Once a Runner

This week, JP is interning at Lewis Thomasson, a law downtown law firm, through an internship program at MBA.  Because it's such a small world and my life seems to be a series concentric circles, the managing partner at Lewis Thomasson is Lisa Ramsay Cole, my longtime friend.  

When I walked into the George C. Taylor College of Law on UT's campus for the first time - this would have been the fall of 1990 - I was a bit nervous and unsure of myself.  The first person I met that morning was a classmate who would become my dear friend, Lisa Cole, from MacKenzie, Tennessee, by way of Bethel College.  We stayed close throughout our three years together in law school and in the years immediately after, as embarked on our legal careers.  

I think it was Lisa (although it may have been Jim Price) that first called me "Newby," a law school nickname that several other picked up during our time together.  As I sip my coffee this morning, I'm smiling as I think of Lisa Cole, laughing at something I said, shaking her head, and saying "oh, Newby."  Lisa is one of the kindest people I know.  She's built a helluva career as a lawyer at Lewis Thomasson (formerly Lewis King).  

This week, JP has been getting up early to run, before going downtown for his internship.  It's a summer of running for him, as he prepares for the fall cross country season and what he hopes will be a successful campaign for the school, and for him.

This morning, as I left the house and was driving down Belmont Boulevard, I saw JP running toward me, finishing a six mile run.  He recognized my truck from a distance, waved his arms, then sprinted by with a strong finishing kick.  Seeing him stirred strong emotions in me.  Love.  Pride.  Admiration.   Nostalgia. 

Shirtless, his body glistening with sweat, running hard, I marveled at JP's youth and vitality.  I wanted to freeze that moment in my mind because it seemed important.  It still does, as I recall it now.  

There's not an ounce of fat on JP, of course, but his upper body is filling out.  He has an exercise routine does, religiously, every night, and he's been working out in the gym at MBA.  He's putting the time in and it shows.  I'm proud of him for that and for so may other things.  

I'm going to do my best to remember that moment this morning, when JP ran toward me, then by me.  He looked invincible.  My guess is that he felt that way, too.  I hope so, anyway.

 

Honors Night on the Hill

I never want to take for granted either of my boys' accomplishments.  So, I wanted to make sure I wrote a little something about Honors Night at MBA, while it was still relatively fresh in my mind.  The beginning of the summer has been relatively chaotic - okay, very chaotic - but it seems we're settling into a bit of a routine with Joe at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp for three weeks and JP on the cusp of traveling to Boulder, CO, to run and train with collegiate runners for a week.  Yikes!

A day or two before the 2025 class graduated, MBA hosted Honors Night.  Last year and this year, the weather has been nice so the event has been staged outside, underneath the trees, with folding chairs facing the stage down a slight decline that allows for a good site line for everyone.  I was among the first to arrive, so I selected good seats in the front of the middle section, for Jude and me.

As was the case last year, the mood was relaxed and a bit festive.  The relief the boys felt to have completed another year of rigorous study and competition was palpable.  Getting through exams was tough for JP, I know, particularly chemistry and algebra, all while preparing for the track and field state championships.  It's a lot for all of the boys.

There are so many awards.  It reminded me, as I watched, how fortunate we are for JP (and next year, Joe, too) to be attending MBA.  So many smart, accomplished boys all together in one place.  It's quite impressive.  Dr. Daughtrey did an excellent job of moving things along, as each academic department recognized outstanding students.  Awards were given, as well, to boys in a variety of non-academic pursuits - theatre, writing, athletics, leadership, etc.  

For his sophomore class, JP received the 3-sport athlete award for best athlete in his class.  He also was one of two boys in his class to receive a $1,000 scholarship.  This year, the best boy of the class award - for which he was one of three nominees - went to his friend, Caleb.  It was well earned, as Caleb played junior varsity basketball while singing in the outstanding MBA choir.  He's an incredibly talented singer and guitar player.  A great student, too.  

JP has worked so hard at MBA.  Academically, athletically, and on Honor Council.  He might be proudest, in fact, of his role on the Honor Council.  When he gets his school ring next year, he's going to have earned it, for sure.  

JP and cross country teammate, Jack McDaniel (2026), who is one of the best boys I know.  He and JP have been friends since their days together as toddlers at Children's House.  Jack received multiple academic awards.  The sky is the limit for him.

JP and cross country teammate, Brady (2025), who has accepted an appointment to West Point.  Such an impressive young man.  I expect big things from him. 

JP and cross country and track/field teammate, Jack Wallace (2025), who is running at Furman University.  Jack was the second runner in a row (Samuel Trumble in 2024) to win athlete of the year after rewriting the track/field record book and leading the Big Red to its first track/field state title since 2001.

A Night in Charlottesville

In hopes of taking a minute to catch my breath, I decided to stay overnight, again, in Charlotte, VA, after I found an Airbnb I liked in the Belmont neighborhood.  A roomy basement apartment in the bottom of a large house.  Very cool neighborhood and walking distance to several restaurants.  

As luck would have it, though, I ended up spending all afternoon on the telephone with my paralegal, Julie, the office, and various clients.  Not a good afternoon.  I had to give bad news to a couple of clients and I parted ways with a couple of other clients.  One is being manipulated by her husband and didn't want to listen to me, which is unfortunate.  The other decided to represent himself, which very well may end up being unfortunate for him, as his wife's lawyer cannot ethically represent two parties.  Sometimes, that's the way it goes.  In truth, as busy as I am, it's probably a blessing in disguise.  

Because I skipped lunch, I decided to walk down for a drink and an early dinner.  I ended up at the bar at Mockingbird Restaurant.  I sat, I read the New Yorker on ma iPad, I had a drink, I ate, and I breathed.  Not bad, at last, after a whirlwind of a week.  Sometimes, it's a lot, you know?  I considered staying another tonight but I'm going to head back to Nashville because I don't want to drive all day Sunday and arrive late with no down time before work on Monday.

As it turns out, I'm glad I didn't go to Bonnaroo.  I saw an alert last night that due to rain and more inclement weather on the way, the rest of the festival (Friday night, Saturday, and Sunday) was canceled.  What a bummer.  That's a first, I think.  Maybe I'll get back there next year.  

I'm thinking about Joe this morning and wondering how his first day at Sports Camp went.  I hope he's making friends and having fun.  I've said more than one silent prayer for him over the past 24 hours.  I just want him to have a good time.  

Time to finish my coffee, head back to the Airbnb, pack, and get on the road.

Woodberry Forest and Saying Goodbye to Childhood

No man walks in the same river twice, for it's not the same river and he's not the same man.

Heraclitus

It's one of my favorite quotes.  As I sit her tonight, in a basement Airbnb in the Belmont neighborhood of Charlottesville, VA, listening to the Coldplay album, Parachutes, I am not sure if it applies to me or to Joe. 

As "Yellow" plays on my iPhone, I can't help but remember a weekend away with Jude 25 years ago this summer, in the Highlands, NC, when I played the album, and this song, over and over on my iPod.  We weren't married yet.  No children.  No house.  No iPhones.  Just a couple on a getaway weekend to the mountains in North Carolina, listening to a relatively new band with a hit album.  

Reprising my role from four years ago with JP, today I dropped Joe off at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp, an hour north of Charlottesville, VA.  He will be there for three weeks.  On his own, trying to figure out . . . well, a lot of things.  Where he fits with his group of boys.  What it's like to be away from home for so long.  What kind of an athlete he is.  How to make friends, in a relatively short period of time, with a group of boys he has never met before today.  

Is he ready?  Honestly, I do not know.  I feel strongly, though, that Joe needs this.  He really does.  

It's so hard being the youngest in the family or so it seems to me.  Others do things for you.  You are the youngest, so you are treated differently.  Always, there is someone looking over your shoulder, helping you, instructing you, correcting you.  Steering you in the right direction, or at least trying to do so.  It must be hard to forge your own identity as the youngest in the family.

As I write this, I am hesitant to look back and see what I wrote about JP when I dropped him off at Woodberry Forest for Sports Camp, four or five years ago.  In my memory, it seems like JP was more ready to be on his own for three weeks than Joe was when I walked off the football field today and left him with his group of boys (teammates), Alabama.  It's strange to feel that way, since Joe has slept away at Camp Widjiwagan for several years and, in contrast, JP had never been to a week long sleep away camp before his three weeks at Woodberry Forest. 

They are such different boys in so many ways.  Why is it that I find it so hard, sometimes, to realize that?  Same parents, different boys.  Very different personalities.  Different approaches to life.  And that is absolutely fine.  

Woodberry Forest was a transformative experience for JP, or so it seems to me in my mind's eye.  I want it the be the same for Joe.  I want him to develop renewed confidence in himself and, more importantly, a sense of independence.  I want him to begin to believe in his ability to survive, and thrive, without Jude, JP, or me looking over his shoulder, correcting him or guiding him every step of the way.  I want him to begin to figure it all out.  

Middle School at USN is over.  Hell, the protective cocoon that USN provided is gone.  This fall, Joe will walk into the crucible of seventh grade at Montgomery Bell Academy.  As my friend, John Rowland, said, "MBA is a competition every day.  Academically, athletically, and socially.  Is Joe up to it?  I hope so.

To me, as it was with JP, this marks the definitive end of Joe's childhood.  He's on his own for three weeks.  It's never happened like that before.  Today,  I left Joe in a cauldron of competitive, high achieving, athletic boys.  What will he be like when we pick him up in three weeks?  Tougher?  More independent?  More confident in himself?  More self-reliant?  All of those things, I hope.

It all goes by so fast.  Every time I walk by a father holding his infant son, or pushing him in a stroller, I want to grab him by the shoulders, look him in the eye, and tell him how fast it all goes by.  To enjoy every single minute.  Every single second, actually.  

My boys are not really boys any longer.  It happened so damn fast.  

 

Summer Arrives

With the boys out of school for a couple of weeks and all of the end of year festivities at MBA in the books (Honors Night, Graduation), summer has officially arrived for out family.  It's always an adjustment to suddenly go from the hyper-scheduled school year to the unscheduled chaos of summer.  I know it's important for the boys, though, to have down time and I am glad they enjoy it.

For JP so far, it's been an early summer of working the MBA Sports' Camp, golf, working out in the MBA fitness center, and taking it easy.  This morning, he had his first summer workout with the MBA cross country team.  In a couple of weeks, he will fly to Boulder, CO, to train at altitude with Samuel Trumble and some of his college teammates.  That will be big - really big - for JP, I think.

Joe finished up basketball and soccer a couple of weeks ago.  We made the final decision to pull the plug for Joe on Armada club soccer for next season, given the time demands that he will face at MBA beginning with the fall semester.  It was a tough call but Joe was on board with it.  I hope it was the right call.  

Joe finished up basketball for the spring season with the Stars, too.  What an amazing experience for him to play for Jered Street, the Page High School basketball coach.  In two to three months, he learned and improved more than he had in all of his years of playing basketball.  It was a good group of boys, I thought, as we left a final team outing at Buffalo Wild Wings in Cool Springs.

Joe is off to Woodberry Forest later this week for Sports Camp.  Three weeks away from us, on his own, at Woodberry Forest.  He's excited to go and we're excited for him.  Going to the same Sports Camp four or five years ago was a transformative experience in JP's life.  I hope it's the same way for Joe.  

Because he will be gone for the next three weekends, Joe will miss the rest of the summer baseball season for Harris Baseball Club.  I hate it for him because he's struggled mightily in baseball this spring and summer.  The adjustment to the big field has been a difficult one for him.  There's a lot of work to be done.

Jude started a garden in the very back part of the back yard, near where Chad White and I used a chain saw to cut up a small tree that had fallen.  Yes, I used a chain saw!  That's it own story entirely, as I broke out the chain saw Troy and I bought 20 + years ago at Home Depot and, with Chad's guidance and instruction, cut up the tree in question while Jude and the boys watched with alarm from the back deck.  

After Chad and I stacked up the woods, Jude bought a fire pit (at Chad's suggestion) and put it in the back corner of the back yard.  Over the weekend, she started clearing out a space along the fence line to put in a garden.  I was reminded of how much she loved to work int he garden in the front yard of our old house, on Elliott Avenue.  It's therapy for her, I think.  

As for me, no Bonnaroo fir the second year in a row.  It's this weekend and although I had lined up Paul Jennings' cabin, again, I had to beg out because I wanted to be able to drive Joe to Woodberry Forest and drop him off at Sports Camp.  JP and I made the same trip together and I want Joe and I to have a similar experience.  As Yogi Berra would say, it will be "deja vu all over again."  I may spend an extra night in Charlottesville, though, just to unwind.

Work is a grind right now and I must admit that as my law partners played in a golf tournament Thursday and Friday, and I was burning the candle at both ends at work until late, I had a hard time seeing the light at the end of the tunnel.  I have got to get some help at work.

Coffee over.  Text message from Rachel and Julie are flying in.  Time to get after it.  Again.

(Herban Market)

Saying Goodbye to Father Dexter

In September 2007, Father Dexter Sutton Brewer became the fifth pastor of Christ the King.  He came to Christ the King after spending 13 years as pastor at Good Shepherd Catholic Church in Decherd, Tennessee.  Yesterday, I was blessed to attend what I believe was his final service in the beautiful sanctuary at Christ the King.

18 years at one Catholic Church is quite a run for a priest, even when it's attached to a parochial school, as is Christ the King.  Normally, priests serve six-year terms, then they're moved by the Bishop to a different church.  That's what happened at St. Patrick earlier this year, when Father Hammond left us to become pastor at Cathedral of the Incarnation.  From a doctrinal standpoint, I am sure there is a reason, generally, that priests are moved around, but it's been disappointing to us, over the years, to lose Father Eric (Fowlkes), Father David (Perkin), and Father Hammond.

Although Christ the King is a long walk from our house, for a variety of reasons it never became our home parish.  Perhaps it was a little big for me or perhaps we simply fell in love with Father Eric and St. Patrick, our little (but growing) church just south of downtown Nashville, but that's just the way it worked out.  I wonder, sometimes, if the boys missed out on attending a bigger church, one with Sunday school, youth groups, and social activities.  Shoot, maybe Jude and I missed out, too.  It's hard to say.  We love St. Patrick.

It's been reassuring, somehow, to know that Father Dexter has been down the street from us for all of these years, a half mile away.  During the height of the pandemic, when everyone was terrified of Covid-19, we went to "outside church" at Christ the King on Sunday afternoons.  Those services, outside, were singular, beautiful, and memorable, as parishioners sat in camping chairs on Christ the King's athletic field as Father Dexter led the service from a tent up front.  It was one of things I will always remember - and miss - about the pandemic.  Sitting with my family, outside, attending mass at Christ the King, with Father Dexter's small, cute dog trotting happily through the crowd, accepting treats from those who brought them for him.

Father Dexter is an accomplished runner, having competed marathons through the world.  He used to lead a small running group in the neighborhood that, at one point, I almost joined.  I would see him, early in the morning, running, and he once asked me to join the group.  As I recall, I broke my hand playing softball shortly thereafter and was off running for a while.  That was that, as they say.

Yesterday, I had to work and Jude was in Gatlinburg with Joe for the weekend, at a basketball tournament.  JP had an ACT prep class, so I decided to go to the 8:30 a.m. service at Christ the King.  I am so glad I did, because Father Dexter's homily was one of the most memorable I have heard since I joined the Catholic Church so many years ago.

He talked about the ascension of Jesus into Heaven after the Resurrection and what that meant, as a practical matter, to the apostles.  

Then, walking up the aisle and into the congregation, as is his style, Father Dexter began to talk about how to know when something has come to an end.  When it's over.

Sometimes it's easy to know when things end.  Graduation from high school and college, for example.  Those are clearly marked, definitive endings of a time in one's life.  Getting married marks an ending, too, often times of living at home or of being single.

Other times, it's harder to know when something to end.  He was talking, of course, of his his tenure at Christ the King.  He started thinking about it three years ago, he said, and when he decided it was time to retire, he felt an overwhelming sense of peace.  The same kind of peace, he said, that he felt when he decided to become a priest, an epiphany of sorts he had many years ago while living in a sparsely furnished apartment in the Paragon Mills are of Harding Place.  

He talked, movingly, of how he had loved everything about being pastor at Christ the King.  The church, the people, and leading the services.  Father Dexter is such a brilliant orator, so comfortable speaking and able to relate the homily to his life and our lives.  Father Eric Fowlkes has the same talent, as I recall.

What moved the most, I think, was when he told us that on those occasions at the beginning of a service when he felt unworthy or less than, he felt, again, that overwhelming sense of peace when he said to the parishioners, "Peace be with you."  And we replied, "And with your spirit."  That expression of love lifted him up, he said, every time at every service.

It made it more meaningful, yesterday, when I replied in unison with the other congregants, "And with your spirit," to him a final time.  I think I'll often fondly recall Father Dexter in the future, at St. Patrick or elsewhere, when Father Nick says "Peace be with you," and I reply, "And with your spirit."  

When I walked up to take communion, as luck would have it, Father Dexter gave me the bread.  He blessed me as I took and I looked at him and said, "thank you."

For everything. 

Saying Goodbye to University School Nashville

Thursday, Joe walked out of University School Nashville for the last time.  And just like that, our family's 11 year run there will come to an end.  

Bittersweet, to be sure.  There have been far, far more ups than downs at USN for both of our boys.  The  education JP and Joe received there has been top notch.  The boys have had outstanding teachers across the board.  Ms. Hagan, Ms. Roth, Mr. Kleiner, Ms. Dortch, Ms. Fields, Ms. Abington, and so many others.  Nonpareil educators each and every one of them.  

JP and Joe have been seen, nurtured, taught, and mentored at USN.  Honestly, if I could do it all over again, I would send both of them USN.  No doubt about it.  The school has shaped who my boys are and who they will become.  I'm grateful for that.

I remember the Friday morning when Jude and I sent the e-mail to Juliet Douglas, the Director of Admission, to tell her that we had decided JP would attend USN that fall rather than Oak Hill School.  Thinking about the e-mail she sent back to us in reply - all these years later - makes me smile and almost cry, too.  In that e-mail, Juliet wrote that she was, literally, dancing around her office in celebration of the fact that our JP, and our family, would be joining the USN family that fall.  And we did. remaining a part of the USN family for the next 11 years.  

Socially, the boys fit in well at USN.  JP and Joe found their people, so to speak.  For JP, it was Henry, Cecil, JD, Abe, Aidan, and a few others.  For Joe, it was Sam, Rory, Sawyer, Walker, Bennett, Jackson, and Max.  At USN, the boys were seen, nurtured, and generally enveloped in a cocoon of tolerance, love, and friendship.  In many ways, it was an idyllic time in their lives.  Learning.  Growing.  Maturing.  All of it under the watchful eyes of a caring faculty and administration.

At times, I've regretted that Jude and I didn't get more involved at USN.  We rarely socialized with parents other than those we already knew when the boys started to school there.  Certainly, we didn't make any new, close friends among the parents of USN children.  Sure, we donated to the Annual Fund every year and appeared at school for popsicle parties, field day, etc.  We went to all of the boys' parent-teacher conferences and the presentations they did in the classroom.  I guess we never were socially involved.  Neither of us served on the board of directors. 

I was so very involved at Children's House.  I served on the board of directors for seven years, in total, and served as board president.  I was consumed by Children's House.  It was an intensely beautiful time in our lives when the boys were in school there.  In a way, perhaps I felt like another school, even USN, couldn't match Children's House in terms of our level of commitment and engagement.  Maybe I felt like USN didn't need my involvement as much, because it's a much larger operation.  Or, maybe I was a little burned out.  

What always strikes me the most and causes a twinge of guilt, however, is that after 11 years of the boys at USN, if I walked in the school this morning, I still don't completely know my way around it.

For me, leaving USN marks the end of childhood for our boys.  That's a tough one for me to take, too.  The end of recess and P.E.  The end of birthday parties on weekends.  The end of parent-teacher conferences.  The end of pickups from After Care.  The end of little or no homework.  The end of no exams.  The end of innocence.  

When I'm running the neighborhood and I pass by Children's House, I feel a twinge of nostalgia.  Every time.  I miss "Joe Time," the 45 minutes or so he and I spent together every morning after Jude took JP to USN.  I miss doing the drop-off for Joe at Children's House every morning, often pushing him in the swings on the playground before school.  I can almost hear the children's voices as I run by Children's House.'

I'll probably feel the same way when I run through Music Row when my route takes me by USN.  Maybe more so, since the boys were there longer.  

As I close, I've got the Byrds' 1965 classic on my mind, "Turn, Turn, Turn."  It seems appropriate for a Sunday morning, Memorial Day Weekend, as I think about saying goodbye to USN.

Turn, Turn, Turn