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.

Two very close friends crossed over the bridge in ’24. i have taken my loss in stride by following the dictum that hit me in the head when Ray Boggs, my father-in-law, passed over that bridge in 1992.

i’ve written about it before. Still, it resonates with me. Danny, Ray’s son and i were walking to the pro shop at the Singing Hills Golf Resort (well before the Sycuan tribe bought the property). We were going to set up a time where we could spread Ray’s ashes over the 6th hole on the Willow Glen course where Ray had his first of six holes-in-one.

Danny forged ahead when i paused to look at the executive course, Pine Glen, where Ray had played his last round with me three weeks earlier. i was standing there, about to break into tears, when the dictum grabbed me out of nowhere, came into my head completely formed almost as if Ray was talking to me. It said “Don’t cry for me. Behave as you know I would want you to behave. Don’t be sad. Rejoice and laugh at our adventures and misadventures.”

The dictum got me through that process, and several other times before i used it when Marty Linville passed last July ’24 and JD Waits passed last November.

i keep remembering historic, in my mind, moments and quotes both of them had during my time with them. i hope to remember them all and post them here until i can no longer post posts.

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One of the best moments came early in my time with Marty. Honestly, i don’t remember whether it was the hole i was playing or if Marty was the golfer. We were playing with our friend and fellow officer from the Naval Amphibious School Coronado, Rod Stark on the Naval Air Station, North Island’s “Sea ‘n Air.” golf course.

Whoever the golfer was, Marty or myself, he was having a horrible hole: bad tee shot, several whacks in the rough, hitting the ball in the water hazard, and finally reaching the green somewhere between eight and ten strokes. The putt was a very long one with undulations, tough to read and tough to get the distance correct. The golfer sunk the putt.

The three of us laughed, and the Marty described it. It has become a standard response to such play on a hole, regardless of who played the hole:

“Whipped cream on horseshit.”

Posted on Monday…after all, i am a curmudgeon

i was just wondering what all of those folks on every visual medium: television, talk shows, interviews, etc. are going to have on their bookshelves when ebooks the books i can feel and smell.

i am trying to envision shelves crammed with old iPads, iPhones, smart phones, and all sorts of electronic gizmos used to read ebooks.

i don’t think it will have the same aura.

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i have been observing friend, good friends, even on occasion myself, espouse their political viewpoints in winner-take-all, vindictive comments on social media.

Today, it occurred to me that if all of this rock throwing against each other could be channelled into getting rid of the clowns at the top, all parties, and we put our efforts into term and age limits for all politicians, how much things could be better.

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A glorious weekend for an old Southern boy:

Friday night, Maureen sponsored me cooking one of my (few) favorite meals. She found and bought okra (a difficult find in the Southwest corner). i cooked the goofy guy’s meal that relates but is not exactly like many Southern dishes: okra, Tennessee Pride Country Sausage, onions, mushrooms, and diced tomatoes, adding a bunch of spices of which i wing it. Served with my cornbread (Maureen prefers my cornbread to cornpone, and i struck to the basics, foregoing my usual side of cornpone.

Saturday, we had a late lunch at Rod and Joann’s La Jolla home. They had prepared a wonderful traditional Irish meal of corned beef, beets, rutabagas, potatoes and corned beef with Irish soda bread.

Tonight (Sunday), we had Maureen’s salad with the leftover cornbread, Maureen buttered and heated. i finished off the cornbread with molasses (wishing it was Southern sorghum molasses).

My stomach is happy and so am i.