This morning, i shared a photo of Col. JB Leftwich i had put on Facebook five years ago. The link attached to the memory doesn’t work. It was a Lebanon Democrat work and apparently, the new owners of the newspaper did not transfer older editions with Coach’s columns and mine. The below is my column from the bad link in the . As i said, i wish i could sit down with him on that back porch room and talk to him, with one of Glen Ed’s dirty martinis of course, and discuss the state of journalism, especially print journalism, and sports. He inspired this column:

Notes from the Southwest Corner: A ride down another memory lane

SAN DIEGO – After six months of pretty frenetic travel, my wife and I are back in the Southwest corner for what could be as much as three months.

I am not sure what to do with myself.

There are all sorts of things I need to do. This retirement thing is so full of medical checkups, administrative requirements, honey-do’s, home projects, keeping track of family and friends, and, of course, golf. Then, there is this column I write every week. I feel like the Haigha, the March Hare in “Alice in Wonderland,” running hither and yon yelling “I’m late, I’m late.”

As I mulled over all of this last week, I also attacked my “to-do” list. One item was to ensure my old files, contacts, and ticklers were not required from my last employer, Pacific Tugboat Service. Thursday, I gathered up my laptop and headed toward the bay.

As I drove down my hill, I decided to bypass the freeways even though I was late enough to miss the dreaded Southwest corner commuter traffic. I wanted to drive the roads that have been part of my life on and off for forty years. I took the back roads.

As I turned down my alternate route, the back way as we used to say, I thought of JB Leftwich, “Coach” as I and other journalists from Castle Heights called him. He wrote a beautiful column for this newspaper about 40 years ago. His path led from his home on Castle Heights Avenue through a winding route to the Methodist church, then on East Main next to the post office. Coach reflected on what used to be at various sites along his route.

Coach’s route was two miles. Mine was close to 13…so I drove. But I reflected on what used to be much like Coach must have done on his hike.

I headed northwest from Chula Vista to National City. Both were sleepy little residential bedroom communities when I first came to the Southwest corner. Both still have small pockets of small homes, typical of houses built in the 1950s. Chula Vista has grown into a major city in its own right and continues with continual development of the 100,000-acre ranch once owned by the Scripps family. National City is auto dealerships and industrial businesses with those residential pockets decaying and slowly giving ground to commerce.

When I reached the waterfront, I turned north on Harbor Drive. The Naval Station’s southern piers used to be for the Mothball Fleet. Decommissioned ships, mostly destroyers from World War II, silently held vigil over that end of the bay. They had been weather proofed for a possible later call to action. No one was on the piers except for a lone guard.

Later, the mothball fleet was mostly scrapped with a few moved to other locations. The Mothball Fleet is now located in Philadelphia, Pa.; Bremerton, Wash.; Suisun Bay, Calif.; and Pearl Harbor. Active ships, mostly amphibious ships moved to the southern piers. My favored route to work 30-40 years ago was through the back gate, opened only for a few hours at the beginning and end of the workday. The route was not well known, and I could slide in and out while avoiding the mass of traffic at major gates.

Driving north, I shrugged. Modern has replaced shabby. Training buildings, well-appointed maintenance facilities, and a dental command are where old boats and landing craft were strewn haphazardly in weedy lots on the “dry side,” inland from my route. Now the gates to the “wet side” are modern, expensive technical security wonders. Base security civilians and “aquaflage” uniformed security Navy personnel man the gates. Sharply dressed marines with snappy salutes were the sentinels back when.

Officer, chief, petty officer, and enlisted clubs have been replaced by a few and little-used “all-hands” clubs. The gate itself touts the new Navy. Just past the entrance is roundabout with a an impressive flag display.

The Navy has changed. Like it’s surroundings and entrances, today’s Navy is more efficient; more technically savvy; in its way, more pin-pointedly lethal; safer; and more politically correct. Until my latter years on active duty, it was ribald; labor intensive; a work hard, play hard bastion of…well, sailors being sailors. Today it is more a social engineering system, embroiled in political positioning and using weapon technology “platforms.”

In truth, it is a much better Navy. On my drive of memories, I accepted I liked the old Navy better.

Chores and book writing took a break this afternoon. The run/walk i planned has been moved until later unless i ditch the whole thing. So lots of thoughts floating around reminiscing about what was when.

Today, as i often do, i marvel at how i ended up writing so much. Don’t know why. Don’t even know where it came from. i do know that last gig as a journalist was a fitting closure to one phase. It could have been my last writing kick. But as i wrote in my last column for the Lebanon Democrat., it wasn’t my last writing, and i noted such in my final column. If it had not been for this burning drive i have to write this book i continue to pursue and i hadn’t stumbled on these things called “blogs,” a title i still do not like, it might have ended. But it didn’t.

It was fitting my time at the Democrat ended when it did. 500 columns, not counting several years of the business leadership column, just shy of ten years for my op-ed weekly. Sadly, new ownership took over my newspaper, the one that was truly “local” when i grew up, like the publisher and editor living right across the street local.

This was not the last column but it was one near the end, perhaps the penultimate one (i’m too lazy to look it up now). 

It was a great run.

Notes from the Southwest Corner: “World enough, and time”

SAN DIEGO – Second thoughts keep coming to me as we near the end of this gig called “Notes from the Southwest Corner.”

Amidst those thoughts is the daunting task of how to close these columns with grace. In one way, my recent respiratory problems gave me time to think about that when these words kept popping into my brain: “World Enough, and Time,” seeming to reflect the end of my era as a column writer.

“World enough, and time” was written by Andrew Marvel around the mid 1650s in poem “357. To His Coy Mistress.” It is considered the finest of Marvell’s poems and “possibly the best carpe diem poem in English.” In case you, like me need to look that up, “carpe diem,” Latin for “seize the day,” in its current use is defined as “used to urge someone to make the most of the present time and give little thought to the future.” It seems to fit.

In the poem, Marvell’s words also suggest how I feel about this upcoming closure: “But at my back I always hear / Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; / And yonder all before us lie / Deserts of vast eternity…” Yes, that’s close. Somewhere around my 73^rd birthday in January, I decided the grind, albeit a tiny grind by most standards, of putting out a weekly column was producing columns of a quality not up to my standards.

As I have for most of my life, I remain a little defiant, resistant to forces even though some inevitable like time and distance. Part of me wishes to defy them, to keep on like Marvel “Through the iron gates of life: / Thus, though we cannot make our sun / Stand still, yet we will make him run.

But now, there is not world enough and time. This is coming to an end. Today I go back to the real roots of my writing and extolling those who sparked my real interest. It is time for me to move on make that old sun run.

My real writing began when I recognized I really wasn’t going to be the next Roy Rogers, Clifton Tribble, Johnny “The Drum” Major,” Doak Walker, Don Hoak, Roberto Clemente, or even Nellie Fox. That’s when JB Leftwich channeled my sports enthusiasm into print. Prior to that, J. Bill Frame had shown me support and understanding and much more so, the nobility of putting ink on paper.

At Castle Heights, Lindsey Donnell, Paul Wooten, and Tom Harris among others whetted my appetite for literature and writing. JB used his influence to land me a job at “The Nashville Banner” under Fred Russell, a three-year experience impacting the rest of my life. My sports writing idol Russell took me under his wing and gave me hope sports journalism just might work.

At Middle Tennessee, Richard Peck and Bill Holland allowed me to be creative within the bounds of academic requirements. Bill Holland was not only an inspiration but became a close friend. My writing for Holland and Peck remain my best efforts.

John B. Johnson, a close Vanderbilt friend and ground breaking newspaper journalist gave me the opportunity to pursue my dreams as his sports editor at “The Watertown (N.Y.) Daily Times.” Family responsibilities ended the dream, but I will always be indebted to “Yanch” for giving me the chance.

In 2007, Amelia Morrison Hipps took a chance on an out-of-town columnist, and this column began. Amelia, a newshound with a strict adherence to the stylebook, was my champion throughout her tenure. We have had and continue to have a terrific relationship.

Then Jared Felkins and I became co-conspirators in the realm of local newspapers. Being in the Southwest corner, I do not know if Lebanon fully appreciates what they have. Jared focuses on bringing you the most interesting and pertinent local news. Jared, in short, is a champ in local journalism.

I’m sure I have omitted a number of people who have supported me on my journalism journey. I apologize for the oversight.

The journey is not over. I will continue to write. Some of it may show up here. Nor will my, what do I call it, love of Lebanon fade away. I will continue to write of Lebanon.

My last thanks are reserved for you readers. This decade of writing was always worthwhile knowing you enjoyed my thoughts. It ain’t over yet. It’s just there is not “World enough, and time.”

Figure 1 J. Bill Frame, Fred Russell, and “Coach” JB Leftwich

Each year at this time, i have written a post or a column about Memorial Day. One can become trite when trying to come up with something new or putting a new twist on any event. Such efforts, which fall painfully short in my estimation, are why i did not write a daily column when i was a sports editor. The only folks i know who could write a daily column about sports and not get trite often were Fred Russell, Grantland Rice (well, i didn’t really know him), Red Smith, Furman Bisher, and Jim Murray. 

So i ain’t gonna write anymore about one of the few nationally declared holidays i actually rever. Perhaps this day is so special for my military service has given me an understanding of the sacrifice so many made in defense of our flag, our country, our Declaration of Independence, our Constitution. Regardless, it is special to me and i have written about it often. So for the next several days, i will revisit my previous thoughts about this day honoring our fallen heroes. This one is a column i wrote for the Lebanon Democrat. And thank you, Blythe, for giving me Siegfried Sassoon.

Notes from the Southwest Corner:
Memorial Day: the reason for it is unchanged

SAN DIEGO – This past week as usual, I received emails relating to Memorial Day.

Retired military officers send each other missives honoring our late comrades-in-arms around this holiday. But many of last week’s emails came from friends with no military service.

This increased interest in honoring our patriots who died in defense of our country gives me a good feeling, especially considering how it used to be.

As a junior officer, it seemed I carried some stigma because I wore the Navy uniform. It did not bother me personally, but I did feel separated from society, particularly my age group.

It also incensed me when protestors took it out on personnel returning from defending their right to protest. Regardless of the political posturing, those who received the abuse were no more responsible than me.

In my youth, I was awed by the World War I veterans honored at the various parades. I read enough to know of the horrors of trench warfare.

About two years ago, my oldest daughter gave me a copy of The War Poems of Siegfried Sassoon. The poems are brutal and describe the gore of that war in grisly detail. Although some of the poetry is darkly beautiful, the overall effect makes one wonder at the logic of war.

Sassoon’s poetry confirmed my feeling about our heroes from that war.

The Second War

Born during the Second World War, I grew up respecting the previous generation’s sacrifice. I have studied pre-war history and am amazed so many can forget so much about where isolationism and non-intervention can lead. I wonder how many United States citizens might not have died had we joined the Allies earlier.

We do not learn from our historical mistakes.

World War II cemeteries across the nation and throughout Europe with thousands and thousands of crosses in military formation and the United States flag flying over them are testament to the honor we bestow on those military dead.

It became my generation’s turn. Initially as I was going through Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island, I was too busy learning steam engineering, small boat operations, ship handling, deck seamanship and damage control to be very much aware of what was going on the other side of the world.

But before I went to OCS, I learned Parks McCall, my big brother as a Kappa Sigma pledge at Vanderbilt, had been killed when his aircraft was shot down in Vietnam.

Later while at home after Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer training and en route to my first ship, the U.S.S. Hawkins (DD-873), I found out Bobby Bradley was killed when his A6 with Bobby flying as Naval Flight Officer (NFO), crashed in the Atlantic.

Bobby and I played baseball together and were good friends for as long as I could remember, but I remember him most for volunteering to go on a five-mile hike with me so I could get a merit badge to advance from the Boy Scout’s tenderfoot classification.

Sacrifice hit home and my service took on an entirely new meaning for me.

Remember the Heroes

Over the course of twenty-one years in the Navy, there were very few incidents when I stepped into harm’s way. When I did, I remember them clearly. But overall, it was not much more dangerous than crossing a street in downtown New York. Others from Lebanon, like Bobby and Jim Harding, served in real danger.

Wikipedia, the on-line, open contribution encyclopedia, states General John Logan, the commander of the Grand Army of the Republic, a fraternal organization, issued General Order 11 in 1868. The order designated May 30 as Decoration Day, which evolved into today’s Memorial Day.

So for almost 150 years, the citizens whom we honor for dying in defense of our freedom have grown astronomically. Even though more folks are honoring our heroes more than in my early Navy days, Memorial Day ceremonies compete with car races, picnics, and backyard barbeques.

But this morning in the Southwest corner, I will go to the top of my hill and raise my flag at 8:00 a.m. and back down to half mast as is the protocol along with all of the ships in the harbor doing the same, and I will pause and remember my friends who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country, for me.

I hope you do something similar. Those heroes earned this much.

Yesterday, i began a short Thanksgiving note to preface the column below. The note grew until it was longer than the column and covered a whole bunch of subjects. i have saved it for later editing and publishing.

Today began early. The turkey requires at least seven and one-half hours to smoke. We are dining at 3:00 p.m. Mathematicians, you can figure it out. i put the turkey in the smoker at 6:15 a.m., just to be sure and allow for cooling time. i have significant honey-do’s to accomplish before our guests arrive: a small, but cherished crowd of five will attend. Our sister-in-law Patsy, who makes me feel good, and Mike, who is a talented and nice young man will join Maureen, Sarah, and the goofy one. So this is my best wishes for you and yours on this day of giving thanks.

i will miss many but am glad they are with other family members for this day i find so rewarding. For that, i am thankful.

Thanks. Giving thanks. Not honoring some person, not celebrating past victories, or paying homage to those who have left us, not some holiday begun from a religious tradition turned to commercial glut (the ads in this morning’s newspaper weighed almost as much as the turkey i’m smoking). The turkey is in the smoker. The ads are in the recycle bin, unread. Just giving thanks.

My thanks are just too many to list here. But here are a few:

i truly am thankful for those folks who had the first Thanksgiving. Those folks who had the strength to escape tyranny for a not-so friendly land in a new world and the natives who befriended and helped them and how they worked together even with their differences to live with dignity and celebrate their togetherness (something we should be attempting to replicate today but sadly failing, at least right now).

i am thankful for our military members who are away from home this Thanksgiving. i missed six because of being at sea. i know the loneliness filling thoughts regardless how sumptuous the repast someone’s command serves up. 

i am thankful for my life. i’ve had a good one, crazy, a little off kilter, sort of all over the map in many ways, but it has been a good life i think. i’ve always tried to do the right thing, missed a couple of times, had my intent misinterpreted a couple of times, but overall, i think i’ve been on target most of the time.

And on and on and on.

The below column was written for my Lebanon Democrat weekly series which ran for 500 columns, just shy of ten years. It was published in 2015. i think it describes many of my feelings about Thanksgivings:

SAN DIEGO – It’s that week again: the one with the day to give thanks.

In the Lebanon of my youth, “Thanksgiving” was pretty much a stand-alone event. Sure, the children knew Christmas was a month away. Yet, we weren’t chomping at the bit. Until my late teens, a month was a long time. I was worried about being good, because that old man up north was “making a list, checking it twice, trying to find out who’s been naughty or nice.”

It was a tough being good for that long. I usually didn’t make it. The threat of receiving “ashes and switches” was real. I confess, now a safe distance away from such potential tragedies, I probably deserved the ashes and switches several Christmases.

Christmas wasn’t on our radar at Thanksgiving. Last year, I wrote of our trips to Rockwood where Thanksgiving was in the Victorian home of “Mama Orr,” our cousins’ grandmother who adopted us. Other Thanksgivings were in Chattanooga, Red Bank actually, where Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Pipey Orr would put on a feast.

Yet the preponderance of our Thanksgivings were on Castle Heights Avenue.

The women bustled about the narrow kitchen with pots and pans clanging. Each of the Prichard sisters scurried about with our grandmother watching to determine when a task should be done better, her way.

The grownups ate at the dining room table. The children were shuffled off to a small table in the kitchen. The best china and crystal were on display. Each sister contributed her own special dishes. One made fruit salad; one made cranberry relish; each had pies. My uncle demanded my mother make her prune cake. The turkey was baked in the oven. The dressing and the gravy remain the best ever, at least in my mind.

With the desserts, the coup de gras for the children and the men was boiled custard. Each sister made their own variety, believing their particular version was the best. Now they are all gone, I can admit my mother’s was the best. Thankfully, my sister and my younger daughter can produce boiled custard that is similar to my mother’s.

The men would praise the boiled custard, but delighted in “flavoring” it.  We were old school Methodists. Booze was not allowed in our house…except for a small half pint secreted way back in a cupboard that never saw the light of day unless the men needed to flavor their boiled custard. The bourbon was decanted into a small crystal pitcher that held maybe a half-cup. All of the men would pour several drops of the magic elixir into their custard. The women and children would use vanilla for flavoring. Around ten-years old, I asked to flavor my boiled custard with what the men used.

My worry about ashes and switches started early that year.

Everyone ate too much.

The weather always was the same: cold, dry, crisp, and sunny. It was still okay to play outside. Every year, I would wish for snow. After all, in McClain Elementary School, we sang about going to grandmother’s house over the river and through the woods in a sleigh. I thought that was the way it was supposed to be.

Thanksgiving was a magical day, unfettered by early Christmas commercials. Black Friday, blissfully, did not exist. There was one pro football game on the black and white television. On the radio, I could listen to Tennessee play Vanderbilt or Middle Tennessee play Tennessee Tech, but that was the extent of sports.

And before the big meal, with the sun streaming through the dining room windows, we would give thanks.

*     *     *

This year is yet another variation for us in the Southwest corner. I will smoke the turkey and Maureen will serve a fabulous meal, ending with pear pie, a family tradition. Maureen’s older sister, Patsy, her son Bill and daughter-in-law Laura will join us, a relative small event.

Sometime, probably after the meal, I plan to climb to the top of my hill and look over the place I’ve adopted as my other home. I will give thanks as those first new 53 settlers and the 90 Wampanoag tribe members, who preceded the Pilgrims by thousands of years, gave thanks and shared a feast together.

We’ve come a long way, but we have a long way to go. I just hope the future includes boiled custard, hopefully with a dab of flavoring.