Before you begin reading this post, a column from quite a while ago, i have ceased going to barbershops. The reason is not so much the cost having risen astronomically, although it is a contributing factor, but it would end up costing about $2.50 cent per hair. About 10 years ago, maybe 20, i went and bought an electric razor. i cut my hair almost down to the nubs and ask ask Maureen to check and tidy the mess up. But of course, i have some stories about that as well.

SAN DIEGO, CA – When I started writing for The Democrat, I planned to write from ideas saved over the years with a focus on connecting and comparing my Southwest corner to Middle Tennessee.

Then events seem to keep popping up, demanding I write about them. This week, nothing has interrupted my original intentions.

Barber shops are an interesting study of human nature. I am not referring to the franchise stores but the locally owned shops which have been existence since the barber gave up doing dental work out here when the West was young and dentists were in short supply.

For about a dozen years after I moved to this neck of the woods south of San Diego, I got my hair cut at Alberto’s, located in a strip mall across from Southwest College on a mesa, about four miles from the Mexican border as the crow flies.

In many ways, Alberto’s reminds me of the Modern Barber Shop where I received my first haircut just off the square on West Main Street in Lebanon. Growing up, my haircuts were mostly administered by “Pop” at the Modern Barber Shop and later his own place in the Dick’s Food Mart mall.

As I moved into my teenage years, my father and I went to Edwards Barbershop, located across from the end of University Avenue on South Maple. It was a one-chair shop.

Alberto’s looks very similar to both and even smells the same, a pleasant, somewhat musty aroma. There is a clock running backwards so it will read correctly if you are looking at it through the mirrors back of the chairs. It would have fit in the Modern Barber Shop, Pop’s, or Edward’s.

I first started going to Alberto’s in the mid-1980’s after spotting John Sweatt in a chair. John was commissioned as a Navy officer about three or four years before me. He had been a strong supporter for me on the Castle Heights football team when he was a senior and I was a sophomore. Later, he gave me some hope I might actually complete Navy Officer Candidate School when he visited me in my barracks, resplendent and fearful (to my senior officer candidate tormentors) in his lieutenant junior grade (LTJG) dress blues.

I decided Alberto’s would be good for me as well.

Alberto is a small man with salt and pepper hair and a thin, neatly trimmed mustache. Although his five children are spread from Alaska to San Diego, he still lives in Tijuana and remains a Mexican citizen. His English and my Southern don’t always mix well, but we communicate adequately. He always cuts my hair the way I ask and trims my mustache at no charge.

Alberto reminds me of Pop, although I probably would have been banned from the city limits had I tried to grow a mustache in Lebanon in the 1950’s and 1960’s. The strongest tie is not their barber skills. Alberto’s ethics growing up in a middle class Mexican neighborhood are very much akin to Pop’s. Giving a great service for a reasonable price; they were proud of their work, enjoyed their customers; and in turn, their customers enjoyed them.

Bob is the second in command at Alberto’s. He knows everyone by name. Curiously, Bob always looked like he needs a haircut with a long, untamed mane.

Still he gave me one of my favorite barber shop stories:

A couple of years ago, a recently retired man came into the shop while I was waiting.

Bob stated, rather than asked, “Been retired about six months, haven’t you, George?”

George affirmed and Bob followed, “How’s it going at home with you and the little lady?”

George replied “It’s going great.”

“You and your missus don’t get in each other’s way?” Bob prodded.

George, pleased with himself, turned eloquent, “Nah, she’s very precise and keeps a weekly calendar on the refrigerator.

“So on Sunday, I check her calendar. When she is scheduled to be out, I stay at home and work on my projects.

“Then when she is scheduled to be at home, I go play golf.

“It’s working just fine.”

When this occurred, I thought, “At the core, there is not much difference between barber shops in the Southwest corner and in Middle Tennessee.”

And there is an unlimited supply of barbershop stories in both places.

i have been remiss in posting my old Democrat columns on Thursday. i plan to resume and maintain that practice. i hope my Lebanon friends and family understand.

SAN DIEGO, CA – Last Monday, Ms Denise Joyner, the Lebanon High School Athletic Director called and announced Estelle Prichard Jewell had been selected as an inaugural member of the Blue Devil Athletic Hall of Fame.

Estelle Jewell is my mother.

About a year ago, J.B. Leftwich, a weekly columnist here, a close family friend, and my mentor in journalism (which I have noted frequently), wrote a tribute to Estelle and suggested she might have been the best women’s basketball player in the history of Blue Devil Sports. For her size, his suggestion just might be a slam dunk.

In a 1935 district tournament semi-final, Estelle scored 33 points for the Blue Devilettes girls basketball team and was named to the all-tournament team. For the 1934-35 season, she scored 283 points in 19-games. This was during an era when most games were low-scoring affairs, rarely exceeding 30 points total. Her single game and season scoring records stood for a quarter of a century.

She will be inducted during a half time ceremony during LHS basketball games, December 14

I am elated. LHS’ Hall of Fame is honoring her just after she turned 90 in July.

I am anxious to learn of other inductees. Clifton Tribble, Don Franklin, David Robinson, Ann Lucas. Louis Thompson, David Grandstaff, Hal Greer, and many others immediately come to mind as probable selections. It bemuses me to think of my mother standing next to these heroes of mine and receiving her plaque.

Estelle Jewell today does not come across as a hall of fame athlete. Being 90 certainly belies her earlier skills. She also tops out at five feet tall. I saw her take a shot once. It was a two-handed push. She jumped and spread her legs when she shot. From fifteen feet, it hit nothing but net. I don’t think she could do that now.

In reflection, she laughs about her play. “I got 33 in the semi-finals,” she says, “but I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn the next night, and we lost.” I have never heard her brag about her accomplishments.

In her recollection of a game at Mount Juliet, she recalled how she would try not to drive for a lay-up on one end of the court because she might run into the Ben Franklin stove underneath the basket. The stove heated the entire gym.

Not considering the stove, it was a different game then with three zones with two guards on the defensive end, two forwards on the offensive end, and two centers in the middle who passed the ball from defense to offense. One dribble was all that was allowed.

Still, Estelle’s accomplishments remain exceptional.

Her shooting skills were probably enhanced by chores. Her grandfather, Joseph Webster, the retired Methodist circuit rider, would give her a penny for each fly she swatted and killed inside the farmhouse on Hunter’s Point Pike.

Her endurance and strength were likely abetted by other chores she and her two sisters and brother undertook while her mother was a care-giver, working day and night (Her father, Joe Blythe Prichard, died young and the family lived with their grandfather).

When her hall of fame career in sports was concluded, Estelle quickly put it aside and went to work. She learned secretarial skills at the County Court Clerk’s office in the old courthouse on the square. She worked for the Commerce Union Bank on the north side of the corner of the square and East Main Street. She married my father, Jimmy Jewell, in 1938, three years after she had graduated from LHS.

She is a reflection of all of the women of that generation whom I have known: practically feminine with a firm grasp of reality; frugal but willing to lavish gifts and love on her family and friends. She is a product of hard times (the depression), frightening times of sacrifice and victory (World War II), security produced by hard and loyal work, and change without end. They are strong, balanced, and loving women.

But every once in a while, basketball will come up in a conversation, and you can still see the sparkle in Estelle’s eyes.

When I called my mother for congratulations, her and my father’s excitement made it an unforgettable phone call. She was thrilled. The news was something to feel good about.

Thank you, Blue Devils for proving in a good place like Lebanon, good things do happen, especially for those who wait.

This is later than Thursday, my intended schedule, because we are on our Texas sojourn. The first part of the sojourn was a return to a past home of mine. Earlier, i have posted the introduction to that return. Now Maureen and i are savoring our time with Blythe, Jason, and of course Sam. So parts of this Democrat column written over 15 years ago is timely. Of course, seeing my family is a wonderful time. Yet it is eclipsed when i look at Sam and remember — with my usual technology acumen, i cannot find the photo i meant to include here. i will add later…when i find that photo.

Closure on the San Diego Fires

SAN DIEGO, CA –Thanksgiving will be special out here. Our six-month old grandson Sam is coming. I expect him to captivate the natives here pretty much the same way he captured the folks back in Tennessee in August.

His August trip celebrated his great grandmother’s birthday as well as his first visit to his ancestral home. This will be his inaugural visit to the Southwest corner.

Out here, I normally smoke a turkey for Thanksgiving. It’s a tradition which began with Sam’s Texas great grandfather many years ago. The fire in the smoker will be the first we’ve lit of any kind since the cataclysmic fires a month ago. It has seemed disrespectful to the people who lost 1300 or so homes.

The smoker fire and the Thanksgiving celebration will be a symbolic closure to the tragedy. But the stories of the fires will burn a long time.

After a month, recollections of those fiery days return when the marine layer has brought mist and dew to our neighborhood. When I walk the dog in the early morning, I can smell the acrid aroma of the fire. That smell is something I will not forget.

Since the fires, the news has focused on praise for firefighters, heroism, survival, and neighbors supporting each other.

Now, the drama is picking up.

Early on, news reports indicated the Witch Creek and Rice Canyon fires started from high power electricity lines. These two fires were the most destructive, burning more than 200,000 acres and destroying 1131 homes.

The origin was high winds pushing power lines together, creating severe arcing and igniting the un-cleared brush underneath. Last week, lawsuits were filed against the power utility, San Diego Gas and Electric (SDG&E).

Finger pointing has begun. County, city, and SDG&E officials are blaming each other for not clearing the brush and trees around the power lines.

Yet the ability to not only survive but to recover and flourish is still the biggest discussion around here.

Several families lost their homes in 2003 and again in the October infernos. Their resiliency is incredible. One elderly couple twice struck is considering building their third home underneath the ground, but they are adamant about staying on their property.

Many stories of heroism and support have filled our senses for a month.

One couple in Rancho Bernardo spent the night in the center of their swimming pool as the fires raged around them and destroyed their home.

Another family built their dream home in the back regions of Poway, a community ravaged by the Witch Creek fire. The father had installed cisterns and pumps for such a crisis. Several weeks before the fire, a fire chief told him one of the safest actions would be to stay inside the house. The chief explained wild fires driven by high winds would blow past the house; homes usually ignited and burned from embers and small brush fires after the inferno had blown past.

Then, the family of three and a young worker were caught by surprise. The pumps failed. Remembering the admonition, they gathered in the house. The fire passed. They described the noise as sounding like a fast freight train, similar to many descriptions of a hurricane. The heat was intense. But the inferno blew past. When they emerged, they put out several smoldering spots on the roof and doused several small shrubbery fires with a garden hose.

Across the county, charred landscape dominates the views.

The high desert chaparral will rebound quickly. Although evidence of the fires will remain for some time, winter growth will bring green to the hillsides and next spring, it will be hard to find the fire lines.

Replacing the houses will take several years. Some people who lost residences in the 2003 fire have still not completely rebuilt. Of course, some homes will never be replaced.

One good story has been generosity. Supplies provided by other residents more than met the demand from the half-million evacuated. The San Diego Red Cross has asked for donations to be given to other charities. Their coffers are full. People do care and have shown it.

So out here in the Southwest corner, we will smoke our turkey, salute the brave, and be thankful so few homes were lost. We will give thanks for a new beginning.

That makes it even more special to have a new grandson out here for the celebration.

This post is a day late. This old man forgot Dirty Harry’s admonition, “A man’s gotta know his limits.” i spent the weekend lugging boxes down from the garage attic and then moving them about several more times, followed by a day of golf and and a major stretching session. Such going-ons are not recommended for folks my age. By Wednesday night, i could barely walk. But the doc did wonders. i am now almost back to old man good health.

The Demodrat column below is timely. Next Tuesday, i will lunch with Dave Carey in Georgetown, Texas before i present my book, Steel Decks and Glass Ceilings to the Texas A&M NROTC unit the following day. Dave remains an incredible friend, mentor, and inspiration. Did i mention hero? It also follows my post about Dave earlier this week.

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA – This past Monday, I left the cleanup from the San Diego fires and flew to Lake Tahoe, Nevada. It was not an escape. It was work. I was co-facilitating a team building workshop for a California police department with my friend, Dave Carey.

Dave is not your ordinary business associate. On August 31, 1967, Dave Carey’s A-4 was shot out from under him over North Vietnam. He spent five and a half years as a Prisoner of War (POW), most of the time in the infamous “Hanoi Hilton.”

Dave and I met in 1985 at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. We worked together for just shy of a year as I transitioned into Dave’s position as the head of leadership training for the West Coast and Pacific Rim. Together, we help create a two-day workshop on leadership excellence for senior Navy officers.

Dave retired. Four years later in 1989, I followed suit. After my initial dive into my new job as Mister Mom, I soon started to look for ways to generate income in the quiet hours.

After some discussion, Dave and I agreed I would write a book about his POW experience, or more accurately, about his motivational speeches concerning his experience. After completing the draft, we decided it really should be written in first person. The original draft is on my office bookshelf.

Eight years later, Dave holed up for three weeks and completed The Ways We Choose: Lessons For Life From a POW’s Experience.

Part of my approach to writing was generated from conversations with Dave. He and I were driving to another workshop about fifteen years ago when I asked him about what outcome did he expect the audience to have when he gave a speech.

Dave said he had expectations initially, but discovered his listeners made their own connections. Early on, Dave had completed a luncheon speech when a huge Texan came up to him, put his big arm around Dave’s shoulder and drawled, “Can I talk with you? Dave? I understood every word you said today. The fact of the matter is, in this life, we are all going to get shot down, and some of us more than once.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve managed to get shot down several times. Dave’s book and his ideas have been significant guides to me as I have wandered through living. The book not only applies to San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Middle Tennessee; it worked in the Hanoi over 40 years ago.

Dave’s book revolves around a question he is most frequently asked, which is, “How did you do that? How did you and the other POW’s get through that?” He maintains they did that in a similar way to how we get through our daily process of life and work.

Dave’s assessment of how he and his fellow POW’s made it through boils down to five factors:

• We did what we had to do
• We did our best
• We chose to grow
• We kept our sense of humor
• We kept the faith
  • In ourselves
  • In each other
  • In our country
  • In God.

His anecdotes relating to those factors are humorous, inspiring, and thought provoking. I have had the wonderful opportunity to discuss these things in depth with Dave.

So I check myself against his factors almost daily. They have even become part of the value statements for my consulting group.

I will not ruin the book by parroting it here. However, I am particularly fond of Dave’s pointing out how the POW’s trusted each one of them would do the best they could, would resist the severe interrogations to their limit; recognizing each of them had their own limit levels.

I now try to consider folks I work with are doing the best they can do. This puts a whole different shape to the way I work with these people. Fewer rocks are thrown; fewer lines are drawn in the sand; fewer chips are put on shoulders.

I would encourage everyone to read’s Dave’s book. Your connections should be yours, not mine, not Dave’s. I know folks in Middle Tennessee also get shot down every once in a while.

Note: Dave’s book can be obtained on-line through the Amazon.com, Borders, and Barnes and Noble; web sites, and Dave’s website, www.davecarey.com. You may also be able to order it from a Borders or Barnes and Noble bookstore.

This was column #3 for The Lebanon Democrat. It is a repeat from when i posted it here a bunch of years ago.

SAN DIEGO – To be honest, it is difficult to write this column.

My inclination is to write yet another tribute to JB Leftwich, whose funeral services were last Saturday. But there have been many tributes, including several of my own, and JB would frown on excessive editorializing.

I will honor what I believe to be his wishes and move on with my recollections of my early days in journalism at The Nashville Banner, which happened primarily from JB being in the background.

JB often wrote for The Tennessean and occasionally covered some local sports for The Banner.  In the late summer of 1964, after I mucked up my pursuit of a college degree, JB, in conspiracy with my mother and father, used his influence to land me the position of cub sports reporter and office boy for Fred Russell at The Banner.

I worked at The Banner for ten months, ten of the most wonderful months of my life.  When I resumed pursuing my college degree at Middle Tennessee, I continued to be a sports and Wilson County news correspondent until I graduated.

I hobnobbed with George Leonard and Dudley “Waxo” Green, the two senior sportswriters. I arrived at the Banner offices, co-located with The Tennessean, long before daybreak, with Bill Roberts, the sports managing editor.

Roberts was a bantam rooster, chain smoking, no nonsense, hot type prototype of a managing editor, old style. I don’t recall ever seeing him without his necktie loosened and his sleeves rolled up. He would direct me in collecting the wire stories, writing headlines, editing under pressure, and even taking me out to the press room and assisting in making up the pages in the pre-computer days: galleys of lead into metal frames, which would eventually become the printed word. If an actor ever played Bill Roberts in a movie, it should have been Peter Falk.

JB was my teacher in the basics of good journalism. Bill was my tutor in the gut process of getting a sports section into a newspaper.

George Leonard was a quiet gentleman with a desk in the back corner of the sports department. He covered Tennessee Volunteer football among other assignments. His writing was perceptive, precise, and on target. George and I shared a lasting love of Orange jerseys (no obeisance to white at home and color jerseys away back then), high tops, single wing offense, General Neyland, Bowden Wyatt, Johnny Majors, the Canale brothers, and the quick kick.

Waxo Green never drove a car. He played golf and had many wonderful stories of the golfing world. Waxo reported on all Vanderbilt sports with enthusiasm.  He was bald, told jokes with a raspy voice, laughed loudly all of the time, and like the others, took me under his wing. He loved Vanderbilt basketball. I am sure there was a bar frequented by reporters near the Banner-Tennessean building. I wish I had gone there with Waxo.

Mike Fleming was a solid reporter who covered a variety of college and high school sports. He was younger than the rest of the staff, and he and I became close. 

Then there was Russell. Fred was erudite and Southern classy in his dress. He knew all of the sports figures nationally, and all of the Nashville people of influence. He brought me into his practical jokes, and occasionally let me drive his old Mercedes sedan.

(photo below is of Fred Russell and Grantland Rice, 1951; i cannot get it to align with the text or the caption: i remain technologically challenged)

He was kind and perceptive. In the winter of 1965, he introduced me to Bear Bryant, visiting the office before the Banner’s football awards banquet. Bear put his big hand on my shoulder, walked me to a corner and talked to me for almost an hour.

Fred wrote me a letter when he was 95, a year before he passed away (2003). In a shaky scrawl, he spoke of the closing of The Banner with sadness.

I too am sad at the demise of afternoon dailies. I also miss my two journalism heroes. As with many things, I recognize necessary changes brought about by technological advances and changing lifestyles but wish we would retain the good parts of the past while advancing. That does not occur often enough. 

And i wish people like JB Leftwich and Fred Russell would provide the same kind of guidance for the current and future journalists.

They were the best.