Portland Brew Blues

A year and a half, maybe two years ago, I sat in Portland Brew late on a Saturday afternoon and enjoyed a coffee.  The shop was empty for the most part because it was near closing time.  I smiled as I listened to the baristas talk about their plans for the night.

Outside, 12South was bustling.  New 12South, that is, not the neighborhood we moved adjacent to 20 years ago.  As I sat there lost in my thoughts, I thought about how few "neighborhood" places there were anymore.  Mafiozza's had recently closed.  All that was left, really, was Burger Up, Frothy Monkey and, of course, Portland Brew.  Everything else was a high end chain restaurant (The Henry) or an expensive women's clothing boutique. 

The neighborhood I fell in love with was almost completely gone.  In the place of neighbors and regulars were tourists and bridesmaids, all staying at one of the many cursed AirBnB's that had sprung up to the east and west of 12th Avenue.  12South was, and is, unrecognizable in comparison to what it was like just a decade ago.

As I drank my coffee, alone, I thought about how much I appreciated the fact that Portland Brew was soldiering on, like the Little Engine That Could, in the face of all of the nearby development and construction projects.  A neighborhood coffee shop to be sure.  Good coffee.  Reasonable prices.  Sparse, yet comfortable furnishings.  A couch and a chair on top of a small raised stage at the front of the left side of the shop (a stage I never saw used).  Friendly baristas.  Families with strollers.  Lots of regulars.   

I love that word, because in many ways, it's what makes a coffee shop a coffee shop.  Regulars.  

Probably, that's what made it so special.  The regulars.  Any morning I stopped in for coffee on the way to work, I said hello or had a quiet moment with Dennis, Stuart, or one of the many other familiar faces that I didn't necessary know by name.  Of all the coffee shops I have frequented over the years, it felt the most like home.  Portland Brew was to me, in my 50's, what Bongo Java had been for me in my 40's.  

A safe haven.  A port point in the storm of a busy, sometimes stressful, wonderful life full of family, friends, attorneys, and clients.  All of it.  In many ways, Portland Brew centered me as I lived my life.  There, coffee in hand, I wrote in this blog, I read, I worked.  I also mediated and I breathed.  I relaxed and unwound.

As I've written before, Portland Brew was the only coffee shop that stayed open through the uncertainty that surrounded the early, horrible days of the pandemic.  Take out only at first but still, I was able to maintain a sense of normalcy by getting a cup of coffee from Portland Brew in the mornings and sipping it as I sat in a chair outside the strip of stores next to Burger Up, reading the New Yorker.  In fact, that was when I started taking my own coffee cup to get coffee, a habit I've continued at the other coffee shops I go to, although the crazy days of the pandemic are nothing more than distant memories now.  

Staying open during the pandemic was the most neighborly thing imaginable for a neighborhood coffee shop to do.  I'll never forget that.

Many, many weekend afternoons, I finished a neighborhood run with a cup of coffee at Portland Brew, then walked home.

Predictably, within a month or two of my late Saturday afternoon of reverie at Portland Brew, one of the baristas told me they were closing in August.  The owner had agreed to lease the building to, wait for it, Luke Bryan and Jockey, so they could open up what we call "the underwear store."  And, just like that, Portland Brew was gone.  All that was left were memories.  

The regulars scattered, too, of course.  Initially, some of them gathered in the mornings at Lady Bird Taco, or so I am told.  I saw one or two of them, occasionally, at Dose or Bongo Java, even 8th & Roast (my new morning hang).  Even now, 18 months later, it's hard for me to drive or run by where Portland Brew was without getting a bit nostalgic.   

I am thinking about Portland Brew this morning, as I sit in Haraz, sipping an excellent latte, because severe winter weather (allegedly) is on the way mid-morning.  The forecast from earlier in the week for well 12" - 18" of snow has been revised.  It looks like Nashville may get some ice and a few inches of snow but even that is not a certainty, much to the boys' disappointment.  

Every time it snowed or when winter weather was coming, Portland Brew opened up.  Maybe a little late, but it always opened up.  At some point, I learned that the owner picked up the baristas himself, so they wouldn't have to drive and took them home, as well.  In the late mornings and early afternoons on snow days, Portland Brew often was packed with families walking to and from Sevier Park, dragging their sleds, who had stopped in for coffee or hot chocolate.  

So, I guess this is the long overdue requiem for Portland Brew.  It's one I've put off writing.  

The last day Portland Brew was open was a Saturday.  In the end, the entire day was a party.  A sendoff for an old friend.

In what is probably the most Portland Brew thing I could imagine, people jotted down their memories on sticky notes and stuck them on the wall.  Beautiful.

Life360 Knows All

In so many ways - really, in every way - it's harder to be a teenager today than it was when I grew up.  It seems like it's virtually impossible for a teenager, today, to have any sense of privacy or to go off the grid, even for a few minutes.

How can you figure out who you are if someone is always watching?

If I want to, I can look at JP and Joe's classroom performance and grades on a daily basis simply by accessing MBA's portal through my cell phone.  Maybe I'm not the most attentive parent but if the boys are doing well academically - and they are - I don't feel like they need me looking over their shoulder every day to see if their homework was turned in or what grade they made on the last quiz or test.  

Mid-quarter and Quarter or Semester report cards are different, of course.  I look at those.  But I feel like the boys need, and  have earned, the freedom to budget their time and manage their academics on their own, unless and until their performance indicates otherwise.  Is that laissez faire parenting?  Perhaps.  To me, though, I think it's giving the boys a sense of responsibility and independence, which is something they need now and will need more later.  

It's a fine line as a parent, I think, between over-parenting or helicoptering or giving a child too much rope.  I think the line is in a different place with every child, even and especially siblings.  I also think the line moves from time to time for a child, depending on the decisions he or she makes and the judgment, good or bad, he or she shows in making those decisions.

Early yesterday evening, at the end of a long two day mediation, I called Jude on my way home.  With "Snowpocalypse 2026" set to hit Nashville tonight and tomorrow, she had been to the grocery store to stock up earlier in the day.  Nonetheless, she told me that JP had just left to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things.

That's weird, I thought.  JP never goes to the grocery store, especially on a school night, when free time is at a premium.  Clearly, going to the grocery store was pretext for getting out of the house.  No question about it.  

How did I know that?  Because I was 17 years old a long, long time ago.  Every thought or feeling JP has I have had, as well, albeit 40 + years ago.  Plus, I know my son.   And I would have done the same thing.  In fact, I did the same thing, many times, in 1982 or 1983.

The difference is that I could take a slight detour to see a friend, maybe even a girl, while I was running an errand and nobody would be the wiser.  Why?  Because my mom didn't have Life360.  Hell, she didn't have a cell phone.  I was able to move around Brentwood without my mom knowing where I was  at every minute.  The point is that I had more freedom that JP has, or Joe will have. 

Did I do some things I shouldn't have?  Sure.  Did I make mistakes?  Of course.  But I also developed  a sense of independence and self-reliance.  Today, it's harder for teenager to develop those qualities under the ever watchful eye of Life360, Find My iPhone, etc.  

When I got home and JP still was not there, Jude and I raised our eyebrows.  I pulled out my cell phone, looked at Llife360, and immediately saw where he was.  Not at Publix.  He made another stop for less than a half hour.  Good for him.

He's 17.  He's driving.  It's time for him to test the boundaries and rules we set for him.  That's as it should be.  It's what I want him to do, within reason.  He's growing up, maturing, and he needs to space to make decisions, good and bad.  He's earned that space with how hard he works, how responsible he is, how mature he is, and the kind of person he is.  All of those things.

We talked about it when he got home.  My thought was that if the worst thing he does as a teenage living at home is to take a slight detour to go see a friend, before or after a trip to the grocery store, then Jude and I are raising a pretty damn good boy.  I told him precisely that, too.

It's the same thing my mom said to me in the late summer of 1982 when my Caroline Blue 1966 - with a friend driving it - was impounded by the Brentwood Police Department after Greg Westfall and I almost got caught rolling (w/toilet paper) a house in our neighborhood.  She was somewhat amused and unperturbed by the entire event.  I felt the same way last night and I feel the same way this morning.  

Jude and I are so lucky to have the boys we have.  I wish the ride would never end. 

Weekend at Joe's Place

Jude and JP are in Texas, taking a look at Rice University in Houston and the University of Texas in Austin, so Joe and I are spending the holiday weekend together at home.  It's rare that Jude or I get a few days alone with one of the boys, so it's always an enjoyable experience when it happens.

It's not like Joe has tons of down time, of course, because school is back in full swing and there is always studying to be done.  Still, we've managed to find some leisure time this weekend in between school work and various sport activities.

Friday night, Joe and I ordered takeout from Postino's - one of our favorites but not Jude's, for some reason - and watched the first half of Creed 3.  JP watched it on a flight a couple of years ago, so Joe and I have been trying to find a time to see it on our own.  

Saturday morning, Joe's Bucket Squad drew the short straw, so to speak, and had the early game (8 a.m.) at J.T. Moore.  Ouch.  They soundly defeated another team, the Bucket Boyz, that had three MBA seventh graders on the roster.  I kept the scorebook and, as always, enjoyed interaction with the boys on a more personal basis in the context of a basketball game.  

Before the game started, I pulled Rex Waddy aside and told him how proud I was of how hard and consistently he had played lately.  I also told him I loved the fact that he was upset after MBA lost to Ensworth last week because that meant he cared.  It's supposed to feel like that when you lose to a rival.

Joe had a 3-pointer in the first half and a couple of other buckets, one on a nifty no-look past from Carson on a fast break.  Overall, the boys played well, although I continue to wish Cole would play with his back to the basket more and use this size to establish an inside game.  I think it would expand his game tremendously if he would establish himself inside, especially against smaller players, then work outside and shoot from distance.  But, what do I know?

The highlight of the day was breakfast after the Bucket Squad game.  Joe and I drove to Mr. Aaron's Goods on Gallatin Road, deep in East Nashville, a place I had read about and tried unsuccessfully to get to over the holidays.  To our delight, Joe and I had the best breakfast sandwiches we've ever had!  Joe had a bacon, egg, and (white cheddar) cheese on a plain bagel.  I had a sausage, egg, and (white cheddar) cheese on an everything bagel.  OMG!  Literally, to die for!  We will most certainly be back.

Yesterday afternoon, Joe had a pitching workout for the Redbirds at Ezell Harding Christian School.  They have a small workout facility in an out building near the track, behind the school.  The school is near the old Hickory Hollow Mall, so it's not particularly easy to get to.  Still, a baseball workout is a baseball workout.

Joe has a decision to make about baseball, I think.  He was accepted for a Wilson Grant at MBA to take a week long trip to Washington D.C., a trip JP was lucky enough to take, too, in the summer after his seventh grade year.  So, Joe already will miss a couple baseball tournaments.  On top of that, Joe has spoken, somewhat longingly, of how much he would love to go back to Sports Camp at Woodbury Forest.   This would be his last year of eligibility, age wise, to go to camp there.  

The problem, of course, is that he really can't play travel baseball this summer and go to camp at Woodberry Forest.  We talked about it a bit over dinner and playoff football (Seahawks-49ers) at Edley's BBQ last night.  I told him it's not what he needs to do but what he wants to do.  I don't want him to think he has to play baseball this summer.  However, I did tell him that I suspected it might he harder to make the Redbirds travel team the following year if he quits this summer's team.  It's a big decision for him and I will be curious what he decides to do.

After dinner at Edley's, we turned off the Seahawks' blowout of the 49ers to watch part of the 30-for-30, "June 19, 1994," which is a 1-hour documentary about the day of the OJ Simspon car chase in the White Ford Bronco.  While listening to a Bill Simmons podcast earlier in the day, I told Joe about the car chase and how crazy it was.  He was interested and I remembered the 30-for-30, and off we went last night.

Today, it will be church at St. Patrick's, another baseball workout, and more studying.  Probably a little NFL playoffs mixed in, too.

(8th & Roast)

Hardwood Joe

I've enjoyed watching Joe play basketball for MBA's seventh grade ("C" team) team the past few weeks.  He was supposed to play this afternoon, but Valor canceled the game.  He only has four basketball games left, three of which are next week.  I'm reminded of how short the middle school sports seasons are, which I had kind of forgotten since JP is in the back end of high school.

As I predicted before the season, Joe is starting, playing point guard, and in many ways running the team for better or worse.  He knows the offense, knows where everyone is supposed to be, and competes his ass off every play.  He turns the ball over too much, though, in part because his handle is not where it needs to be and his size limits his ability to pass over defenders.  This is especially true when he's double teamed.  

Still, he plays with heart and he's scoring the basketball more than he has in the past.  In a tough 44-34 loss to Tuesday Monday night, he scored 10 points and easily could have had 15.  He hit two 3-pointers and had a couple more buckets in the paint.  He missed a gimme layup at the end of the first half, though, and had a good look at a 3-pointer, late, that looked it was going in before it rimmed out.  He made some nice defensive plays, as well, including a late steal that led to a layup by his teammate, Rex Waddy.

I've coached, and known, Rex since he was five years old or so.  His father, Alex, is an old attorney friend of mine, as is his grandfather, Jack.  Believe it or not, Jack Waddy and I used to play basketball at the Uptown YMCA, now defunct, at lunch when I clerked at Manier, Herod in the summer of 1992 and, later, when I went to work there.  Yes, that is more than 30 years ago.  Alex and I used to play law league softball together.  A decathlete in college at Virginia, he's one of the best athletes I have ever known.

Rex is a sweet, kind hearted kid whom I love to death.  He's one of my all-time favorites out of JP's and Joe's groups because he's so funny, quirky, happy, and big hearted.  I think I identify with him in part because he lost his mother, Alex's wife, to colon cancer a few years ago.  Having lost my dad at a young age, we share in common that experience, although no two situations are the same.

What I love about Rex's game this winter is that I can see the light bulb beginning to come on for him.  He's competing consistently and, clearly, how he plays and how the team performs is starting to matter to him.  In games, he's never scared.  He uses his length and athleticism to rebound, defend, and get to the cup.  Now, he misses layups - a lot - but that can and will be corrected.  As his dad, Alex, told me, Rex is starting to love the game of basketball.  That's a beautiful thing to see.

Joe, Rex, Bennett, and Sawyer, three of whom are from USN (Joe, Bennett, and Sawyer) are starters and tone setters for the team.  I love that, of course.  Joe is a natural leader and has the ability to connect with anyone and everyone.  I know it and I need him to know it.  I think he's starting to figure that out.

This weekend, Jude and JP are traveling to Texas so JP can look at University of Texas and Rice.  Wow.  It's all happening.  I'm looking forward to having a long weekend at home with Joe.

(Herban Market)

When Dreams Die

Late last week, I learned that Barista Parlor was closing all of its locations except the coffee shop in East Nashville.  

The original Barista Parlor, at least for me, was Golden Sound on Division Street near the Gulch.  It was in a really cool building, garage door on both sides, with a lot of seating and the coffee bar right in the middle.  Parking was awful there but it was a great place to get a good cup of coffee and do a little work or to meet an old friend for a catch up conversation (Glenn Brown, Andrea McCoy, etc.).  When Yazoo sold their brewery and left area and their building was torn down, the handwriting was on the wall for Barista Parlor.  That coffee shop lasted longer than I thought, though, with towering condominiums sprouting up all around it seemingly overnight.

The closing of the Hillsboro Village Barista Parlor on Sunday hits me hard, too.  Particularly in the last year, I often finished my 3-mile runs there, grabbed a coffee, and walked home.  In fact, my goal-reaching 156th 3-mile run ended at the Hillsboro Village shop and the barista who made my coffee took a picture of me with my cell phone, so I could record the moment.

It's always a little sad for me, somehow, when businesses close, even ones I don't frequent with any regularity.  Why?  I guess it's because I always think that a person, or a group of people, opened the business with the idea that it would be a resounding success.  They had an idea, wrote a business plan, planned, held meetings, obtained financing, hired employees, and opened the doors with unbridled optimism.  

Then, at some point, something changed.  Their business model didn't click like they thought it would.  The neighborhood changed.  Covid-19 arrived.  The economy fell.  Or, maybe, they just didn't enjoy owning and operating a business like they thought they would.

This brings me to Harris Baseball Club and its owner, Brian Harris. 

Yesterday, after I dropped Joe off at Ezell Harding for his baseball workout, I drove home on Murfreesboro Road.  When I got to Wilhagen Road, I turned right without much thought and decided to visit HBC's shuttered baseball workout facility.  

The first thing I noticed was that Wilhagen's Pub had closed, much to my dismay.  More than 30 years ago, the first year I played ultimate frisbee, Wilgahen's Pub sponsored Nashville's Ultimate Frisbee's Summer League.  Jude and I had just started dating and she convinced me to play.  We all went to Wilhagen's after summer league games.  I vividly recall kissing her in the parking lot one night, underneath the brightly lit Wilhagen's sign, and thinking this might be the beginning of something.  Turns out, in fact, it was the beginning of the rest of my life.  

Fast forward to last year and one afternoon while the 16U boys were working out,  Gavin O'Rear and I walked down to Wilhagen's for a drink.  That was first time in years that I had been inside and, as it turns out, the last time, as well.  As I drove by  yesterday and saw that it had closed, I looked on Instagram.  I learned that the owner, Bill Lloyd, retired and closed Wilhagen's Pub in August after a 36-year run.  Quite a run, to be sure.

Harris Baseball Club didn't have the same kind of run, in large part because Brian Harris probably wasn't cut out to own and operate a business that required him to glad hand parents, recruit boys to play at all age levels 365 days a year, and figure out which boys needed to coddled a bit and which ones needed to be cajoled.  

Brian Harris is a good baseball coach, especially for boys up to age 12 or 13, but as it turned out, he wasn't a very good administrator.  I think he would agree with me on that point, particularly since coaching baseball is the part of HBC he really enjoyed.  I don't think he really enjoyed running a travel baseball operation.  I do think, for the most part, he enjoyed giving lessons at the training facility, although about that I am not completely certain.

The point, of course, is that it made me sad yesterday when I pulled into his parking lot and saw his half of the building deserted.  No HBC logo on the large garage door and a dumpster in the front where someone - maybe Brian - had cleaned out the building.

I was sad because early on, Brian had a dream, I suspect, of building a travel baseball club that was different from all or the others.  Not as cutthroat, not as win at all costs, reasonably priced thought not inexpensive, and focused on developing boys as young men and baseball players.  He wanted to own his own training facility, so he could have a place for his travel baseball teams to train.  I think, too, he wanted to have a place where the older boys could train on their own in the offseason.  

And that's what makes me sad, too.  JP used to love to drive over to the HBC facility, often with Joe, and workout on his own or with Joe.  I loved it that he had a place to go, to work out, and try to become a better baseball player.  I'm sad that it's gone, too.

Although there were ups and down, on the field, for JP and Joe playing for HBC in the summers, memories were made that will last my lifetime and probably theirs, too.  I hope Brian realizes that and doesn't see Harris Baseball Club as a failed business venture.  It was so much more than that, to me and my family, and to many others.

I will never forget the trips with JP to Johnson City, Knoxville, and elsewhere.  Staying in hotels and just hanging out.  The games Joe played on the field I love off Nolensville Pike, tucked away and hidden from the traffic.  Most of all, the trip to Cooperstown with Joe.  It was beautiful, memorable, and important.  All of it.

I loved every time I drove JP or Joe to a practice or picked them up, often after dark.  I loved watching them, just watching them, playing baseball.  I loved every single minute of it.  

I miss Harris Baseball Club.  I miss Brian Harris, too, and I hope he's happy and doing well.  

Growing Old

It's been a tough holiday season for a few of my close friends who are dealing with aging parents.  

A little more than a month ago, the mother of one of my friends fell in her driveway and fractured her femur.  Recovery has been tough, as she's non-weight bearing and will be for at least two months.  She hasn't recovered from surgery the way we would have hoped, physically and mentally.  It's tough because this surgery followed hip replacement surgery a year or so ago.  

Another friend's mother recently fell while the entire family was in Hawaii and broke her hip.  She, too, had some preexisting medical issues that made surgery a dicey affair, particularly since she was 4,000 miles from home.  Fortunately, surgery went well and they were able fly back to Nashville earlier this week.  Still, she's looking at in-patient rehabilitation for at least a few weeks.

Another friend called me Sunday night, while I was watching television with the boys.  It was an odd time for him to call, so when I saw I had missed his call I called him right back.  "I wanted to hear your voice," he said, "because I knew you'd understand."  His mother had died earlier that day after experiencing breathing issues apparently related to pulmonary fibrosis.  My heart hurts for him, in part because I still acutely feel the loss of my mother, especially this time of year.  Like me almost six years ago, he finds himself an adult orphan, having lost his father in the last couple of years.  

So much of this seems to be going around, all with parents in their late seventies.  

It got me to thinking, of course that I am not that far away from my late seventies, given that I turn 60 this summer.  Over the weekend, I wondered how I can run five miles comfortably, now, on the trails or in the neighborhood, and perhaps he less than 20 years away from immobility and the every day risk of a fall that breaks my femur or hip.  I mean, damn!  The next couple of decades might really suck from a physical standpoint.  

On top of that, earlier this week I saw an old lawyer friend of mine - someone I went to law school with 35 years ago - struggling up the ramp as he walked into the courthouse across from my office.  He was in a terrible bicycle accident when he was a child, as a result of which he's always walked with two canes.  I've always admires his perseverance through so much adversity at a young age.  

In law school, he was thin with a thick shock of blonde hair, good looking by an objective standard.  He was strong, too, from all the years of maneuvering around with his canes.  Years later, I saw him in Las Vegas a few times and other than his difficulty walking, he was the picture of health.  When I saw him earlier this week and waved to him, I noticed he was heavier than I'd seen him and his hair was all gray.  And, as I said, he seemed to be struggling a bit to get into the courthouse.

I guess what hit me, hard, was he looked tired.  Really tired.  Like life had had its way with him over the past decade or so.  He had a bunch of children, as I recall, most of whom are probably grown and out of the house now.  So. what's left?  A man with a disability he got decades ago through no fault of his own, struggling to walk into the courthouse for work.

Honestly, it was kind of depressing.  All of that has been kind of depressing, not that it's about me, of course.  As JP considers various colleges and universities and Joe gets adjusted to seventh grade at MBA, I keep plugging away.  A client call in ten minutes.  A mediation later today.  Three projects I have to get done.  Telephone calls to return.  A receptionist to hire.  An office to run.  Bills to pay.

Yep, the holidays are over and the winter doldrums are here.  I haven't found the time to run this week and I need to get out there and get one it.  Hopefully, that will happen this afternoon.

Growing old is not for the faint of heart.  Truer words have never been spoken. 

The Winter Doldrums

Forlorn.  

That's the best word to describe my emotions as I sit at 8th & Roast on a Friday morning, sipping my coffee, watching the baristas take down the Christmas decorations.  It's sad, but necessary, as today is January 2 and the holidays are over.  Finito.  It's time.

I have so enjoyed the Christmas decorations, here, at 8th & Roast, this holiday season.  An artificial Christmas tree that, even now, is being stuffed back into the long rectangular shaped box it will rest in for the next 11 months, in a closet in the back.  Red Santa hats and outfits cleverly placed on the figures in the coffee photographs on the wall.  Christmas lights, everywhere, throughout the coffee shop.  And, my favorite, the two miniature town scenes in the center of the two bigger, community tables, complete with cars, Christmas trees, streetlights, and people, all on a bed of pretend snow.  

As 8th & Roast improbably became my new morning coffee spot the past couple of months, it has been nice to relax for a few minutes, and read or write, among the Christmas decorations.  'Tis the season.  Or, at least, 'tis was the season.  Sigh.

For once, I have managed to stay away from the office, for the most part, over the holidays.  It was easier this year because of how the holidays fell.  Christmas Eve and Christmas, New Year's Eve and New Year's Day, on Wednesday and Thursday.  That made it easier to take last Friday off.  I needed some down time, I think.  I was feeling a little burned out at work toward the end of the year.

Today, however, I am headed into the office.  Time to get back after it.  

The boys return to school on Tuesday, so they have one more long weekend to relax.  Then, for them, too, it is back to the grind.  Jude, too, as she has been off work entirely over the holidays, which has been nice.

Hopefully, running more and longer will get me through the winter months.  That and lots of reading and family time.  

Goodbye, for now, to my favorite time of year, October 1 - January 1.  Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's.  Fall.  All over.

Yep, I am forlorn this morning.