Hail, Castle Heights!”

A good idea but ain’t gonna happen

i’m not going to watch college football in the Spring, even if it is being played because of COVID.

i am pretty much done with March Madness after my Aztecs were completely embarrassed by Syracuse.

After all, i can watch Vandy baseball, and they are, as Coach Creekmore said, impressive.

Even though my ole basketball buddy from one-on-one for hours after everyone else had gone home from school, Mike Dixon, has sent me an article declaring the Vandy Boys are the equivalent of the Yankee dynasty — the text of that article as it appeared on the PL+ website is included below, i’m not going to announce their CWS appearance yet, as there is this nasty thing called the “super regional,” which has knocked out many good teams before the CWS. No, i’m not yet ready to crown the boys on West End the champs.

But boy, am i glad i can watch almost every game courtesy of the sports web, especially the SEC network.

i just wanted to share something i wish were true at many other institutions of higher (sic) learning.

Today’s San Diego Union-Tribune sports section had an article on the back page written by Don Norcross about University of San Diego’s “Toreros” football team.

The Toreros play their football in the Pioneer Football League in the Football Championship Subdivision, or FCS. The PFL is playing this spring because of COVID. USD is 2-0 in this six-game spring season. More impressive and the headline subject of the article is the team has won 39 straight league games. And the reason i started this post is that USD the only team in the conference that does not give football scholarships — Norcross states the Toreros are the only FCS non-scholarship program, but i need to check on that more thoroughly before agreeing.

Still, i was struck by that. Imagine a college football team winning for that long without giving out football scholarships against teams that have as many as 63 scholarships.

i won’t get on my Quixote rant here about college athletics. i recognize such rages will have no effect. But for me, it is encouraging to know that some colleges can have real, no kidding, student/athlete programs that succeed.

On that note, i still think Vandy is trying to do it the right way with their entire athletic program. It is succeeding in nearly all programs except it remains a very tough road for football and is likely to continue that way, and i think the jury remains out on basketball.

But baseball? Just wow. Just flat wow. Here’s that article:

(PL+ Web Site)

Vanderbilt Dynasty: There’s a baseball factory in Nashville churning out big leaguers
by Mitch Bannnon

As Quincy Hamilton walked back to the dugout his Wright State teammate, Tyler Black, stopped him for some guidance — any advice that would save Black from the same walk moments later.

The 6’5” pitcher who had just struck Hamilton out stalked the mound in wait of his next victim. Hamilton’s advice may have been good, but it didn’t help. Black worked the count full, treading water for seven pitches, but on the eighth he was done in by the high heater.

It was the third batter Vanderbilt’s Kumar Rocker sent right back to the dugout in the opening inning, and he’d add five more Ks in the 14-1 Commodores win. A few hours later, in the second half of the season-opening double header, his teammate Jack Leiter bested him — 6.0 IP, 1 H, 8 K, 0 BB.

Rocker and Leiter head the best rotation, on the best team, from the best program in college baseball. The 2021 Vanderbilt squad is filled with not just college stars, but future big league aces (yes, plural), all star outfielders, and MLB starting catchers. Simply put, the current iteration of Vandy baseball is an absolute wagon.

There is a very real chance over 25 percent of the MLB Draft’s top five picks in the next three years will be Commodores. They have FanGraphs’ No. 6 player in the 2023 class, No. 4 in the 2022, and Rocker and Leiter are projected first and second overall picks in the 2021 class.

In his third start of the season, Leiter twisted on the mound and stared downward after his 26th pitch against University of Illinois-Chicago. The 20-year-old reached for the brim of his cap and walked towards the dugout, upset with himself. His catcher, Maxwell Romero Jr., met Leiter at the third base line and slapped him on the backside. Leiter was frustrated he had walked two batters in the inning (no runners scored and he struck out the side).

Leiter is the lightning to Rocker’s thunder. He is listed at 6’1″ and 195 pounds, features a four pitch mix, and has drawn comparisons to Sonny Gray. At 21-years-old, Rocker is 6’5″ and 250 pounds. He touches 98 mph with his fastball and has earned 65+ grades on his late-breaking slider. Vanderbilt’s coach Tim Corbin likened Rocker to David Price.

Of program’s with at least 400 AB this year, Vanderbilt has the highest SLG%, fourth-highest OBP, and seventh AVG. They also lead the country in stolen base percentage (minimum 20 SB) with a 95% success-rate.

High signing bonuses lured the top prospects away from the newly expanded (for $13 million) Vanderbilt athletic facility. It is a Major League-caliber complex with 30,000 square feet of cardio studios, workout rooms, fueling stations, and walls of jerseys from former Commodores who have played in the big leagues.

Walker Buehler and Sonny Gray are front-and-center, but there is room for more. Maybe Austin Martin, one of the two Vandy grads currently in MLB.com’s top 25 prospects, will be next. In a few years it could be Leiter or Rocker. Or maybe it will be one of the seven top 100 recruits already committed to join the program in 2022.

It’s not a question of if but who, because the Vanderbilt baseball factory shows no signs of stopping.