Uncategorized

First, I’m the luckiest man in the world. My mother, at 96 “damn” years old, remains healthy, or as she says, “I’m in good shape for the shape I’m in. It does take a whole lot of work to get me up and going every day.”

She still packs a punch and a great laugh, both of which have endeared her to so many over the years. 

The lockdown at her senior citizens community in Durham has been hard on her. She lives alone. No one can visit. And the residents are practicing social distancing to the nth degree. Many of them lived through H1N1 and norovirus episodes so they get the drill. Knowing that you’re being safe, protecting yourself and your friends by staying apart doesn’t relieve the loneliness that it brings on. It saddens me that anyone has to go through this, but in particular I feel for folks like my mom for whom these final years are so precious. She has great grandchildren she’d love to see and who would love to see her. Her grandchildren have done a great job getting video chats going with Mom, but it requires some assistance with the iPad she uses but clearly can flumox her as she tries to navigate around inside it. 

So, it’s a struggle at times. 

The virus has restricted Julie and me from visiting her much more frequently this year. Visits that mean so much to us and to her.

The same holds true for my brothers and sisters. Even my sister, Ginger, who lives just six miles away from Mom cannot see her. She drops off groceries and other odds and ends at the “Command Center” at the Home that are then delivered to Mom. Other friends and relatives who live outside of the home are now limited to phone calls just like those of us living away. 

All that said, Mom has grit. The same grit that she used playing street hockey as a kid with the boys. 

Martha and Homer picnic

Mom and Dad’s wedding day: l-r, Jimmy Wingate, best man, Dad, Mom, Mary Beavers, maid of honor

The same grit and determination that she used to ride the train from Durham to San Diego during WWII to be close to her Homer. He was stationed at Camp Pendleton in final prep for shipping out to fight the Japanese. It took over a week to travel the 2,500 miles. She was one of the few non-uniformed passengers on the train. It was packed with young soldiers moving to the West Coast for deployment. She was the only woman in her car, maybe the only female on the train. “Those boys were so polite to me, so kind and friendly. I don’t know that I could have made it without their help,” she told me. I can’t imagine the courage it took for her to board that train in Durham, leaving her family behind at 20 years old. “I’d never been beyond Catsburg before that trip,” she told me a few years ago. 

The same grit that grounded her throughout Dad’s weeks of training, practicing beach landings, going on exercises for days and weeks at a time while she lived with her aunt and uncle in a small bungalow not far from the base in Oceanside. 

For a while, she worked in a soda shop on base. One day a rough looking, bearded Marine came in and ordered a soda. She hardly looked at him before turning to the fountain to prepare the drink. She turned back to hand him the soda and almost dropped it. She finally had looked at him and saw through the beard and mustache that it was her Homer. He’d grown his beard on maneuvers and wanted to have a little fun seeing if she recognized him before he shaved. No whiskers could cover up the knowing twinkle in his eyes.

The same grit to let her man go after he had “jumped ship” for one more kiss and hug the night before steaming to the South Pacific into the great unknown of war. 

How she made it through so much not knowing, like so many wives during that time, is beyond me. The sacrifices that she, and the country, made during those times, coupled with growing up through the Great Depression, left a mark on her to this day. 

I will say this for a fact, whatever pain and anguish she suffered during those dark days, when Dad came home and she had him in her arms, she was bound and determined to make a life for them. 

It was that grit that made her prod her Homer to take advantage of the GI Bill and go to college. He had survived the worst of the worst on Iwo Jima and in that fox hole he dreamed of making it back to his “Sha,” as he called her. He envisioned then a life as a plumber, the job he had trained in before the war. They would start a family. Right away. There would be no waiting. 

It was Mom who insisted that they could do whatever it took, sacrifice whatever they must, for him to go to college. She believed in him and knew that he had the smarts and know-how to apply himself for a better life down the road. 

It was one of the many times that Dad listened to Mom over the years. It made their marriage such a wonderful partnership. 

It was that grit that she used to live in a prefab home for married Vets on the campus of NC State College, right next to the railroad tracks. She learned how to cook with a kerosene stove in a tiny little one bedroom house, and sweep floors through which you could see the ground below. She learned the warmth of their love could overcome the cold leaking through the spaces in the windows so wide that snow would blow in and collect on the sill. 

They had their first child living there. A precious little girl who they named after Mom. The family photos from those times are all happy. Which is not to say that anything was easy or that they weren’t tried to the very core of their determination. But they were alive, in love, together and their first of five joys was filling their days.

No matter how Dad’s career moved ahead, Mom always managed the home as if they still lived in Vetville with little to no money. For her entire life, she has continued to get everything out of a bottle, jar or can and offers sharp criticism when she sees one of us being wasteful…of anything.  When she made a batter for a cake, she cleaned that mixing bowl with her spatula and wasted not a drop that could go into the cake pan. 

Martha, new born Homer Lindell Riley Jr, Dad, Martha Ellen

Dad, Mom, Lin (standing) and Steve (me)

In their early days, she and Dad set up a budget calculating the amount of money coming in his monthly paycheck and the spending money necessary for food and clothing. He gave her cash upfront with full discretion on how to spend it. She figured out how to make it work, month after month, squeezing every penny, saving green stamps, buying only sale items, ice milk instead of ice cream, shopping for clothes for us at Roses Five & Dime Store. Very rarely did she buy anything for herself that wasn’t related to keeping house and raising kids. 

It was grit and determination that got her through Dad’s international travel to construction projects in Africa, Greenland, and South America. When he traveled to these far off places, the days it took to get there and back made for trips lasting up to three weeks at a time. That left  Mom alone, in charge of five kids with a twelve-year spread from youngest to oldest. How she handled that without going crazy, I just don’t know. Marti certainly helped out as she grew older. Then Lin, then me, as we each got our drivers licenses, we at least relieved Mom of chauffeuring ourselves and the younger kids to after school activities. I know that one of the biggest days of her parenting life was when Page, the baby, got his license and Mom was freed forever from driving kids around.

She balanced that grit by giving her love, laughter and time to her family and friends with a boundless energy. Once the last child was a teenager, she really began to live her life even more fully. She showed us all how to find yourself after the kids have left the nest. She and Dad made a great life of retirement. But she never lost her grit. Ever. You hear it in her voice, pushing back the loneliness of living without her Homer and living during the virus. You hear it in her continued interest in everything that is going on in Durham and the world around her. 

So, here’s to Mom, the former Martha Kerr Glymph, and the forever Martha G. Riley. 

Happy Mothers’ Day Mom. You are one of a kind and I am so lucky to be your son. 

“I am so fortunate in so many ways,” she told me. “And the mothers in our family, Julie, Sylvia, Maggie and Ginger, Claire, Kia and Brenda are just wonderful.”     

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Thanks again for reading and I wish all the mothers that I know Happy Mother’s Day! I want to end by sharing a poem I wrote and sent to Mom back in 1985 for Mother’s Day. 

Mother’s Day 1985

Mom,

I was thinking about you,

The other day,

And how much we used to talk

To one another about things…

Mostly in the kitchen,

While you were cooking, I’d stir.

Or while you were resting,

Smoking a cigarette,

Drinking your cup of coffee,

We talked about unimportant things,

And things that mattered,

Subjects of the heart,

And convictions of the mind.

I learned a lot about the world;

How you felt about it, our family,

Homer,

And me.

We agreed and disagreed,

But we always cared,

From little boy talk,

To grown-up discussions.

I knew you were my friend…

My first friend – forever.

With all of my love,

Steve

Our dad died five years ago today, May 7, 2015, at 10:45 a.m., two thirds of the way through his 92nd year. His absence continues to leave a hole in our lives. The passage of five years means that we can talk about him mostly without tearing up. Each year we salute him on this day as a marker to his end of life just like we celebrate his beginning on September 7th. 

To celebrate our dad, I asked my family to write up something that they cherish in their memories of him. It could be a frequent saying, what we called “Homerisms,” like, “Oooh, Mahtha, that’d make a bulldog break his chain!” which he would say after tasting something, usually of something sweet, or after stirring crumbled cornbread into a glass of buttermilk.

He also had a quick and inventive wit that took advantage of a moment, something someone said, or just something that happened. It displayed his unique and optimistic view on life. His love of good humored fun, although his wit could also be sharp. He called it, “The Needle.” It was never calculated. It just happened, frankly before he even thought about it. You could be pricked and not realize it for a minute or two. He honed it with his golfing buddies as they constantly threw good natured but sharp barbs at one another during a round to see if they could get a bit of a rise out of their friends.

So we dedicate today’s post to the original Homer Lindell Riley, 1922-2015, recalling these Homerisms.

From Marti, the first born, with her wife, Susan

It was late November, 2000, and Mom and Dad moved to Croasdaile. We had been to Beech Mountain one weekend, and – on the way back to Charlotte, there was an advertisement that there were CHEAP flights to London – less than $250 round trip. We called Mom and Dad on the way home to see if they had “any hairs left”. Told them about the fare, etc., and they said they would love to go. Also checked with Rosemary to see if she wanted to join us, and she was a “go”. We all quickly purchased tickets and were ready to go! I found a three bedroom, 3 bath apartment near Harrods, and we were set.

There are too many memories of this wonderful trip to recite here – like getting Mom out of Harrods’s basement grocery by way of the jewelry dept. Almost had to keep her on a leash!

One event that was anticipated with great enthusiasm was “high tea” at the venerable Savoy Hotel. Homer donned a sport coat and tie while the “ladies” dressed in their best attire. We sat in the big “tea room”, ordered tea and cucumber sandwiches while becoming immersed in the parade of patrons and their activities. With great sophistication, Homer would point out the “working Girls” mixed in with paying clientele.

When tea arrived, we were a tad disappointed – it was just TEA!!!!! So we mimicked several tables nearby, and ordered a bottle of champagne – actually Homer did. That was much better and we moved on to a 2nd bottle.

When departing for dinner, Homer called for the check. We protested that we would get it knowing what was coming. He insisted, so we acquiesced. The check arrived, and Homer did a magnificent – if not altogether successful job – of hiding his shock at the tab. With his customary aplomb, he handled it – much as he has for family and friends for years.

From Lin, the namesake, Homer Lindell Riley, Jr. 

So many things to remember and love about who he was and how he chose to handle himself.  Always so positive about everything…wish I could be more that way.  I remember caddying for him at Willowhaven which was not a chore at all.  To be in that group of Homer, AD Turrentine, OZ Wrenn and others was fun to watch.  The needles were always sharp and steady but they always enjoyed themselves.  I can only imagine what things were really like at the Teer’s cottage in Myrtle Beach when they all gathered for the Surf Club Tournament.  Would have loved to have been a fly on the wall!!  Or maybe Not!

It always surprised me when meeting people in the construction industry for the first time and they would say, Damn, you gotta be Homer’s son.  Yes sir, and thank you very much!  He knew so many people but not all of their names.  He always introduced himself when greeting people.  “Hi, Homer Riley” and they would say, “Yeah Homer, I know you” and they would talk and when the conversation ended he would turn to me and say, “Why would that person not tell me who he was? I introduced myself, can’t they take a hint?”  

It was special to be involved with him from the business side of things as well as the family.  And he approached issues in the same methodical manner.  Not rush to make poor decisions but to know all the facts and then make a stand. 

We all miss him terribly but we were all very lucky to have had him for 90+ years and the impact he had on our lives was special.  Love you Dad and thank you.

From Maggie, wife to Page, on who Dad could be…

I sat down to write several times and could not stay on track. I’ve heard so many stories, so many times, but I just didn’t feel like I could do the stories or Homer justice.  

He could be the dad that just wanted to pinch your head off when you were a kid. At least that’s what you and he have told me. 

He could be the “ask for forgiveness rather than permission” guy when making a midnight requisition to build Martha a little fence at Vetville at NC State College. 

He could be the diablo that sat at the end of the pool letting his daughter-in-law know it was three minutes until the house “no swimsuit” policy would go into effect. 

He also was a guy who could tell his kids he loved them. Homer was a pretty amazing father for someone who lost his own father at such a young age. 

To which Page added, he could also be the guy who would advise that you never leave more than you can make – good advice for putting, or for life decisions.

From Steve, the middle child: Golfing moments with Dad and his ever present “needle.”

Through connections at work in Pittsburgh, I was invited to play Oakmont, the famed course that has hosted the US Open many times. My boss, John Howell, said, “Hey, we need a fourth. Invite your Dad.” So I did and he and Mom drove the nine hours from Durham to Pittsurgh for a week. As the sun rose and mist was lifting in the early morning of our game, John drove us over to the club. We met our host, Rose (I forget her last name), an excellent 12 handicapper at the legendary club famous for being tournament ready every day. 

Somewhere around the fourteenth or fifteenth hole I hit a particularly good drive. As we walked from their tee shots to my ball quite a bit along, Rose remarked, “You really caught that one Steve. Great drive.” I was feeling pretty good about it, after all, it had been a very challenging round in which four putts were accumulating. After Rose’s compliment, Dad didn’t miss a beat and said, “Rose, I believe the boy done out-drove his knowledge.” I glanced at him and he winked at me. Then, I hit my second shot clear over the green. I showed him. Once again, he was right.

Years later, again through work in Atlanta, I was invited to play Eastlake, the home course of Bobby Jones and the host to the PGA Tour Championship. When one of our foursome dropped out I asked if I could invite Dad. Our host graciously agreed. Mom and Dad drove down from Durham to spend a few days. It just so happened that folks at the TV station had set up a Saturday round at Chastain Park Golf Course, a muny in town. About 20 staffers signed up to play. I signed us up for that as well.  

Eastlake is a very exclusive 6 Star set up. Everything is immaculate. You drive up, they take your clubs and point you to the entrance to the clubhouse. You put on your shoes in the members’ locker room amid the personal lockers with PGA tour players’ names on them. You walk down to the range and there is your bag and caddie waiting for you with a pyramid stack of shiney new Titleist balls. Just top drawer all the way. We both played well. The walk was beautiful. We had the course to ourselves. After the round, we sat in the pub, enjoyed a beer and sandwich with our host, a radio sales guy. We drove home and told Mom and Julie all about our day.

The next morning, we got up early, drove down to Chastain Park, parked on the street. Got out, opened the trunk, put on our golf shoes leaning against the car, heaved our clubs out and carted them over to the small clubhouse. On the way, the clubs clanking in his stride, Dad observed, “Damn! What a difference a day makes!” I laughed about that all day, at every turn, from the $35 tab to play, the rickety cart, the barren fairways and sad greens. Balls flying all over the place from other fairways. But, you know what, we had a great time enjoying the day, the people and the game. 

Also, it was the day Eric Robert Rudolf, the Olympic Park Bomber, was finally caught. Word spread fast and all of the golfers who worked in our news department rushed off of the course to the station. 

Dad and I finished our round, loaded up the car and drove home. What a day. And we regaled Mom and Julie again on “what a difference a day makes” as we cooked steaks on the grill and toasted our time together with a glass of wine.  

And, from the last born, R. Page, or Front Page, as Mom called him

This story is “Classic” Homer. It is Dad’s explanation for having their first child (our oldest sister, Marti) while still in school at NC State College.

A struggling couple with a new born baby living in Vetville (the schools Veterans Village) after WWII, Dad was studying engineering on the GI Bill at the prodding of his young wife, Martha. I remember asking Dad, “What were you thinking, having a baby while still in school with little or no income?”  Homer looked at me and said “Son, you know that train track that splits the NC State campus in half?” And of course I knew having gone there as well.  “Well, that train ran right beside our small trailer there in Vetville.  It came thru every morning at 6 a.m. It was too early to get up, but it was too late to go back to sleep!!”  And that’s how it happened according to Homer. (Just FYI…Mom agrees with that memory as well!)

Homerisms – One man’s take on things in general

Dad was playing golf one weekend with his favorite foursome of Jeep Wrenn, Nelson Strawbridge and Uncle Grover. Uncle Grover, Mom’s younger brother, was a man of short stature, much shorter than Dad and the others in the foursome. He had a great laugh and was like a cuddly bear. 

These guys always played for a little money. Not much money, but just enough to put a game on and add to the fun of the round. Like many golfers, you’d think they were playing high stakes by how seriously they took the game.

On this particular day, Grover was paired with Nelson. On something like the tenth hole, halfway into the round, Grover’s first putt came up short of the hole and certainly wasn’t a tap in to tie the hole with Dad and Jeep. Nelson said, “That’s good in my book,” angling for the concession. Dad replied, “Sure. If it’s inside the leather it’s good by me.” Nelson started to measure using his putter. Dad stopped him right there. “It has to be inside the leather on Grover’s putter, not yours.” And, of course, with Grover being shorter, the distance from the end of the putter head to the leather was a few inches shorter than Nelson’s. 

There was a moment where Nelson and Grover looked at each other, then at Homer to see if he was serious. Dad held his face. Nelson said, “I’ve never heard that rule before.” Dad replied, “Oh, it’s in the rulebook. The Book of Riley.” 

Then they laughed, Dad conceded Grover’s putt to tie the hole and they walked off to the next tee with Grover mumbling something about Dad making shit up. 

On Saturday’s, Dad would go into the office in the morning and work for four hours. He’d then ask his secretary that if Mr. Teer Senior came looking for him, tell Mr. Teer that he had left to survey a job. The job was at Willowhaven Country Club where he had a standing game on Saturday morning.

I was at his bedside in the hospital after he had his knees replaced. He was 85 years old and this surgery put his optimism of life and living on full display. It also showed how much pain he was in and how it was holding him back from a full life. As I was leaving to go home for dinner we were saying our goodbyes. He motioned to me to come a little closer. He reached up in a beckoning way. I bent over and he pulled me down, pulling my head right next to his. It was so touching and I was deeply moved. I whispered in his ear, “I love you, Dad.” 

There was an awkward moment. “That’s sweet,” he replied. “I love you too, sport…Hey, when you come back, will you bring me a toddy?”

Also related to the knee replacement surgery, when asked by a friend if he had both knees replaced at the same time, he answered, “No. First they did the left knee, then they did the right knee…” He’d pause with great enjoyment before finishing, “but they did the surgery all in one day.”

Hey Dad, where did you get that…insert whatever? His reply: “At the GROW-sir-eee store,” drawing out the word “grocery” for full effect.  

Mom and Dad moved into Croasdaile Village during the Summer of 1999. They were part of the original crew of residents and became like the welcoming committee for new residents. At some point, a lot of folks had begun driving golf carts around the property instead of cars and the administrators rearranged the parking at “The Big House” where Mom, Dad and most everyone living there went for dinner. The new parking layout reserved preferential parking for a limited number of golf carts. Soon after the parking modifications, Dad drove Mom up for dinner in their SUV. Finding no spots for cars available, he parked in one of the golf cart spots. A security guard politely addressed Dad and said, “Mr. Riley, that the spot is marked for golf carts only.” Dad quipped, “Well, I know that. I always carry my clubs in my car!”

When Arthur and Alice Axberg were moving in next door, Dad saw his soon to be new neighbor standing on the back deck and surveying the area. Dad shouted from his yard, “Are you the Axberg’s?” Arthur, a little startled, looked at Dad and answered, “Yes we are.” 

“Well, good. You’re my neighbor and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it!”

Arthur loved telling that story. He said that he knew right away that what he’d heard about Homer Riley was true and they were going to have a great friendship. 

Nello L Teer Company, the Durham-based construction outfit that Dad worked for his whole career, did a lot of road building jobs in West Virginia. One winter he got a call from the superintendent on a new job. They were in the early stages of clearing the land and had a lot of wood, most of which they would push together in large piles and burn. He hated to see it go to waste as the weather was turning cold and asked Dad if it would be okay for them to cut some into firewood and put it on the side of the existing road for local folks. Dad liked the idea and immediately approved. The super said he would put a “Free Firewood” sign on it. 

A week later, Dad and the superintendent were talking about how the job was going and Dad asked about the firewood. “Oh, no one has taken any of it.” Dad thought for a second and said, “Change the sign from ‘Free Firewood’ to ‘Firewood – $25 a pickup load’ and see what happens.”  

The next time they talked the superintendent said it was all gone. Vanished almost immediately overnight. Dad said that the moral of that story is that folks were too proud to take something for free. But they were fine with stealing it. 

When many from our childhood neighborhood at the corner of Indian Trail and Hillandale Roads were gathered together for the sad occasion of the sudden death of one of the boys from the neighborhood, Dad lightened the mood. He surveyed the crowd and asked in a loud voice, “So how many of you knuckleheads peed in my pool when you were kids?” Almost all of the now middle-aged neighborhood “kids” raised their hands, men and women, and they started sharing their memories of the neighborhood, their friend, Butch, and the Riley pool. It was classic Homer.

Dad told me that he came home from boot camp with his orders to ship out to San Diego, California. He wanted to see his fiance’ one more time. “As I approached the Glymph house on Englewood Avenue there was a crowd gathered outside. I wondered who was getting married and found out…it was me!

There’s no doubt that this world isn’t as funny as it was when Dad lived in it. Mom’s done a good job of her own over the years with her version of Marthaisms. They knew each other for all but twelve years of their lives. They had so much fun together, but certainly faced many difficulties, their share of sadness, and tribulations. That’s life. Dad summed it up like he summed up so many complicated problems, cleanly and succinctly. “It’s been a great ride.” 

Thanks for reading this and celebrating the life of our father. He was truly one of a kind. As Julie said this morning, “I knew Homer longer than I knew my own father. He was such a comfort to me. So strong. Loving. Supportive. And, of course, funny. I loved him so much. He was such a figure, so beloved by everyone who knew him, I couldn’t believe that he died. Even at 92.” 

Dad, we will never stop loving you, thinking of you and remembering the joy and happiness that you brought into our lives, along with your spirit of never giving up on any one of us, or anything to which you set your mind to accomplish.

If you’d like to read more about Homer, here are a few links:

• Iwo Jima and Remembering Hutch  Dad’s chronicle of the day he and his Marine division landed on Iwo Jima, February 19, 1945, the loss of his best friend, Hutch, and how posting Dad’s letter on my blog revealed the connection between our family and our great friends, the Lockharts, here in Atlanta.  
• The Odyssey of Homer – a eulogy
• The first Father’s Day without him

Dad in his Marine Corps uniform

Wednesday, April 29, 2020

And it’s not from COVID-19. It’s from GARDENING-20! Sorry. I hope that the title didn’t make you worry. 

Like most of America, we’re staying home. We’ve got time. I’m retired. We can’t travel, shop or hike in the parks. We’re staying home. Fighting this war alone. Together. As the commercial goes. Actually, like almost every commercial goes. Every brand is running its own version of saluting the front lines in healthcare. I’m not saying that’s a bad thing. But it certainly is not the norm. And, when you see a legit, straight up ad, that feels weird too by comparison, as if the message and messenger doesn’t understand the time in which it’s airing. It feels out of step. 

Sorry. Left turn. Back to gardening. I thought that the hardest part was going to be buying the plants. Our local garden supplier, Pikes, was open, but you had to select your plants online. It was difficult and frustrating trying to pick without actually selecting with your own eyes on the plant. Julie eventually got on the phone with a “dig in the dirt” assistant at Pike’s and talked through the order. She paid for it online and we drove over to pick it up. They had set up an outside pick up. Julie opened the tailgate and they loaded the flats and dirt and bark in and off we went. Easy as pie. 

Then, we dug and planted. Dug some more. Planted some more. Mixed up soil. Dug some more. Dug up daisies, separated them and moved them to a new spot. Same with some grasses. All of this was Sunday. 

We took Monday off to clean the house, or as they say in PIttsburgh, “Red up the place.” 

This morning, we were back at it again. Grape tomato plant. Lavender. More pots.

Frankly, this staying home, fighting the virus with a spade, is killing my back, my elbow, my neck. You name it. It’s sore. 

Blinded by the light. Julie, Me and The Boss. 

Have you seen the movie, “Blinded by the Light”? It’s strange, kind of sweet, coming of age and enlightenment film. With a twist. Growing up a Pakistani in Luton, England in 1987, a friend introduced 16 year old Javed to The Boss’s music and changed his life. And, this was set 13 years or so after Bruce became “The Boss.” Local radio considered Springsteen a has-been. Over the hill. Irrelevant. Which gives the movie a real interesting perspective. Bruce’s work was standing the test of time with a new generation of fans. 

Javed was drowning caught between his family’s Pakistani traditions holding him back, highly evident racism swirling around him that made him feel like he didn’t deserve to be an Englishman, and the hope for more than this. In short, he was looking for a home. For an identity. For someone who felt the way that he did. Trapped. Stuck in the middle. Writing poetry was the only thing that gave him solace. That, and a few friends. 

And that is where he was when Bruce’s songs found him. They spoke to him. Showed him he wasn’t alone. Inspired him. Gave him hope. Instilled confidence. With girls.

The movie introduced the lyrics on screen in a visually interlacing way that brought them to life so you, the movie-goer, could read them along with the song. Unusual for a film, don’t you agree? Unlike soundtrack music meant to build an emotion, establish anticipation or a theme, but not necessarily really heard, and certainly not read, the words of the songs were front and center necessary parts of the storyline.

So, that’s the movie. It is definitely worth watching. But that’s not really why I’m writing about it. 

It inspired Julie and me. More than anything, it reminded us of just how much we used to listen to his music. And how little we do so now. We wondered why. We know it’s waiting for us in the cabinet of albums and CDs. From the very beginning with “Greetings from Asbury Park.” Over the years we’ve played “The Wild, the Innocent and the E Street Shuffle” more than any Springsteen album. And it’s wonderful. A mix of beauty, raucousness, joy, energy and yearning. But why did we ween Bruce out of our listening choices ? Too loud? Too much? Not the right time? Almost the right time, but maybe later? Make room for new music? All of the above?

The truth is, and I know we were just part of a big army of fans from all over the globe, we were big time Bruce fans. As were most of our friends and family. So much of our lives were to the soundtrack of Bruce. 

The first time I remember hearing him was on a late night road trip from Durham to West Virginia. I was traveling by myself in my Ford Econoline 100 van. All I had onboard was a really nice stereo radio unit so I was constantly drifting and searching between stations as they came into and out of reception. As I brought a station into full reception and the stereo green light came on showing a strong signal, a song was already in progress. It was weird because I knew the song and yet it didn’t sound like the song that I knew. It was “Spirit in the Night,” a hit song by Manfred Mann. But this wasn’t Manfred Mann. And it was so different. So open. So joyful. Whereas the MM version was highly synthesized and spatial.

I loved it. But who was it? I was so thankful that at the end the announcer actually talked about what he had just played. Remember those days? That’s when I The Boss found me and I left Manfred Mann in the dust.

Julie remembers seeing his photo on both the covers of TIME and NEWSWEEK published the very same week right as “Born to Run” was coming out in 1975. She had not yet heard his music. All the hype made her wonder if anyone could be that good. She bought the album, brought it home, put on headphones and that was that. He was that good. Actually, better.

Julie saw him in 1976 in the gym at Appalachian State Teachers College before we met. Later, we went together to see him for my first time at the Charlotte Coliseum. We saw him many times after that, most while we lived in Pittsburgh, both at Three Rivers Stadium and the Igloo (Civic Arena).

He also played a role in our wedding. We had a post wedding party at our house in Charlotte. I heard “Born to Run” playing in the living room, full blast, and came in to find Julie, with a candle for a microphone, singing hard and loud, knowing every one of the many words packed into the song. Bending over, crouched like The Boss, working the candle mic, smiling, then rising up and flipping her hair back with a joyful look on her face. Yep, baby, she was born to run! 

And now, Julie and I have started playing all of his albums that we have in chronological order. And we’re finding that they actually do hit the spot, no matter what time of day, no matter if it’s dinner time or Sunday morning. It’s always a good time for Bruce. 

Drained

LIke you, we have hardly gone anywhere and when we have, we’ve driven Julie’s car. The other day, after weeks of my 2001 sitting in the garage, we got into it to take a ride. I turned the key in the ignition. Click click click click. I looked at Julie with a smirk. Sat there for a minute and hit it again. Same thing. Car battery died after just sitting around in the garage. Julie pushed me out of the garage and I tried to jump it rolling backwards down the driveway by popping the clutch. No go. It stopped partially into the street at a point where I couldn’t push it either way. 

I moved Julie’s car into place and jumped it off of her battery. We drove it on our errand, never shutting it off and backing it into the garage when we came back. It has cranked ever since. I crank it every day now. I think it was a cry for love. We’ll see if it gets more serious. It’s actually a brand new battery. 

Soap and Water in Order

I’ve only been inside a grocery store once in the last month. We’ve ordered everything online and either used curbside pickup or home delivery. Even so, after reading about the question of whether the virus travels on packages or not, I’m taking precautions recommended by one expert. I now process all food from the car into the house, giving packages and the fruits and veggies a soapy wipe down before they enter the house and are put away. 

One article said that the refrigerator offers the perfect climate for the virus to live: cool and low humidity. Prior to reading that I hoped the opposite, that refrigeration would stymie the virus. Not so fast. So, we really should be cleaning everything that goes in the fridge. 

New developments that will stand the test of time

A friend of mine told me about how restaurants are prepping for waiting on people. They are developing a system that eliminates physical menus that get passed around. They will have a QR code that opens your phone to the menu. Your phone. No printing. No handling. No passing COVID19 or common cold. Brilliant. And everyone can read the craft beer and wine menu at the same time.  

Losses in the time of COVID-19

Two people in my orbit died in the last two weeks from heart attacks. One was close to 70. The other, a young 59. I first met my sister-in-law’s brother around 1977. During our Charlotte years we’d see him when Julie’s family would get together for holidays and the like. I never really knew him that well. We sat together at the wedding reception of our niece. He was a writer who published a novel. Last week we learned that he died quietly and quickly, sitting in his chair after becoming uncomfortable in bed.

Robbie Pope had just celebrated 40 years at WSB-TV. In the 20 years that I worked there, I came to know Robbie very well. Robbie was an engineer at the TV station. He became a manager of the on-air operation unit. But he was in the middle of so many other projects because of his talent and ability to solve complex technical problems. I remember working with him to begin streaming our live newscasts on our website, and then replay them in full until the next live newscast aired. Sounds simple. But it was very complicated. We wanted to insert commercials in the replays. Robbie took over that project, researching different devices that would be needed, getting prices, ordering and installing them and then setting up the system, record, playback and insert the commercials. Every now and then I’d look up from my desk and Robbie would be standing in the doorway. Once he got my attention he would give me an update on the advances forward and the steps backwards in the project. He was always truthful. Never oversold the progress. Never gave up on figuring a path forward. And sometimes tickled by what he had discovered in the process. Finally, he got it up and running. We celebrated with high fives in the hallway and continued to fine tune the operation. 

Robbie had a great laugh, unique to him. He loved the people he worked with and for. He loved Channel 2 and felt a part of its mission. He played key roles in so many important technical feats that you, the audience, could see, like our new set, and countless other advances you don’t see.  

Robbie died this past Saturday. The whole station mourns, those working there now, and those of us retirees like Tim McVay, Debbie Denechaud, Jocelyn Dorsey and David Lamothe, who knew, respected and loved Robbie. 

All of us now know that strange experience of grieving during social distancing and how much greater the distance feels when we cannot come together, mourn together and celebrate wonderful people in our lives taken from us. 

My heart goes out to my sister-in-law and her family, and to our collective Channel 2 family, both past and present. 

Videos I wanted to share that were shared with me.

An absolutely beautiful song sung by David Crosby and Gram Nash, written by Crosby’s son, James Reymond. It may be the most beautiful song you’ve never heard.

On isolation: Astronaut Scott Kelly knows a thing or two

Funny interviews on the campaign trail for Trevor Noah show by Jordan Klepper

Brad Pitt portrays Dr. Anthony Fouci cold opening for SNL This link is the NBC report on Fauci’s critique of Pitt’s performance. And, if you haven’t seen it yet, there is a link in the article to the actual SNL open.

A great interview 1992 with John Prine that really gets into his creative approach and who influenced him the most. 

Stay home. Stay safe. Don’t rush out for a tattoo, manicure or hair cut. I mean, who can see you anyway, unless you go to the bowling alley. 

I cannot believe that the week flew by so fast and here it is, Tequila Friday, once again. Maybe too many other days of tequila blur them together. Just kidding.

Yes, you too can make a Centipede

If you like to make cocktails, here’s a great tequila recipe called The Centipede. We first had this with Clark in the Portland OR bar/restaurant called The Conservatory. We loved it so much we hit the bartender up for the recipe and we’ve been making it ever since – for our best of friends.

The only tricky part, and it’s not that tricky, is to infuse your tequila with cumin. Here’s how we do it. Julie infuses eight ounces of tequila at a time, which is enough for four drinks. Trust me, you only need one of these per sitting so you’re set up for two nights if there are just two of you. We use one teaspoon of cumin per four ounces of tequila blanco. Take a tea bag apart, dump the tea leaves and replace with cumin. Julie uses a staple to close it up and drops it into the jar with of  tequila. You only have to let it infuse for a few hours. FYI, we recommend Don Julio or Casamigos Blanco. 

Here’s the recipe, doubled, because you should never drink this alone:

• Muddle together 1T each of cilantro leaves, red and yellow bell peppers and cucumber in a shaker. Then add:
• 4 ozs of infused tequila
• 2 ozs of Cointreau
• 2 oz freshly squeezed lime juice
• 2 dashes Agave syrup (you can taste test and add more if it’s too tart)

Add ice and shake until chilled, strain into a freezer chilled martini or coupe glass. It’s okay for the cilantro to invade the pour. In fact, you want it too. Then, garnish with a cross cut a slice of pepper and float it on top and serve. 

There you have your Tequila Friday Centipede. A great way to celebrate staying at home. 

If you don’t have any cumin in the house, you can still make the drink. It’s like a jazzed up margarita. Want to flare it up more, add a teaspoon of diced jalapeno.

Cuomo on McConnell’s comment to let states go bankrupt

“When it comes to fairness, New York puts in to Federal pot $116B more than it takes out. Kentucky takes out $148B more than they put in.

He’s a federal legislator…distributing the federal pot of money. New York puts in more into the Federal pot then it takes out. His state takes out more than it puts in. Senator McConnell, who’s getting bailed out here? It’s your state that is living on the money we generate. Your State is getting bailed out.” And that’s how it was before COVID19.

Facts of the day

In the good old USA, one in four doctors and one in three nurses are immigrants in the U.S. 

The head of the CDC voiced his fears that a Winter wave of coronavirus teamed with influenza will be even worse than what we’ve experienced so far. 

The President, on the other hand, said in his daily press briefing, that it might not even happen. Not to mention, his query of whether injecting disinfectant or using internal UV light could, might could, maybe could, just saying, cure the infection like that.

I don’t believe for a second that he was being sarcastic as he said today. I watched it as it happened. He was riffing and thought he might be on to something. Dr. Birx’s reaction was more than telling.

From the Hill

The House of Representatives passed a new $484 billion coronavirus relief bill by a vote of 388-5. The Senate passed it Tuesday. $381 billion is for small businesses left out in the cold when the money from the previous coronavirus relief package quickly ran dry. 

Republicans wanted to stop there, but Democrats demanded, and got, $75 billion for hospitals, and $25 billion for coronavirus testing, as well as a requirement that the administration figure out a strategy to get tests to states.

A number of Republicans refused to wear masks during the vote, while Nancy Pelosi, the Speaker of the House, and all Democrats but one chose to wear a mask to protect their fellow legislators. 

And on a lighter note, it’s hard to know what to do. Right is left. Up is down.

I’m going to end on a light note with this video. It puts it all into perspective.

I hope that you’re staying home, staying safe and staying well. Have a good weekend. Many are not. 

Right, I know that I’m taking the tequila thing over the top. But, doesn’t it feel like a great way to get the week going after a dreary cold Sunday? Or, go the other way – alcohol free for the week. Hmmm. 

My very first job I said thank you and please, even scrubbed the parking lot down on my knees. 

Then I got fired for being scared of bees, and they only paid me fifty cents an hour. 

Father forgive us for what we must do. You forgive us and we’ll forgive you. 

We’ll forgive each other til we both turn blue and we’ll whistle and go fishin’ in heaven. John Prine

Tracking the Virus backwards to understand where it’s going forward

My niece shared an article published by The New Yorker about the research going on to understand this infectious attack. Peyton’s childhood friend and BFF, Katherine Xue, wrote the article. She grew up with Peyton and turned into an evolutionary biologist. This link will open your eyes up to the science, technology and smart people dedicated to solving the mystery of infectious diseases. 

 It reads like a sci-fi detective story because, well, it is. It’s a true story of genome sequencing, viral replication, tree branches and mutations, amazing technology and the incredible sharing of data by the global scientific field. And it’s one that is continuing to unfold from how it came into Washington State…

[EXCERPT] The viral genomes showed that after the coronavirus reached Washington State, in late January, it grew into its own branch of the tree, spreading silently through the city for weeks. Based on the cryptic transmission evident from the evolutionary tree, researchers estimated that the virus might have infected five hundred to six hundred people in Washington State by early March, far more than the eighteen cases reported at the time.

…to how it infected New York City…

[EXCERPT] Most cases sequenced from the massive New York City outbreak belong to a single branch whose closest relatives are in Europe, not China, suggesting that the virus crossed the Atlantic rather than the Pacific Ocean to arrive on the East Coast.  

Please give it a read and dig deeper by clicking on the links to other resources inside the story. You’ll come out knowing a lot more. 

Our local paper, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, continues to provide excellent reporting on the COVID-19 story and how it is affecting Atlanta and the State of Georgia. I’d like to point out two articles in Sunday’s paper:

The first “Seeing through the Silence” is a special section showcasing the photographic images of the COVID-19 story and the staffers who took the photos. 

The second uses stories, headlines and images from the The Atlanta Constitution’s pages from October 1918! to compare the Spanish flu pandemic with the novel coronavirus in a “Now” and “Then” context. Frankly, it’s remarkable that the paper can dig back into its archives to do such a comparison.  

Also, in the AJC, I found this story fascinating. It was titled, “It’s not exactly the Depression”  How The Great Depression and COVID-19 each resulted in massive unemployment shows how one outcome, joblessness, can be caused by very different events. It’s important to understand that context as these two events rise up for comparison due to the unemployment data. It’s also really helpful to understand the positive things that eventually came from the Depression, tools to help the country fight challenges to our economy that creates crippling unemployment.

Scottish dreams lost in the virus

On a personal note, Julie and I were set to board a plane bound for Edinburgh, Scotland, today at 5:20 p.m. We’d planned the trip to the home of golf for almost a year. We finalized everything over four months ago. Then, we started out 2020 playing more winter golf here than ever before with a goal of preparing for what Spring in St. Andrews could be like, ie, windy and wet. We were ready: Warm weather layers, rain gear and new walking golf shoes. Obviously, if we hadn’t cancelled some piece, it would have cancelled on us. Edinburgh airport is closed! We have put the plans on the shelf for now and hope to go in 2021. All for the best. Just checked the weather over there. It’s 50 degrees and sunny. Perfect. 

I wonder what we’ll find while we’re here instead of there.

Stay safe. Stay well. And remember, cut your TP use in half and “Stay the F**k home!”

On this most unusual of Masters Sundays on which we’ll be watching Tiger win the 2019 Masters instead of history in the making, let me share with you the remainder of our Masters 2010 story. 

Let me start out by saying, thank you, for even considering to read these postings and I hope that while we’re all living in an anxious time for our families, our neighbors, our towns, cities, country and the world at large, we can all stay at home. Nothing protects us, the personal and immediate “us” and the greater “us” of the global community, more than that. 

With that said, here’s the rest of the Masters 2010 inside scoop. 

The Masters is the Disney of golf. I mean the very best of Disney. Everything is curated to perfection of look, feel and flawless operation from the parking lot, the handling of patrons through the entrance, and of course, the manicuring of every single blade of grass. I have this image of the grounds crews out there with tweezers, small sharp scissors and white paint, the clean contrast to the exorbitant amounts of deep green that engulfs you as you enter.

As you walk into the Kingdom of Golf, you pass the merchandise building and come upon the scoreboard and then the first hole. I asked an official looking fellow for directions to the Butler Cabin. He directed us by the clubhouse to the left, up over the rise and then down a slight hill. There was the white brick cabin with a paved cart path that arced around the front from which a long sidewalk curved to the front stoop. As we headed for the sidewalk a security officer met us at the sidewalk with a friendly yet official greeting. “We’re here to visit with Cliff Kirtland,” I said. “Well, he’s right down at the front door visiting with guests. We’ll let them finish and then you can go down to see him.”

I wasn’t surprised by this level of security or that Mr. Kirtland was receiving others. Afterall, I remembered the  large book of tickets to which he referred when we first met. 

So, we stood there, Julie and I, and marked our time discussing our strategy for the day. We attended a Tuesday practice round about eight years before thanks to my good friend and business associate, John Slosar. We walked the course in the order of play, #1 through #18, to get the feel from a player’s perspective. 

Going on a Wednesday this time gave us a chance to see some of the Par 3 tournament. We were discussing how much of that we would want to see when a cart with two men in green jackets drove up and parked near us. I stole a look and said to Julie, “There’s Hootie Johnson.” Hootie had just “retired” from chairing the tournament committee. So, in the lore of the Masters, he’s a very important figure during very critical moments in history. Google Martha Burk and you’ll see what I mean. 

Shortly, our security guard motioned to us and said that we could make our way down.

Mr. Kirtland’s smile welcomed us onto the small entrance patio where he had a single chair from which to enjoy the morning warmth of the sunshine, and welcome people like us. I introduced Julie, we chatted for a minute and then he asked if we would you like to see inside. Never imagining that he would offer we almost tripped over our tongues saying, “Inside the Butler Cabin, ah, you bet!”

He gestured to a door to the left of the front door and asked us to follow him to the second floor. We climbed up a narrow staircase to the second floor and walked into a common room with sofas and chairs. It was very comfortable yet plain, dated but well-kept. He walked us to the back and out on the porch overlooking the Par 3 course where people were beginning to gather and mill around. He was explaining things along the way and then he asked if we had plans for lunch.

“Well, we were just thinking of getting a pimento cheese sandwich.”

“Would you like to eat at the clubhouse?”

“That would be wonderful,” I replied, thinking that he was asking us to join him.

“Come with me,” he said as he walked into a bedroom. It had two queen sized beds and an old 4X3 tv on top of a chest of drawers. He pulled out the top drawer of the chest and it was full of name badges. Mr. Kirtland rummaged through them and pulled one out and handed it to Julie. 

“Here Julie, use this one. It was my wife’s,” he said, as he continued digging. “She passed away last year.

“Ah, here we go. Steve, you can use this one.” He smiled at me as he thrust it my way. “Now you’re all set.” And like that I was christened Mackie Horton. 

“These will get us into the dining area?” I asked.

“Oh my, yes. Those will get you into anywhere that you want to go.” 

I almost fainted. It was like being named, if not king, then prince for a day. 

We put on our badges, chatted a little more before he walked us back down the stairs. We left him on the front porch with a promise to stop by and return the badges. We passed a couple in the queue waiting to meet up with Mr. Kirtland, the most popular man on campus. As we walked by the security guard he smiled and said, “You don’t need both your day badges and the name badges at the same time.”  

We walked back up to the clubhouse, feeling a little like Cinderella going to the ball. Excited but not yet comfortable nor familiar with our new found all-access pass. 

We checked in at the hostess area for a table to sit outside. If you’ve been to the Masters before, you probably saw the outside dining area with green and white umbrella tables outside the clubhouse. We were seated with another couple already eating. We talked a little with them while looking at the menu, ordered and sat back for a second. Then a man in a green jacket walking by us caught my eye and I pulled up my camera and caught a few photos while whispering to Julie, “Honey, be cool, but it’s Arnold Palmer.” 

Mr. Palmer made his way to a table just inside the ropes separating the dining area from the public. He and his wife, they were fairly new newlyweds, sat down and got comfortable. I saw a few folks outside the ropes beginning to take notice. I took a photo of Julie with the Palmer table behind her and then I felt eyes turning to my right. I looked over and there, dressed in a bright yellow golfing shirt, was Jack Nicklaus, again walking right by us making a beeline to Arnold. 

Jack went over and greeted his old competitor and longtime friend and his wife. They talked for about five minutes, laughing, cajoling and talking like the two legends that they were. During all of that, the rope line became a wall of admirers, getting a taste of history themselves. 

We ate and luxuriated in our good fortune. Then we paid and started walking around that area right outside of the pro shop. Over here was Sir Nick Faldo holding court. Over there was Paul Casey being interviewed. And then, people parted and there was Tom Watson! 

Oh my. Golfing legends everywhere. 

We walked around a little bit more, talked about going into the pro shop and seeing what we could see, but something in between shyness, humility, and a weird feeling of invasion of privacy prevented us from going in. I don’t know whether it was lack of bravery or just a feeling of maybe overstepping the boundaries of civility, but whatever the case may be, we did not go in. Given another opportunity, you betcha we’d go in. But on this day, we worked our way down to the Par 3 Course to see what we could see.

It is truly amazing as the nine hole course worked its way around two ponds. The sea of people rimming the pond reflected all around in a pointillist picture of human colorful dots. We walked the nine hole course, saw Rory and Adam Scott teeing off with Johnny Miller. We saw Steve Stricker whose daughter was caddying for him. 

When we headed to the main course it was like swimming upstream as the majority of people were heading into the Par 3 Course. But, we made it and walked down #9 and around Amen Corner. At this time of afternoon, hardly anyone was on the main course. It felt like a park. It was so approachable, serene, like we had it almost to ourselves. 

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Then, we walked back by the Butler cabin where we found Mr. Kirtland at his station. We thanked him and thanked him and got a picture with him, and gave back the keys to the castle. With two hours plus of a drive home, it was time to close the lid on the day. But, not before taking a left into the store and buying bags of merch. 

And with that, our glass slippers turned back into tennis shoes, and we found our car and our way back home. We weren’t to go back again until nine years later. The year Tiger took it all. 

With the postponement of The 2020 Masters, I want to share my top twenty photos that I took on a special visit to August National on a Masters Practice Wednesday, one of the three practice days on which the public is allowed to take cameras onto the protected ground.

But first, I have to share the story of how it came to be that, on Wednesday, April 7, 2010, Julie and I ended up in the Butler Cabin.

We received the tickets in a two-step process of kindness of a friend and connections of  a stranger. My friend was Greg Stone, my former boss at Channel 2 WSB-TV. It was Greg who brought me to Channel 2 in 1999.

The stranger and ultimately our sponsor, was Cliff Kirtland. Mister Kirtland to me. He was a retired COX Broadcasting executive who joined the company in its early days in the mid-sixties. During his career with COX he played a central role in expanding and diversifying the company’s businesses into cable and auto auctions, which are now the two biggest slices of CEI’s pie of businesses.

And, importantly, Mr. Kirtland was also a longtime member of Augusta National Golf Club and had played a role on the committee that put on the tournament. In other words, he had his own green jacket.

Mr. Kirtland and Greg had known each other for years and it was Mr. Kirtland who sponsored Greg for some time with tickets. In 2010, four years after Greg had retired, he called me in early 2010 with a question. “If I could get two tickets to The Masters this year for you and Julie, would you like to go?”

YES YES YES YES!!!! My brain was shouting, but my calmer but excited self said, “We would love to go! Are you going?”

Well, it turns out that Greg was not able to go this year, which is why he wanted to know if I could. Before he called Mr. Kirtland to tell him that he couldn’t attend, he wanted to confirm with me that we were available and willing to go. Now that we had that straight, he would call Mr. Kirtland, inform him of his inability to attend but offer Julie and me up as suspects for the tickets.

Enough time went by from Greg’s exploratory offer that I started to doubt that it was going to happen, until the phone rang at work and it was Greg. He said that he told Mr. Kirtland of his unavailability but he would love to volunteer a long-time career COX employee to utilize the tickets. Greg told him my story at COX and my love of golf. I waited patiently through Greg’s explanation of the process for the punchline: “And Cliff is thrilled that you want to go and has two tickets for Wednesday’s practice round set aside for you and Julie.” He went on to explain that I was to call Mr. Kirtland and arrange for a time to meet him at his office off of Mt. Paran Road to pick up the tickets.

Oh how I enjoyed making the call to Julie that we were once again driving to August seven years after our first experience.

I was so nervous and excited to call Mr. Kirtland and set up the meeting. It turns out that he was just a year younger than my mom. He had been retired for years but still maintained an office and influence with an investment firm and it was there that I met him. He welcomed me into his office, we sat down at his desk and he said, “Steve, tell me about yourself and your years with Cox and Channel 2.”

Well, a couple of hours later and after a few naps by both of us, I finished my story.

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but not by much. He was such an interested man in so many things, particularly about the TV business and his beloved COX.

Then, he opened up this thick book of tickets and a long list of names. He had our tickets already in an envelope and I could see he was an organized man with lots of friends and connections in line for the opportunity to go to the Masters.

I asked him if he would be there on Wednesday and said that I wanted Julie to meet him. He smiled and said, “Oh yes, I’ll be there. I generally go over the weekend before and stay the week of the tournament. I still have a few things that they let me do to stay involved in the operation.”

“Great. Well, how do we find you?”

“Well, I stay in the Butler Cabin. Stop by, just tell them you’re my guest and you’re here to see me.”

Tomorrow: Part 2 – Inside the Butler Cabin and the inside the ropes