Charlie Baird: a Local Icon

SAN DIEGO – I planned for this column to be about a humorous 1993 trip to Tarrytown, NY, a follow-up to my reveries about Seattle.

But during a phone call while still in Seattle, my parents informed me of an event to change my plans.

Charles Howard Baird died Sunday, July 26.

His passing and his contributions to Lebanon and life have been well documented in this newspaper. His memorial service and interment in Wilson County Memorial Gardens alongside his beloved Erma concluded Saturday.

The fabric of Lebanon I often write about is a bit more frayed around the edges.

Charlie Baird rode the star of Lebanon and Wilson County in its ascendency like Pecos Bill rode the hurricane down by the Rio Grande.

Charlie was 96 when he died. He had a fruitful life. As with others in his generation, he lived in forward gear.

Major, Tennessee Native

He was born in the community of Major. An internet search will not reveal exactly where Major was. Major was swallowed by the Cedars of Lebanon State Park. Charlie was a surveyor of the project to make his homeland a state park.
Charlie, like G. Frank Burns, always looked forward while remembering the past.

Charlie came to Lebanon to complete his high school education (with honors). He stayed and became a driving force in the community. He started working at the Lebanon Woolen Mills in shipping. I believe it was 1931. Fifty years later, he retired as general manager and vice-president. His Woolen Mills was not only a huge commercial success in Lebanon; it was a model for industry in the Mid-South.

I could go on about the success of Charlie Baird, but the local news media already have well chronicled that success.

Golf Stories

The last time I visited with Charlie at his home on West End Heights, we shared our golf stories as we have done since he found out I played the game. It did not bother him knowing I’ve never been a very good golfer like he was. We both loved the game and that was enough.

In our visit, Charlie talked about his father’s ability to throw a baseball. Perhaps that is where Charlie’s athletic ability came from.

The Bairds and the Jewells have been close for a long, long time. I believe it is typical of many families in Lebanon. Such relationships are often based on attending the same church.

From their church relationship, the Bairds, Jewells, Dowdys, Spains, Leftwichs, and others formed a bridge club, well described by J. B. Leftwich in his column.
Charlie Stories

On my May trip home from the Southwest corner, my father told me a bridge club story which occurred in the Smokies.

My family owned a large cabin between Sevierville and Maryville. It became a bridge club custom to spend a long autumn weekend there. My father and my uncle, Snooks Hall, would go early to take food and clean up the cabin before the others arrived.

One year, they discovered a man from just upstream had stocked the creek with fingerling trout so he could don his waders and fly fish. A contingent of the trout had settled in a pool just under the walking bridge leading up to our cabin.

During a lull, my father baited the ubiquitous porch fishing pole with white bread and caught a few trout. He threw them back.

When Charlie arrived, my father mentioned the trout to Charlie.

Charlie said, “Why Jimmy, where’s a fishing pole? I’m going to catch some trout.” He caught about six, cleaned them, and asked Erma to cook them for his supper.

When they sat down for supper, Charlie had his trout and everyone else had the planned meal. Charlie took one bite and proclaimed, “Why Jimmy, I think that is the worst thing I have ever tasted.”

I can hear his raspy laugh.

My father also tells about Charlie when a California trucker delivered materials to the Woolen Mills. Not wanting to dead head his truck back west, he asked Charlie if he knew where he could get a load to carry back.

Charlie told him to drive up to Crab Orchard and load up with sandstone. The trucker did as Charlie suggested and made good money on his return trip.

That is Charlie Baird to me. Good ideas, good stories, always looking to help someone.

We will miss him.

Darkness In the White Snow

In amongst the revelers, experts of the slopes,
the old man found himself alone
in powder the first day after the night storm:
Family had departed for duties;
the friend to join him had demurred:
the old man was alone
in white white.
He drudged through day one alone,
fighting through the powder,
feeling the muscles ache,
stiffened by age;
no running through the hills or
on the beach;
he left the slopes early,
taking a nap;
rested, he visited an old haunt:
like the newspaper man he was at heart,
returning to a bar
just like the old days
except there was no newspaper;
the stories were his, not reports for newsprint,
shared
with the old gent tossing down
old fashions with the best of them.
day two, on the second run downhill,
the old man decided
to cut his trip short,
dedicating the day to old times:
he hit the slopes early:
perfect.
He rode to the top;
skied, skied
even better than he could remember:
he had always hit the slopes
like a linebacker,
but this day he conquered the longest runs,
flowing gracefully down the gradient
on newly groomed slopes of elegance
of white on white
until age caught up
and he fell ingloriously
down the slope.
Picking himself up, he thought:
“time to go,” and he went.

Packing, he decided to have one last brew
at a local bar across the street
Sitting there, he reveled in aloneness,
before he caught the van
to the cavernous airport,
much like the old bus depots
he had spent waiting in his youth;
SLC the code called it;
and he caught the plane,
leaving aloneness behind him.
Time had stopped in his aloneness;
he wandered around in his mind
as he moved
down the slope,
onto the barstool,
into the terminal,
on the plane;
he dreamed of her, a reality,
but something he could not touch;
when he saw her in his dream,
he saw the past,
even while swishing down the slopes,
he would feel the old dog with him,
the ports of call,
the realities of ships at sea
a long, long time ago
and
they all seemed to fit
with the image of his muse,
which he had long abandoned
for cynicism.
On the plane ride back,
he looked out the small port
at the black sky,
realizing
she had been there
and would likely be there for a long time,
someone he could not touch,
could not have
except
as old men have young friends,
and
he wondered
if he could be good for her,
which
he realized
was probably all that really mattered.

Bonita, California
March 28, 2007