This is the Part That Makes Me Nervous

Atlanta, GA
April 14, 2018

I spent this week in St Louis, after being in Charleston last week, after returning the prior week from St Louis, after working the previous week from Portland, after spending the week before in St Louis. 

Fortunately, I am in Atlanta thru next week, providing time to switch the laundry in the luggage and to pen this note. 

I may also need the time for some deep breaths and stiff drinks…our elder son is learning to drive and yearning to fly. 

As a wise sage, to whom I will refer momentarily, once said: this is the part that makes me nervous.

Alexander obtained his driver license nine months ago and his first 30 minutes of flight instruction last week.

The plane, a South African Light Sport craft, looked like something that might have bounced off the sand at Kitty Hawk. 

It was in fact designed to scour the Kruger bush, but with seats larger and more comfortable than the commercial buckets I typically endure.

Regardless, Alexander had a blast his first time controlling a plane, and as the clouds lifted was treated to beautiful views over the mountains of northwest Georgia.

I was relieved by the beautiful view of him returning safely to the ground of northwest Georgia, people and plane intact.

Whatever might be said of the plane’s appearance, it’s condition far exceeded that of his car.

He received a 2003 VW Passat two months ago. 

It will be hauled to the scrap-yard two days from now.

Despite a few dings and pings, it seemed perfect for a 17-year-old: very cheap, relatively comfortable, somewhat reliable.

Unfortunately, it was reliable only in that we were assured incessant calls or visits to the mechanic.

We had assumed this buggy was likely on its last leg. 

In reality, it was on rickety prosthetics and required a walker…which, incidentally, would have been a better mode of transit. 

Learning last week that the water pump was causing a coolant leak, for which repair would approach the value of the vehicle, we decided to take the damn thing out back and shoot it. 

Alexander received the car as a generous gift from his grandfather, who several years ago received it from us. 

My first car, a 1982 Olds Cutlass, came from my own grandfather, who has recently made more frequent cameos in my thoughts.

Passing last week from Charleston thru Augusta, with the Masters underway, the younger brother of “Member Number 3” leapt reflexively to mind.

Interred with my grandmother at the Franklin plot beside Augusta National, my grandfather was an intense man who reveled in simple pleasures…

…as when someone might, in his absence, assume prerogative to charge rounds of drinks to his Palma Ceia member number. 

He really got a kick out of that!

World War II provided more than enough excitement earlier in his life. Fortunately, the abiding anxiety was momentarily alleviated by the unexpected sight of younger brother Neal when they were briefly reunited by a soldier who had seen both men separately and could not dismiss their striking resemblance as mere coincidence. 

The story, as relayed in the Augusta paper:

In a later conflict, he would as Executive Vice President of National City Lines be in the cross-fire between state-enforced segregation of the Montgomery Bus Line, and the boycotts that resisted such laws. Leader of the opposition was Dr Martin Luther King, with whom our patriarch found himself negotiating.

Later in life, negotiating became less of a priority…

I recall the afternoon my mother and I watched from her kitchen window as a 90 year old-man, brown bag in hand, suddenly appeared on the back lawn, strolled confidently toward her prolific grapefruit tree, relieved it of its burden, and promptly retraced the path to his waiting car.

The audacity of the heist was matched only by its single-minded focus. The thought of stopping to say hello to us never crossed his mind (of course, the batch of “hot” grapefruit might have represented a confession he was unwilling to make).

Thereafter, like Little Italy merchants letting the local don “wet his beak”, my parents ensured brown bags of fresh grapefruit joined 4L jugs of Carlo Rossi as annual staples under the family Christmas tree.

The dapper duke of Bayshore, who tipped his hat to each woman he passed on his daily two-mile walk along that boulevard, found diverse ways to collect low-hanging fruit from other stems of his family tree. 

In the case of his naive eldest grandson, he generated an annual annuity simply betting each year that Georgia would win its football game against Georgia Tech. The dividend was paid on Christmas day when, once all were present but before anything else could occur, a grand pronouncement of the wager would precede a public passing of the payment from my hands to his. The proceeds rarely flowed the other way.

He once invited his younger son to join his regular foursome and then, with the conscience of a congressman, informed him on the course that their fourth would actually be a phantom named “Bogey”, with whom the son would be partnered and by whom he would somehow be precluded from winning.

Was this the father’s retribution or the son’s motivation for the Palma Ceia drink-charges referenced earlier? 

He attended Mass religiously and would, like clockwork, glance instinctively at his watch as the priest began his homily. Fingers would fidget after five minutes, toes tap after ten. He no doubt felt, with St Peter, that during such sermons one day really was as a thousand years

Political pontification and Irish drinking songs enlivened the typical family dinner during my grandfather’s later years, with some exceptional evenings graced by extraordinary stories that, like EF Hutton dispensing pearls of family lore, brought every chair forward and voice low. 

Of course, by the end of certain such gatherings my grandmother would have directed toward her husband many a wry grin, raised brow, or rolling eye.

I regret she met none of her great-grandchildren, and that he had the pleasure of knowing only his first four. That the nine they now have were unable to know them better  (or at all) is a loss for which they cannot be adequately compensated. 

I can’t fathom that almost a decade has passed since the Sheriff of Navajo County rode into the sunset, or that almost two have elapsed since his wonderful wife prepared the way. 

He was born this day 107 years ago. I would like nothing more than to once more celebrate over red wine, tall tales, and coconut cake. 

JD