Summertime, and the livin' is queasy; Fish are dyin',water is black -- and I love my friends

What’s the buzz, tell me what’s a-happening?
Actually, I borrow that line from rock opera about the original “Superstar,” although when I saw it first, Ben Vereen, the guy with the bag o’ silver, stole the show.
That was maybe 1970 or so at Ravinia, outside Chicago. The young woman who took me turned out to be some sort of Republican judge in Florida. Obviously we had little in common, as I’m not particularly judgmental nor, well, Republican. Although I know some of both. I'm not even overly judgmental toward Republicans. I know some and enjoy their warped sense of tomfoolery.
Anyway, the reason for this thought today is that I’ve been trying to figure out what’s going on. What’s going on… heck I should’ve used a little Marvin Gaye to open this particular segment, but it’s too late. Don’t want some Florida conservative judge questioning my judgment.
“What’s the buzz?” or something that sounded a lot like that -- though perhaps more guttural -- was a line I uttered to myself the other day when I stood outside and looked down at the pile of building materials that are in my driveway. Just scraps really. The contractors are doing a good job.
Looks like we’re maybe a week removed from having the lower level of our house restored to something resembling the lower level my wife, my father-in-law and I constructed all those years ago. I was the “muscle,” as I got out of most of the real tool-wielding by powering up a drill full-speed through my index finger. It hurt.
My cousin Jeff, an electrical wizard who came to Nashville because he was taking part in the plastic cars experiment down in Spring Hill, helped too.
Heck, I even bought one of those little toy cars. They were nice unless you worry about durability and resale value. They had the basic composition of a Corvette, which means that if you ever were in an accident, you probably would be as dead as a guy is who’s in an accident in a Corvette… except the news story would read “Tim Ghianni died when his Saturn was T-boned by a Kia” rather than “Tim Ghianni perished when his red Corvette burst into glorious flames after it was T-boned by a Kia.”
Of course, dead is dead. But wouldn’t you rather your last ride be in a Corvette rather than a Saturn. Or a Porsche, like James Dean. Note I said “James” rather than Jimmy, who apparently keeled over from too much sausage. I didn’t know him well. Although I did buy “Big Bad John” when it came out. It was OK, but I was more into Elvis, Duane Eddy, those Everly boys and Chuck Berry.
Of course I’m getting off the point again. That happens to me. My friends say it’s dementia… no “demented.” That’s it.
I counter it’s just that I’ve got “too much in my head.” My high school football helmet, back in the days when I had to shave my head to play football and I took out future Republican judges – in short before I let my hair begin growing and growing and growing … occasionally succumbing to a buzzsaw so I could cash in at graduation and whatnot … was 7-7/8. They had to order it from the Chicago Bears. That’s true.
Anyway, the point of this story, which is all so obvious by now, is luck and friendship and oil.
My luck has not been, well, swell lately.
To recap:
I am underemployed. That means I fight for every little job I can get as a writer or as a journalism adviser in order to feed my family. But I like it, in that the only real jerk I have to answer to is the guy I look at in the mirror when I shave. And, that dude’s scary, as I shave in the shower.
I love my work with the young people though. They need to learn journalism and communication skills from people who know them and have practiced them before the business became mechanized, push-button and autopilot.
Things seemed to be turning some sort of professional corner when 20 inches of rain fell in my front yard a few weeks ago. The basement that I’d toiled in, my office, my little fortress of solitude, was washed away.
Of course, the first thing I did was contact my insurance company, where a couple of different high-ranking and over-achieving bottom-liners told me – tongues obviously deep in cheek -- to “begin remediation immediately” and they’d get back to me to help. What they didn’t tell me was they were going to deny my claim for the remediation or for the rebuild.
Then began my three weeks of dealing with FEMA and the SBA. The end result? Well, it may not be in yet, because I seem to get a new letter every other day in which FEMA denies my claim and the SBA says it can’t help me. But it looks like I’m stuck with the tab. A lot of you out there know how this feels. I’m not alone.
I mean, this isn’t Bangladesh, but it might help if the late George Harrison would host a fund-raiser for me. “My friend came to me, sadness in his eyes, told me that he needed help before his house dies.”
Course it’s not that bad. At least I have a house to rebuild … with the $424.24 check FEMA sent me. OK, I live in a pretty nice middle-class neighborhood. I lost my lower level and all of its contents, other than my books and music. And it’s worth $424.24 according to the government. Oh yeah, it’s not just the Feds who are denying any help. Old Tennessee Gov. Phil Bredesen puts his signature on each denial. I can imagine him sitting in that stupid massive bunker he and Andrea built over there on Curtiswood, looking at FEMA applications and laughingly stamping his signature on them. I wonder if that bunker leaked all over the oil barons and the like that are entertained there?
Other things have happened in my “what’s goin’ on” ponderings.
Of course, the worst thing was that my cat died. I loved him as much as anything, and anyone who wants to find out more about that should read the two preceding blogs. I can’t go there tonight. Tomorrow I should be getting his ashes.
But this isn’t one of those “if it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have no luck at all” tales.
First of all, I’ve really found out how blessed I am… well, I’m not a “blessed” kinda guy … how about “fortunate” instead. As in “Fortunate Son,” from the same guy who sang “Who’ll Stop the Rain,” Middle Tennessee’s collective anthem early last month.
But I truly am fortunate to have good friends.
One of my oldest and dearest friends, Rob Dollar, has assisted by providing good vibes from his home in Hopkinsville and from the road where he is a secret agent and head counter for the federal government. Well, actually he’s a Census Bureau leader of some sort and as soon as the counting stops, well, maybe he can become governor of Kentucky … or work for FEMA.
He also is the driving force behind this blog. “Why don’t you write a blog, Flapjacks?” he’s been saying for two years. Finally I had something to say and a need to say some of it and he worked to make it happen.
Another great friend who has stepped forward has asked to remain anonymous as to what he’s done. All I can say is that he was one of the few bosses I ever had that I not only liked but who still is alive. I’m glad about that latter in particular. A good friend, even though a little unassuming, who knew when real newspapers roamed the earth.
And then there’s Captain Kirk, who reemerged in my life after about a 30-year absence. Somehow, Cappy, a sailor from the Vietnam war who has turned sort of religious on me (not that there’s anything wrong with that), came upon my entries on Facebook about the flood and he began contacting me from his headquarters in Des Moines, Iowa. Back in college, I occasionally would “beat” him in pool at the bars, so others would want to take him on. Pool hustler and his pal chased into the dark night. Laughing.
Cappy reminds me that I once led the charge as we rode the range at Iowa State University, where I had fun while also getting good grades and sometimes only shaving half my face. Even if I had a full beard. I’d shave half the face and see how it felt before shaving the other.
More about him later. Suffice it to say he spent 35 years as a carny sideshow T-shirt air-brusher before he figured out he’d hit a dead end. … My friends, like me, can be stubborn. Even the humblest dreams die hard.
And while reconnecting with Cappy, I also reconnected with a guy I knew in Iowa who was going to vet school. Now he’s a part of a veterinary hospital in the L.A. area. He runs marathons and takes care of his family. He says he sleeps with his banker … who is his wife. Anyway, he has offered me long-distance advice and consolation when I’ve been going through the trauma of losing my cat. This vet is named Tom Carpenter. I’m not sure the lessons I taught him back in the dorm were always good for him, but he generally was game. And he’s a darned good vet, by all accounts.
Oh sure, there are other friends who haven’t touched base, but that’s OK. They have their own lives to lead.
I do have to say that Peter Cooper, one of the few journalists working at 1100 Broadway who‘s not afraid to be seen in my company, has been among my best supporters. He’s purchased several platters of lamb souvlaki for me and made me laugh. Gonna lick the platter, the gravy doesn’t matter. I keep telling him my luck will change and I can buy. He keeps on patiently waiting.
He’s also talked music with me, which is something I need. Music is important. I’m not talking about that Miley Cyrus chick who wears no underwear and sings like her underwear is too tight. I’m talking about Tom T. Hall, Bobby Bare and Johnny Cash.
And then there’s Bush Bernard, a true supporter, who provided me CD-playing equipment -- mine died in the flood --and gave me a big boost. He also said he lived through hurricanes and built back, so I would return as well.
The great Radney Foster spent time detailing his own flood foibles with me. And he also listened intently when I told him my own.
And then there’s Brad Schmitt. I don’t hear from him much. But that’s OK, as long as he’s in his meetings. He’s a good guy. He also had to rebuild. He’s got a new gig with the CVB. No we’re not talking about “Barefoot Jerry and the CDB, gather round children, get down.” The CVB is the Convention and Visitors Bureau here in Guitar Town and Brad is writing for them. I still hope he gets back on TV. Maybe he can talk big boss Butch down at the CVB into returning the promised calls to discuss what writing I could do for his fine organization.
There have been others who have stepped forward as well, so I have come to really appreciate the value of a few good friends. And some are basically Facebook friends, like Jerry Flowers, who has become something like an electronic brother. Oh, he’s a little more conservative than I am (most people in this particular human race are), but he’s a great guy. Even offered me and my family shelter from the storms of life.
Speaking of the storms of life, I had encouraging words from Randy Travis during a long and wide-ranging conversation. We had 15 minutes scheduled, but we both had so much fun talking, we went on for 45. He’s a great guy.
And then there’s the President of the United States of America. I began to fantasize back in my early flood ramblings, about the Prez visiting me to cheer me up.
Of course, he wasn’t here at all. The Secret Service has called to make sure I say this for sure. They don’t want the word to spread that the President of the United States of America was playing basketball here with me, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Tom Petty and the late Richard Manuel of the Band. Sometimes Jerry Garcia stopped by to play mandolin while Hendrix played acoustic guitar and Vassar played his fiddle.
Anyway, even IF he was here, demonstrating his basketball form on my driveway and cussing like Jay-Z, I kept telling him he should be down in the Gulf Coast States taking care of the oil leak.
“Coast Guard admiral says there’s no leak,” he’d say, driving toward the hoop, using his butt to clear my son, Joe, out of the way.
He didn’t listen to me, and proved, as a result, that he’s just as good at ignoring a problem until it becomes an epic disaster as was his poker-playing pal and mentor George W. Bush.
So, what’s the buzz? What’s goin’ on?
This summer was going to be glorious. There was going to be a time at the beach in late May, early June. That had to be canceled because furniture had been floating around my ankles. Course, as it turns out, I wouldn’t have gone anyway, because my cat turned so ill.
The vacation was rescheduled for later in the summer…..By then the crystal white sands of the Redneck Riviera ought to be nice and black and covered with dead wildlife and the occasional rotting BP executive. Sometimes I see Kenny Stabler down there. If you don't know who he is, I guess you are younger.
And then tonight Ringo Starr decided he wasn’t going to talk with me.
Hope your summer is going well.

A kid, a prayer, a goldfinch, Hendrix and Buddy help me say goodbye to my best Pal

The young woman talked soothingly of “your baby” as she took Pal from my arms and put him on a cart.
He was going to be stored in a walk-in refrigerator for a couple of days, awaiting cremation.
I picked out a little cedar box, a miniature version of the one that holds Buddy’s remains, for Pal’s ashes. My son has instructions to put the little cedar boxes in with me. Heck, I don’t care if they cremate me too, and mix my ashes with my Buddy and Pal.
“I’m going to be 79 when you die,” said Joe, indicating that he believes I’m going to far outlive the odds my oldest friends would offer. Many of them are dead and others are highly medicated.
But regardless of the point when I do die and Joe mixes up my ashes or puts me in a Hefty bag at the curb or whatever, as long as the two boxes of my animals are with me, that won’t matter. Because, by that point, of course, I’ll be holding the cat in my arms and letting the dog run across some sweet meadow, with that laughing bark.
Yeah, these are my dreams. I gotta admit I’m having a lot of trouble now that my Pal is gone. As he’s been bunking in the bedroom since the flood, I am accustomed to leaving the bathroom after showering and walking across my room, reaching into the little upholstered cube bed and petting him. Course, in recent weeks, I always was aware the gentle stroking of his head could well be the last. And Sunday, I did give him that final stroke.
I still feel his light jump onto the edge of the bed in the middle of the night. Then realize it’s not any more real than the barking I hear many nights, a somehow reassuring sound, like Buddy used to make when he stood at the door downstairs and begged me to wake up and come down to take him out. Of course, if I didn’t hear those barks, I’d be licked in the face by the dog who could stand dead-even with the raised queen mattress and stick his brownish-pink nose right in my face.
Pal’s not here. Nor is Buddy. Or perhaps they're both here in spirit. The other day, as I leaned over Pal's body at the crematory and said goodbye for the last time, admiring his beauty, the proud face, his almost regal bearing – even though his once solid body had been ravaged by the cancer – I knew I would see him no more, at least for now.
Except in those dreams. The circle of life and death. Or however that works. I’m not sure. I used to have a black-light poster of Jimi Hendrix, I purchased it right after his death: “Meet me in the next world: Don’t be late,” it read.
I have no idea how that works. Perhaps Jimi’s playing “Little Wing” while Buddy and Pal listen. That’d be nice.
It’s just strange around here. The house is in disarray, ever since the flood. It’s clean, but cluttered, as I try to conduct my business from the living room, stacked with books and music.
Every time I catch a sideways glance at one of the piles, I at first think it is Pal, sitting on the floor and watching me type.
The contractors are good guys and they are in the basement, bringing it back.
I just wish that someone could bring my cat back.
"Good luck with that, old buddy," my son will say, making me smile at just the right time. He's a lot like me. Poor kid.
I remember one time, years ago, when I talked about my cat and my dear friend, Peter Cooper, said I didn’t seem like a cat kind of guy. He wasn’t saying anything negative, just that I seemed more like a big-animal guy (course Peter has these really weenie little pocket dachshunds, Russell and Loretta, who are beautiful and special animals.)
But when Peter made the cat comment, I told him the story of Buddy and Pal and how they became part of my family before I ever went to Romania to pick up Emily and long before the second trip to get Joe.
Speaking of Joe, he asked me if it was his fault Pal died. He said he had prayed that Pal would die quietly and not suffer. He was afraid that the request had been granted and he had given his old dad too much heartache to handle, given the many other recent challenges.
I told him that it was a good prayer. That it didn’t cause the cat to die. That age just caught up with him. And that Pal loved him. And he didn't suffer.
“You should pray, Dad. It would make you feel better.”
I told him that in my own way I do, every time I stare at the stars and wish … and dream… and marvel at the universe and at the sound of tree frogs and cicadas and tires squealing in the night.
“Joe, why don’t you add a couple of lines to your prayers for me, would you?”
“Dad, I pray for you every day.”
Figure I can’t do much better than have this young fellow, who is either going to be a weatherman (probably) or a cop (his backup plan), who has this pure soul, put in a few good words for me.
He then asked if cats go to heaven.
I could have gotten into all kinds of philosophical discussion with him. I had a deeply religious grandmother who said no animals go to heaven.
I remember the old movie “All Dogs Go To Heaven” that I bought for Suzanne after Pepper, the dog she had when we married, died, also of cancer.
I don’t have the answer. But I can’t see why not.
As I was mulling this today, the most beautiful goldfinch – if you don’t know me, goldfinches are my favorite wild bird – landed on the bubbling fountain out on the deck. I watched it as I drank my coffee. I don’t know if I’d ever seen a prettier bird before, even in goldfinch terms.
And the way it stayed there and looked into the window seemed oddly satisfying and enriching. Then he spread his wings and flew into the tree-line filled with hackberry trees.

Loving and losing my best Pal

Pal Kitty was about 6 months old, but his growth stunted by living on his own when I pulled him from the top of the shrubbery where he was hiding from bigger cats.
I’d seen the little cat the morning before, when I took my dog, Buddy, then a mere 30 pounds on his way to the 120 pounds he became in his 11 years, out for a walk before I drove to work at the Nashville Banner.
I just figured it was a kitten, wandered away from its mama, so I left the little pink animal alone. Besides that, my wife had just a month or two before rescued the dog, we named Buddy, over on Nolensville Road.
Didn’t really need another pet right now. Busy enough trying to make sure the puppy becomes housebroken and quits chewing up the linoleum in the kitchen.
At night, though, there was a horrible howling and growling outside, so I climbed from bed and went to the front of the house where the little pink animal, terrified, clung to the highest, thinnest branches of the evergreen shrub. The bigger cats were after it. But they couldn’t climb that high.
I reached in and grabbed the few ounces of fur and took him inside. First I told my wife I was going to put him in a box in the garage. Which I did. I also said we would try to find the cat a good home.
She laughed at me, because she knew I already had. The next day, after leaving work, I drove the little cat out to the vet. He was the one who told me the animal was probably 6 months old, judging by his adult teeth. He’d be stunted and perhaps unhealthy for life.
That night, the little cat slept on the foot of the bed, with Buddy. As we’d named the dog after a line in “It’s A Wonderful Life” when George Bailey hollers after his “Ol’ Buddy, Ol’ Pal,” it was pretty easy to choose a name for the cat.
We were afraid that the bigger dog would not take to the cat. Instead, they quickly became best of friends. We’d close the cat up in the bedroom during the day at first, thinking this would keep him from pestering the dog. Until I came home one day to find the cat was wrestling with the dog. Seems Pal was small enough to crawl beneath the door. He also could pin the dog to the ground. Good thing Buddy was a nice animal.
No need to separate them again. For the rest of their lives they were best of friends.
Buddy grew to be 120 pounds. He was apparently a mix of German Shepherd and Chocolate Lab and was a handsome fellow and great friend.
When he died six years ago, I didn’t think I’d ever feel that heartache again. But I did. Today. When Pal’s long fight with bone cancer finally ended.
Pal was a small cat, but he did flourish despite the early odds. He grew to what the vet called “a perfect 10-pound cat,” a weight he carried until a couple of years ago.
That 2008 physical showed him down to nine pounds. But he still apparently was healthy.
Last August, during his annual physical, the vet noted that the cat had dropped a couple more pounds.
Without going into detail, it basically was determined that he had bone cancer. Tumors began to grow on his jaw. Then on his chest.
He was 16. Too old for chemo. She said she could put him to sleep, but as long as his quality of life was OK, she’d let us determine that.
So we began a 10-month process of watching the cat lose weight, but still remain happy and loving. Most mornings, if he was hungry – which was frequently until the last couple of days – he’d wake me up with licks in the middle of the night.
He could jump up on the bed OK, but it was more difficult to get down, so I’d grab him and set him on the floor. He’d follow me into the kitchen. Or sometimes Suzanne would tire of listening to the licking and do the feeding duties.
His days were spent doling out love. Before the flood of early May, my office was on the lower level of the house. Pal didn’t much like that. He’d come down and howl at the doorway into my office. I’d grab him and pull him onto my lap. Sometimes he'd climb onto the window ledge to watch the goldfinches just outside. But he quickly jumped down and howled at me some more.
I think he just thought that since his litter box was downstairs – over in the laundry room – a guy shouldn’t come down there unless it was for a bathroom break.
My relative “underemployment” in the last three years allowed me to grow even closer to the cat, if that was even possible. It's not like there ever was much emotional distance between us. When he was younger, and I was still taking naps when the kids were, he’d climb on my stomach and sleep right with me. Buddy would sleep against my legs.
But Pal had grown old and bony. It was tough for him to get on the bed. He’d prefer to remain in his own bed, an upholstered little cube thing with a couple of openings, that was on a blue wingback chair in the living room.
He would visit during the night, drop off a few licks, and then climb back in the box.
Evenings and football Saturdays and Sundays were spent either in my lap, Suzanne’s lap or on the back of the couch. He enjoyed being around his family. He actually seemed to like sports a lot, particularly baseball – when his eyes would follow the ball.
We knew his health was failing, that he was living out cancer's death sentence. And we knew his time was getting short. At Christmas time, he hardly fiddled with the special yarn ornaments that were placed on the lower branches just for him to play with.
He used to run with them all over the house. We knew it was his last Christmas. We knew it was his last New Year. We knew that when he turned 17 a couple of months ago – a rough-guess birth date we figured by the vet’s reckoning – he would have no more birthdays.
Still, he enjoyed his special food, a crunchy kind that is good for urinary health in males. He crunched away with gusto and was especially happy when a new bag was brought in the house. His elimination processes were fine. His breathing good, though on humid nights increasingly shallow. Despite his ailments, he was as happy as he made us.
He enjoyed the small scraps from the table, the ham or turkey, even the piece of cake or chips – tastes he’d probably acquired during his rough, scavenging first six months of life, before we found each other in the front yard shrubbery.
Like us all, his life was altered by the flood.
But in his case, and now in retrospect, ours, it was good. When all of the furniture needed to be moved to make room for my piles of books, music, my computer and the paraphernalia from the office downstairs, Pal’s chair – the blue wingback that held his little cubical bed – was moved into our bedroom. He just had to navigate the footstool to step on the bed and continue to dole out his licks, although they were accompanied by a gruffer purring.
His litter box, which had been downstairs in the laundry, was moved into a corner in our room. We also put his food and water there. He was free to roam the upstairs, but he was happiest in the bedroom. Especially when we were there with him.
The cat himself, who still was loving, dropped to 3 pounds or less and he no longer had to climb downstairs or jump off beds. Since May 2, he had everything – including the two people he loved most – within 10 feet.
And since my office was relocated into the living room, he could come in here, climb on the couch, even climb on the desk and watch my fingers on the keys.
He enjoyed his life. We often thought when he had a bad day that perhaps it was time to call the vet for the lethal dose. But he’d bounce back, be happy. And he continued to eat and drink. And lick. He was slow and ailing, but in the same good spirits that captured my heart when I met him back when I was 41 years old.
Until Friday morning. Suddenly the cancer caught up to him with frightening fury. He fell onto the floor when bound for his litter box. His hindquarters suddenly failed. He had bounced back before, so we fed him and gave him water and hoped for the best. Of course, we knew the worst was more likely.
Saturday morning, he got up, drank and ate. For the last time on his own.
Then he fell down. For the first time, he obviously was uncomfortable. After holding him up while he used the litter box, my wife and I put him back in his bed. I called the vet. It was time.
But the vet didn’t return my call. And now I’m glad.
This morning, Pal’s breathing was strained as he fought for oxygen through his open mouth. Suzanne and I loved him, cleaned him up and gently dried his fur. He had not been able to make it from his bed to the litter box during the night. He'd always taken pride in being well groomed. We weren't going to allow him to leave us in condition that he wouldn't like. We comforted him. I called him "Honey-boy," a term I used for both Buddy and Pal, when they roamed the house on Rochelle Drive like Butch and Sundance.
But this morning, he would neither eat nor drink. He turned his head away from the spoon of soft food that had been his favorite 3 a.m. treat. He wouldn't even allow an eyedropper of water in his mouth.
We put him in his bed, next to ours. And we told him to go to sleep. That we loved him. That it was OK.
He died quietly in his bed. Surrounded by people who only hope we’ve returned the love he gave us.
Some philosopher, maybe it was me, once said that loving animals and watching them die is a gift they give us, that they actually help prepare us for the losses of parents and other human loved ones.
Perhaps.
It doesn’t get any easier though.
He was my best Pal.

Kid Rock-style country makes me hanker for Lefty, ET & Shel

Watching Kid Rock emcee the CMT Music Awards the other night, I had to struggle for a moment to remember just why it was I fell in love with Nashville back in 1972. Or was ’71? Long time ago. I was making water heaters by day and roaming the streets of the city by night. One reason I fell in love with this city was the guitar player who took the “stage” nightly at … well, I can’t remember the name of the joint. It was right across from Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge, because on occasion Lefty Frizzell, Ernest Tubb, one of the Cash boys or some other Grand Ole Opry stalwarts would come in to sing along with the house band. They may have been trying to kill time between the end of the Grand Ole Opry -- which then was in the Ryman Auditorium regularly and not just as a refuge from the flood -- and the Midnight Jamboree down at ET’s Record Shop. Hang around long enough on a summer night and you’d see Loretta Lynn or Little Jimmy Dickens perform for free and for the joy of music. There were times that I took a nap after my shift on the line and got up just in time to go down to see those shows. So much older then, much younger than that now. There was no such thing as a suburban Donelson ET Record Shop or a Grand Ole Opry House – submerged or otherwise -- at that time. In fact, Lower Broadway was a place of bars, honky-tonks, sticky-floored peep shows and other “night shift” workers who would openly proposition day and night. Their clients apparently were led to rooms above what now are souvenir shops. Suppose they all -- or at least those who picked up that trade -- eventually moved to Dickerson Road or Murfreesboro Pike. Sure, some visitors may have found Lower Broad a little seedy. I relished in it. I’ll have to look up the name of the guitar player sometime. I do remember that they found him dead, dreams of glory dashed, in the high-rise residential hotel that's name I can't recall. Can’t remember if he was reaching for some needle arm that drove him down to hell or if he was just expired. He was a big guy. Man he would play. Lower Broadway was not the neon lit, family friendly Disneyesque district it is today. I’m sure tourism officials are pleased. And, for the most part, I guess it’s good. It wasn’t more than a year or so after I first hit town that the Old-Time Pickin’ Parlor opened on Second Avenue North. Now a booming restaurant an club stretch, it was a warehouse wasteland there, reminding me as much of the ghost towns I used to explore during my long pursuit of the secrets of Joshua Tree and the non-existent American Dream. First time at the Pickin’ Parlor, I saw Doc and Merle Watson. That was before Merle got run over by a tractor. Guests may have included the likes of Vassar, Dawg, Hartford. Perhaps even Garcia. You never really knew. I was fortunate in that Vassar became a dear friend in his later years. It was a privilege. Yes I still go downtown, or rather to Lower Broadway, occasionally. In fact, I likely will go back down to the fancy tourist district this weekend, if only because I love the city and I love the fans who come to CMA Fest. Although I guess more of them come in from Brooklyn and Bonn than Defeated Creek any more. Most have never stopped at Wall Drugs, in other words. If you don’t know what that means, it matters even less to me. But I do lament the old and sometimes seedy ghosts at times. Rather than recreating “classic country” with new-fangled music-goosing machines and the like, the real stuff played down there on Lower Broad in that bygone era. There was the jolt and joy of listening to the weeping steel and the occasional visit with Lefty or ET, either in a bar or while sat in Tootsie’s back room. Boot heels hooked under the tabletop, they’d lean back in those suds-soaked chairs, armpits stained dark after leaving their spangles and such across the alley in the Opry while they sought refreshment. Sometimes I’d hang out in the alley, and talk to those guys. Sometimes I’d sneak in the alley door and catch the Opry’s last few segments. Or perhaps I’d go down Fifth a few steps and watch someone swampin’ them tables down at Green Gables. Yep, Waylon fans, there really was such a joint, but I'm joking about it being here. It was in Texas, and Billy Joe Shaver's mom swamped tables there. He wrote songs about it. It escapes me right now the name of the restaurant where I’d drop in, down Broadway, where I’d have coffee, trying hard not to succumb to the urge to bother Roger Miller reading the first editions of the morning newspaper. Or perhaps it was the last edition of the afternoon paper. He smoked a lot. So did I back then. I’m sure Roger was just twisting the words around for pleasure. “Dang me. Dang me…” What rhymes with that? Of course that song predated those nights, but you get the idea. “Woman won’t you weep for me?”  Oh, yeah, the restaurant was Linebaugh's. Merchants is there now, occupying the space of Linebaugh's as well as the old Merchants Hotel.

As for Roger, well, speaking of roller skating through buffalo herds or, more to the point, twisting words for pleasure, there was Shel Silverstein. I’ve written before of my first encounter with one of my heroes. Shel one night, likely well-oiled but precise of diction, coaxed his late-night buddy, Bobby Bare, into helping me load up my 1965 Falcon’s trunk with the bricks that Metro was tearing out of Fifth Avenue South. Metro was modernizing by tearing out the old bricks and replacing them with asphalt that would help spawn potholes and please the tow truck drivers who still claim that stretch, although I understand there is still a seething border war. Again, another story. Most of you don’t remember the brick streets. Heck, I was sure not going to forget them. So for some reason, at 2 a.m., I decided it was a good time to take a few souvenirs. Shel and Bobby came up to me from the vacant lot where they’d parked their car, a lot that decades later would be buried someplace near the special Jack Daniels entrance into the Bridgestone Arena. I liked the smile and the friendly tone that approached me in that humid early morning. If you don’t own it yet, Twistable, Turnable Man: A Musical Tribute to the Songs of Shel Silverstein came out Tuesday on Sugar Hill records. Guys like Prine, Kristofferson, Bare Sr. and Jr. and Ray Price sing the great words of the poet. If you ever heard Shel sing, by the way, you’ll know that he made Kristofferson seem like Caruso. Ever see the footage of him doing “Boy Named Sue” on the old Cash show from the Ryman? But if you ever spoke to Shel, you came away feeling better. Like the easygoing conversation we had when he did more than his share of loading bricks. I think the absurdity of helping a long-haired young man load his trunk with apparently obsolete bricks while guitars – electric and steel – echoed through streets of Guitar Town suited him just fine. Done, he and Bare bounded, or at least, vanished into the night. I told Shel I loved his songs and such. Bare, well you really can't find fault with him. He's now a great friend and mentor. Sometimes we talk about our road bricks introduction.  And there were the nights spent at the Tally-Ho Tavern – the site I believe now is occupied by a Curb building – on Music Row. If you were lucky, Kristofferson was in town. Don’t bother him, but catch him and Billy Swan, Charlie Daniels, Funky Donnie Fritts, Arthur Alexander, Billy Ray Reynolds and  Bare out on the picnic tables, swapping tunes. The Rev. Will Campbell, who lived downstairs from Kris in the rotting tenement a few feet away may be there too. Likely not preaching. Captain Midnight, a renegate radio outlaw, also a friend I acquired along the way, may have been challenging Waylon to a knife-throwing contest. I told Kris about those memories once, when he and I looked for what once was the Tally-Ho and he just smiled that grizzled movie star smile. He'd not been back to those sites in three decades when I took him. He was curious, but shared my melancholy that all "the old stuff" was gone. Anyway, memories like those guided me into something teeteing between respair and wild, ribald Johnny Russell-style laughter while watching the CMT’s -- what used to be called the Flameworthy Awards… Or what I dubbed back during my days at the morning newspaper “the Spongeworthy Awards.” I like Kid Rock. And there are some great musicians in the likes of Brad Paisley and Keith Urban. But the Nashville I fell in love with is as much in the past as whatever bars or pawn shops stood where the Predators play hockey or the happy Detroit “rock-rapper” emcees a show that is supposedly a big night for country music but instead is some TV programmer’s nightmarish vision of what fans want. Tom T. Hall, George Jones, Loretta Lynn and my old friend the late Carl Smith likely slept right through it. If they watched it, it may have been one of the few times when the others considered Carl lucky. I’ll be back on Lower Broadway, either Saturday or Sunday. I’ll look for Roger Miller. I’ll look for Lefty Frizzell, who actually was an affable sort. Maybe ET will show up, at least in spirit, in front of the record store. More likely, I’ll gawk at and give directions to the tourists. Maybe I’ll talk with my pal Mandolin Dan, who likely has had a good week. I’ll think of other down-and-outers I knew who have died. I’ll remember when the joint named Possum Holler blasted orange neon into the night somewhere near where the Hard Rock is today. I love Nashville and what it has become. There is no better city. But it’s not what it was 38 years ago. Course neither am I.

CMA Fest triumphs by leaving Fan Fair's sideshow feel in the dust (but I miss Tammy Wynette)

The quadriplegic from Pennsylvania coal country was one of my favorite acquaintances back during what they used to call Fan Fair here in Music City, USA.
I’m not complaining about the newer, sleeker CMA Music Festival at all. It actually is far superior to the old Fan Fair. I know, because I experienced both. In fact, for several years, before my life as a newspaper expat, I plotted coverage of the CMA Fest and before that Fan Fair.
For example, I’d gather Peter Cooper, Brad Schmitt and -- when he wasn’t yelling at his lava lamp -- Craig Havighurst into a conference room at the morning newspaper and we’d toss around ideas. I gotta admit, I worked a little blue in those days.
Before that grouping, I had Jay Orr and Tom Roland. And before that, when I was at the late and still lamented afternoon daily, I had Orr, whom I used to call “the professor” for no real reason. And Michael Gray, back before he got so slender. Oh yeah, I had Calvin Gilbert for awhile too. Nice man. Bad beard.
That’s a pretty good collection of talent over the years. It was an odd mix of country music scholars, a country music reporter who loved Richard Marx, a business-oriented music writer who was then considered among our town’s finest and most public intellectuals, a great and loyal friend who was and remains the king of kosher fart jokes (and some that weren’t) and another loyal friend who has gone on to become an Americana superstar who will bring the Sheboygan Elks Club to its knees (not that they need that much help, after nights of pickled eggs and warm Schlitz).
We’d talk about who should be profiled. For example: which rising star would Peter follow for the week, writing the always fun look at how this CMA Fest was seen through the eyes of, say, SheDaisy or the Kinleys.
Then Brad would pipe in that he wanted to make sure he was where the girls were. He didn’t care if they were musicians. He just hoped they were charmed by his combination Borscht Belt schtick (check the spelling) and effervescent charm and charming array of massive black shirts. He’d then list a bunch of events he’d be at, usually where Mindy McReady and Cledus T. Judd would join him at the trough.
Of course, Craig would write about the impact on Music City of 576 million tourists, according to the random “eenie, meenie, minie moe” counting technique perfected by tourism honchos and insurance adjusters… .
It was pretty much a story budget that we’d amend each year. For example, if Mindy McReady wasn’t available, Brad would spend time with Charlie Pride or, in a bizarre twist, that little guy in the annoying Big & Rich video. These kinda guys aren’t gonna be comin’ to my citaaaaay if I have any choice.
And if Peter couldn’t find a rising star, he’d find one who was all washed up, choking on the stench of Old Granddad and failure, and paint a glorious picture of resurrection.
Just kidding here. I enjoyed these planning sessions and most of you know that Peter and Brad are, to me, like two sons. Peter likes to talk music with me and I with him. Unlike many younger journalists, he knows the first name of George Jones and also knows that is different from Grandpa Jones, my old Thoreau-spouting friend. Peter and I’ve been known to share a large souvlaki platter. Gonna lick the platter, the gravy doesn’t matter.
And Brad, well, he is a man I’ve come to admire as much for being able to deal with a series of setbacks and still maintaining his level head and positive outlook as for his personal warmth and, well, large array of black shirts.
As for me, well, here I am, sitting in my living room, after my downstairs office was flooded out during the great Gurgling Water Massacree of a month ago, and I’m typing about CMA Music Festival for free, as no one will pay me to do so.
As I do this, I keep coming back to the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania.
Anyway, I do like what the CMA Fest has become and what it has done for our city. Despite my sometimes anachronistic appearance, I am a fairly progressive sort who wishes only the best for our flood-ravaged city. And I have a lot of respect and even admiration for many of today’s stars, like Blake Shelton and Miranda Lambert.
And the CMA Music Fest brings in an estimated 67 billion bucks daily while the tourists are here. I think I made up those figures. We’ll see if they turn up in the local press.
It really is cool to see the newer and younger artists. I mean, Carrie Underwood does look better than, say, Loretta Lynn. Although I’d rather listen to Loretta sing. Sorry Carrie: My daughter does love you, though. And you looked swell in that softball outfit Monday night at Greer. That oughta sell a few more CDs.
And Josh Turner makes female heartbeats patter faster than Conway Twitty did in his later years.
And who wouldn’t prefer to see Kenny Chesney sing about his blue chair ponderings rather than seeing Billy Ray Cyrus do Achy Breaky Heart? (This is a hint… stay tuned).
These are all pluses of the new festival. Well, not new anymore. Just the way most of you know it because of its recent, splashy, star-spangled and well-shaved success. And I hope you support it. I know I’ll try to get down to a couple of events, mainly because I like to be around the enthusiasts who come from all over the world to get Taylor Swift’s autograph.
Oh, yeah, I like Taylor Swift a lot, even if I don’t like her music that much. She’s a good person, which to me matters a lot.
But as much as I love the CMA Music Festival, and as much as it brings back fond memories of planning out coverage while Brad Schmitt did his old police reporter best to shoot holes in every story anyone was planning – including his own, which usually had the most holes, as it were – the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania always returns to my heart when CMA Music Festival gets going.
You see, before the makeover – and like I said, it’s generally very good – the thing was called “Fan Fair” and was held in the sweaty barns, mule stalls and near the manure pits at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds.
Of course, we all have a way of remembering the charm and grace of things in hindsight. The charm of Fan Fair was in the wide array of pawn shop glory and claustrophobic sweat and panic attacks.
I don’t lament its passing. But I do miss some of the seedy Joshua Tree roadside snake show flavor of the old Fan Fair.
Everyone was jammed in those little stalls. It didn’t matter if you were Garth Brooks – who once did 24 hours straight of autographing in his booth – or Jimbo and Jim Beam, leaders of the Starcrossed Cattle Ranchers Swing Band and Bowling Team from some coal town in Pennsylvania. If you had a CD to sell or a pin to sell, you were there.
And sometimes there were guys, like the kindly and cool quadriplegic, who followed the band from the coal town to Nashville as they took their shot at the big time in this cow manure scented section of 110-degree Nashville. I can’t remember if they were wearing their bowling shirts. They may have left them in the swelter of the adjacent trailer park.
I would go most years, even after it became CMA Fest, to check things out. And, as I hate heat almost as much as I despise floods and that creep who chose to rub against tattoos instead of Sandra Bullock, I relished the air conditioning of the venues in the modern era.
But sometimes I can’t resist the sort of melancholia that sweeps over me when I remember Conway and Loretta on the stage at the side of the race track. Or the big reunion between George Jones and Tammy Wynette, back when she was still alive. I still love George and I miss Tammy a lot. I wish she was still around. Although no one would recognize her.
Heck, if I remember right (I may be right, I may be crazy), the Beach Boys were there one year. I believe Brian Wilson brought his sand box and Dennis Wilson was still dead. Mike Love was there and I think maybe that guy from that stupid TV sitcom that produced the phenomenon known as those sexy and sometimes lightweight Olsen sisters. I can’t remember his name, other than the fact he dumped a supermodel wife or vice versa. But that has little to do with Fan Fair, anyway. And he wasn’t a good drummer.
OK, you ask me where the quadriplegic from Pennsylvania coal country comes in. I wish I remembered his name. He was a great guy, full of life-affirming philosophy. I spent more than an hour with him as his friends made sure he made it to the various shows and booths.
I was there as features editor of the old Nashville Banner. And while Jay Orr and either Calvin Gilbert or Michael Gray were studying the serious acts and pontificating on the joys and sorrows of Fan Fair, I was always going out there in my role as a columnist, seeking human interest stories.
I chose this one day back in 1992 to go to the Fairgrounds because I had been reading about the “Cyrus Virus” spread by a pelvic-thrusting singer who was capturing hearts in backwoods Kentucky, which is much of the state. I wanted to see what this guy was all about.
So I made my way to the big stage and stood in awe as this mullet-headed mother nature’s son sang and danced to the almost unforgettable (unfortunately) song with its gripping lyrics: “Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart / I just don’t think it’d understand/And if you tell my heart, my achy breaky heart/ He might blow up and kill this man.”
The crowd – mostly 57 years old with pig-tails and stretch, pink and yellow clothes held up by elastic American flag suspenders (and we’re talking all genders here) – screamed wild approval.
“So this is country music,” I said, as I watched the twitching, seemingly good-natured guy begin his skyrocket to stardom that would spawn Hannah Montana and a slutty looking Miley Cyrus. Put some pants on, kid.
As for me, well, I wasn’t all that impressed. I mean, I thought he was talented and all. I later found him to be a really nice guy. But I had come for George Jones. And I thought I’d seen Skeeter Davis someplace back in the barns/exhibition halls. She was the one who brought the Byrds to the Opry and I always loved to speak with her.
So, as I walked out of the grandstands and down into the potholed pathway back to the halls, I saw this guy in his wheelchair. He was laughing. He was happy. Billy Ray Cyrus, he figured, was pretty good.
It all didn’t matter, because instead of sitting back in his home in a Pennsylvania coal mining town making small talk with Bob Barker, he was here, in Nashville. And maybe he’d see George Jones or Loretta Lynn. Heck, this Garth Brooks kid was pretty darned good, even though he had by then begun his Peter Pan act, he reckoned. For the record: Garth always has been kind to me, so I had to agree with my new friend.
I found much joy in talking with this guy. It made my trip to the Fan Fair grounds worthwhile. And I climbed back into my crappy red Saturn with its peeling impenetrable clear finish and drove back to the offices of the afternoon newspaper.
I began to sing. No it wasn’t “Achy Breaky Heart”, that would be too good an ending. I think I was singing “May the Bird of Paradise Fly Up Your Nose.”
Course, I really can’t remember if any of the above is true. It was a long time ago, in an era that will from now on be known as a time not only before the flood but before Hootie became a country superstar.

AFTER THE FLOOD: A BOY, A BED, A DUMP & MEMORIES

“What’s the matter with this guy? Oh I guess he’s not used to this place like we are,” said the 14-year-old kid from Giurgiu, Romania. “We’re veterans.”
Well, actually it’s been a long time since he was in Giurgiu. About a dozen years ago, we had to coax him to our car with Romanian “biscuits” – sort of sugared Ritz Crackers with chocolate filling – and give more to the swarms of 3-year-olds who were grabbing our legs and asking that we take them too.
Long time ago. Now, this kid is a straight A student, a resident of Crieve Hall. And a flood victim. He’s also my sidekick on my frequent trips to the dump, well really the East Convenience Center, just off Trinity Lane.
At the risk of alienating my many good friends in East Nashville, this is my favorite locale in that part of the city.
I mean, I like the Titans, but I can’t afford to go to LP Field to see games. And I love Peter and Charlotte Cooper and their baby, Baker, and their cuddly kosher bodyguard, Brad Schmitt. Actually Brad is just staying with them while his house is being rebuilt from the flood damage inflicted on it.
On my Facebook page, I’ve been keeping friends and fans and folks posted on my own long and winding road to recovery from the flood. I mention “long and winding” because I hear that the Walrus’ old buddy, Paul, is charging $250 for a ticket to his show. I wonder how much of that is going to flood victims? I’d love to go see you, Paul. But I think I need to spend the cash on drywall and floors and doors.
Maybe you can hire me to help with the stage setup? Or perhaps I can sing with you. I do a great “Nah-Nah-Nah-Nah” after all. That and my infamous Joe Cocker impersonation made me welcome at most college parties some 37-plus years ago, where “Hey, the Dancing Bear is going up on the stage!” was a call that sometimes preceded my exploits. But enough of that. Call me, Paul. I still talk to John and George frequently. And Ringo may be calling me in a couple of weeks. You remember him? He’s the drummer for that band you had before Wings.
OK, well enough about Paul. I expect it will be a great show. But this is about today not yesterday. And McCartney wasn’t with me at the dump. My son, Joe, the kid from Giurgiu, was. Actually, we go to the so-called Convenience Center at least once a month under normal circumstances. I’m gradually lightening my load from a life spent accumulating. Less junk for the kids to bicker or more likely just toss when I join Murrow, Cronkite, Fred Russell and Harold “The Stranger” Lynch.
But since the flood, of course, the visits have been frequent. As many as three in a day, even though the limit is two (they fudged to let people take care of their needs during this crisis.)
The first day we went to the dump, as I call it affectionately, was the Monday when the flood waters really were rising on the Cumberland. There was so much stuff that was washed up and left for dead by the water that rose in my lower level, swamping my office and the family room and the laundry room. In order to even begin trying to salvage it, we had to dump the stuff that was not going to make it.
That day, we even had to ford some floodwater on Ellington Parkway and for awhile, the interstate was closed, so we had to come back through downtown Nashville. I would look down as we crossed the bridge over the Cumberland, just me and my son Joe, and watch the river flow. Ahh, what’s the matter with me? I’m rambling again.
Anyway, today’s mission was actually done out of frustration. I have been generally complimentary of the work of Metro, promising Karl Dean my vote and all in the wake of the flood. But there now is one thing I need to complain about today. And it could cost Karl the election the next time.
You see, there was a June 1 deadline for putting flood debris up by the road. And there were things that I really couldn’t easily transport, particularly a big, oak bunk bed, desk and dresser combination that was in Joe’s room for a few years when he was smaller.
It was stored in the shed at the back of my yard and the floodwater rose a couple of feet in there – from Seven Mile Creek. That killed the lawnmower and all of my stored paints and implements of destruction.
But the floodwater also destroyed the old bed that I’d hoped I could give to someone sometime. Or perhaps I’d just save it for Joe (more later). Instead it was awash in stinky mud, perhaps courtesy of the Corps of Engineers and Jim Cantore or some combination thereof.
That was not the water that got in my house. The creek only got up about halfway across the backyard. The rainwater came up from beneath the slab, like a spring, the Gurgling Water Massacree I’ve referred to in the past, and washed away the use of half my house.
But the creek did its damage too.
And the hardest thing about the flood, really, has not been what it has done to me. But to my kids. The family room downstairs was where they retreated for video games, pool, television, to improvise on the keyboards and find refuge from the adult world. It’s been their little place in the world ever since they each arrived from Romania. All they had to do was try to keep it straightened up and not leave CDs and DVDs all over the floor.
That room was washed away and then stripped down to slabs and studs again. It was a very real loss for these beautiful children, who came from orphanages long, long ago. They lost their special “place.”
They haven’t complained much as the family makes do with the upper portion of the house for all our needs. By the way, a contractor has begun repairs, so within a few weeks, I’ll be holding a grand reopening of my own refuge – my office – and the kids’ play room. I’ll probably limit the guest list to my family, though. It should be a happy day. I may invite the President of the United States of America. But that is to be explained in anther blog, another night. Or go back and look at my Facebook entries “After the Flood.”
Anyway, today’s trip to the dump was necessitated by the fact the government didn’t live up to its word. I mean, everyone who knows me knows what a believer I am in the promises of government and the purity of our leaders and their promises. So I had no doubt the government would live up to its word to pick up flood debris at street side as long as it was there by June 1.
But we did haul the bunk bed and some monster shelves from the shed and put them on the roadside before June 1. I called Metro Public Works to remind them it was there. They said it would be picked up by June 2 or June 3.
You know where this story is going. It got to be the near the end of the week and, after noticing the Metro trucks had picked up the stuff from the other 40 homes flooded in my neighborhood, I called Public Works again.
“We’ll be there Friday,” I was told. “Maybe.”
Well, they didn’t come Friday and I called again. This time it was going to be perhaps during the weekend or the first of the week.
We tired of looking at the wreckage of the flood and disaster piled up in front of the house. So this morning, we tore this cumbersome stuff apart, piece by piece. And Joe and I made two trips to the dump.
It was then that he made the comment about the “dump virgins” who don’t know how to find the right dumpster and follow directions. I tell you what, I really like the guys who work at the dump. They are almost friends to me. They recognize me and acknowledge my frequent flier status. They always leave me smiling.
But I didn’t smile after we dumped the last piece of the bed and I looked at Joe. He had helped me get it into the big refuse container. The heavy oak dresser slammed into the bottom, a sound resonating off the steel.
“Well, Joe, there goes your old bed,” I said, as he and I looked down at the broken and mud-caked remnant of his childhood.
I didn’t know if he was sad or not. He always said that if I didn’t give the bed to someone, he’d take it for his own kids…. After he becomes a high-earning meteorologist and buys the houses across the street from me and tears them down to build his dream castle. “I’ll come over to eat every day,” he says. “And you can come over to sleep at my house if you want. I’ll have an HD TV in the guest bedroom just for you.”
Of course, now that castle will not contain the oak bunk bed for the weatherman’s kids, my future grandkids.
Just another memory and hope that fell victim to the flood. I don’t know if Joe was sad, but, well, it actually did kind of hurt. I wasn’t thinking about the future, though, but of the past, when I’d stand on tiptoes to kiss the little kid from Giurgiu goodnight.

I CALLED HIM 'COACH'

I called him "Coach."
So did anybody who ever met John Wooden, who died Friday. The Wizard of Westwood was 99 years old.
He also holds a big place in my book of memories of a career spent as a journalist.
He was an honorable man.
That can't be said for many sporting figures nowadays, in this time of doping and cheating, looking the other way. His attitude was in contrast to the legendary Vince Lombardi. For "Coach," winning wasn't the only thing. Of course he did that mighty well. In 27 years, he won 620 games.
His UCLA Bruins made speed and agility on the basketball court look easy as they won 10 NCAA championships, including seven in a row from 1967-73.
But through it all, the young men came first. I know that, because for one day I was the young man he ladled his attention and affection upon.
There will be much eulogizing over this fine man, the likes of whom have disappeared from the basketball courts in the age of $5 million coaching contracts and one-and-done NBA "minor leaguers" who have tarnished the integrity of programs from coast to coast.
No, Coach wasn't perfect. but look at the guys who played for him: Alcindor (Kareem before Kareem was cool) and Bill Walton.
The style of play, feeding those big, elegantly moving guys, changed the college and NBA game.
But "Coach" told his players that while winning was good, "What you are as a person is far more important than what you are as a basketball player."
Ah, but back to my day as the young man on whom he focused his attention.
Early in my journalism career, I had the opportunity to spend a day with then recently retired UCLA Coach John Wooden. He was visiting a business conference to talk about his Pyramid of Success.
I attended the conference and I spent the day sitting with him, chatting with him. He took some time to offer asides about philosophy and even offered little lectures to me alone about living right and playing fair.
His easy attitude toward this young journalist was more grandfatherly and warm than that I have ever received in my career.
At the day's end, as I said goodbye, he reached into his briefcase and pulled out a copy of his book "They Call Me Coach." Of course, he was selling these at the conference, but he gave it to me. "I want you to have it," he said. "You've been good company" (or something like that, my mind grows dim sometimes... these were warm memories but they happened so long ago).
When I read that he had died tonight, I had to dig through my piles of books -- displaced by the flood and now residing in piles in my living room.
There, wedged between a book by Brooks Robinson and another about Roberto Clemente and Bob Dylan's "Tarantula" was that old Bantam paperback Coach Wooden gave me that day.
I opened it up, scanned through the words, looked at the pictures. Then I got to the title page.
"Thanks Tim for your interest in this coach. I hope you enjoy the story. Best wishes, John Wooden 12/20/76."
"Thanks, Coach," I said, after he offered that inscription. I added that I had enjoyed that wondrous day with a man who reminded me of my Grandpa Champ. And I meant it.
Then I added it was my pleasure to call him ''Coach."
It still is.
Rest in Peace, Coach.