Goodbye to the Head Bruin

What people don't realize about Brentwood High School is that but for the tireless work in the early 1980's of community members (like my mom) and backroom deal making by school board members and county commissioners, like the late Tom Neill, there would be no Brentwood High School.  The fate of Brentwood High School was up in the air until the very last minute as various political factions in Williamson County conspired to prevent the high school from opening in the summer of 1982.  That's another story entirely, however, and not what I want to write about today.

James C. Parker, the first principal at Brentwood High School, died on July 9, 2025.  He was there at the beginning, as they say, and so was I.  Because of that, I can say with complete confidence that Brentwood High School would not have opened, on time, in August 1982 if not for the Herculean efforts of Mr. Parker.  All summer long, he met with parents and students.  He was at the school, literally, from sun up until long after dark every single day of the week.  There was so much to be done to get the high school ready to open an Mr. Parker was intimately involved in all of it.  No detail escaped Mr. Parker's watchful eye.

Mr. Parker organized and inspired the parent-volunteers, who helped lay sod in the football stadium and painted the stadium seats weeks before the opening football game.  My mom and her group of friends road in the back of a pick up truck, tailgate down, and drank frozen pina colodas and banana daffodils while they used a stencil to paint Bruin paw prints on Murray Lane.  I've recounted that story for years in part because it's a great story and because it actually happened.  More importantly, though, it captures the pride so many of our parents had in Brentwood High School.

The summer after my freshman year of college, 1985, Bart Pemberton and I worked for a trucking company off Elm Hill Pike, unloading and loading trucks.  I also worked part-time at Brentwood High School doing landscaping and maintenance work.  If I was there, working, Mr. Parker was, too, all of the time.  No job was too big or small, too dirty or too menial for him.  His work ethic was unparalleled.  

That summer, I saw Mr. Parker in a different light, for sure.  Not as an administrator, wearing a tie to work every day, in charge of things.  I saw him as a man and, I have to admit, a bit of a role model.  Someone who did whatever it took to get anything done that needed to get done.  He treated me differently, too.  Not as a peer but not as a student, either.  When I look back, now, I think he was one of the first people to treat me like an adult.  A young man (with the emphasis on man).  

Mr. Parker also treated me with kindness that summer, too.  Having lost my father when I was five years old, I wasn't the most handy person when it came to repairing or operating equipment and machinery.  He was patient with me, as I learned to use the industrial sized lawn tractor to cut the grass on the school grounds or struggled to repair the weed eater so it would operate effectively.  He taught me how to do those things.  Mr. Parker was a teacher at heart, from beginning to end.

More than thirty years later, I ran into Mr. Parker at a Brentwood High Basketball game.  I was wearing a suit and tie, because I had come from work.  I also was sporting a crazy, long goatee that I had grown out so my mother, fighting a losing battle with Alzheimer's disease, could differentiate me from my long dead father.  When he saw me, Mr. Parker smiled and gave me a hug, eyes twinkling with friendliness as we talked.  He asked about my mother, of course, and listened sympathetically as I described her struggles.  I asked someone to take a photo of us together and I shared it with my high school friends later that night.  He looked the same.  I did not.  

Perhaps Mr. Parker's greatest quality was his loyalty and dedication to people, and things, that he loved.  He attended 502 consecutive Brentwood High School football games, a record that I cannot imagine anyone will ever surpass.  The football stadium, James C. Parker Stadium, is named after him.  A well deserved honor of their ever was one.  

The story of Brentwood High School cannot be told without James Parker as the central figure.  He touched so many lives as a career educator.  Rarely has one man meant so much to so many.  What a career.  What a life well led. 

"Well done, good and faithful servant."  Matthew 25:23.  That bible verse say it all.   

 

59

Last night, all four of us were watching "All the Way Home," the latest season of the motorcycle travelogue with Ewan McGregror and Charley Boorman, when Joe asked me what time I was leaving for work this morning.  

"I'm not sure.  Why?" I asked.

"Because I want to make sure I tell you happy birthday," he replied.

Encapsulated in that one exchange with my sweet, kindhearted 13 year old son, is everything I love about begin a father.  Everything.

After a relatively stressful, futile mediation that lasted all day with a client of whom I'm very fond, I had completely forgotten it was my birthday.  I have so much on my mind right now, professionally and personally, that it totally slipped my mind.  It was important to Joe, though, so it's important to me.  

And so here I am, at Dose, having a coffee before an 8:45 a.m. call with a client.  59.  One year away from 60.  Busier than ever as life flies by at the speed of light.  

So many people depend on me.  My family.  My extended family.  People that work for or with me.  My clients.  Sometimes it's a lot.  But it's never too much and I wouldn't have it any other way.  If I can have one or two interactions a day in which I make someone smile, assure someone, or otherwise add a little bit of positive energy into the world, it's a good day for me.  

At 59, I don't need a lot to be happy.  My family.  A good cup of coffee.  An occasional bourbon.  A good book.  Three or four neighborhood or treadmill runs a week.  A good night's sleep.  Friendships.  Satisfying and challenging work.  Church on Sunday.  Music.  

And all of those things, at age 59, I have.  So, as I finish my coffee on a busy Tuesday morning at Dose, happy birthday to me. 

For now, to quote the poet from the Motor City, Bob Seger, I'll strap up and keep running against the wind.   

Well those drifter's days are past me now

I've got so much more to think about

Deadlines and commitments

What to leave in, what to leave out.

Against the wind

I'm still runnin' against the wind.

I'm older now but still runnin' against the wind.

Younger

It's been a long time since I've posted twice in one day.  Maybe I'm inspired by the fact that I'm having a beer - well, a second beer - for the first time in, oh, six months.  I'm certainly not a teetotaler, not by a long shot.  It's just that my drink of choice is a good bourbon or a heavy cabernet.  Not beer, which is a whole different story.  

This morning, as I drove home from coffee at Sump, catching up with my baseball friend, Gavin O'Heir, I saw JP running down West End Avenue.  Shirt off.  Ripped, not an ounce of fat on his body, six pack abs, the whole deal.  I guess that's what eight days running at altitude will in Boulder, CO, will do for you.  My son, my guy, putting the work in on a summer morning in early July, when the temperature was already on the wrong side of 90 degrees.  

JP looked amazing.  Youth.  Peak form.  Just getting it done.  I honked at him and he waved at me, nonchalantly, seemingly locked into the zone you get in sometimes, as a runner, when it all feels right and life makes perfect sense.  Running.

I drove around the neighborhood as I finished by call with Gavin.  It was nice to get caught up.  I miss sitting with him at baseball games at baseball fields all over middle Tennessee, watching our sons play baseball.  His son, Gavin, is playing for Harris Baseball Club again.  JP is not playing baseball this summer, instead focusing on running and getting ready for a run at the state title in cross country this fall.  

As I sat in my truck in front of our house, I saw JP go flying by me, finishing his workout with a series of sprints on Linden Avenue.  I got out of my truck and just watched him, as he ran three of four more sprints.  He looked invincible.  It was inspiring.  Sweat glistening off his torso as he ran by me, his face a mask of intense concentration.  Straining with effort but not too much, because he's in such good shape.  

It was beautiful moment and one I want to always remember.

Older

Lately I've been thinking a lot about what it means to grow older.  I try not to think about it but with my 59th birthday coming next week and so many of my friends close to turning 60, it's hard not to.  The problem, of course, is that thoughts about my age always end up in places I don't really want to go.  So, l tend not to dwell on my age.  That's always been my approach.  I suppose it's also the reason I've never been big on celebrating my birthday.

One of the reasons I run is to try to stay in relatively good shape.  Running somehow makes me feel younger, even if I'm not as fast or running as long as I used to.  This year, I set a goal of running three miles 156 times and I'm almost halfway there.  Generally, I run three miles - comfortably - at a pace of 8:15 - 8:25 per mile, which is not nothing.  If I pushed myself, I could run three miles at a pace under 8:00 per mile, but why would I do that?  This year, I want to stay healthy and get to 156.  It's a different kind of goal for me, which is what makes it interesting.  Next year, maybe I'll set a new goal that will encourage me to run longer at least once a week.  

At 58 +++, my body is different, for sure.  My low back aches every morning when I get up.  The partial thickness tear in my right rotator cuff feels like it's finally going to need a doctor's attention in the near future.  It hurts to sleep on my right side at night and, in the mornings, my right upper arm and shoulder are very sore.  

It's moderately painful to life my right arm above my head, although I can do it.  I'm not sure if it's related to right rotator cuff injury or not, but I can't throw at all like I used to.  Sadly, it's probably best that my baseball coaching career is over because throwing batting practice would be very difficult for me right now.  Long tossing with the boys is virtually impossible, which makes me sad, too.

It's harder to sleep through the night without waking up once to go to the bathroom.  I pee more frequently than I used to which, as I understand it, is what happens as you grow older.  That's been a new thing the last year or two and causes me to fondly remember the nights, in college, when I could sit on the jukebox at the Tap Room for two or three hours, drinking beer, and never lose my seat because I had to take a leak.  I was like a camel, only in reverse.  Not any more.  

For sure, I forget things in a way that I never did when I was younger, or at least it sure seems that way.  For now, anyway, it's small, insignificant things.  The other day, for example, I could not remember the name of one of my favorite novels of the last 20 years, maybe ever.  I knew it was about a a boy that played baseball - college baseball at a small liberal arts college in the midwest - and that his name was Henry Skrimshander.  I new he was a shortstop and remembered the entire plot of the novel.  But the title escaped me.  

When that happens, I like to puzzle over it in my mind.  I don't look it up on my cell phone because I feel like it's good for me to let my mind work through it and try to remember whatever piece of trivia or arcane fact it is that I've forgotten.  I'll think about something else, then come back to it, several times if I have to.  Suddenly, it hit me!  The Art of Fielding (Chad Harbach), the rare novel that I've read twice.  It's due to join Lonesome Dove (Larry McMurtry) as a novel I've read three times, actually.  Maybe thus summer.

As the child of a parent who died after suffering the ravages of Alzheimer's disease, I get scared every time I forget something.  Curiously, I lost my train of thought in a potential client meeting yesterday - one I which I was really engaged and enjoying the interaction with a young lady and her mother.  Possibly, though, I was on autopilot because I've given roughly the same talk to what seems like 10,000 + potential divorce client over the years.  

For sure, my hearing is getting worse, although that may be due to years and years of listening to podcasts on various kinds of headphone, ear buds, and AirPods when I run.  I find myself having a harder time hearing the television at normal volume.  For me, too, if I'm in a room with a lot of people talking, loudly, it seems like the ambient noice makes it harder for me to hear the person with whom I'm talking.  That's a bit concerning for a lawyer.

I've stuck with 1.0 readers for all of these years for up close reading when I am wearing my contacts.  I've never needed the readers to read at night, after I take my contacts out.  That may be I changing, though, because it's beginning to be harder to read close up at night while I'm laying in bed.  Also, I may need to up the prescription on my readers to 1.25 or 1.50, something I'm fighting against because I don't want to become too dependent on them.  

For no reason that I can think of, a couple of years ago I started doing pushups at night.  Why?  I don't know.  I guess because there have only been a few times in my life when I lifted weights constantly and, at  the time, I couldn't do many pushups.  Over time, my form improved and I've gotten stronger and stronger and, as a result, I easily bang out several sets of 10 to 15 pushups many nights, all with good form.  If I were smart, I'd get int he gym and start lifting weights, I guess, but at least pushups are something.  

I'm eating clean, so to speak, or clean for me.  It's something I started, again a couple of months ago.  I wasn't eating badly.  I just decided to make a real effort, again, to stay away from chips, crackers, French fries, potatoes, bread, and all sweets.  I also stopped eating processed foods, like energy bars.  I'm trying to eat more fruit, too.  Also, I'm back to eating ham and cheese rollups, often, for lunch, although I'm not sure eating that much processed meat is good for me either.  I am eating a lot - I mean, a lot - of salads, which I know is good for me.

I need to get a physical exam, particularly since it's been four years, at least, since I've had one.  I may set a goal of doing that next week.  I'm past due a second colonoscopy, too.  I have an irrational fear of doctors, though, which I know is ridiculous.  

I guess that's that.  It's Friday, July 4th.  I'm going to go home, do some work, read the Warren Beatty biography that I can't get enough of, and enjoy my family.  JP and Jude got home with Joe, yesterday, fresh off three weeks at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp.  Today is today and tomorrow is tomorrow.  

  

Last Day at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp

This morning, I talked with Jude and JP as they drove from Charlottesville, VA, to Woodberry Forest to pick up Joe after three weeks of Sports Camp.  I would have gone to get him but work commitments made it impossible for me be out of the office this week.  

When I talked with Jude and JP, they told me that Joe's team lost a heartbreaker, yesterday, in the flag football finals, 12 - 7.  They squeaked out a win, though, in the futsol championship game, 2 - 1.  They were so close to winning three championships, given that they lost in the soccer finals by 2 - 1.  Still, a title is a title, and I am glad they grabbed one in futsol.

Yesterday, on the second to last day of camp, Joe received the Honor Camper Award for his team (Alabama), given by his counselor and assistants to the team member who contributed the most in the areas of athletics, leadership, sportsmanship, and citizenship.  It's an important award and, of course, I am very, very proud of Joe.  

What a three weeks he has had Sports Camp at Woodberry Forest.  I think - and I hope - that it was a transformation time for him in the all of the best ways.  I hope he learned independence, and self-confidence, self-assuredness.  I hope he developed a better sense of himself and who he is, away from his brother, and Jude and me.  I hope he developed a stronger belief in himself, his abilities, and who he is as a person, friend, and leader.  

Joe is a winner.  Always has been.  In sports and in life.  He is so much fun to be around.  So funny.  Great attitude.  So smart.  Kindhearted and caring.  Fun loving.  Curious.  Happy.  Just a great hang, every single time.  

I can't wait to see Joe tomorrow night and hear all about his three weeks away at Sports Camp.  I've missed him.

The Sun Sets on the Bunganut Pig

Yesterday afternoon, I wondered up to the front of the office while I was on a call.  As I often do, even at work, I was talking to a client on my cell phone with my AirPods in, which allows me the freedom to roam a bit during a long call.  I like that because it keeps me from being stuck behind my desk all day.  

During my call, I saw a headline in the Williamson Herald (in our magazine rack) that after 38 + years, the Bunganut Pig closed last week.  That hit me hard.  

The Pig, as everyone called it, was the oldest restaurant/bar in Franklin.  Tucked away in the basement of Carter's Court for almost three decades before it expended, the Bunganut Pig had a very "Cheers-like" quality to it, in large part because you had to walk down stairs to get to it and their were no windows.  It was a true hole-in-the-wall known only to locals in the days before tourists traipsed through downtown Franklin every weekend.

My dear friend, Ed Silva, was in the Pig at the beginning as an investor, although in the early days it was called the General's Retreat and, at some point, the Rebel's Roost, appropriate names given that it's located across from the Carter House and in the middle of the battlefield for the Battle of Franklin.  You almost had to know where the Pig was to find it and that was kind of what made it special, at least to me.

The point, of course, is that the Bunganut Pig was "old Franklin," something that doesn't really exist any longer.  One need look no further than a few blocks down Columbia Avenue toward downtown Franklin, and our office, to see all of the old commercial buildings - hardware store, bakery, etc. - being torn down as developers are building 2 - 3 million dollar condominiums in a new development, most of which are pre-sold.  It's crazy.  

Part of the reason the Bunganut Pig is so special to me is that after my partner, Chas Morton, joined our law firm, we moved our office to Carter's Court, above and behind the Bunganut Pig.  We were there for five years, from roughly 2001 - 2006, before we bought and renovated the building we're in now directly across from the Courthouse.  

In fact, I have a newspaper clipping from the Review Appeal, framed, on the wall at work with a photo of Chas, Mark, and me in our office at Carter's Court, right after we moved in there.  The theme of the piece, probably written by Mindy Tate, is about "three local boys starting a law firm together."  Moving into our office in Carter's Court marked the end of Puryear & Newman and the beginning of Puryear, Newman & Morton.  25 years later, the rest is history, as they say.

In the five years we were there, our practices grew as we added lawyers and got busier and busier.  We expanded multiple times until, at the end, we had the entire top floor of the back building and part of the bottom floor, as well.  I have many fond memories of that office and our time there.  

A huge snowball fight with the Eric and Ted Boozer's group, whose office was directly below us.  Diane Livingston and Lee Dreyer - God rest both of their souls - whose office, later, was directly below us.  Hosting our annual Pigskin Picks Open House - now defunct, sadly - before football season every year.  At one memorable Pigskin Picks party, we played cornhole on the brick walkway outside the office late into the night.  I drove Mark home, as I recall, and his wife, Elizabeth, and I played ping pong in his garage before I drove home to Nashville.

Blake Sempkowski ("Super Blake"), the first attorney we hired, worked in that office, as did Rachel Harmon.  Raven Hardison.  Lisa Johnson.  Diane Radesovich.  Traci Carter.  Deb Rubenstein.  And others whose names I can't recall.

More work days than not, I walked downstairs from my office and had lunch at the Bunganut Pig by myself.  I checked in with (Ohio State) Eddie or the owner, then, Marty, sat down with latest issue of the Nashville Scene, and ordered a Caesar salad with blackened salmon.  Always the same order, as I a creature of habit if nothing else.  

In those days, Jude used to say we practiced "Pig Law," and we did, in a way, as all of our partners' meetings were held at the big over a beer or two after work.  I loved our office and its proximity to the Pig, although Ed Silva always made fun of me and suggested we needed a bigger, better office.  He wasn't wrong, I guess, which is why we subsequently bought the building we've been in for almost 20 years.  

In those days, before Franklin and Spring Hill had grown so much and added restaurants, the Bunganut Pig was almost the only game in town or, the only game in downtown (Franklin).  The Pig had a regular lunch crowd.  At 4:30 p.m. or so, all of the Franklin and Williamson Country politicos stopped in for a drink or two, always sitting at the long table just outside the tiny bar and the half glass divider that separated it from the rest of the restaurant.  There was a good dinner crowd.  Then, after that, the music crowd came in.  

There was a small stage in the back corner of the restaurant where bands played.  My law partner's wife, Christa, and her '80's band played there often, as did Neil Diamond impersonator, Denny Diamond.  To my recollection, there really wasn't anywhere else to hear live music in or near downtown Franklin, except maybe Kimbro's Picking Parlor.  The music at the Pig was a real thing for a long time.

For years, too, smoking was allowed at the Pig.  As you might imagine, in a basement restaurant/bar with no windows, the smoke lingered . . . everywhere.  In fact, the girls in our office rarely went to the Pig, even for lunch, because when you left, all of your clothes smelled like cigarette smoke. 

I used to joke and say that the Bunganut Pig was the den of iniquity because it was open late and a lot of things happened inside, and in the parking lot, that led clients to me in divorce cases.  I'll leave it at that.  

For many years, my friend, Eddie, worked there, day and night.  Ohio State Eddie.  He was at a point in his life, I think, where he was trying to figure things out.  As often happens in the restaurant business, he got stuck in one place for longer than he planned.  When Eddie finally left the Pig, the atmosphere there changed and not necessarily for the better.    

Mark and Amy Goodson bought the Bunganut Pig close to 20 years ago, right about the time we moved into the building we bought and renovated in Third Avenue South, across from the Courthouse, where our office is currently located.  Mark, an Air Force veteran and Wharton School of Business graduate (University of Pennsylvania) graduate, left a high stress, high paying job in health care with a plan to run the Bunganut Pig as a family business.

Mark saw real potential in the Pig and he quickly set about modernizing it.  First, he eliminated smoking, which was long overdue.  Next, he worked a deal with the landlord, Fernando Santisteban, and opened up a patio outside, complete with tables, cornhole sets, and a small stage for live music.  He also rented the space directly above the Pig - where the Heiress (a hair salon) had been for the entirety of my youth - and put in a pool table, flat screen televisions, and new tables.  He even leased a small space next door and opened up a larger bar, also long overdue as the Pig's original bar was tiny.  

In short, Mark and Amy Goodson turned the Bunganut Pig into a much larger, attractive, versatile Franklin bar/restaurant with more to offer its patron.  In my view, the Pig under Mark and Amy retained some of its old school charm while, seemingly overnight, morphing in to a modern eatery.  Mark ran it much more professionally and like a real business than did Marty, the previous owner.  

After five or six years, Mark and Amy decided to move to Florida.  In 2016, they sold the Bunganut Pig to Mark Rindermann, who quickly ran it straight into the ground.  The service declined precipitously, the quality of the food fell, and all of the great work that Mark and Amy put into modernizing the Pig was wasted.  Rindermann completely closed the downstairs, cut staff, and just let the once proud eatery fall into a state of disrepair.

Rindermann ignominiously closed the Pig, with no notice, on June 23, 2025.  He set up a GoFundMe page, which is maybe the most embarrassing part of his tenure as owner of the Pig.  As of this morning, he had raised a paltry $813 dollars to "save the restaurant."  Mark Rindermann had no business running the Bunganut Pig, or any other restaurant for that matter.

In the end, Mark and Amy Goodson probably got out at the right time.  Since they sold the Pig, downtown Franklin and Spring Hill have exploded in growth.  New bars and restaurants and bars are everywhere, as a result of which competition for customer is fierce.  

Still, I'll remember the Bunganut Pig fondly.  I'll especially remember the five years when Mark, Chas, and I practiced "Pig law" there.

Empty Nesters

Empty nesters if just for a few days.  

That's what Jude and I are with Joe at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp and JP in Boulder, CO.  Empty nesters.  We're getting the barest glimpse of what life is like for so many of my friends, like Mark & Elizabeth (Puryear), Doug and Sally (Brown), all with children out of college and working.  We're a long way from those days.

Last night, Jude and I met our friends, Russ and Suzanna (Allen) for dinner at The Henry.  Nice meal and even better conversation.  A lifetime ago, I wrote a piece in this space, "Friends that Fit," describing our family's relationship with the Allen family.  We've vacationed together, shared meals together, and our boys (JP and Cooper) played sports together.  Now, Ella is halfway through Wake Forest and works at my office on Fridays.  Cooper will be a senior at MBA and JP a junior.  Joe will be start 7th grade at MBA next year.

We don't see each other nearly as much as we did when the boys were younger and Russ (basketball) and I (baseball) were coaching them in sports.  However, that makes it all the more special when we are able to steal a night to go to dinner, like last night.  For Jude and me, Russ and Suzanna will forever be "friends that fit," and our friendship will remind me of a time in our lives when we were together virtually every weekend on a basketball court or baseball field somewhere in town.  I miss those days.

Last night, I enjoyed showing Russ and Suzanna the Woodberry Forest Sports Camp website, along with the blog we anxiously check every morning for an update on the previous days' activities and to see how Joe's "Alabama" team performed in their two or three games.  Yesterday, they lost a heartbreaker in team handball, 9-8.  They've won several contests that way, too, and by my estimation, his squad is slightly over  .500 so far, maybe a little better. 

I talked to JP on my drive home last night.  He and Sam ran 10 miles yesterday on a bike trail in Boulder, CO.  It was 52 degrees there when he woke up yesterday and 72 degrees when we talked at 4:00 p.m. (MST).  Gorgeous.  Meanwhile, it was 97 degrees in Nashville and one of our air conditioning units went out at work.  Am I envious?  You bet your ass I am.

In classic high school/college road trip fashion, JP slept on an air mattress that deflated halfway through the night.  Sam's truck wouldn't start yesterday morning, so he rode his bicycle into town to get "starter fluid," whatever that is.  Predictably, his truck still wouldn't start, so the he had his truck towed into Firestone.  JP and Sam walked a mile into town to see the campus at Colorado University?  Why didn't they Uber?  Only they know the answer to that question.

In the end, JP and Sam will figure it out.  Joe is in the process of figuring it out at Woodberry Forest Sports Camp.  Figure what out, you ask?  Everything, I guess.  How to be on your own.  Life.  All of it, I guess.

And that's really the point of all of this, isn't it?  For Jude and me to put our boys in a position - with safety nets, some visible and some invisible - of where they have to begin to learn to figure it out, all on their own.  

It's a modified version of "the Escape Game," except what the JP and Joe are escaping from is childhood.  That's a little bit sad to a nostalgia old dad like me but absolutely necessary, too.  They're growing up and, if we do it right, they will need us less and less and time marches on.  Also sad but also absolutely necessary. 

(Bongo Java)