It’s not your imagination. The light actually is different this time of year. Golden and lush, it’s also more magical. It’s not just the color of the leaves, or the chill in the air. The light is different and it’s changing fast. There’s science behind the magic as well.
Poets love to write about autumn. They call it our gilded season, or talk of the golden light this time of year. The leaves turning color, the chill in the air, perhaps the smell of wood smoke from a fire. The shadows lengthen. Birds start to head south. At the Bay, you hear more geese honking as they arrive. There is a poignancy to autumn that isn’t present in the other seasons, as well. In the back of our minds we know we will soon be ensconced in the two tone world of winter. For me, those thoughts make me want to linger longer in the golden time of year that is autumn.
I love the light this time of year. It’s different from the flat light of summer, or the cold light of winter. It is softer, and almost has a thickness to it, particularly in early morning and late afternoon. It gives a golden glow that isn’t present in the other seasons. It bathes the woods with a warmth of color. Combined with the turning leaves, it becomes magical.
A Magical Time of Year
But it’s not just magic. There is also a science behind Autumnal Light. Over the course of the year, the angle of the earth changes every day. The sun was straight overhead at the Summer Equinox, giving us the longest day of the year. Since then? As our axis shifts, the sun has dropped lower in the sky every day. In fact, since the start of Autumn, it’s dropping even faster. As the sun falls, it must pass through more atmosphere before reaching us. The color is altered by the absorption and refraction differences with the lower angle. The end result is the magic of autumn we all love.
Soon Halloween, and Thanksgiving will pass, and winter will arrive. The bright spots of Christmas and New Year’s Eve will provide cheer, and then it’s the slow slog through January, February and March. I don’t hate winter, but I’m always glad when it’s over.
In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the rest of this autumn. Walks in the woods in the late afternoons are pure joy. The quiet of the woods, the color of the leaves on the trees, the crunch of leaves underfoot, a deer racing up a nearby hill, they all combine to create moments that are mystical. Add in the dappled fall sunlight playing across the woodland and it’s enough to make me wish that moment of perfection would last just a little longer. If only it could.
The Interplay of Color and Light Make me Wish I Could Stretch the Time a Little Longer
Addendum:
Thanks to our friend Vinnie for the photo of our neighbor Susan’s home on the Bay in the afternoon light. I love this picture.
I was recently informed by WordPress (the site where my blog is hosted), that I first started this blog seven years ago, last week. My, how time flies. Here’s the blog that started it all, published in October of 2015: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/why-live-life-exuberantly/
Things that belong in martinis: Gin (or vodka), vermouth, maybe a dash of orange bitters or splash of olive juice, and either a lemon peel or olives. Things that don’t belong in martinis: MSG, pasta water, garlic powder, fish sauce or “Filipino sugar cane vinegar.” Yes, this blog is an Old Man Rant.
Dave, a friend of mine, recently gave me the October ‘22 issue of Food & Wine magazine. I was flipping pages when I came upon an article on the “Drink of the Year”. The lead in was pretty good – “The martini is America’s most iconic cocktail, and it’s undeniably the “it” drink of 2022.” This looked interesting at first; however, the article went downhill from there. They gave recipes for seven “signature martinis” from around the country. A couple were twists on a standard martini. The others? While they may be good or interesting drinks, they are definitely not martinis, or at least not in my book.
Some Interesting Drinks, but Most Aren’t Really Martinis.
Among the highlights, there’s the Salmon Martini, with “smoked salmon-infused gin” with a caper berry garnish. Next is a Datu Datu Martini with “Filipino sugar cane vinegar”, garlic powder and fish sauce. Then we have the MSG Martini with MSG and Shaoxing wine. And finally, (and I’m not making this up), the Dirty Pasta Water Martini which uses starchy pasta water in the mix.
A Dirty Pasta Water Martini … Really
Now these may be fine drinks, but do we really need to call them martinis? Doesn’t it show just a little lack of imagination on the originator’s part? It takes me back to the bad old days of the Chocotini and Appletini… ughhhhhh.
Ian Fleming and James Bond stirred up quite the controversy decades ago with his shaken, not stirred, Vodka Martini. I’ll grant you the Vodka Martini is OK, but not really my cup of tea, thank you very much. By the way, it’s called a Vodka Martini, not a Martini. And yes, a martini should be stirred, but I won’t throw it away if it’s shaken.
Baltimore-born satirist H.L. Mencken famously said the martini is “The only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.” I always thought ol’ HL was a pretty smart and witty guy. And of course when he said “martini”, he really meant a gin martini.
My Martini? Beefeater gin, a little vermouth, and a small splash of olive juice, stirred or shaken depending on the day, and served up with a couple of olives. Simple, smooth and straightforward. Pretty tasty as well.
Rant over. 😉
Simple, Smooth, Straightforward and … Tasty,
Addendum:
This blog was half tongue-in-cheek and half rant. But a Dirty Pasta Water Martini? Really? It sounds like someone cleaned out a pot and used it to dilute a martini. 😉
Thanks to my buddies Tim and Mark for their commentary and suggestions for this blog. Mark is a vodka guy, and Tim views martinis as olive injection systems.
I was in Warrenton between stops at the dry cleaners and the UPS store when Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” came on the radio. Talk about flashbacks. I don’t think I’d heard it in decades. When I came out of the UPS store several minutes later, it was still playing and my mind drifted back to Plebe year at West Point.
As Plebes (Freshmen), we weren’t allowed to have stereo equipment in our rooms during the first semester. I suppose some sort of depravation challenge for us. Second semester, the restriction was lifted, and many of us went to the Cadet Store to dutifully buy audio equipment of varying quality.
Me, as a Plebe at West Point
Of course I started buying albums of various types as well. Sometime in the middle of the semester, a friend dropped by and said something like “Have you listened to Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?” Now the album was actually released in 1968. Not only had I never heard it, I’d never heard of it. I looked at the album and said “Hey, there’s only one song on this side.” My friend looked at me like I was stupid, and put the album on the turntable.
Full On 1968…
I was blown away. Seventeen minutes for one song. It went on and on and on. The lyrics were simple and repeated. And then somewhere in the middle is that incredible drum solo. I was hooked and bought a copy. For the next month, I hardly played anything else.
The Lyrics were … Simple … and Repeated Over and Over
Eventually, my infatuation faded a bit and it moved into a normal musical rotation. By Firstie (Senior) year, it moved to the back of the albums and was rarely played.
….
Back in my car, the drum solo was pounding and I cranked the volume. I was lost somewhere between nostalgia and thinking to myself “Hmmm, this is still pretty good.”
The drum solo eventually finished, and so too did the song about half way home. When I arrived at our house, I looked through my old albums for Iron Butterfly. It wasn’t there. Somewhere along the way, it evidently didn’t make the cut for our next move. Or maybe someone borrowed it and it never came home.
I know in today’s world, I can call it up online and listen to it anytime I want, and now that I’ve remembered it, maybe I will. Or I could pay Apple and downline the single. I don’t know that I’ll do either, but yesterday was a pretty cool drive home and I enjoyed the trip back in time.
Addendum:
⁃ In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida actually started as “In the Garden of Eden” and a reference to Adam and Eve. When one of the band members first wrote down the words from a band mate’s recording that was slurred (due to alcohol consumption), In a gadda da vida is what he heard, and what was written down. The rest is rock history.
Here are two YouTube videos of the song. First one contains a video of the band (very blurry and very ‘60s). Second one is just the album cover, but I think the audio is better.
I hate missing a good party. Unfortunately, we will miss Chili Dump 2022. We made the 2016 version, which featured great chili, a band, Elvis, a bonfire tended by a front-end loader, and 200, or so, of my sister and brother-in-law’s closest friends. What’s a Chili Dump? I’m glad you asked.
My Brother-in-law Jack started his legendary Chili Dump party around 2002 with his then wife, Meg. The first party was a thank you for friends who helped clear the land they were building their home on, and then subsequently helping them build their home. It became an annual event, and as their kids grew older, their friends started attending the party as well. Sadly, Meg passed away in 2013. When my sister Roberta met Jack later, she too was introduced to The Chili Dump. In 2016, we timed our visit home to Illinois so we could attend the party.
On that October ‘16 afternoon, Jack started a fire in the back yard and put a huge pot over it. The pot actually looked more like a cauldron than any pot I’d ever seen. They added the usual chili ingredients – cooked ground beef, tomatoes, tomato juice, hot peppers, beans and spices (and please, I don’t want to hear from any Texans about how beans don’t belong in chili). Soon, the chili started to cook and bubble away. By then, we may have had a beer or two.
A Cauldron of Chili….
The first friends arrived by ATV, and brought more ingredients to add to the Chili – venison and jalapeños if I recall correctly. Others continued to arrive. Smoked brisket, hotdogs, sausage, bratwurst – they all went into the pot. Wood was added to the fire, to keep the chili cooking. Our friends Tim and Renee arrived from the Chicago ‘burbs with a blend of spices they specifically put together for the chili. Into the pot it went.
Tim and Renee’s Special Chili Spice for the Chili Dump!
Other folk brought toppings, including sour cream, grated cheddar cheese, sliced jalapeños and fried bacon. Someone made cornbread. There were bags of chips and Doritos added to the serving table. My sister Tanya and her husband Shawn arrived, and added more beef in the pot. Nieces and nephews arrived, and all dutifully put something in the pot. The volume of chili in the pot was definitely increasing.
The Pot was Getting Full!
Pickup trucks and cars were now lined up near the cow pasture. It started getting crowded and started getting dark. Around then, Jack lit the bonfire. It was a biiiiiig bonfire…
The Bonfire WAS Big…
Somewhere during all of this, people began sampling the chili. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but then I took my first bite. Wow! This was surprisingly tasty. People kept arriving and adding to the chili. There was now also a steady stream of bowls being filled, so the volume stayed about the same, or maybe started to go down. There were probably 200 people at the farm by then.
Eventually, the Joel Limberg Band started playing. Some folks were dancing, and as at weddings, lots of little kids were hopping around on the dance floor. At some point, the band brought out a surprise guest singer – Elvis. Actually, a Philippine Elvis. Let me tell ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Elvis sing Sweet Caroline, with the crowd joining in on the response – “Sweet Caroline, oh oh oh, Good times never seemed so good – So Good! So Good! So Good!” The party was going strong now!
Yes, Elvis is a bit Blurry, Much Like Parts of the Evening….
More dancing. Talking with family and old friends. Making new friends. More beer. More chili. The chili level in the pot was definitely receding. The bonfire was also going down, but Jack wasn’t ready to let that happen just yet. You know you have a big fire when you need to tend it with a tractor’s front-end loader.
Nothing Says Party, Like Fire in the Front-End Loader…
Although it was getting later, no one was leaving. Suddenly fireworks went off and exploded in the sky. We all watched, and oohed and ahhhed. The neighbors didn’t complain, because most of them were at the party.
Oooohhh! Aaaahhhh!
The band played another set, and it was time for more beer and more chili. The volume in the pot was definitively lower, but the chili was still hot, and still tasty. I noticed the crowd was starting to thin some, although I don’t think the sound volume was any lower.
Well after midnight, Cathy and I finally went to bed. It was a great party, but sometimes it’s good to know your limits.
The next morning, we woke, not feeling overly fuzzy. Jack and Berta were already up and had fed their calves and chickens. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to much worse for wear. I asked Berta how late the party went, and all she said was “Late”.
Our friends Tim and Renee also spent the night and they too woke up and joined the living. Eventually, we all went outside and started cleaning up. We may have partaken of a little “hair of the dog” during the cleanup. A couple of the youngsters also stopped by and with all of us involved, it wasn’t tooooo much work and we finished up after a couple of hours.
That was the 2016 party, and so far, the first and last one we attended. Since then, we’ve been out of the country for a couple of them, and of course covid slowed things down. I should mention they burned a Covid Snowman at the 2020 Chili Dump.
SnowMore Covid ‘19, was Added to the Bonfire in 2020…
I’ve both attended and hosted a number of good parties over the years, here in the States, and overseas in Germany, Austria, France, Belgium and the UK. I have to say the 2016 Chili Dump was one of the best. Anytime you combine chili, beer, Elvis, a bonfire, fireworks and fun people, it has to be pretty good, doesn’t it?
Addendum:
Thanks to my sister, Roberta, for help with this blog.
WARNING! If you don’t like seeing the F-Bomb in print, you shouldn’t read this week’s blog. I regret using it here, but it’s germane to the vandalism that has taken place with political signs and a building here in sleepy little Fauquier County. There is, of course, stupidity everywhere. It’s always fun when it hits close to home.
The sign crew from the Fauquier County Democratic Committee (FCDC) has been installing large signs, with the permission of landowners, along the highways and byways of our lovely county to support the re-election of Jennifer Wexton to Congress. Due to redistricting, Fauquier County moved from the very RED 5th Congressional District, to the slightly BLUE 10th Congressional District. Congresswoman Wexton has served in Congress for the last four years. Before that, she was a State Senator and a prosecutor. She is a great public servant who actually listens, and we are doing everything we can to re-elect her.
We’ve installed over 120 large 4×8 and 4×4 foot signs around the county over the past month. We placed them on road frontage and properties of landowners who specifically granted permission for these signs. If you are driving through the county, they are hard to miss. Recently, someone decided to deface two of the signs and wrote FJB in spray paint on the signs. — sigh — FJB? What’s does FJB stand for, you ask? “Fuck Joe Biden” would be the correct response.
The homeowners called the police, who dutifully took their report. Several horrified Republicans offered to pay to have the sign replaced. The owners gracefully declined. Our committee planned to replace the sign (we have extras for just such occasions), but for now, the homeowners wants them left up, so EVERYONE can see what respect some idiots have for political signs.
FJB in Script….
Afterwards, I was looking around online, thinking maybe they were using FJB to represent something else. No, “Fuck Joe Biden” was the first thing that came up. And then there was a wonderful song titled “FJB” by Parradox. Here are a few of the lyrics, or as a certain former President might say, very fine lyrics, very special lyrics, probably the best lyrics ever:
“Fuck Joe Biden and that bitch Kamala, too
And fuck Nancy Pelosi, don’t think I forgot ‘bout you
You attention craving bitch, that’s all the fuck you want
You think you high and mighty, but trust me, you are not”
I contacted my counterpart, Greg, with the Fauquier County Republican Committee to see if he would sign a joint statement with me for publication in our hardcopy and online local papers, requesting people respect election signs. He readily agreed. A letter was drafted and we sent it to the papers, where it was published.
A Joint Letter to the Editor
In the next week, we had two roadside signs stolen.
Then, last Friday night, our FJB friends struck again. Maybe the miscreants who defaced our signs can’t read. Maybe they thought they were clever. Instead of spraying FJB on more signs, they decided to spray it on the side of a shop in downtown Warrenton. Yep. They graduated from defacing disposable signs, to defacing permanent buildings.
Graduating to Bigger Vandalism
I realize both sides have their nitwits, but c’mon, some people are just stupid. Just south of here about 30 miles, you can find farms and homes with 8×4 foot “Fuck Joe Biden” signs right there on the road side. You can also go to Amazon and buy your very own “Fuck Biden” banner to display outside your home. Certainly the 1st Amendment protects people’s right to say what they want, and that’s fine. I guess I should be happy they are displaying those signs on their own property. There is nothing wrong with proudly letting people know your command of the English language. I always wonder how folk driving by explain those signs to their kids in the back seat of the car.
You Too can Order this Fine Sign on Amazon
Still, I can’t help but wonder if the level of discourse has fallen enough, that it’s not toooooo much of a leap to go from seeing a “Fuck Joe Biden” sign on the side of the road, to cowardly scribbling FJB on a sign, or the side of a building in the dark of night. I’m sure their mothers, and many of their buddies are proud of them.
Keep scribbling. Show the world how ignorant you are. We have plenty of signs, and we are going to win this election.
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Addendum:
Thanks to my friends Irv, David and Colleen for their help with this blog.
Am I going crazy? The weird feelings and nausea while driving by the wind turbines were real. I furtively look at them and yep, they were still standing there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. My eyes snapped back to the road and I tried to focus.
On our recent trip home to Illinois, Cath and I drove through some huge wind farms off of Interstate 65 between Indianapolis and Chicago. As I saw the wind turbines in the distance, I felt a rumble in my stomach. D@mn… With a nervous laugh, I started telling Cathy about the last time I drove through them, thinking maybe telling the story would make the rising feelings go away.
It was 2017 and I was driving home to see mom. She hadn’t been well for a while and as a result, I was probably off a little. I was going to stay at my Sister Berta and her husband Jack’s home near Pontiac, and Google Maps was taking me a different way for the last section of the trip. As I was driving north from Indianapolis, I entered a field of wind turbines. There were hundreds of them and it went on for miles. The turbines were huge, with three blades turning on each. I looked across the fields, mesmerized.
Wind Turbines… For as Far as the Eye Can See
The turbines were turning at different speeds. Some weren’t turning at all. There were lines of them. There were scattered individual ones. There was a pattern. There was no pattern. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh the blades continued to turn silently. I rolled down a window to hear them, but they made no discernible sound. And still they turned, independent and out of synch with each other. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I started to think of them as the evil cousins of the quaint wooden windmills in Holland.
The Evil Cousin of the Quaint Wooden Windmills in Holland
And that’s when I started to feel funny. A bit of nausea, a little out of sorts, foggy in the brain. I tried to keep my eyes on the road and ignore them, but found my eyes continually drifting to the left or right to watch them some more. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I felt myself drifting. Whoosh… whoosh…whoosh… With a start, I popped out of my reverie, saw an exit and pulled off the interstate and into a gas station.
I got out of my car and shook my body a couple of times. Inside the station, I bought a Diet Coke, and with a nervous laugh, told the clerk about the windmills and that I needed a break. He chuckled, and said something like “Yea, that happens around here sometimes. ” After about 15 minutes, I resumed driving. Ten minutes later I was past the turbines without incident.
I finished telling Cathy the story. Without commenting, she just looked at me like I was nuts.
About then, we started passing through the first wind farm and initially everything was fine. I kept up a steady chatter with Cathy, and tried to ignore the beasts outside. Unfortunately, after a bit, I found myself looking at them, standing there, extended in every direction as far as you could see. I kept talking to Cathy. “What do you think about them hon?” “They’re kind of ugly.” was all she said.
No Traffic, but Plenty of Wind Turbines
About then, nausea started creeping in. This was ridiculous. Hmmm, did I eat anything for breakfast that might cause nausea? No… I focused on the road ahead. Ten more miles and we’d exit the interstate. I furtively look left and right. Yep, they were still there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… My eyes snapped back and I focused on the road. I suggested to Cathy she take a couple of pictures of the turbines. I turned the radio up. The feeling was getting worse. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… Suddenly, our exit appeared, and we left the interstate. A mile or so to the west, we were finally free of the windmills and my nausea disappeared. I didn’t tell Cathy about this second wind turbine experience, except to say I thought they were creepy.
Was I going crazy? Later, I looked around on the internet to see if I could find anything. It turns out, something DOES happen to some people, but not most. They even have a name for it – Wind Turbine Syndrome (of course).
Symptoms have been observed in some of those who live near the farms, and in people passing through them. Effects including headaches, nausea, lack of concentration, vertigo and ringing in the ears have all been documented.
The cause? They aren’t sure, but two possibilities have been suggested. First, “Infrasound”, a sound-wave just below what the ear can actually detect (I immediately thought of what has happened to some of our diplomatic folk in Cuba). It is created by the turbines disturbing wind flow. The second possibility is something called “Flicker”. Flicker is caused by the sun reflecting off turbine blades creating a strobe effect. Both can cause headaches and nausea. Apparently, I’m in a minority and most people aren’t effected by the wind turbines at all. Still, I was happy to learn I’m not totally crazy, at least not due to the wind turbines.
As I sit here typing now, I think of them silently and stoically waiting for my return. Maybe next time, they will have a bigger effect, and I won’t get off so easy. Maybe even now they are plotting something new. Maybe they will get closer to the road. Maybe they will… Maybe next time… Maybe… Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…
We are driving home to Illinois this week. The last time we drove to Ottawa was in 2017, and mom was dying. This time, we are going to see living family and friends, and stay at one of the touchstones of my youth.
We never get back to see folk as often as we would like. Life gets in the way, and time keeps on ticking, or depending on your perspective, racing along. We have visited a couple of times since 2017, but always flew. Our last trip was a short one a little over a year ago, and my sister Berta and her husband Jack had a great family reunion while we were there.
The Last Visit Home
This time, Cath and I are bringing our dog, Carmen, and driving. It typically takes 12 to 14 hours to cover the 750 miles, but you don’t measure progress by time or by miles. You track the States you cross. We’ll go from Virginia to West Virginia, then Maryland, back to West Virginia, then Pennsylvania, West Virginia a third time, Ohio, Indiana, and finally, Illinois. You get to see a bit of ‘Murica along the way.
The Northern Route is Shorter, but the Southern Route is an Easier Drive
Cathy is never crazy about the drive. For her, it’s a bit like Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road” (if you haven’t read the book, you may have seen the movie with Viggo Mortensen.) Me? I always enjoy it. I watch the land transform from the Piedmont here in Virginia, to the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, the rolling hills of Ohio, and eventually the flatlands of Indiana and Illinois. None of it is dramatic landscape, but if you have the time, it’s a beautiful way to see and reach the heartland.
It’s funny. I started this blog with “We are driving home…”. Neither Cathy or I have lived in Ottawa since we were 18, nearly 50 years ago. We have lived in our current home here if Virginia for over 23 years. “Going home” of course isn’t always about going to a place. It can be about a time in your life as well. Some may think it’s corny, but there’s something gratifying about occasionally returning to your roots, however short the visit is.
This visit is actually starting at Kishauwau Cabins, a resort we knew in our younger days as Camp Kishauwau, our local Boy Scout Camp. During our youth, my friends, Tim, Howard, Mark and I spent many a night there, either camping in tents or sleeping in one of the few run down cabins it had at the time. The Boy Scouts sold the camp decades ago, and it was turned into a getaway that attracts people from Chicago and the suburbs now. On this trip, we’ll be with our wives and girlfriends and staying in their new and remodeled cabins. My guess is our food and adult beverages will be better than the camp fare we ate and bug juice we drank during our previous stays in the ‘60s and ‘70s.
High Above Vermillion’s Waters…Camp Kishauwau
I’m sure we will tell an old story or two, but we’ll try and keep it in check. Still, I would be surprised if WrongWay LeBeau isn’t mentioned a time or two. Other subjects might come up as well – marshmallow fights, the time we started to run a fellow scout up the flagpole, or the time our troop failed to keep a proper fire-watch during summer camp, or … We’ve only told and heard these stories a few hundred times before, so there’s no reason to repeat them. And yet we probably will, at least a few times.
Like These Old Photos From Camp, our Memories may be a bit Blurry.
Later, we’ll spend a few nights at Berta and Jack’s beautiful home and see them, along with my other sister, Tanya and husband Shawn. The trip is short enough that it’s doubtful we’ll have time to see all of the nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews. Sadly, that’s just how life is sometimes, especially when you live six states away.
Over the course of the week, we will probably have a pizza from Sam’s or Bianchi’s, and maybe a pork tenderloin sandwich somewhere. I’m sure we will visit Allen Park as well. There are some things you just “have to do” when back in Ottawa, no matter the length of the trip.
Eventually, the visit will end and we will return to our home in Virginia. The departure, not money, is always the real price of a trip back home. Knowing time is fleeting and we are growing older, departing is always a little bittersweet for me. The hugs, the handshakes, the I love you’s … the thought of “When will we gather together again?”
Memories are nice. Keeping friendships and family love alive are even better. The best trips make new memories, and I know it will happen this time as well. Still, there is always a question in the back of my mind – “Where does the time go, and when will we gather together again?”
Addendum:
My friend Tim is always more poetic than I am, and suggested adding the 1969 song “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by Fairport Convention in the Addendum. It’s a nice listen and adds perspective as well – https://youtu.be/OkOB57UcYk8
I have held various security clearances for decades in the past. I spent years working in a Special Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF), both in the military, and as a civilian. I’m not here to judge, but I’d probably be in jail if I’d done what our former President did.
One of the things we learned about classified information early on is that in order to access classified documents, or programs, there are actually two requirements. First, you need the security clearance level required for that information. Second, you must have a “need to know” the information. That is, holding a TOP SECRET* (TS) clearance isn’t a sufficient reason to see a TS document. You also must have a specific need to see the particular information.
I obtained my first clearance, SECRET, while still at West Point in the seventies. They don’t just give you a SECRET clearance, or any clearance for that matter. You fill out a form answering several pages of questions, they do a background check, interview family and friends and determine whether you are “trustworthy”. The process takes a while. For most folk, unless you have done hard drugs, committed a crime, declared bankruptcy, or declared hostility to the United States, it isn’t too hard to receive a SECRET clearance.
Bankruptcy is One of the Reasons you Can be denied a Clearance.
In 1989, we returned from an assignment in Germany to the States and I transferred to a job in the DC area. For that work, I underwent a Special Background Investigation (SBI) in order to receive a TS/SCI/SI/TK (TOP SECRET, Special Compartmented Information, Special Intelligence, Talent Keyhole, clearance). These are a wee bit harder to obtain. Actually, a lot harder. It took months and months for the investigations to take place and for the government to grant my clearance (today, it’s not unusual for the process to take nearly a year). I provided information on where I’d lived over the course of my life, background about my jobs and employers, info on family members and friends, and several references. I documented all overseas travel. I documented any communications I had with East Bloc or communist personnel. In addition to verifying the information I provided, and talking with my references, the government also interviewed neighbors, former bosses, coworkers and family members. They physically went to my prior homes, talked with neighbors and asked about my habits. It’s an intensive and invasive process. When I finally received my clearance, I was also eventually “read in” to a couple of highly classified Special Access Programs (SAPs) further restricting who could access the information.
My TS Renewal in 2012 – All 38 Pages of It.
Everything we did in support of those SAPs was done in a SCIF. To access the SCIF, in addition to the combination lock, there was a retina reader at the outside door, and it was only after your eye was scanned that the door would unlock. Our particular SCIF also required two person access. That is, a person was not allowed in the facility by him or herself. There was a requirement for at least two people to occupy the SCIF, whenever it was opened. This was to prevent someone taking unauthorized information or files out of the SCIF.
The SCIF had intrusion detection systems, and needed to meet a host of other requirements effecting communication systems, the size of duct work and special wiring and HVAC requirements. Cell phones, or any other personal electronic devices weren’t allowed in the SCIF. Inside the facility, all of our classified information was stored in safes which met certain requirements. When you opened the safe, you initialed a form that you opened the safe, and what day and time it was. At the end of the day, when you returned the classified documents to the safe, after locking the safe, you again initialed the form, provided the time you locked it, and the date and time were then verified by a second person.
This is me, During the Time I was Working in my First SCIF
If you ever transported classified information outside the SCIF to another location, you needed a special permit. The classified info was double wrapped. You followed a schedule in delivering the information, including the expected arrival time. If there were schedule variances, you notified the authorities.
When I left those SAPs several years later, I was sworn to secrecy, and signed papers indicating I wouldn’t reveal anything about those programs for seventy years.
Honestly, it was all a pain in the ass. BUT, we all understood why it was required, and so we complied without complaining. We understood the security of the nation could be put at risk if there were security compromises, whether intentional or not.
I don’t know what is in the material the former President took to Florida. I also don’t know what he intended to do with it. I doubt we ever will. Based on the covers and documents shown in the now world famous photo, there was TS/SCI material, SECRET/SCI material and other classified information. There were empty SCI folders, with the info, perhaps, stored elsewhere. None of this was stored in a SCIF. As the President was now the former President, there was no longer a “need to know”. The information should not have been at Mar-a-Lago.
Just. Totally. Unbelievable.
Was this a politically motivated search? I don’t know, but given the material found, it’s a moot point. The search was justified. What he did was wrong. Are there always two standards for everything – one for the former President, and one for everyone else? Why do citizens continue to listen to his claptrap**?
Here are some things I do know:
The government held constant dialogs with the former President, his staff, and his lawyers about returning the missing information for over a year, as required by the the Presidential Records Act (enacted after the criminal Nixon tried to destroy documents in 1974).
The former President’s lawyers apparently lied when they swore in June there was no more classified information stored in Florida.
In 2005, former National Security Advisor, Sandy Berger, was convicted of removing, and then destroying five classified documents from the National Archives. He received a $50,000 fine, two years of probation and 100 hours of community service.
In 2015, General Petraeus was convicted for mishandling classified information with his lover. He received a $100,000 fine and two years of probation.
When Hilary Clinton was investigated for her server, people were calling for her prosecution and spoke of how she was unfit for office. Many of those same people are now saying what the former President has done is no big deal, and he can do what he wants.
With the former President, there are Always Two Sets of Standards. Always.
The final thing I know is that If I had done anything remotely close to this, I would have been dishonorably discharged if in the military, fired if a civilian, received a huge fine, and very possibly gone to jail. My public life would have been over.
Of course, unlike some people, I couldn’t shoot someone in the middle of 5th Avenue and get away with it either.
Addendum:
One of the reasons I published this blog is I became aware that many people have no idea what is required to get a clearance, or what is required for the correct handling of classified information. I thought it might be useful for folk to actually understand why this is a big deal, if you work with classified documents. Feel free to share the blog with others.
*TOP SECRET material is defines as something “that would cause exceptionally great damage to US national security and US persons should it reach the eyes of a foreign adversary.”
**Claptrap – noun – absurd or nonsensical talk or ideas.
The Presidential Records Act was enacted in 1978 after President Nixon sought to destroy records relating to his presidential tenure upon his resignation in 1974. The law superseded the policy in effect during Nixon’s tenure that a president’s records were considered private property, making clear that presidential records are owned by the public.
Sometimes, it’s the little things we remember. With a small assist from Burt Lancaster, I once surprised Dad with a present of WWII mess hall coffee mugs he’d been trying to find in antique shops for years. The gift brought joy to both of us at the time, and continues giving me comfort to this day.
Dad always liked his coffee. From the time we were kids, I remember the role it played in his life. On early weekday mornings, he packed the big thermos with him as he left for work on the railroad. On weekends, there was a pot available all day long on Saturdays, and half the day on Sunday. On Saturday mornings, various uncles or aunts stopped by. They all sat around the kitchen table drinking endless cups of coffee, while telling, or retelling, the stories of their youth, and the war years. We kids often listened in, laughing at the stories we came to know by heart.
I started understanding a bit more about his love for coffee when I was applying to West Point. On a couple of occasions, dad drove me to Fort Sheridan (an Army Post in Illinois that no longer exists) for a physical and a fitness test. As we were walking on the Post, he surprised me by becoming a bit nostalgic for the “good old days” in the Army, and talked about how good the coffee was. I think he may have even joked with one of the folk we interfaced with about reenlisting, if he could have a cup of coffee from the Mess Hall. It’s strange, the things you remember, but I distinctly recall the conversations about Army coffee on those trips. It was about 27 years after World War II and he was 48 at the time.
Dad in the “Good Old Days” in 1941, Sometime Before Pearl Harbor
I eventually graduated from West Point and Cath and I were deployed to Germany for most of the ‘80s. We didn’t see Mom and Dad much during our time overseas.
In ‘85, Dad retired from the railroad, and he and mom started traveling more, particularly to jazz concerts around the country. They also managed to visit us in Germany in ‘88. While there, dad talked about their travels. In a side conversation, he mentioned they also typically visited “antique” stores during their trips. He was looking for mess hall coffee mugs from WWII, but hadn’t found any. I was intrigued. What the hell do WWII mess hall coffee mugs look like, and why did he want them?
In Dad’s words, they were thick, heavy white mugs with no handle. You could put both hands around the mug when you took your first sip in the morning, and the mug warmed your hands. He’d used them throughout his time in the Army during the war. I mean, he was waxing poetic about these mugs. I still didn’t quite know what they looked like, but that was OK. During their visit, we stopped in a couple of shops with older items, and Dad would poke around. His thinking was maybe during the occupation of Germany after the war, some mugs made it into the local economy. The looking was to no avail, and no mugs were found.
Dad, Cathy and I at a Winefest on the ‘88 Trip to Germany.
We eventually returned to the States in ‘89, and on a visit at Mom and Dad’s over Christmas, Dad and I were watching TV. The classic WWII movie, From Here to Eternity, was on. You know the movie… Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Donna Reed, Debora Kerr and Ernest Borgnine. It has the great scene with Lancaster and Kerr kissing on the beach as the waves crash over them.
As we were watching, Dad suddenly shouted out “There’s the coffee mug! Look in Burt’s hand!” What!? I look up, and I’ll be damned. Just as the Japanese are about to attack Pearl Harbor, there’s Burt with a white, thick, handleless coffee mug… which he immediately throws on the ground to go out and confront the attacking Japanese.
Everyone Knows the Scene of Burt and Deborah Kerr on the Beach, but Dad and I Were More Interested in Burt and the Coffee Mug.
I’d completely forgotten about the mugs until Dad’s outburst. Of course I immediately asked him how the hunt was going. He’d visited a lot of shops, but never seen any, or really even met anyone who knew what he was looking for.
At the time, I was involved in a couple of classified Black programs for the military and traveling a fair amount. Cathy couldn’t know where I was going, only the approximate day of my return. On the trips, we could only use cash, and no credit cards were allowed. We often had some spare time, and now that I knew how the mugs looked, I too started poking around in the occasional store.
A couple of years went by, and I wasn’t having much luck either. That changed in the spring of ‘93. I was looking around a junk shop in the middle of no where, and there they were – Six of them! Holy hell. Were these really them? I asked the owner what he knew about them, which wasn’t much, only that they were old coffee mugs. It was enough for me. I counted out some cash, bought all six mugs, and returned home with them a week later.
Six Handleless Coffee Mugs, Bought with Cash at an Unnamed Location
Cathy and I thought about giving them to Dad for a Christmas or Birthday present, however those were still a while away. Mom and Dad were coming for a visit in July, and we decided we would give them to him then, with a twist. Rather than just hand them over, we would not say anything, serve soup in them, and see if Dad noticed.
They finally made it to Virginia and the big night arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and we ate dinner in the backyard on the picnic table. Cathy made Gazpacho for a first course, and we served it in the mugs. As she and I brought the soup out, we set a mug in front of each of us.
I could hardly contain myself, I was so excited. We started eating and both Mom and Dad complemented Cath on the soup. There was no word from Dad on the mugs. Were these not the right ones? We continued eating, and all of a sudden Dad paused, and started looking at his mug. He looked more intently, and then, “Say! I … I … I think these are the mess hall coffee mugs!”, at which point I burst out laughing.
Dad verified these were INDEED the mugs. By then, we were all laughing, and I told him the story of how I found them.
We used those mugs for coffee in the morning for the rest of their visit. Dad would use both hands, and bring it up to his mouth and nose to inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, probably the same way he did back in 1940-‘45. When they left, I sent four of the mugs home with them, and kept two for us.
Nostalgia and Coffee. What’s Not to Like?
Eventually, Dad passed away in 2010. At some point in time, mom gave the four mugs back to us. Occasionally, I use one of them for my own Cuppa Joe in the morning. I feel the warmth of the mug in my hands, inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, and think back to Dad – It’s a wonderful way to start the day.
Addendum:
If you want to see the scene of Burt Lancaster with the coffee mug as the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, you can view it here: https://youtu.be/2UxTGH7cR5Y
In 2015, we blew off the opportunity to see a new play on Broadway called Hamilton, and attended a play featuring Al Pacino instead. After seven years, and four additional tries, we finally made it to Hamilton last week. The delay? I think fate was punishing us for our initial choice of Pacino.
In August of 2015, we were planning a December birthday celebration for Cathy in the Big Apple. While there, we intended to see a play on Broadway. We’d narrowed it down to an upcoming play starring Al Pacino, and some new play about Alexander Hamilton.
It’s true. In December 2015, we could have gone to Hamilton. That August, it opened on Broadway, after a several month stint Off-Broadway. The initial reviews were great, tickets were available and we were considering it. Still, the combination of Hip Hop, History and Alexander Hamilton didn’t seem particularly enthralling. We were also looking at a new play from David Mamet called China Doll, with Al Pacino. We both LOVE Pacino, and he and Mamet worked together before, with great success. There was a lot of buzz in the New York press about the potential for the play. For us, it wasn’t even close – we chose Pacino and China Doll, and reserved our tickets.
In December, we arrived in the City and stayed at a great little AirBnB in the East Village. We enjoyed a couple of wonderful dinners out, had drinks at several good bars, saw a museum or two, and visited Time Square. The weather was brisk, just how you want it in New York at Christmas time.
Of course by the time of our visit, all anyone was talking about was Hamilton, which went on to win 11 Tony awards. Tickets were impossible to locate, and if you could find them, impossible to afford.
And China Doll? Well, after it opened in November at the renowned Schoenfeld Theatre, the reviews were mixed at best, with one critic calling Pacino “haggard looking.” I remember thinking that at 75, I might look a bit haggard as well. Besides, wasn’t that part of the character? For us, it didn’t matter. Seeing Pacino essentially playing Pacino in a two person play, was perfect. He roamed the stage like the giant he is, and we loved it. The rest of the audience seemed to as well.
Al Pacino in China Doll
Still, we’d missed our shot at Hamilton. Back home, there were more than a few jokes made at our expense. We decided we would try and see it in the future in New York on another visit, or in DC when it toured.
Unfortunately, life, fate, karma, the gods, timing and/or bad luck intervened … for seven years.
We started planning another trip to New York in 2017, but my mom’s death occurred, along with a couple of other life activities and we never got our act together.
In 2018, Hamilton came to the Kennedy Center and we thought that was our chance. Instead, the first choice of tickets went to subscribers and members of the Kennedy Center and they went quickly. I tried purchasing tickets later without luck. They did have 40 tickets awarded by lottery at $10 each (get the joke? A Hamilton for Hamilton) for each performance. My luck with the Hamilton Lottery was similar to my luck with the Powerball Lottery – no chance, no way, no how.
In 2020, Hamilton returned to the Kennedy Center. I spent hours on the phone and online. This time, I scored tickets and we would be going in the summer. Unfortunately, this little thing called Covid occurred. They cancelled the entire run, along with everything else for the year. They would endeavor to host it again “sometime in the future”, although nothing was guaranteed.
At the start of 2022, I received a notice from the Kennedy Center they were once again going to present Hamilton. As a previous ticket holder, I was given priority for ordering new tickets. On March 15th of this year, I was able to reserve two tickets for a performance on August 17th. Now, we just needed to knock on wood that something else didn’t happen.
Finally…
Finally, August 17th arrived, we had dinner at the Kennedy Center, took the obligatory picture on the terrace and afterwards, settled into our seats.
The Stage for Hamilton at The Kennedy Center
The play? Powerful, lush, lyrical, musical, fresh, dynamic, spirited, high energy, memorable lines, memorable characters, Hamilton’s Story, America’s Story… it was everything you could hope for and we were incredibly glad to finally see it. I know that Disney had their version on TV, but for those of you who have not seen it on stage, I urge you to do so.
Looking back, I’m glad we were able to see Al Pacino live. A forgettable play? Yes. But, Pacino essentially playing Pacino? I won’t ever forget it. Still, the opportunity to see Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton, on Broadway? We threw away our shot, and I’ll always regret it.
Addendum:
– We do have a few friends who saw Hamilton in New York. Many more viewed it in Chicago, or other cities where it played, including at the Kennedy Center, during it’s first run. For the current show here in DC, I see on FB, Instagram and Twitter that multiple friends are, like us, finally getting a chance to see it. I’ve yet to hear anyone say, “Oh, the play was just OK.” If you get a chance, go.
Live Life Exuberantly 