Author: Ernie McCray

Hey, guys, I guess you’ll have to “Bear Down” without me. I was looking forward to ambling – or whatever you call the way we 70 plus year old dudes walk now – out to mid court with you at the halftime of the U of A/Washington game while thousands of Wildcat fans look at us, going “You guys played basketball?”

Well, I intended to be there but I lost my wife a few months ago and I find that my energy ebbs and flows. …But, wow, has it really been fifty years since we were tearing it up back in old Bear Down Gym….

The other day, as I pondered the words, “Two aging hippies live here,” the greeting on the welcome mat at the front door of my home, I thought about how lucky I am to have had Nancy in my life for so long.

I wondered how we ever got together. I mean Nancy was raised in Pacific Palisades, in L.A., overlooking the mighty Pacific, across a canyon from Grace Kelly, Walter Matthau and Betty Davis, just to name a few.

by Ernie McCray

My Nancy has been gone for a few months now and I’m slowly getting back up on my feet to continue on the path she and I trod together for thirty-four years.

In spite of the sudden moments of pain that slow me down now and again I will strive to keep my eyes forever on the prize and hope she’s looking down on me with pride as I, more importantly, in the vernacular of the day, try to “keep it real” and not lose sight that changing the world is not the kind of enterprise that should be overly glamorized. Such thinking is based on how we used to laugh at how so many people rave about “The Good Old Days,” remembering events in their lives as, basically, little white lies.

by Ernie McCray

Once upon a time, at the outset of World War II, Japanese American students at CaIifornia State Universities were rounded up and shipped off to internment camps.

Now those Institutions of Higher Learning would like to grant honorary degrees to the students who suffered such indignities.

And I guess that although an honorary degree might not be as profitable as getting a home to replace the one you might have lost or as powerfully emotional as being reconnected with an old pal you were separated from and have never seen again – it’s never the less a nice gesture, a needed touch, perhaps, in making the world a better place.

My mind can’t move away from thoughts of fatherhood ever since I wrote “An Unrequited Wish” for the OB Rag sometime ago wherein I shared my belief that my late soul mate’s dad’s indiscretions with her throughout her childhood led to her taking her life.

Most of my reflecting has been about my own experiences as a dad starting back when I first heard that I was a father to be. The news caught me off guard completely. I mean, in one moment, I was strutting down the halls of Tucson High, wearing my big red “T” for my basketball artistry, All-City, All-State, All-Star, All-Ego, in the flow, high fiving and asking “What’s happening?” of everybody I happened to know, throwing in all the latest dance steps just to diversify the show – and, in the next moment, somewhere in the middle of all the festivities my girlfriend managed to say to me: “I’m pregnant.”

by Ernie McCray

Oh, I can’t keep my mind off my baby,
off my girl,
off the best thing that’s happened to me
in this world.
And to keep her
from having died in vain,
I’ll try to answer a question
that’s been asked of me
again and again: “Why? Why did Nancy choose to die?”

The question is always posed by someone who: knows that Nancy loved them as they loved her; has seen with their own eyes that her family was the joy of her life; feels she had many more miles of waterways to swim and trails to hike, pictures to take and more wounded or abandoned animals to save or sick and shut in friends to tend to.

by Ernie McCray
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Trying to proceed with life after losing my Nancy has been like climbing out of a steep wet muddy hole wearing slippery shoes. What did I ever do to the universe to have to sing these blues?

But, as I’ve always done to keep from going insane, I’ve been writing to ease my pain. Not long ago I took part in an exercise at a writers workshop wherein we put down our thoughts about: “Things That Make Life Worth Living.”

by Ernie McCray
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I feel like Arsenio Hall because everywhere I roam I see things that make me go: “Hmmm.” Like these crazy people I’ve seen on TV. You know the ones, they’re all blue in the face, looking scarily Incredible Hulkish, some of them without a shred of insurance, shrieking at a man who has: put keeping them healthy and well so they don’t have to foreclose on their American Dreams high up on his list of things to do.

by Ernie McCray

On July 31st, in an effort to get on with my life after the death of my precious soul mate, I wrote in my journal: “I’m on my way down a long highway, trying to make my way to something faraway called normalcy where I used to live before the tragedy. But I’ll get there. Just you wait and see.”

By Ernie McCray

(An Old Man Just Sharing Good Memories Sparked by a Picture)

The house I live in was built in 1911 of some pretty sturdy wood; it had to be with twin girls traveling up and down its stairs in various teenage moods and posing like Tyra Banks in a photo shoot on its roof; it had to be with a boy, like a descendant of the Eveready Energizer Bunny, bouncing off its walls and floors and ceilings like a racquetball until we shipped him off to Long Beach State with a great big “Whew!”; it had to be with a mom and dad pacing back and forth on its carpets wondering aloud: “Whose Idea was it to have kids?”

by Ernie McCray

My old Latino friends from John Spring Junior High, back in Tucson, must be bursting with pride as Sonia Sotomayor closes in on a seat on the Supreme Court – just as I’ve been riding high knowing there’s a brother in the White House.

by Ernie McCray

I’m enjoying the honor of helping organize the African American Male Intergenerational Conference that will be held on June 5th and 6th at the Educational Cultural Complex.

The experience has made me think of all the identities I’ve answered to in my 71 years. I entered the world a little colored baby boy and before I could say Jack Robinson, voila, I was a Negro.