Saying Goodbye to Scott McRae

Sunday was a tough day, one I think I will always remember.  

Early afternoon, Joe and I drove to St. Henry's for Scott McRae's visitation.  We wanted to get their early to share a quick moment, if possible, with Tina, Daniel, and the girls, to pay our respects to Scott.  It's so hard in a brief exchange with someone, with people lined up in front of you and behind you, to communicate in a few sentences how much someone like Scott meant to you.  

Joe and I did the best we could.  I was able to give Tina a hug, meet Scott's mother, and shake hands with the girls.  I got a little choked up when I gave Daniel a hug, last of all.  Already, he looks so much more grown up than he did when all of this began, 18 months ago.  That's by necessity, I think.  Although he's the baby of the family, so to speak, Daniel suddenly finds himself the man of the house.  No one wants him to feel that way but he will.

Having lost my father when I was five years old and growing up in a house with a single mother and two sisters, I get it.  I thought I was the man of the house, too.  I had to grow up faster in a lot of ways than most of my friends.  I had a sense of life's impermanency, of my own mortality, before a lot of my friends did.  Every situation is different, of course.  Still, that's just part of what happens, I think, when you lose a parent at a young age.

Joe and I ran in to Sharon Glenn and her son, Trey.  I was shocked to see Trey, 14 years old and in the 9th grade, taller and slimmed down.  Trey began playing baseball for me when he was five or six years old, as I recall.  Always smiling with a mouth full of teeth, somewhat prone to injury, as I remember him missing time after breaking his wrist riding a bicycle.  Eminently coachable.  Big bat.  Quick on his feet for a larger boy, I played him at 1st base and 3rd base for the most part.  A big teddy bear.  

Trey's not playing baseball anymore, which makes me sad.  He's a very young 9th grader at Brentwood High School - maybe the youngest in his class - and that has always worked against him when it came to trying to make the middle school baseball teams.  It's tough for me, selfishly, when my guys give up baseball because it signifies the end of a chapter in my life.  Maybe the best chapter, actually.

I vividly recall an all-star game in Franklin a couple of years ago when Trey, playing with Scott's Braves, injured his ankle sliding into second base.  Scott and I carried Trey off the field - no easy task because he's a big boy - after which we waited for a trainer or an EMT.  He was out for the tournament but didn't have a fracture, fortunately.  

I also remember attending visitation when my mother died.  Later, he wrote me a note, one I still have.  I cried as a read it, in the handwriting of an innocent boy who was eight years old at the time.  Trey Glenn, one of my all time favorites to coach.

Joe and I left visitation and had lunch at the Well by David Lipscomb, still dressed up.  It was nice to spend some quiet time with Joe and decompress a little bit.  In many ways, those are the moments that matter.  

We drove back to Scott's Mass at St. Henry's at 3:30 p.m.  Other than for Christmas, I don't think I ever have seen the church so packed, everyone there to celebrate Scott's life, so well lives, and to support Tina and the kids.  I was overwhelmed with the palpable feeling of love and passion that was present in the church.

Mike LaLonde and his family walked in behind us, after we were seated.  He gave my arm a quick squeeze.  I looked down the aisle in front of us and saw Scott Tygard, of the West Nashville Sports League.  It was very nice of him to be there.  

When I realized that John Spencer, one of Scott's (and my) players, was solemnly serving as an alter boy, I felt tears in my eyes.  Scott would have loved that, I know.  

The service was beautiful.  Tina's eulogy was perfect.  Poignant, funny, uplifting, and memorable.  It struck all of the right notes.  I was in awe of her strength and poise as she stood in the front of the church and shared her thoughts and feelings with us, all four children standing behind her.  

What stood out the most for me, I think, was when she asked anyone who had attended chapel on a Tuesday night or prayed for Scott to stand up, everyone stood up.  Every single person, or so it seemed, rose as one.  It was a powerful and memorable moment.   

This week, I've found myself thinking about Scott McRae, still, as well as Tina and the children.  I know there's a lesson to be learned in all of this, one that I am trying to discern.  That will come to me in time, I think.       

Trust Your Hands

Every now and then, through nothing more than serendipity, someone comes into your life and leaves an indelible impression on it.  

It's not anything you can plan or make happen, of that I am sure.  What I think it is, though, is God's hand at work in your life.  For reasons forever unknown to you, God places someone in your life - or in your children's lives - during a time when he or she will have the most impact.  It just happens.  

The hard part, of course, is when a person like this leaves your life too soon.  

I met Scott McRae on the baseball fields at Warner Park which, if you know either one of us, should not come as a surprise.  Our boys, Daniel and Joe, played on competing teams, the Braves and the Diamondbacks.  Scott and I were competing coaches.  And, man, did we ever compete against each other!  Again, if you know either one of us, that should not come as a surprise.

If memory serves, the boys were ten years old at the time.  Daniel's Braves and Joe's Diamondbacks played each other two or three times a season, then again in the tournament, because their teams were two of the most most experienced in the league.  Evenly matched, the games were always very, very competitive.  There was a lot of talent on both teams.  It was a real rivalry, to the boys, the coaches, and the parents.  

A big part of what made the rivalry special, especially for recreational league baseball, was the quality and dedication of the coaches.  On the Braves' side, there was Scott McRae, Mark Erdman, and Mike Lalonde.  On the Diamondbacks' side, Oliver Davis, Ryan Stout, Matt Singleton, and me.  Men that loved baseball and more than anything, loved coaching baseball and teaching our boys and their friends how to play the game the right way.  The quality and depth of the coaching staffs on each time was very unusual for recreational league baseball.  Scott McRae and Oliver Davis were dedicated head coaches and the rest of us followed their lead.

As I write this, I'm smiling, because at the time, I don't think Scott and I really knew what to make of each other.  Two hyper competitive fathers raising young boys, both with a burning desire to win.  It was intense, to be sure.  I loved the competition and I think Scott did, too.  

What I learned later and why Scott and I became friends is that we have so much in common.  A deep, abiding Catholic faith.  A bottomless wellspring of love for our families.  A sense of humor.  A shared love of coaching and mentoring young men.  And a love of baseball, the greatest of all games.    

I am, roughly, 10 years older than Scott and most of the rest of the coaches.  I traveled the same route for over a decade, coaching baseball with JP, now 17, and his group of WNSL Dodgers.  It was the time of my life.  Because of that, I knew the time with Joe's group of Diamondbacks (Dodgers, too) and Daniel's Braves group was special.  I had been through a very similar experience with the Dodgers - Dirtbags, after which Pat Lawson (Dirtbags) and I became good friends.  

I also knew, too, that those baseballs seasons together with the boys, spring and fall, were fleeting, ephemeral even.  I never wanted it to end. 

Looking back now, those were halcyon days, to be sure.  Before travel baseball.  Before middle school baseball.  Before real life intruded on all of us, especially Scott and his family.  Those were days filled with love . . . for baseball, for competing, and for our boys. 

The first time I coached with Scott was in WNSL all-stars, after one of the spring seasons.  Scott was the head coach and, along with Mark Erdman and Mike Lalonde, I helped out, as needed.  I played a bit part, honestly, and was there to support Scott in any way he needed, at practice or games.  I was grateful for the way Scott accepted my son, Joe, and his teammates - Ram Chitale, Trey Glenn, Huck Phillips, and Bennett Lusk - into his group for all-stars.  Scott made my boys, Dodgers to the core, feel like they had played for his Braves forever.  

That was one of the many gifts Scott had, I think.  He had the innate ability to make you feel comfortable and at home in his presence from the very first moment you met him.  Like you had known him forever or, in Joe's case, like you had played for him forever.  Joe idolized Scott.  

Scott also had the unique ability to bring out the best in every boy he coached, another thing I think Scott and I shared in common.  In many ways, both us were born to coach and the baseball field, with our boys, was a sanctuary of sorts for us.  Everything made sense there.  

Things evolved organically from there like all of the best, most natural things in life seem to do.  I coached the fall baseball team, the Dodgers, and Scott's Braves, including his son Daniel, Keaton Erdman, and Big Mike Lalonde, played for me.  Truthfully, I think Scott enjoyed not having to be in charge of the fall baseball team.  Still, he hopped in at every practice and game, as needed, always willing and eager to give a boy a word of encouragement or instruction.  We often discussed how this boy or that boy was playing and what we could do to help him improve.     

When spring rolled around, the Dodgers became the Braves again, and Scott ran the show.  I helped out, if he needed me, and on occasion I stepped in when he was out of town for work or had a conflict.  Later, I jumped in and coached during all-stars as the boys competed at various baseball parks around Middle Tennessee.   

A year and a half ago late in June or early July, we coached the boys in unbearable heat in Mt. Juliet in their last all-star tournament of the season.  We ran out of pitching and in 100 + degree heat, the boys lost to a good Franklin team in the semifinals of the tourbamnebt.  It had been a long and hot weekend of baseball - with all of the coaches wearing those ridiculous baseball pants that Cal Ripken Baseball insisted we wear - so I was properly prepared for what I figured would be our final game.  I had a six pack of beer iced down in a cooler in my truck. 

After the game and after all of the parents and boys had left - in the comfortable silence of an empty ballpark in Mt. Juliet - Scott, Mark Erdman, and I sat in the fading July sun and drank a cold beer together. It was a special moment that all three of us wanted to hold onto, I think.  

We were exhausted and a little let down, since another baseball season was over.  We discussed the tournament and the final game in great detail, as coaches tend to do.  We talked about the entire baseball season.  We talked about plans for fall baseball.  We talked about how much we loved coaching our boys.  Mostly, we shared a quiet few minutes together.  

Looking back, it was one of the best and most memorable beers I've ever had.    

Not too long afterwards, Scott got sick.  When I saw him at our first fall baseball game, he didn't look good.  He'd lost weight and he wasn't sure why.  As the fall baseball season progressed, we touched base from time to time, often after I drove Daniel home from baseball games.  When Scott was formally diagnosed with a rare form of peritoneal carcinoma cancer, the St. Henry's community and so many others rallied around the McRae family.    

Because he's Scott and because of his love for life and, especially, his unquenchable love for his family, he underwent rigorous rounds of treatment and valiantly fought his illness for a year and a half.  He never gave up.  

Scott, Tina, and the children have been in my prayers on a daily basis.  Jude and I have talked a lot about Scott at home, especially with our boys, JP and Joe.  I've thought about Daniel so much, too.  My heart breaks for him, for all of them.  Life can be so damn hard sometimes.   

In our last text message exchange, shortly before he died, Scott mentioned the great memories he carried from the WNSL days.  He also told me he loved my family and me, a sentiment I will treasure forever.  As Scott's time in this life was nearing the end, he was selfless enough to tell me he loved my family and me.  That's just Scott McRae.

I was having coffee at 8th & Roast one morning recently, when Mike LaLonde texted me the news that Scott had died.  My first thought was for his wife, Tina, and the children.  Initially, I was overwhelmed with sadness and grief for them and, to a certain extent, I still am.  My next thought, though, was an overwhelming sense of gratitude.  God put Scott McRae in my life and, more importantly, in my boys' lives, and all of us are the better for it.  

While one part of Scott's journey had ended, another part is just beginning.  Scott will be greeted by our Lord, whom I am certain will say, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."  I believe that with all of my heart.   

If ever there was a life well lived, it was Scott McRae's.

When I finished my coffee, lost in my thoughts and reminiscences about friendship and baseball games past, I walked outside and got in my truck to go to work.  After I started it and began to pull onto Eighth Avenue, I heard a noise beneath my seat, then felt something roll against my feet.  

I stopped, looked down, and to my surprise, there was a baseball.

I pulled over, stunned.   When I carry the bucket of baseballs in my truck so Joe can take batting practice or get a workout in, the bucket is closed and in the back of my truck.   Even if a baseball fell out, it couldn't possibly roll past the back seat and into the front, because I always have the third row of seats up.  In the seven or eight years I have had my truck, I have never had a baseball find its way into the front floorboard of my truck.  Never.  

How?  Why?  

As I continued to sit in stunned silence, I smiled.  I believe in signs.  Maybe you do, too.  They're rare but they exist.  To me, anyway.  

I believe God sent me a sign that morning.  Scott is with Him.  He's fine.  Tina and the children are going to be okay.  In fact, everything is going to be okay.  

Later that week on Friday night, in advance of middle school baseball tryouts at MBA, I took Joe to D-bats for a workout.  As always, it had been a relatively crazy week at work.  It was so nice to be with Joe, throwing the baseball, doing what I love and what he loves, together. 

As I was throwing batting practice to Joe, I noticed he was early, swinging way ahead of my pitches.  As a result, every ball he hit would have been a foul ball on a baseball field.  I stopped, stepped out from behind the protective screen, and walked toward Joe.  He met me halfway, batting helmet on and bat in hand, looking up at me expectantly, waiting for instruction.

I put my arm around Joe's shoulder and said to him, quietly, "let it travel."  He smiled, looked up at me, and finished my next sentence.  

"Trust your hands."

I nodded, smiled, and held Joe's gaze for a long moment.  We were thinking the same thing.  It was a moment I will never forget.  Then, I walked back to my spot behind the screen and took a deep breath.  

This time, I heard it in my mind, in Scott McRae's voice, plain as day.  

"Trust your hands."

That's what Scott always told the boys during batting practice or a game, if they were anxious and out in front of the ball.  Those three words reassured whichever boy Scott was talking to at any given time.  They carried so much weight for the boys in all of the best ways. 

"Trust your hands." 

Don't be nervous.  You're good enough.  Trust your instincts.  You can find a barrel if you wait on the pitch just a split second longer.  You're ready for the moment. 

As I've said many times, it's not about baseball.  It never was.  Baseball is life.  What Scott and I taught the boys on the baseball field are lessons and traits we want them to take into life, and they will.  Confidence.  Competitiveness.  Resilience.  Attention to detail.  How to be a good teammate.  All of those things and so many more.    

What I want Tina to know, and what I want Daniel and the girls to know, too, is that Scott McRae will live on in our lives long after he's left us.  Why?  Because I will hear his voice, talking to our boys on the baseball field, quietly instructing them, encouraging them, teaching them.  Because those boys will hear his voice, throughout their lives, on the baseball field and off, instilling confidence in them to do whatever it is that needs to be done.  He taught them to believe in themselves, especially in challenging times.  

"Trust your hands."

        

A Morning to Remember on the Hill

This morning, for the first time in the stories 159 year history of Montgomery Bell Academy, the Bishop of the Catholic Diocese in Nashville held mass at school.  It was moving and memorable.  It was beautiful.  

As I understand it, my friend, Austin Weaver, was instrumental in arranging for Bishop J. Mark Spalding to celebrate Mass with the Catholic Club (and parents) at MBA.  It was special to see so many young men - seventh graders to seniors - up early and sitting together in Lowry Hall during Mass.  Proud parents, like Jude and me, greeted each other as we took seats in the rows behind the boys.  

It was honor for JP to be asked to be the reader this morning.  Jude and I watched with great price as JP handled both readings and the (responsive) Psalm reading,  as well.  We're so blessed to have two boys whose Catholic faith is so strong.  The Catholic Church and being Christians are very important to JP and Joe.  In many ways, they live the Word every day in the way the conduct themselves as they move through their teenaged lives.  Their faith is strong, which reassures me because at different times in their lives, they will need it.  

Bishop Spalding's homily was outstanding, I though.  Near the end, he reminded the boys that their first responsibility was to make sure they got into Heaven.  Then, he suggested they bring as many other people with them, into Heaven, as they could.  That message resonated with me.  

As Mass was ending, Mike Lalonde asked Bishop Spalding to pray for Scott McRae, who died last week after a long bout with abdominal cancer.  With tears in my eyes, Bishop Spalding led our group in a Hail Mary in Scott's honor.  That meant a great deal to several of us in the room.  

Afterwards, Jude and I mingled a bit, said goodbye to JP and Joe, and it was off to busy days at work.  Still, what a nice start to our day and to the weekend.    

Dry January

As I did last year, I'm going to try to give up something, or add something, each month in 2026.  As I've written before, it makes the year more interesting to me.  Also, I like to test my resolve in a different way each month.  

For the second year in a row, I had a dry January.  No alcohol.  As much as I enjoy having a bourbon or an occasional glass of wine, I find it reassuring that giving up alcohol for a month is easy.  Part of it is mind over matter, just convincing myself that having a drink is just not something I do, at least not for the month of January.  The other part of it is that I really like the way I feel when I'm not drinking alcohol.  

I say both of those things as someone who probably has not been intoxicated in over a year.  At best, I'm a one, occasionally two drink guy.  Still, the recent science has moved away from the idea that a glass of red wine is good for your heart or that drinking alcohol, in moderation, does not adversely affect one's health.  Rather, everything I read now seems to indicate that drinking any alcohol is bad for you.  At 59 years of age, that might be true.  

I do know that I eat better, more healthy, if I'm not drinking alcohol.  For me, anyway, it's much easier to make a poor food choice if I've had a bourbon or two.  Chips, pretzels, etc.  That's the way it works for me, anyway.  

The other side of the coin, though, is that after a nice win in Court yesterday and a long afternoon working with a client to try to settle a case, it was very nice to have a bourbon with two of our attorneys before I left the office.  It's nice to slow down and sit, just for a few minutes, at the end of a busy day and talk to people I work with every day.  To laugh.  Joke.  To simply hang out a bit before making the 30 minute drive home.  For sure, it's a bit of a stress reliever, particularly when a bourbon also involved good company.

Nonetheless, I think I'm going to listen to the science and cut back one alcohol in 2026.  Why not?

In February, no sweets, chips, or crackers.  Also, I'm keeping a gratitude journal and once a day, I'm writing a sentence about something for which I am thankful.  I think it will center me to get into the mindset of thinking about what I am thankful for.  I hope so, anyway.  

Powerless

The Great Freeze continues as almost 100,000 are still without power one week after the ice storm.  It's crazy but according to Nashville Electric Service, our zip code will not have power restored until February 5, 2026.  That will be almost two weeks with no power for our neighborhood.

On the way home from work on Thursday, I drove through my old neighborhood, between 10th Avenue and 8th Avenue.  It was eerie, as there were blocks and blocks of houses in complete darkness.  No lights.  No streetlights.  No human activity.  Very few cars.  It looked like everyone had vanished.  Truly, the mass desertion of entire blocks made it look like a pandemic had wiped everyone out or that there had been a zombie apocalypse.  Really, really strange.

Our street is still largely without power.  Somehow, though, and I hesitate to say it too loudly, we have managed to keep our power on throughout the entire ordeal.  Last night, Jude saw one house on the other side of Linden Avenue, a few houses down from us, with power on.  Other than that, no one.  

Ms. Rachel was at Vanderbilt hospital for a few days.  Her grandson stopped by to pick up some of her things earlier this week and told us she had been moved to a rehabilitation facility.  

On our other side, Maureen has had a terrible go of it.  No power for a week.  She stayed at the Thompson Hotel in the Gulch for a few nights, then was able to get a spot at the Gilmore, a new boutique hotel in 12South, walking distance from our houses.  Thursday night, her daughter's car alarm started going off at 4:30 a.m.  every five minutes.  Unfortunately, when she got back into her house for the first time on Friday morning to check on Erin's car in the driveway in the back yard, she discovered a water pipe had burst and caused massive flooding.  I can't even imagine.  I am so sad for her.

Maureen has had a remediation truck at the house all weekend long trying to remove the moisture and, I suppose, limit a potential mold problem.  Again, I can't even imagine.

Jude and I have been scrambling, trying to find someone to cut down our trees that have fallen into Ms. Rachel's back yard and on her telephone line.  We also need someone with a bucket truck to cut down the dangling leaves at the top of the large elm in the middle of our backyard.  We have a large branch of the elm tree that fell on the roof of our in-progress screened in porch that needs to be removed.  Who knows when anyone will be able to get to those projects.  

All of the arborists have been in triage mode, trying to take care of the most dangerous and serious tree removed projects first, or so it seems.  Maybe they're simply making themselves available to the highest bidder.  For sure, there is some price gouging going on.  I also suspect there are some fly-by-night, "non-arborist" arborists springing up all over town.

This ice storm seems to have been so much more damaging than the one that hit Nashville and surrounding area in 1994.  Maybe it's recency bias, but it feels like there are a to more sustained power outages with this storm.  

Freddie O'Connell, a bit of a bumbling, absent minded professor on his best day - the accidental Mayor, if you will - has come across as unprepared, non-responsive, and ineffectual.  Fair or not, the city doesn't appear to have been prepare for the ice storm, although I am not altogether sure how you prepare for a disaster of this magnitude.  What is more unforgivable, though, is how poorly he has communicated with the people of Nashville in the aftermath of the storm.  It's like he's been in hiding, other than one or two press conferences and the occasional Instagram video as he walks through his neighborhood at night.  O'Connell will be a one-term mayor for certain.

Nashville Electric Service has looked even worse, if that is possible.  Still, what do they care?  N.E.S. in the only game in town.  It's not like a Nashville residence can decide to switch to Middle Tennessee Electric.  It just doesn't work that way.

Jude, the boys, and I are fortunate, so very fortunate.  Everyone is safe.  We have power.  We have some cleanup to accomplish, with help from professionals, but that will be taken care of over time.  So many other neighbors and Nashvillians are hurting.  It's hard to see.  

The Last of Us

Zombie apocalypse is probably too strong a phrase for what Nashville has experienced the last three days but it's not far off.  

As I sit here in The Well on Music Row - my first time to sit down in a coffee shop and take a breath since Saturday (3 + days ago) - Nashville is crawling out from under the worst ice storm since 1994.  Well over 200,000 people were without power starting Sunday morning.  Many, including our next door neighbors on both sides, are still without power.  Almost 200 poles snapped.  Trees and branches are down, literally everywhere.  Many roads are completely blocked, including Portland Avenue at 21st Avenue.  

It's like a tornado hit the entire city at the same time.  I have never seen anything like this.  Never.  So many trees lost.  Entire neighborhoods are to look entirely different when this is over.  The damage and the cleanup costs will be well over 1 billion dollars, I am sure.  So many people, including those in our neighborhood remain without power.  Everywhere, many old growth trees split right down the middle under the weight of the ice Sunday morning.  It looks like a bolt of lightning struck the crown of so many trees, cleaving them in half.    

From next door, Maureen and her dog, Clio, are in a hotel nearby with what seems like all of 12South.  Ms. Rachel, on our other side, is at Vanderbilt Hospital.  When she lost power, she switched to her portable oxygen tank.  At 89, she doesn't have family nearby.  As her oxygen supply dwindled late Sunday afternoon, Jude called an ambulance at her request.  We ran an extension cord from one of our outside outlets in front of our house into Ms. Rachel's house, so she could plug in her oxygen tank.  Like MacGyver, it worked!  

When it became clear the ambulance wasn't going to be able to get to her anytime soon, JP and I helped her walk up her sidewalk and over to our house.  We had cleared her sidewalk and ours, too, but not the sidewalk in front of houses.  It was slow going, as she held onto her walker, JP and I on each side of her with Jude close behind her in case she fell.  We made it and settled Ms. Rachel into the reading chair in our living room, covered in blankets because she was so cold.  

Jude warmed up some pasta I had made the previous evening, so Ms. Rachel was able to eat a hot meal.  We talked for a while, then she called her grandson and her sister to check in, before falling asleep in the chair.  The fire department arrived at our house to check on her just past midnight.  About 1 a.m., the ambulance arrived, and Ms. Rachel went to Vanderbilt Hospital.  

The temperatures have been in the single digits at night and not much higher during the day, as a result of which the trees are still covered in ice.  A lot of the ice on the streets - particularly the main streets - melted or was salted and plowed by Monday afternoon.  The neighborhood streets are still dicey in places.  JP and Joe have been out of school all week and not in remote school - much to their delight - because so many are without power and internet access.  

Because our internet has been out, the last two nights we watched old movies on DVD's!  JP was able to figure out how to operate the DVD player, which is more than Jude or I could have done.  Two nights ago, we watched Anchorman:  The Legend of Ron Burgundy.  Quite funny, as the boys love Will Ferrell.  Last night, we watched Point Break, the ultimate "good bad movie."  Awesome.  

There is more to tell and photos to be posted but I've got to get back home and get to work.  Hopefully, the tree company will arrive this morning to take a look at the trees in our back yard.  The one that fell into Ms. Rachel's yard has to come down.  There are large branches broken off and caught in the crown of the biggest tree in our backyard, one that hovers over our house.  There also is a large branch on the roof of our new screened in porch.  It's a mess.

Still, we're safe.  We have power, for now.  Jude's parents have power.  Blessings everywhere.    

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.