No, not my Aunt Fran, Maureen’s maternal aunt. She was a pistol. And you didn’t want to cross her. But her legends are for a future tale.

About two weeks ago — i’m not sure exactly how the chain of information evolved between my wife and my daughter — i think my daughter told my wife about this Fran. They watched one of streaming series featuring this Fran.

The series is on Netflix. It’s called “Pretend It’s a City.” It is a collaborated project of Fran and Martin Scorsese.

We are halfway through the series. i remain amazed. Her name is Fran Lebowitz. She is New York, and in many ways, she captures my thoughts. More importantly, she makes me laugh.

You don’t have to be from the city to identify.

i’m not writing this to add some of my thoughts to her comments. i’m just recommending you watch someone who is wonderful in a different way.

Thanks, Fran and Martin.

Well, i posted the gate post before i was finished: fat fingers, thin brain. i have removed it to finish and will repost later. Sorry.

This was once the beginning of a long diatribe where fat fingers hit “send” rather than “save.” i pulled it and started again with the intent to describe a complete plumbing repiping, but i got ahead of myself and posted the repiping whine  as an introduction to thoughts on the Padres and the shooting in Washington at the baseball game.

So the gate is now finished; the painters have completed their work; and we are back into putting our home back in order and cleaning. Did i mention cleaning?

Rather than delaying this again, i will post now, today, in an instant, so i might, just might get along with the rest of my life.

Perhaps it is symbolic. i’m not sure. You see, i think “symbolism” in literature is often overblown. Critics; English professors, at least those who try to impress everyone that they know more about literature and poetry than anyone else on earth (and yeh, sometimes they actually know more, at least more than i do); and really off the wall folks who see symbolism in everything have sort of lost it.

When i was in my second semester class of freshman English at Vanderbilt, our professor was a graduate student, a seemingly nice person but not very attractive, and she wore pads on her armpits underneath her blouse — i’m sorry, but that is what i remember about her the most, that and in her class having a contest with some fraternity brothers to see if we could chew leaf tobacco through a class without spitting. She assigned us about a gazillion poems to analyze out of Robert Penn Warren’s and Cleanth Brooks state of the art book on poetry, Understanding Poetry. Her entry questions nearly always demanded we cite certain lines to be symbolic of…something.

We read something by…oh, i don’t know, Emily Dickinson or maybe one of the Romantics, who some later became some of my favorites. i loved the poem. It was beautiful. i liked it the way it was. i didn’t think it needed an interpretation outside of what it said. Foolishly, i wrote to that effect in my paper.

i received a “D.” i still have reservations about symbolism. i also have reservations about armpit pads.

But this gate…well maybe.

You see. i made that gate. Our gardener, landscaper par excellence, Paul Shipley, helped me with squaring the two halves and did the hard work of mounting the two parts to be even, level, and matching. The process almost took a month. i’m still not finished. There are some tweaks and touch up painting. It should be completely finished around the first of next week.

Now, i’m not anywhere close to a handyman. My male relatives from the previous generation, highlighted by my father, were more than handymen. They were craftsmen, knowledgeable  artists in all things around a home: woodworking, plumbing, electricity, motors, cars, boats. Well, pretty much everything that could be fixed. It seems my brother acquired some of those skills from our father. Nearly all of my golfing friends are more handy. They have done projects in their homes that blew me away. Compared to Pete Toennies, Rod Stark, Marty Linville, and Jim Hileman, i am a tinkerer.

But then, that gate has been a problem pretty much since we bought this house near thirty-one years ago, breaking every rule about buying a house in the process. The original gate was pretty ugly, but we kept it until we couldn’t stand it anymore. And, oh by the way, it had rotted and was full of termites. Then, a really nice guy named Dan who was doing some other handiwork in our house built a gate. It was solid. It was heavy. It worked. Eventually, Maureen decided it was too massive to suit her, and i recognized it also was beginning to rot.

We began looking for another gate. We saw many and couldn’t decide, but when this one guy who was doing some other yard work for us. He showed Maureen a gate design. She liked it. His gang built it. Nice looking for just shy of two months when it began to sag to the point we just barely open it without a Herculean effort.

So we started looking again. After a fruitless month or so when i stumbled across a metal frame for gates, i thought to myself that i could make us a gate. i showed Maureen a design from some home website, described how i could adapt it to a metal frame, and damn near fell on the floor when she told me she liked it and thought i should try. That was a little over a month ago. i claimed a part of the garage where we usually park one of our cars (mine, of course). i set up tables and put the first half together. Then the second half — ah yes, there are stories of mistakes here. Paul, with a tad of help from me, mounted the gate. i finished up adding hardware and retouching the whole. Some parts probably have six coats.

i think it, with proper maintenance be here for quite a while, at least as long as we need it.

i gotta say this possibly is my all time favorite from Sean of the South. i post the link to his posts here on my website when one really strikes me as meaningful. i do this because i want my friends who are not subscribers to his posts have the opportunity to read some really good stuff.

This one is not only spot on. It’s something i try to do: remember what wonderful and wise people have said to me in the past, i would like to pass on to others. i am not as good with that kind of recall as Sean.

But these are priceless.

https://seandietrich.com/words-i-remember/

Thanks, Sean. And thanks, Judy Lewis Gray for introducing Sean to me several years ago.

My daughter Blythe turned 49 today. Actually, she was born at 9:35 eastern time in upstate New York. She remains a beautiful, intelligent, and caring woman. She is also successful and the best mother to grandson Sam there good ever be.

i posted the article below three years ago. i started writing it again yesterday. It sounded familiar. It should have. My new version began “Forty-nine years ago, i was about to have a long day.” The older version began:

It was forty-six years ago today.

Around 2:00 in the afternoon, i had returned from putting out the sports section of The Watertown Daily Times in upstate New York, and i mean UPSTATE New York, still one of my favorite places in the world over three-quarters of a century.

i had a sandwich for lunch and laid down for my usual afternoon nap. After all, i had gotten up around 4:00 and walked to work, getting to my desk before 5:30. It was my routine, i thought the nap was well deserved since on most previous evenings i had been at a sports event, mostly the Watertown Royals semi-pro baseball game.

My wife nudged me gently to wake me up.

“Jim, I broke water,” she announced in an offhand manner, “It’s time to go to the hospital.”

After her water broke, Kathie called the hospital to let them know she was on her way, arranged the apartment for me in her absence and for her return with our new infant. She packed what she would need at the hospital. She was orderly and calm.

The sports editor was catatonic. He threw on some clothes, grabbed her small suitcase, and ushered her down the stairs of the second floor apartment. He didn’t exactly break the land speed record getting to the hospital, but let’s just say he didn’t tarry in traffic.

He drove the blue 1966 Oldsmobile Cutlass to the emergency dock. She said something to the effect about his being silly and directed him to park in a regular space about a block away. They walked to the check-in counter. She was checked in and put into a room. He got to stay there for roughly three hours. They kicked him out. It wasn’t like it is today. Perhaps it was predictive of what would happen later.

He had supper out with his good friend and high school teacher Earl Weidemann and returned to the hospital. It was around 6:00. They parked him in the expectant father’s waiting room, a rather dark hole, and he waited there, worried about his wife and excited about what was imminent.

Just after 9:30, his wife gave birth to his daughter. She was beautiful, sporting a goodly amount of black hair. He was in heaven but not allowed to stay long. Her mother looked absolutely gorgeous and oh, oh so happy…perhaps because the worse part was over.

In just under two months, he would leave. The Navy looked like a good move for him to support his wife and new child, and he had chosen to give up sports writing and return to the sea. Unfortunately, it would require him to be away for long periods of time, while this new overwhelmingly force in his life would remain with her mother. His choice for them.

But oh boy, was she loved. She and her mother stayed with her mother’s parents, Colonel Lynch and Nannie Bettie in Paris, Texas but spent significant time in Tennessee. Both families adored her. Still do. One of his favorite photos of her was while he was in the Mediterranean. Her uncle, Uncle Snooks, who loved all children, seemed to have a special place for Blythe. Even though they all loved her, it was real close to the most lonely four months of his life.

When he returned, they began the Navy life in Newport, Rhode Island. Then, they moved across country to Long Beach. Then south to San Diego. Then to Texas A&M. It was a glorious time for him because he was with her even though the marriage was floundering, and he was lost at the thought of not being with her.

The family moving stopped there, and he moved on. He left with wonderful memories. He knew her mother loved her more than anything on earth and that was enough. It had to be enough.

So she grew up well. He spent as much time as he could with her, nearly all of his thirty days a year of annually allotted leave time. Her mother was good about letting her travel to places to be with him and with his parents. She spent a lot of summer time in Lebanon, Tennessee, having fun.

It was as good as it could be except for Christmas. After he went to extra effort to be with her and her mother for two Christmases, he realized her mother would be lost without her for Christmas, that he was a third (or fourth or fifth) wheel on Christmas. So he gave it up. Christmas was never as good for him as it had been with her.

But she grew up well, and he did spend time with her. She was happy. And she could make him smile with just a photo of her.

There are many photos of them together. He may post more later just so he can revisit good memories again.

Life moved on. He met a woman who was a wonderful match for him, and she thought so too. A miracle he thought. She loved his daughter.

And then she became Maureen’s daughter.

It was a wonderful thing. Then she had a sister. They are wonderful together. It makes him happier than anything in the world when they show their happiness together. He has been known to have tears well up when he sees them together.

While she was in San Diego, she met this sailor and fell in love. It took a while, but they married and have one of the better marriages around.

Finally, finally, they produced a son: Samuel James Jewell Gander with his two middle names honoring his great grandfather. The old man, by now, Sam’s grandfather is so proud of Sam, his buttons damn near burst when he talks about him. If there is one thing in his life the old man would change, it would be to spend as much time as he could with Sam.

But the world and factors one can’t control often keep us from having what we want. And so it is.

She has a wonderful job now. She has a good husband. She takes care of her mother and her mother takes care of the three of them, especially Sam. It is as it should be, or as close as it can get. For his daughter, he accepts that as enough.

And oh boy, at forty-six (today), she is an incredible woman with an incredible son.

And he loves her still.

Happy Birthday, Blythe.

Note: Unfortunately, her mother Kathie, who loved Blythe and Sam more than life itself, passed away last year after fighting a courageous battle with health for a long, long time. She was a wonderful woman and a wonderful mother and grandmother. We miss her.