Eulogy of Jim Metivier 

I recall the first time I met Jim Metivier.  It was 1998, a few weeks before my retirement from the Navy. I was in my uniform in my backyard with my dog, and Jim was in his backyard with his dog. He approached the fence that divided our properties and extended his hand in friendship. Immediately I knew I would like him and he would like me.  For the next 16 years it was always my privilege to call him my good friend.

Jim was all about family.  His never ending love for his wife Barbara, his sons, his daughter, his brothers, sisters, grandchildren, great grandchildren,  and his in-laws.  His love didn't just stop at people.  He was a true animal lover.  Anytime I would come knocking on his door, one of his beautiful Pomeranians would be right there in his shadow. The birds and squirrels even benefited from befriending Jim.  He would feed them daily, and they were some of the fattest animals on Twin Lakes Lane.  Then there was me.  Somewhere in that mixture of family and animals I found myself. Jim took a good liking to me and I became very attached to him. Jim always had a unselfish compassion for me when I needed something. Whether that be a partner to go along with me to a gun show, a tool to borrow, a ride to the airport, or a need to borrow one of the many western videos he had in his vast collection of movies, Jim was always there.  So I shall be here for him today.

I recall a particularly trying time in my life back in September, 2008.  My wife and I were returning from a family funeral in Houston, Texas when Hurricane Ike made landfall near Galveston.  Leaving Houston with no gas for our car to be purchased except for the 3/4 tank we already had.  It was reported that there was no gas to be purchased along Interstate 10 in all of Louisiana due to wide spread power outages.  As we drove along heading home to Pensacola, we both knew we probably would run out of gas before we made it to Mississippi without some supreme intervention. So I called Jim late at night on our way home, and told him my dilemna. I'm sure I awakened him from sleep, but after telling Jim of our situation, he just said, "If you run out of gas, I'll come bring you some."   Fortunately we made it to Bay St. Louis Mississippi running on fumes, but that wasn't the real miracle of the journey. The real miracle was the promise of a friend.  I knew we would be OK, because Jim said so.

I would go out on a limb and say Jim and I probably met at least two thousand times in the past 16 years on his back patio for our 3 pm beer. It would go like this each weekday.  My telephone would ring at approximately 3 pm, and of course I knew it was Jim.  He would always say in his special voice "Are you thirsty?", and after I would affirm that I was, he would say "Well C'mon over!"  I didn't even mind that he was serving Old Milwaukee for the first 10 years or so of our daily get together. It was all about comradery. exchanging jokes, talking about the daily news, or sometimes we would just sit silently watching the birds and squirrels.  It was sublime.  I do have to mention that when Jim turned 70 years of age he began serving Henekin instead of Old Milwaukee.  When I asked him why, he said, "Life is too short to drink cheap beer."  Jim was a man of immense wisdom, and humor.

Over the years of being Jim's friend, I learned about the tiny village of Albion, RI where Jim was raised.  I heard stories of his youth along the Blackstone River hanging upside down from bridge railings, shooting his bow and arrows in the woods, playing baseball, and getting in trouble for asking questions to the Catholic sisters that were his school teachers.  I learned about his disdain for homework, how he would ask his sister Jeanne to help him with his school work, how much he hated stacking wood, and his immense admiration for his brother Harry.  I finally got to meet and become a friend of Harry Metivier, Jim's older brother, and I understood why Jim admired him so.

As we all age I am reminded of a passage that reads, To Everything There Is A Season...A time to be born and a time to die.  And I must remember this to help me deal with my grief and sense of loss at this time.  If I can share with you what my Father told me as a young man it might bring home the path Jim Metivier chose in his life.  He said, "We all know we cannot live forever, but it is the time we draw out on earth and how that time is spent that we will stand upon and be remembered."
I will remember Jim Metivier as a kind soul,  A man whose word was his promise. A dedicated family man.  A great American who served his country with distinction.  A Vietnam Veteran who came home to an unwelcoming welcome, but didn't let that strangle his love for his country. I will remember most of all his Joie de Vivre, his smile, and irreplaceable spirit.  I will miss you dear friend.  May God welcome you into His arms.

 

The alliterative persistent pink pinwheel

I have been in Japan a little over 2 weeks and today a neighbor brought over a plate of cupcakes.  Not surprisingly, stuck in the middle of one of the cupcakes was a pink pinwheel which was spinning in the wind as she handed them to me through the opened door.
Things like this have meaning far deeper than I can understand, but I welcome their occurrence.

Morning Enigma

I awoke this morning after a relatively long sleep and realized I had dreamed something profound.  It was such a wonderful dream while it was occurring.  The only problem I had when I awoke was I couldn't remember the dream.  I know it was a special dream because it left me with a feeling that I had been given a special charge in the night and I should share it with my friends.  I was sure as I struggled to remember what it was that it was a worthy message of great importance.  
The dream came to me somewhere in that period of wakefulness and sleep.  It crept upon me, and I actually awoke and realized it was a dream creeping into my consciousness.  I immediately closed my eyes again, and fell into the rabbit hole.  It was then that the mysterious enigma was revealed.
So here I am getting dressed , the coffee is on the table, and I have no idea what this all means.  After 30 minutes of sipping coffee, prodding my mind for some inkling of a clue, I had hit a brick wall.  Resolved to failure I sat at the kitchen table and as soon as I put the first bite of a Jimmy Dean's Pure Pork Sausage biscuit into my mouth...BAM!  The dream came rushing back into my memory like a tsunami.  The enigma had revealed itself!  I had dreamed that I made a promise to God I would be a vegetarian!  Not just a vegetarian, but an activist for animal rights.  I remembered my dream and how vile the thought of consuming meat was, all just to satisfy my primal lust for meat.
Sitting here at the breakfast table I thought how difficult it must must be to go through a period of 40 days during the Lenten season and practice self denial.  I only lasted a few hours.  I'll atone for my own deficiencies at a later date, possibly with God.  Right now I've got a biscuit to eat.

Incident at Brushy Creek

My anticipation of turning thirteen the summer of 1968 in south Mississippi was only overshadowed by my excitement of being allowed to camp out on a supervised trip to Brushy Creek with my Boy Scout pack. Mr. Jim Taylor, our scout leader, was a man the whole community entrusted in teaching their boys right from wrong, instilling in them the meaning of being honest, loyal, and trustworthy. He had seen combat as a 1st Sergeant, and had been awarded a silver star for gallantry in action against an enemy during a campaign to rescue American POW’s inside North Vietnam. He was a local hometown hero of sorts. Mr. Taylor lived only a few doors down from my home, and it is there that I would find myself occasionally asking for help with my knot tying, or compass reading skills. Even though Mr. Taylor had a job and a family of his own, he was always willing to help me with my merit badges. He was a decent man, and a role model I looked up to.
This particular camping trip I would be tested on land navigation, knot tying, and swimming. I hoped I would be proficient enough in all three. I wanted to get these three merit badges like some of my friends had. I felt confident in what I had learned and practiced for months, and I was ready to be tested. I didn’t want to disappoint myself, and I didn’t want to disappoint Mr. Taylor. My success was his success in my way of thinking. He had invested a lot of time helping me.
The trip to Brushy Creek was scheduled for the third week of July. Brushy Creek was a little different than most creeks people would choose to come to. First it wasn’t a creek that could be accessed by car. To get to Brushy Creek meant a three mile walk through mainly piney woods. No road to speak of, just a winding narrow trail of underbrush at best. The walk, although difficult for us, would preclude anyone from accessing the creek unless they were in good physical condition. Its seclusion just meant there probably wouldn’t be others to spoil our camp out for the next three days in my mind.
The night before I left for the camp out I made sure I had studied my knot tying skills, and my land navigation skills. I knew that swimming wouldn’t be a problem as I had been a good swimmer since the age of six, learning to swim in a bayou near home. I made sure I packed up all the necessary items for a three day camp out. Sleeping bag, tent, lantern, flashlight, bug repellent, compass, knife, cooking utensils, rope, food, matches, extra clothes, all check. This was going to be fun, but quite cumbersome hiking this in to the camp site. I thought of leaving certain items behind, but then I thought all of it was necessary, so I crammed it all in my backpack and readied it for the morning.
The morning of the camp out we all packed up the truck that would leave us at the edge of the woods. This was where we would get started with our long walk to the creek. My best friend Ray was there. I was glad that Ray came along. Sometimes his parents wouldn’t let him participate with scouting events due to his list of chores to be done, or because of the grades he brought home from school, but this was the summer and they probably wanted him out of their hair for a few days. Anyway I was glad he was here. “Hey Ray, you know we have a three mile walk to the campsite right?” Ray looked a little confused, and replied, “Well if I knew that do you think I would have brought along this watermelon? Too late now, I’m not leaving it behind. We’re going to enjoy this once we get there.” “I’ll help you carry it Ray”, I said as we put on our packs and followed Mr. Taylor to the edge of the woods. The walk through narrow trails, and thick brush took about two hours, and as we approached the camp site we could see the clearing and the white sand banks that lined Brushy Creek. “You scouts find your numbered tent site and start pitching your tents and setting up camp. You never know when it might rain. After you finish, meet me here at the center of the camp and we’ll discuss our agenda for the next couple of days.” Ray and I teamed up and got the tent set up and our gear stored within twenty minutes. We then went and found a hiding place for our watermelon in a pool of cold water down by the creek. When we were done, we heard Mr. Taylor blowing his whistle that he carried with him in his shirt pocket. We knew whenever Mr. Taylor blew his whistle that we needed to come running.
“John Reinmiller, front and center, barked Mr. Taylor.” “Yes sir, Mr. Taylor”, I replied almost out of breath. “John, you want that land navigation merit badge real bad I know, that’s why I chose to let you have your chance at it first. Grab your compass and come with me.” With that Mr. Taylor gave me the coordinates to a location only he knew and we were off. 45 degrees Northwest for 500 yards, then back 45 degrees Northeast for 500 yards, then 180 degrees North for 2 miles. When we reached our objective Mr. Taylor said, “John, do you recognize where you are?” I looked around and it did seem familiar. “Yes, Mr. Taylor, this is the clearing that is just off the main highway that leads back to the campsite.” Mr. Taylor smiled and said “Good job John, now let’s follow the trail back to the creek and you can tell everyone you earned your merit badge!” When we got back to camp I was so tired, yet thrilled to let everyone know that I had passed my test. I felt proud to be a scout, and I had made Mr. Taylor proud too. “Recreation swim time guys”, Mr. Taylor shouted. Everyone grabbed their swim trunks and hit the water except Ray and Mr. Taylor. Mr. Taylor had promised Ray that he would help him with his knot tying skills.
We had been swimming for almost 15 minutes and then it happened. A gunshot! The distinct sound of a shotgun being fired from the direction of our tents echoed through the woods. Most of the guys quickly got out of the water and started running in the opposite direction of the camp. I thought for a moment to do the same, but I had to find out what was happening at the camp, and if Ray needed my help. He was my best friend, and I knew he would do the same for me. I ran back to the camp, and before reaching the clearing, I could see a man that I did not know holding a shotgun to the neck of Mr. Taylor. I knelt low behind a tree and overheard him shouting at our scout master. He was dressed in hunting camouflage, and appeared drunk. “Well, well, well, if it ain’t Jim Taylor our local war hero? Look at here what I captured…a real live war hero. What makes you think you are so special around here Taylor? I ought to kill you here and let your boys find your body, better yet I ought to have them watch as I blow your head off. . . you high and mighty war hero. To me you ain’t nothin’ but a piece of shit who stole my girlfriend back in high school. Then you went on to marry her and rub it in my face. Every time I saw you and her in town I wanted to kill you, and now I’m going to.”
My heart was racing, and I was shaking badly but I had to do something to stop this man. I looked around for Ray and saw him lying on his back and bleeding from his head. Ray was groaning so I knew he was alive. I worked my way over to my friend quietly as possible to see if I could help and that’s when the man with the gun heard me and turned and looked my way. As he swung around in my direction, Mr. Taylor grabbed the gun from his hands and hit the man with the stock of the weapon along the side of his head dropping him where he stood. Mr. Taylor shouted out to me, “John, grab some rope son. I’ll back this scoundrel up to a tree and you tie his hands around the tree and behind his back. Do you remember how I taught you to tie a square knot? Well tie the best one you have ever tied, and make it tight. Now listen closely, I’ll stay here and take care of Ray and make sure this man won’t get away, but you need to go for help. Do you remember how to find your way out of here and back to the highway? I’m counting on you John. Now go flag down help. You know what to do.”
I grabbed my compass, and took off as quickly as I could. Within an hour I was out of the woods and I had flagged down a passing motorist. We made a quick stop at the nearest gas station, and I told them what had happened. The town Sheriff, along with a medical unit met me at the store, and I lead them back to the campsite just before sundown. Ray had regained consciousness, and Mr. Taylor and the rest of the boys were guarding the prisoner, still tied to the tree. It seems the prisoner was a Mr. Jack Wade. The Sheriff knew him well as Mr. Wade had just been released from the county jail for spousal abuse, and public intoxication. As the Sheriff lead Mr. Wade away in handcuffs, he patted me on my shoulder and said “Good job, scout.” The remainder of our camp out was canceled. Ray was taken to the local hospital with a concussion from being struck by the felon, Mr. Wade. Even though our camp out didn’t go as planned, a lot of valuable lessons were learned.
Three weeks later at a Thursday night scout meeting I was called to stand front and center of the scout troop. I was awarded the Boy Scout land navigation merit badge. I also was awarded the Boy Scout knot tying merit badge even though I wasn’t formally tested.  Mr. Taylor said that I tied the best square knot he had ever seen, even better than his army buddies could have done. Then the door to the scout building opened and my Mom and Dad entered followed by the Mayor of our town, and the Sheriff. They came up and stood by my side. The scout troop was called to attention and then Mr. Taylor presented me with the Boy Scout Meritorious Lifesaving award, an honor not previously awarded to anyone in our troop's history.
Mr. Taylor came by the house the following day and thanked me for saving his life. “If you hadn’t been so brave and come to the aid of your friend Ray that day back at the creek, both Ray and I might have been killed. You were courageous." "But I was scared Mr. Taylor, I thought he might kill all of us." "John, courage is not a lack of fear, but the ability to act while facing fear." With that said, Mr. Taylor reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his Silver Star that he had received for gallantry in action in Vietnam. With tears of thanks, he pinned it upon my collar, then saluted me. It was at that moment I knew I was no longer a boy.
It’s been forty one years since that hot July day in Mississippi. Some things have changed and others have remained the same. I would like to think the important things remain.

The Looking Pool

One early morning I awoke
and walked down to the creek
and knelt down by the sandy banks
to see what I might see

Reflections of the sky and clouds
blue and white as I'd ever seen
then looking deep within the pool
I saw the strangest thing

An angel appeared and spoke to me
I listened to what she said
her every word was like the breeze
that blew above my head

She spoke of Mississippi
and the beauty of the land
She spoke of mother nature
and the brotherhood of man

And when she finished speaking
a tear rolled off her brow
I then awoke and stood up
and walked back in to town

I Dreamed of Cats and Papa

I got a book for my birthday this year. Hemingway’s Cats an illustrated biography of the life and loves of ‘Papa’ Ernest Hemingway. It’s a great read with many photos, especially of Papa and his cats. He was a cat fancier as were several of his wives, which made for interesting nicknames he would give to the women in his life. I felt a bond to Papa. We both wrote, both were named Papa, both made Florida our home at some stage in our lives, and we both enjoyed the company of felines. I could go on and on with more similarities, but I think you understand why I would feel a sort of kinship with one of the greatest writers of our day.

So I put the book away for the night, and readied for bed. Sleep came quickly, and dreams followed. I dreamed I was one of Hemingway’s cats. Papa gave me the nickname of 'F. Feather Puss'. I was a white, long-haired cat with glowing yellow-green eyes. F. Feather Puss. Honestly, as handsome a cat as one could wish for. I was a pleasing cat to Papa, and he loved me for my attentive nature. I would dine at the table with him, and Papa would make sure that I had my favorite meal available at all times. A daily cheeseburger was my reward for being such a trustworthy friend and companion. Papa suffered from manic depression, and I saw it as my job to make his life happier.
And when Papa would retreat to his upstairs studio after dinner to work on one of his novels, I would follow him inside and sit by his chair. He would peck out words on his typewriter, then alternately stroke my hair. My purr was all that Papa needed to smile.
Like all stories do, they end before we are ready to let them go. So, this morning I awoke and instead of my daily walk, I cooked myself a cheeseburger, opened a bottle of Dry Creek Valley Cabernet Sauvignon 2004, and took it all outside and had breakfast on the porch.
As I finished my meal, drank the last swallow of this wonderful wine, and stroked my cat Bubs on his head, I could hear Feather Puss purring deep within my being.

Como Un Buen Tequila

I've had the same dream every night for the past five days. I'm actually looking forward to sleep to see where this dream leads me tonight. Hopefully there will be a sixth night of this dream. There has to be a reason for the dream I thought as I finished the last bit of tequila I had been slowly sipping for the past hour. Jose Cuervo Gold. OK, so it wasn't one of the new top shelf tequilas that are in vogue, but I liked it and with the economy as it is, I felt I was doing my part. 

As I lay my head down this night and pulled up the covers I immediately went from wakefulness to that state of semi sleep, hypnagogia I think it's called, and with like any sleep, it blanketed me without my knowledge, and I was once again visited by Hypnos. On cue the same dream began evolving and I was cast as a player into the scene.

Looking around the tiny smoke filled cantina I could spot a few patrons in boots and cowboy hats playing pool. An attractive senorita was sitting alone at a table near the front door talking on her cell phone, and Jesus Christ was the bartender. "Uno Mas Tequila por favor," I called out as Jesus reached for the top shelf and took down a dust covered bottle of Jose Cuervo.  As he filled the shot glass to the rim he said, "This is your last call Cowboy." As I sipped the golden nectar from my glass I could hear Marty Robbins singing El Paso on the jukebox.  Damn, this is cool I thought as I slowly drank the last swallow of  tequila and lit a cigarette. As soon as I took my first drag of the unfiltered Lucky Strike, Jesus said, "It's closing time partner, you want me to call you a cab?" Before I could answer, the attractive senorita who was sitting by the door got up and offered me a ride home. "No thanks, I can drive", I said. "After all I'm immortal, right Jesus?"

"Yeah, you're immortal Cowboy, whatever you say.  Hey guys let's tie all these loose ends up.  I need to close this bar, if I don't my dad will be pissed almighty." "OK", I said. "I'll see you tomorrow same time, same place. Hey and if you don't mind, could you get rid of that cheap crap you pour and invest in a bottle of Patron?" Jesus smiled and said, "Hey cowboy, do you remember that story you wrote about me once, Dieu Est Un Poisson?" "Yeah, I remember, why do you ask?"  "My Dad thought it was freakin awesome," came Jesus’  reply.

I awoke that next morning with a realization that God has a wicked sense of humor.

On the seventh night, the dream was gone. I could finally rest. God rested just like the Bible said he did. 

The seventh day was made for rest.

Si, Jesus es mi mejor amigo...si.

The Porcine Principle

Slow roasted whole hog has to be one of my favorite good eats.  I have spent countless hours in search of this elusive holy grail of heavenly goodness.  Bare with me if you will, there's a lesson to be learned here.
A trifecta of divinity in each bite is how I sum it up.  On the outside resides the light airy crunchiness of the skin similar to a chicharron.  Next is the fat, the sweet succulent layer that overlays the meat.  Yes, the meat.  Substantial and tender.  Oh yes, it's the other white meat, so move over chicken.  I cannot decide which layer is my favorite.  Each one in itself is worthy of pig sainthood.
I've driven countless miles along dirt roads in the deep south, trekked through jungles and fields of tall sugar cane in Asia.  I've walked countless cobblestone streets in Spain searching for this wonderful dish.  I have found doing your homework before beginning your odyssey will help, and even with homework I sometimes find myself coming home with empty hands and a empty stomach from either arriving too late and it was sold out, or worse the merchant had already promised the pig to a loyal customer.  To bolster my chances in scoring a pound or two I have learned to place my order in the native language of the country I am in.  In Vietnam I'll order 'thit heo quay', in Japan it's 'buta niku', and in Spain it is 'cerdo asado'.  Having a little knowledge of the local language will usually increase my odds of a satisfying lunch.  Roasting a pig is a day long affair.  There's only so much to go around, and everyone wants their share.
All this talk about whole hog roast pork got me thinking about a trip I made a few years ago to Holly Hill, South Carolina.  A trip solely for the purpose of sampling what is considered to be the best whole hog roast pork in the country.  Sweatman's BBQ is located about an hours drive from Charleston, South Carolina.  It is truly the mecca of pigdom.  I once called it 'Hundred Mile Q' in a blog I published in 2009.  People will actually, and cheerfully I might add, drive one hundred miles to have lunch here.  Not surprisingly by the time I found this tiny wooden farm house in the middle of a cotton field, Anthony Bourdain had already come and gone.  He left his signature on the wall with his generous comments and best wishes for the owner and proprietor.  Bourdain said, "Barbeque with it's mixture of heart, science, and magic is a high calling in the south.  I couldn't agree more.  Whole hog barbeque is a different kind of animal any way you slice it.
That brings me to the heart of this story.  It's about compromising principles.  "What would I compromise in my life for a taste of roast pork?"
Today, as almost every day, my wife and I began our morning with a three mile walk around the neighborhood.  Wednesdays are a special day of walking because we play a game while we walk.  It's the same game each Wednesday.  The winner, if there is one, gets a payoff on Thursday.  You see, on Thursday, our local Vietnamese market roasts two pigs...and they are good at it.  Roast pork goes on sale at 11:30 am each Thursday.  First come, first served, and when it's gone, it's gone.  So getting back to Wednesday's game.  The rule is simple.  Find a penny on the road and you get to order one pound of roast pork the following day from the market.  No penny, no pork.  Don't get me wrong, my wife isn't controlling.  She would just rather me eat less pork, more veggies.  She wants me around a few more years.  It's all good.
So here's the dilemma.  I was caught last week carrying a penny in my walking shorts.  My wife caught me taking it out of my pocket and strategically placing in in my walking path.  When she caught me she said, "Where are your principles?"  I said, "Pigs don't care about principles!"  She looked at me and agreed.  We now have a rule to follow and an unspoken code of ethics.  We call it the porcine principle if you will.  No pocket change before walking on Wednesdays.  I'm going to need a new pair of eyeglasses if she wants to play fair.

We got a three legged pig, his name is Pink,

he loves to sleep and grunt.

He's a good pet to our family,

so we didn't want to eat him all at once.

Don't take yourself too seriously, no one else does.