Author: maxnhall

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

In August of 1970, I started to sweat and no, it wasn’t from the summer heat. I was taking Biology my sophomore year at Ottawa High School, with Charlie Alikonis as my teacher. We were to turn in our Insect Collections in early September. In theory, I had been collecting bugs all summer, but I’d been a bit lax, and the bill was coming due.

High School biology at OHS under Charlie Alikonis was something. There were other good biology teachers, including Mr Anderson and Mr Carlin, but Charlie was legendary. He had already taught at OHS for 36 years, starting in 1934. Hell, he taught my mom in ‘47. When mom had him, he was also the JV Football coach and had two undefeated teams in ‘47 and ‘48. Those of us who had him in ‘70, approached the class with a combination of awe and dread.

Charlie in the OHS Yearbooks from 1949 and 1971

OHS biology classes had plenty of class time, lab time and tests, but what everyone really remembers is the three collections we were required to submit – Insects in the summer, Leaves in the fall, and Wildflowers in the spring. They could make or break your grade, that’s how important they were. It’s also why I was starting to sweat.

Earlier that summer, I’d made the trip to The Book Store at the corner of Main and Court Street. I bought the little pins and labels for the bugs, and most importantly, carbon tetrachloride*, or carbon tet, as we learned to call it. Soak a cotton ball in it, put the cotton ball in a jar, and drop in your bugs – good night! To box the collection, some classmates bought styrofoam boxes, or used shoe boxes. My buddy Howard and I obtained old cigar boxes from Senate Billiards, just up the block on Court Street. We’d gone to Senate Billiards for years, as it was also the best place in town to buy comic books.

I eventually kicked my bug hunting skills into high gear for those last two weeks of August and the first couple of weeks in September. The little glass jar with the carbon tet worked overtime producing specimens for my collection. The tiny labels were a pain, but everything came together. I turned in a reasonable collection, although I don’t recall my grade.

An OHS Insect Collection From Back in the Day

It didn’t really matter though, as we were already starting our leaf collections. We were mostly on our own to find and identify the leaves, although I seem to recall a class field trip or two on the East Side of town. I distinctly remember a Ginkgo tree there, one of only a few in town. To this day, I still recognize their unique fan-shaped leaves, with the veins radiating out into the leaf blade. There were other unique trees in town, if you knew where to look. Sally Richland recalls her family having a sassafras tree in their yard and students came from all over to pluck leaves. At the time, it was the only one in LaSalle County.

Although not as impressive as some, I did better on my leaf collection than with my insect collection. Not everyone did though. My friend Mark recalls two other buddies, Clay and Mike only starting their collections the day before they were due. They evidently spent a good part of the night outside with flashlights trying to find particular leaves. No word on what their grades were… ;-).

An OHS Leaf Collection and a Couple of Covers – I Don’t Recall being so Clever, or Typing the Info for each Leaf

By now it was late fall, or early winter, and in addition to studying bugs and leaves, Howard and I were studying Charlie Alikonis himself. We were fascinated by him. He was of Lithuanian heritage and spoke with a bit of an accent. He also had a unique way of communicating, that anyone who studied under him remembers. As he was identifying something for you to learn, he always started with a question and then answered his own question. As an example, when holding up a Ginkgo leaf he would say, “and this is a what-ah? This is a Ginkgo Leaf”. We thought it was brilliantly funny and started imitating him ourselves, while doing other things around town, as in – “and this is a what-ah? This is a pepperoni pizza…”. , or, “and this is a what-ah? This is a cheeseburger.”

We didn’t stop there. At the time, Charlie mostly wore bow ties. Howard and I went to Bell’s Clothing in town and bought tie bow-ties. Charlie wore a flat cap to and from school. We returned to Bell’s, and both bought similar, if a bit more brightly colored caps, and wore them for the next couple of years. I don’t recall anyone else among the teachers, or for that matter the students, wearing flat caps at the time, and yet there we were. (I lost mine over the years, while Howard still has his).

A 1973 OHS Yearbook Photo of me with my Flat Cap, and Howard Sporting his Just a Few Months Ago

We may have started out doing all of this to have some fun at Charlie’s expense, but as time progressed, things shifted. It evolved into us paying homage to him. I can’t say when or why the transformation started, but it was real. I’d like to think we matured a bit and began to understand what a great teacher he was, but we were teenage boys at the time, so who knows.

Winter eventually turned to spring, and we were back in the woods and fields surrounding Ottawa. This time, we were looking for wildflowers. I recall Charlie leading a collection/identification trip after school one day, near his house in the country. Although he had to be in his 60s, he was nimble as a mountain goat running around pointing out different flowers. We kids had a tough time keeping up. He also pointed out a flower called a White Trillium, but warned us not to have it in our collections. It was rare, and endangered in Illinois at the time.

Second semester eventually ended and I passed biology. The next year, I would have Red Ryder for Chemistry and a year later, Mr Krabel for physics. OHS had a great science department back then, and I learned from all of them. Having said that, Charlie Alikonis and those collections are what have stayed in my memory over the years.

It turns out I wasn’t alone. In talking with friends and others from Ottawa, everyone who took biology remembers the collections. And those under Charlie? A near universal seal of approval, particularly from those going on to study science in college.

Charlie retired from OHS just a couple of years after we had him. In 2009, he was posthumously inducted into the OHS Hall of Fame. The highlighted words in the citation below say it all.

Charlie Alikonis – Preparing Students for Future Success

Addendum:

  • * Carbon tet is now a known carcinogen and no longer used. As Howard recently said, “Carbon tet and cigars—those collections were deadly…”
  • I owe thanks to a number of people for contributions to this blog, including buddies Tim Stouffer, and Mark Dunavan, along with Dan Shoulders, Sally Richland, Mary Cunningham Heider, and Jeanie Cunningham Ruhland.
  • Thanks to Karen Crisler and Leslie Poole for providing photos from their insect and leaf collections – they were a perfect addition!
  • Special thanks to my old friend Howard Johnson, who I’ve known since before first grade. His memories on Charlie in particular helped round out this blog.

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl. Do all families have one? You know, the one you pull out to put next to your kid’s bed when they have an upset stomach and things are sketchy? That, and coke syrup were staples of our childhood when sick. Our family puke bowl also had a dirty little secret.

Puke… not such a pleasant word, but I suppose it’s an apt descriptor. I’m not sure it’s better or worse than vomit, upchuck, ralphing, throw-up, or barf. All get the idea across pretty graphically. As kids, when the flu or some other illness turned our stomachs, the answer was always the same – a spoonful of coke syrup from the fridge, and then off to bed with the Puke Bowl by the bed. Running to the bathroom toilet was always the first option, but the bowl was right there if you didn’t think you could make it. Mom would dutifully wash and clean the bowl through out our misery, and when we finally became better, gave the bowl a thorough double cleaning and put it away in the utility room by the kitchen.

The Puke Bowl … In all it’s Glory …

Over the years, the Puke Bowl was also used by our nieces and nephews, if they happened to get sick when visiting Grandma and Grandpa. Three generations now called that big Tupperware bowl, the Puke Bowl. All of our spouses do as well. It became it’s own family tradition.

My sister Roberta “inherited” the bowl after mom died in 2017. All three of us kids were interested in it for nostalgic reasons, but Berta was the one who claimed it. To be honest, I did not realize mom still owned it, but of course I should have. Mom didn’t throw much away, and everything had multiple uses. Back then, America wasn’t the throw-away society we are today.

Mom Never Threw Much Away…At that Time, Most Folk Didn’t

Fast forward to this year…

A couple of months ago, Roberta’s granddaughter, Lydia, was visiting, became sick and started throwing up. When her mom, Kathi, came to pick Lydia up, Berta sent the Puke Bowl home with them, in case Lydia needed it in the car. A couple of weeks later, Berta was at Kathi’s, along with Kathi’s mother-in-law, Penny. As Roberta was getting ready to leave, Kathi said, “mom, don’t forget the Puke Bowl”, and handed Berta the bowl. Penny had a strange look on her face, and evidently thought the bowl was just a regular Tupperware bowl, like those you use for cooking or food storage. She exclaimed “What?!” Berta and Kathi started laughing, and then explained the WHOLE back story of the bowl to Penny.

In addition to being The Puke Bowl, the bowl had a secret life. It also doubled as THE bowl in which mom made her much acclaimed Potato Salad. It made an appearance whenever there was a big gathering or picnic for the family, church, neighborhood, or where ever. It was a massive bowl and the largest she owned, and due to the popularity of her potato salad, she didn’t want to run out. I don’t recall mom ever running out of potato salad at family (or other) gatherings when growing up. Never.

Tanya, Roberta and I Didn’t Seem to Suffer any Adverse Effects from the Puke Bowl…

The bowl is mostly retired now and lives in Berta’s basement. Lydia’s use a couple of months ago was the first time it was pulled out in quite awhile.

I should also mention Roberta’s daughter, Diane, is the official “holder” of mom’s potato salad recipe. Her version is the closest to mom’s of any I’ve tasted, which means it’s pretty d@mned good. Although Diane has her own set of bowls and Tupperware, including a large one she makes her potato salad in, when ever there’s a big family gathering, inevitably one of her sisters will laugh, and say to her, “Diane, you gonna make grandma’s potato salad in the Puke Bowl for the get together?” No, she doesn’t, but old family memories die hard… 😉

No, Diane Doesn’t use the Puke Bowl, to Make Grandma’s Potato Salad

Addendum:

– Our Niece, Tami, also remembered that the bowl almost always seemed to be the hiding place for someone’s Easter Basket each year at Grandma and Grandpa’s house… 😉

– In writing this blog, and talking with friends, two items became clear.

  • First, most all families had some version of a “puke bowl” or bucket, and many of them were multi-use products, particularly for holding popcorn.
  • And second, many lamented the throw-away society we have become. As Americans, we retain very little – Of course diapers, cups, plastic silverware and paper plates are all disposable. These days, so are phones, computers, mixers, coffee pots, stereo equipment, and a great deal of furniture. Washing machines, dryers and dish washers fit the same mode, unless they break down in the first few years of use.

⁃ Special Thanks to Cathy, and my sister Roberta for all of their help on this blog.

⁃ Thanks to sister Tanya, along with nephew Casey, and nieces Diane, Tami, Bre, Kathi and Jordan for their memories as well.

– Thanks and photo credit of the picture of Diane about to make potato salad, to her four year old daughter, Riley! Roberta took the pics of the bowl itself.

⁃ As always, MAJOR thanks to my old friend and editor, Colleen (who didn’t own a Puke Bowl growing up.) She always keeps me straight and on track.

Granddaughter of Juda

Granddaughter of Juda

There were no gardens here at Rohan Farm 23 years ago. Now, they dominate our landscape. Cathy made this happen, through a combination of inherited knowledge, hard work and love. She is the daughter of Faye and a Granddaughter of Juda Catherine Strickland.

The hillside garden, the shade garden, the front garden, the vegetable garden, the cutting garden, Cathy designed them and created them. I provided a bit of the grunt labor for the hard scape, but the secret to all of it is Cathy. When she gardens, she is in her Zen Zone. For me, weeding is the ultimate drudgery. Not her. She spends hours each week weeding, improving and cutting in the garden. She once shared with me, “Patience is the key ingredient in gardening, and pays off when a plant reaches maturity and blooms. There’s a special excitement seeing something you have planted, nurtured, cared for and thought about finally bloom. The journey is as important as the end result.”

A Few Glimpses of the Gardens, and Cathy Peaking Around Some of her Daffodils

Cathy’s gardening talent was born long before I was on the scene. She inherited a love of gardening from her mother Faye. Mom was a wonderful gardener and always had flower gardens at the house. Cathy noticed. When her family lived in Chattanooga, Cathy persuaded her mom to let her have a flower garden of her own at age 12. Faye was fine with the idea, but Cathy had to plant it and maintain it.

Whenever mom moved to a new home, the first thing she did was start planning out the flower gardens. Her last home in Alabama was gorgeous with a combination of plants, pathways and surrounding woodland, and I could lose myself in thought while wandering through them.

Faye gained her garden skills from her mother Juda Strickland, who lived a hard life in rural Alabama. She and her husband Ernest had 11 children, 8 of them boys. Electricity and indoor plumbing didn’t come until much later in her life. Cathy remembers that when she visited as a child, they were still using an outhouse. I think two things sustained Grandma Strickland in life – her faith in God, and her gardening. For her, I think they were related.

Juda Catherine Strickland

Cathy spent years following Faye and Juda around grandma’s farm in Alabama, talking about plants and flowers the whole time. They were often joined by Jeff, Cathy’s cousin. While he did the usual “boy stuff”, he also liked to garden. They all discussed the merits of the plants, as they walked and talked. Some plant wouldn’t be doing well and they would decide if it should be replaced or maybe it needed a different spot, or just some love. Most were not exotic plants, but southern favorites like four o’clocks.

In Cathy’s telling, it was great fun walking around the farm. There was always something to see, whether plants, newly born piglets, or watching how live chickens were turned into dinner (I think there’s a whole other blog right here ;-)…). Sometimes the meanderings ended at the vegetable garden, where fresh tomatos were a tasty treat of summer – warm, fragrant and oh so juicy. Summer afternoons were spent on the porch with newspapers stretched over everyone’s laps. There were beans to string, peas to shell and corn to shuck…

Later, after Cathy and I were married, we made several trips to visit Grandma, particularly when stationed in Georgia. Grandma would lead Cathy around the house and garden showing her new, or different plants. She wasn’t quite as mobile then, having broken her hip during a fall in her sixties. She was using a wooden crutch to get around, and would point out the plants or blooms with the crutch. Cathy loved and cherished those times together.

…

Cathy’s younger sister Bonnie also has the gardening gene. At her home near Mendocino, CA, she has roses, flower gardens, a big vegetable garden and fruit trees. It’s all beautiful and fits the Northern California setting perfectly. She has a greenhouse that many professionals would envy. Cathy and Bonnie trade cuttings and seeds back and forth, and more than a few plants have made coast to coast journeys.

Cathy and Bonnie Cutting Roses in California

There are several other Granddaughters of Juda who inherited her green thumb. As an example, in addition to Jeff, Cathy and Bonnie’s cousin Debbie has beautiful gardens in her back yard, and will frequently post pictures that reveal she too has the touch. Other cousins such as Margaret and Dylilah have the gift, and it’s already seen in the next generation – Sasha, the daughter of their cousin Rusty is also an avid gardener. It wasn’t a universal gift though. Cindy, Cathy and Bonnie’s middle sister, was never much of a gardener. Nor was their cousin Loretta, who claims she can’t grow anything. Still, I think Juda’s spirit remains with all of them. As Loretta related, “I definitely did not inherit her green thumb. I manage to kill every plant I get EXCEPT for one. I inherited a Mother-in-Law’s Tongue from Mawmaw in the ‘90s. Believe it or not, despite my best efforts, that plant is still alive.” 😉

Loretta’s Mother-in-Law’s Tongue – Nearly Thirty Years Old, and Still Going Strong

Grandma eventually passed away in 1997, at the age of 98. She was in a nursing home for her last few years. Although she could no longer garden, her faith in God remained with her until the end. I like to think there are gardens scattered across America that are living testaments to her life and her legacy.

Addendum:

  • Special thanks to Cathy, not only for her gardens, but also for sharing memories of her youth and visiting Grandma in Alabama. She filled in missing critical pieces that I “sensed”, but didn’t specifically know.
  • Thanks to Bonnie, Loretta and Debi for sharing their own gardening backgrounds. Special thanks to Loretta for sharing the photo of her Mother-in-law’s Tongue (photo credit to Cynthia Smith).
  • I first met Grandma Strickland in 1973, when Cathy’s family went there for a vacation over spring break. Cathy and I were dating and in high school, and we somehow persuaded our parents that it would be OK for me to go with them. I think at first Grandma was a bit suspicious of this token northerner who was dating her granddaughter. The suspicion was allayed at least a bit on the second night, when she cooked fried okra. I’d never had okra before. Three helpings later, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, and grandma started warming up to me.

Here are two other blogs I’ve written in the past about Cathy and her gardening:

  • Through Cathy, I’ve gained an appreciation for the colors that make up the palette of our life. For years, I didn’t get it, or understand it. Or perhaps even worse, I didn’t think about it. Sometimes though, you can teach an old engineer new […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/03/23/the-palette-of-our-life/
  • Ask Cath how she grows orchids and she’ll say “Oh, I just water them. After that, it’s tough love.” Tough love evidently works. In winter, I enjoy looking at the results. The color, the texture, the beauty of orchids and their individual parts – Sepals, Petals, Lip, and Column, make each unique… Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/04/cathy-and-her-orchids/

Odin

Odin

Odin is not only the god called upon in preparation for war, he is the god of poetry, the dead and magic as well. In a little known side gig, he was also petitioned by cadets at West Point to cancel parades with thunderstorms.

One fall day Plebe Year, my company, B-3, along with our entire regiment, was standing in formation in Central Area waiting for the start of yet another weekday afternoon parade. Central Area is out of view of the general public and where we lined up in preparation for parades. While the upperclassmen were more relaxed, we plebes stood there in full dress uniform, our tar buckets on our heads, and our M14 rifles extended at parade rest. The sky was dark with clouds and foretold the possible arrival of an impending storm. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a plaintive chant starting up, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, it grew louder, closer and more distinct –

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

One of our upperclassmen called out – “Beanheads! Take up the chant!!” (Beanhead was one of the less flattering terms the upperclassmen would call us Plebes)

What?!

“Beanheads!! Take up the call to ODIN. Let’s see if we can get this parade canceled!”

The thirty or so of us Plebes in B-3 quickly joined the cacophony.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

Soon, all 300 or so Plebes in the regiment were chanting. I have no idea what it sounded like to anyone in the bleachers on the parade ground itself, but they had to have heard us. We were LOUD and unrelenting. Always the same pace, always the same mournful sound, we continued…

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

…

Parades… I never knew anyone at West Point, or in the military for that matter, who actually liked taking part in a parade. The public may enjoy watching them, but the participants? The cadets or soldiers who actually march in the parade? I don’t recall anyone ever saying to me “Wow Max, I am so looking forward to cleaning my weapon, dressing up in uniform, standing around in the hot sun (or freezing cold), and then marching in a review in front of the General. How about you?”

At West Point we did a lot of marching, and A LOT of parades, starting the day we arrived. The soundtrack of that first day was the drums from the Hellcats (West Point’s drum and bugle corps, made up of professional soldiers). They beat their drums all day long, as we learned to march and keep in step. That evening? We paraded to our swearing in ceremony, with parents, family, and the general public looking on.

Our last official parade took place the day before graduation in 1978.

In between those two events, we marched in an untold number of parades. Mondays through Thursdays, one of the four regiments would be in a parade for the public virtually every afternoon in the spring and fall. On Football Saturdays, there would be a double-regimental parade for every home game, and on Homecoming, the entire Corps of Cadets would perform in a parade. While we didn’t parade in the winter, the overall schedule resumed in the spring, and graduation provided another parade for the entire Corps. I learned to hate parades.

We Marched in an Untold Number of Parades at West Point

… In Central Area, our petition to Odin continued …

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

A few raindrops started to fall. And then, a few more and it turned in to something between a sprinkle and a light shower. Our chant droned on.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

I could see our commander conferring with the Battalion commander nearby. Suddenly, he returned. “COMPANY… ATTENNNSHUN!” We snapped to attention, the chanting stopped and there was silence, except for the sound of the rain hitting our hats and the ground. Would we march, or not?? Our Commander called out: “B-3 …DISMISSED!”

It worked! We all sprinted to our rooms, gaining an extra hour of rack time.

That evening as we assembled for dinner formation, our squad leader informed us that appealing to Odin to cancel a parade was an Old West Point tradition, and advised us to study up on him. He would quiz us later.

We learned Odin was the god of war in Germanic and Norse mythology. He was a protector of heroes, and fallen warriors joined him in Valhalla. In a bit of a juxtaposition, he was also the god of poets. He was associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, victory, and sorcery. He gave up one of his eyes to gain wisdom. You will notice no where in that description is there any mention of rain, storms, or weather. Evidently, that skill was buried in history.

Odin… a god with Many Talents

Over my remaining years at West Point, there were many times we appealed to Odin for rain to cancel a parade. The vast majority of the time, he ignored our pleas, and we emerged through the Sally Ports and onto The Plain for our parade before the Great American Public. They say the gods are fickle. Maybe that was the case with Odin.

As I was thinking about writing this blog a couple of months ago, 40-some years after that initial appeal to Odin, I was trading messages with a few classmates. We were discussing how infrequently parades were actually cancelled due to calling Odin, when Leroy Hurt said, “By the way, I finally found out why we chanted to Odin.” What!?

It turns out Leroy is teaching a class on West Point History. In his research for the class, he came across a book called “The West Point Sketchbook”, published in 1976. In the book, the authors state that in 1958, some cadets saw the movie “The Vikings”. It’s a so-so adventure movie, with an all-star cast of Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, Ernest Borgnine and Janet Leigh. Throughout the movie, The Vikings make various appeals and chants to Odin, including asking him to effect the weather and bring rain. In the movie, it worked. The cadets brought the Odin chant back to West Point, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis BOTH Appeal to Odin in the Classic Movie, The Vikings

Of course time and history evolve. Another classmate, Pete Eschbach was recently back at West Point and spoke with a few cadets about some of our past traditions. None of the current cadets had ever heard of appealing to Odin to cancel a parade. Not one. For the West Pointers reading this blog, Pete privately speculated to me that “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”.* Maybe with the increases in technology, and the weather apps we have today, it’s no longer required. The weather is a foregone conclusion, and an appeal to Odin isn’t going to change things one way or another. Another mystery…

The legend of Odin may have died at West Point, but he remains an item of interest for me and my classmates. Occasionally, one of us still calls on him. Classmate Joe Mislinski even named his dog Odin. Joe lives pretty close to the Great Lakes Naval Station, where Navy basic training is conducted. He likes to occasionally take Odin for a walk outside the station, once a parade has already started. From the look of the slick streets in the photo below, Odin still has the occasional magic touch.

Odin… Bringing Rain to a Navy Parade

Addendum:

⁃ * Pete was making a bit of an inside joke to me about “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”. In a tradition probably as old as West Point itself, among old grads you frequently hear the phrase, “The Corps Has…” Every class at West Point believes that the classes who came after them had it easier than they did. Gone to Hell is never stated, but always implied. 😉

⁃ Thanks to classmates Peter Eschbach and Leroy Hurt for their contributions to this blog, and their reviews. They were invaluable. Special Thanks to Joe Mislinksi for suggesting the idea for a blog about Odin, and providing a picture of his dog Odin!

⁃ In The West Point Sketch Book, it is reported that prior to 1958, Plebes would whistle a song called the “Missouri National” to try and bring on rain. Part of the adapted lyrics include: And now the rain drops patter down/ Our hearts fill with delight/ For hear the OD sounding off-/ “There is no parade tonight.”

⁃ The movie, The Vikings, is actually not bad. You might give it a watch sometime when you have nothing to do. In the meantime, here are several of the callouts to Odin, throughout the movie: https://youtu.be/uAM85DFfR24

If you wish to read a few of the previous blogs from my time at West Point, you can find them here:

Mad Cow and Donating Blood

Mad Cow and Donating Blood

I received an interesting piece of mail from one of our local Blood Donor organizations last week. After a ban of twenty years, I am eligible to donate blood again. Evidently, I am no longer likely to pass on vCJD, better known as “Mad Cow Disease”, to others via a blood transfusion.

Starting in 1973 when I turned eighteen, I was always an active blood donor. That changed in 2002.

A little back story…

From 1986-‘89, while stationed in Europe, I spent several months in England. The Army was refurbishing an old WWII era bunker to become the Alternate Support Headquarters (ASH) for the United States European Command (EUCOM). It was where EUCOM would go, if the Cold War turned Hot and they needed to evacuate the headquarters element from Germany. The facility had some grounding and communications issues, and I was flown in to solve the problems. I eventually identified the multiple grounding issues that were plaguing the facility and they were corrected. The work continued, and I spent quite a bit of time there in the late ‘80s consulting on various communications questions and issues. Eventually, we returned home to the States in June of ‘89, and I promptly forgot about the ASH and my time in England … Until the early ‘90s.

Photo of Me in Europe in the Late ‘80s.

Word started coming out of Europe, and specifically the UK about something called bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE), more commonly known as Mad Cow Disease. Initially no one here in the US paid much attention. Some cattle in England were acting strange – sick cattle had trouble walking and getting up, and could also act nervous or violent, hence “Mad Cow Disease.” There were a few jokes on TV, and quarantines on British beef, but, that was it.

Then, things got serious.

It turned out the disease could be transferred to humans by eating contaminated beef. Variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (vCJD), the human version of Mad Cow disease, was first diagnosed in 1996 in the United Kingdom. It was the first man-made health epidemic, and was called the “Frankenstein disease”*. Companies had decided to feed meat and bone meal to cattle (which are herbivores) to increase their protein consumption. This caused what was previously an animal pathogen to enter the human food chain.

Initial human symptoms include psychiatric problems, behavioral changes, and painful sensations. In the later stages of the illness, patients often exhibit poor coordination and dementia. The length of time between exposure and the development of symptoms is thought to be years, but could be decades, and the average life expectancy following the onset of symptoms is 13 months. There is no cure.** YIKES!

Sometime in 2002 or 2003, I went to donate blood at a blood drive our company was hosting. I’d done the same thing for the past decade. This time? I was turned down. There were a couple of questions in the fine print, which excluded me. It turns out, in May of 2002, due to the possibility of Mad Cow Disease, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) instituted a ban on blood donations from anyone who spent three months or more in the UK between 1980 and 1996. I’d spent about five months in England in the late ‘80s. The kind ladies at the blood drive let me eat my cookies and drink my juice, but “sorry sir, we don’t want, or need, your blood.”

At my next physical, I spoke to the doctor about Mad Cow. He didn’t know much about it, but thought it was highly unlikely I had it. And, oh by the way, there wasn’t really any way to know if you had it. You could only verify a diagnosis of Mad Cow via brain biopsy or autopsy (that remains true to this day).

Over the next few years, when additional company blood drives were held, I tried donating again, but the questions were still on the form, and I was always turned down. Eventually, I quit trying.

In 2008, Mad Cow Disease came to TV prime time on the show Boston Legal. William Shatner’s character, Denny Crane, starts having mental lapses, memory losses, and confusion, probably caused by the onset of Alzheimer’s disease. When questioned by his coworker, Allan (James Spader) about the lapses, Crane preferred to give a self diagnosis of Mad Cow Disease, rather than the reality of Alzheimer’s. It becomes something of a running punch line off and on for the rest of the time Boston Legal was on the air.

“I’m sorry, your honor. I have mad cow disease. I think you do, too.”

But I digress…

Time passed. More time passed. And then, this June I received a piece of mail from INOVA, one of our local health providers. I almost threw it away, but something prompted me to open it. Lo and behold, they changed the rules for donating blood!

Twenty years after my initial ban, I was once again eligible. Why? The FDA updated their guidance in May of 2022 – “We are changing the geographic deferral recommendations for vCJD risk based on new information in risk assessments … These risk assessment models … demonstrate that the current risk of vCJD transmission by blood and blood components would expose transfusion recipients to no or minimal additional risk of vCJD in the future…”***.

The Good New from INOVA Health

So, while I may still have Mad Cow Disease (remember, it can take decades to appear), the risk of my transferring it via blood donation is low… 😉

That’s almost everything. I plan to donate blood once again at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, I leave you with these two additional tidbits.

First, I’m amazed my blood donor file was still active. For the past two decades, my rejection due to Mad Cow has sat quietly somewhere in a database. All that was needed was guidance from FDA for someone to hit a switch and change my eligibility in the database. Literally one month after the guidance changed, I received my letter. Don’t kid yourself, there is no privacy anymore. Everyone knows everything about us, and we are generally the ones who provided the information.

And lastly, be careful out there kiddos. While doing some research for this blog, I discovered that in 2015, a man from New York developed vCJD after eating squirrel brains. Yep, squirrel brains. You can’t make this stuff up.

Addendum:

  • UPDATE: I have been informed by others that the ban on folks who lived in Germany during that time period was lifted three years ago. This update was just for those in the UK and France.
  • While I joked about it in the blog, I think it is extremely unlikely that I have Mad Cow lurking somewhere in my body. Statistically, the chances are almost nil.

• * Jonathan Quick, of the Harvard Medical School coined the term “Frankenstein disease”.

• ** vCJD information is summarized from Wikipedia at this address: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Variant_Creutzfeldt%E2%80%93Jakob_disease

• *** The complete updated 2022 FDA guidance can be found here: https://www.fda.gov/media/124156/download

The Cost of Freedom

The Cost of Freedom

In light of the recent 4th of July mass shooting in Highland Park, Illinois, I’ve been rethinking Stephen Stills classic song, ‘Find the Cost of Freedom’.

“Find the cost of freedom
buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you
lay your body down

Find the cost of freedom
buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you
lay your body down”

Written at the height of the Vietnam War, it was released as the B side to ‘Ohio’ which was a direct condemnation of Kent State. ‘Find the Cost of Freedom’ was less explicit. There have been multiple suggestions as to the meaning of the song, including the student deaths at Kent State, the death of our soldiers in Vietnam, or even the cost of war to us as a people. Although simply written, with fewer words, it’s a more complicated song.

CSNY Performing ‘Find the Cost of Freedom’, Back in the Day

The song was rereleased in 1982 as ‘Daylight Again/Find the Cost Of Freedom’, with seeming references to the Civil War. The line “When everyone’s talkin’ and no one is listenin’, how can we decide?” is added right before the famous refrain and it then becomes:

“When everyone's talkin’ and no one is listenin’, How can we decide
(Do we) find the cost of freedom
Buried in the ground
Mother Earth will swallow you
Lay your body down”

To me, this version seems a perfect summation of the entire gun violence issue. No one listens to anyone on the other side. The result? We see the cost of freedom, and the results of the Second Amendment, dead and buried in the ground. People are going to die, and that is just the price we need to pay for the freedom to own guns. Any kind of guns. All guns. Just lay your body down and accept it.

We here in ‘Murica have deemed that acceptable to protect our Second Amendment freedom. Everyone has the freedom to own their guns, even if it’s at the expense of other people, who just want to celebrate their freedom by watching a parade on the Fourth of July.

God Bless America.

Find the cost of freedom
buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you 
lay your body down

Find the cost of freedom 
buried in the ground
Mother earth will swallow you 
lay your body down

…

… Feel free to share this blog …

Addendum:

You can read my previous blogs on gun violence here:

I Don’t Do Funerals

I Don’t Do Funerals

It had been raining for a while when Gary pulled two more beers from the fridge. As he handed me one, he said “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.” I popped my beer and looked up. “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

Gary lived two townhouses down from us. His girlfriend Cindy had moved out a couple weeks before, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer a reason. We were casual friends – the kind of guy you saw in the neighborhood often enough. We’d drank beers together a couple of times and I think Cathy and I had Cindy and him over for dinner once.

Gary’s Townhouse was Two Doors Down From our Own

When I came home from my running group that day, he was vacuuming out his Limo in the parking lot. He was pretty religious about keeping it clean. I stopped to talk with him and he offered me a beer from the cooler next to the Limo. I readily accepted.

We talked about this and that, and then it started raining. “Damn. Let me go park this and I’ll be right back. The house door is open.”

I waited on his stoop for the couple minutes it took him to return, and then we went in his kitchen, where he popped two more beers and we sat down.

As we were drinking our beers, he talked about his history as a Limo driver. It may not have exactly been sex, drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll, but it wasn’t far off. There were a couple of B level rock singers who regularly booked him when playing in DC. He did the usual “big dates”, weddings, and business meetings. A few local corporate types used him consistently. He was strict with the kids that rented the limo for prom or graduation. After that? Who was he to judge?

It was then, as he grabbed two more beers from the fridge he uttered “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.”, and I spoke my quick rejoinder “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

“I Don’t do Funerals”

He looked at me and smiled, and then the smile faded away. “I used to do funerals. Quite a few of them. But I learned something about the limo, or I guess more about myself. Afterwards, no matter how hard I cleaned the inside of the car, I couldn’t get the smell out.”

I looked at him inquisitively. “The smell?”

He took a swig of beer. “Yea, the smell. The smell of loss, of sadness, of blackness, of death itself. No matter how much I cleaned the inside of the limo, to me, the smell was still there for the next trip or two. I finally gave up and quit doing funerals. It was better for me, or at least better for my soul.”

After sitting quietly for a couple of minutes, I raised my beer, and as we clinked cans, said “Your Good Health” and he answered “and yours”.

We finished the beers and I said goodbye. It was still raining as I walked home, thinking about Gary, and death, and how something can linger in the air, even when there is no smell.

When Birds Cry

When Birds Cry

When I went outside to assess the damage after the storm passed, the first thing I thought of was the musician Prince. There were probably no doves, but as I stood on the back porch, I could hear hundreds (thousands?) of birds plaintively crying out, over and over and over. This wasn’t good.

The forecast had called for thunderstorms, and as the afternoon progressed, I started receiving weather alerts on my phone for severe thunderstorms. Then at 4:20PM, my phone started chirping like crazy – it was an alert from the National Weather Service. 80 MPH winds were expected, take shelter immediately.

92 MPH Winds Actually DID hit Fauquier County that Day

A few minutes later, I looked outside. The sky was turning black. Suddenly, daylight was gone and it was a dark twilight. As I continued to look, the rain started and then suddenly, the wind forcefully arrived. Trees were bent over, seemingly almost in half.

Holy hell! I called for our dog, Carmen, (Cathy was out of town), and we went to the lowest part of the house near the wine room. Carmen and I sat on the steps next to each other. I was petting her back as we listened to the wind blow and the rain pour down. She shivered slightly. The lights flickered, and then the power went out. I counted to 8, and right on time, the generator kicked in and the lights came back on.

How long did we sit there? I’m not really sure. Maybe 5 minutes, maybe 10 minutes. It felt like a lifetime.

Eventually, the wind lessened, although the rain continued to fall in buckets. I moved back up to the kitchen and looked out the windows. The rain was still falling so hard, you couldn’t see more than a few feet. I posted to FB to warn people in Warrenton that craziness was on it’s way. The winds were moving so fast, I think my post hit FB about the same time the storm was raging through Warrenton.

View of the Storm Approaching Warrenton (Photo courtesy of the Washington Post)

The rain finally lightened to a drizzle and I put on a jacket. Time to check on the horses, and the farm for damage. As I stepped out the door, I heard the birds crying and immediately thought of Prince. It seemed a strange thing at the time, but he literally popped in my brain. These weren’t caws, tweets, chirps, whistles, trills or croaks, they were cries. I don’t know what crying doves sound like, but I hope I never hear the sound of that many birds crying out again.

I circled the house and it was fine, although a garden trellis was knocked over and a grill cover had vanished. Not so bad, I thought, and then on the way to the barn, I saw the old pine trees on the edge of our property. Four out of five were sheared off. I felt an immediate sadness, as they were beautiful trees.

I’m Trying to Imagine the Speed of the Wind Gusts that did this. Even the Trees Still Standing had Most of Their Branches Stripped Off.

At the barn, the horses were fine, as was Ollie, our cat. By chance, I’d put him in the feed room an hour before the storm arrive to have an early dinner.

I continued my tour and found a tree down by the pond, and two trees down on the fence in the back paddock. I came out on Swains Road, which borders our property and stopped suddenly. At least four trees had fallen, blocking the road. There, I ran into my neighbor Kevin. He had just returned from doing his own tour, and was getting ready to start cutting up a tree blocking his drive and the road. I told him I’d be back in a bit with the tractor.

As I finished my inspection, I found a couple more downed trees, including one near our driveway and one blocking a dirt road on our property. It was time to get to work.

After dropping the bush hog from the tractor, I made my way back to Swains road. Eventually, using chain saws, my tractor, and a Jeep, there were three or four of us clearing a path on the gravel road. We weren’t Republicans, Democrats or Independents, we were just neighbors doing a job that needed to be done. It’s funny how that works sometimes. I wish it worked that way more often.

Just a Couple of the Trees that Fell Across Swains Road

Around 7:30PM, after checking on a next door neighbor that lives alone, I made my way back home. I put the tractor away, went inside, and made myself a drink and fixed dinner.

I learned that over half of Fauquier County lost power and numerous roads were closed due to fallen trees. A few homes and cars had trees fall on them. Miraculously, no one was killed or injured. The Washington Post shared a bit more information about the storm: “The violent winds were the result of straight-line flow called a downburst, which occurs when an exceptionally strong downdraft strikes the surface and the airflow surges outward along the ground, literally as a blast of wind. The strongest winds occur in the direction that the storm is moving.” According to the Post, a peak wind speed of 92MPH was recorded about a mile to the east of where we live.

We Live About a Mile to the West of the Orange Dot (Photo Courtesy of the Washington Post)

Here at the farm, we lost about ten big trees, including the pines by the house, two that fell on fences and others scattered around the property. One of Cathy’s Redbuds has two branches sheared off, and our beautiful magnolia in the front yard has half of its branches broken by a huge falling oak. Overall, we are pretty lucky. Cathy, Carmen, Ollie the Cat, the horses Stella and Katie. and I are all fine. There’s no damage to the house, and no damage to the barn.

The power came back on and the generator finally shut off 30 hours after the storm. I can hear chainsaws in the distance as the clean up continues. It will take some time.

The chainsaw sounds will eventually fade and disappear, but the sound I don’t think I will forget for a long time is all of those birds crying out in unison. In shock, in pain, calling for others, I don’t know. All I know is it was a plaintive and anguished sound.

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

High School graduation had come and gone, and the month of June was racing by. In just a few days, I would report to West Point. For our last night together, Cathy had the idea for an “adult” farewell dinner at her house. Never mind that we were just kids of 17 and 18.

How she was able to make it all happen, remains a bit of a mystery to me to this day. In addition to planning our dinner she asked her folks if we could have a bottle of wine with the meal. They agreed, and then checked with my folks to make sure they were OK with it. Amazingly, they agreed as well.

It was finally the last night in Ottawa. I arrived at Cathy’s just as her mom and dad were departing, along with her sisters, Cindy and Bonnie. I don’t remember where they went – maybe the movies or a drive in. All I knew is we would have the house to ourselves.

We opened the wine, a straw covered Chianti bottle, and sipped on it as Cathy finished cooking. She was making spaghetti with a meat sauce, a meal of hers I love to this day. As we sat down for dinner, she also brought out a salad.

Dinner was Served, Along With a Nice Chianti

It’s funny, in my minds eye looking back, we were both adults, and also kids playing at being adults. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how I remember the night. It was somber and sad, and fun all at the same time. We finished dinner eventually and continued to sip on the wine until it too was gone. We talked about everything, and nothing. We talked of the future and when we hoped to see each other again. We promised to write… and finally, it was time for me to go home. We said our goodbyes, and then said them again several more times. Finally there was a long hug, a last kiss and I drove off into the night, with a crazy collection of mixed up feelings inside. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning arrived. Normally, Dad would have had us up at oh-dark-thirty to depart, but for whatever reason, he decided to break the trip to New York into two days, so we were leaving around mid morning. We were finishing packing the car when my old buddy Howard showed up. We’d known each other since kindergarten, and he wasn’t going to let me escape without saying goodbye. We too promised we’d write each other when we could.

At this point, mom, dad, my two sisters, Howard and I were all standing in the driveway. As we were getting ready to leave, Cathy came racing up on her bicycle. We all stood there for a bit talking. If you’ve ever seen American Graffiti, it was a little like the final scene at the airport with Richard Dreyfus saying goodbye to family and friends, before he departs on the plane for college.

The Last Few Minutes of my Departure Weren’t Unlike Richard Dreyfus’s Departure at the End of American Graffiti

I hugged my sisters goodbye and shook Howard’s hand. Cathy and I had a final kiss, and as we were hugging, she pressed a letter into my hand. She whispered “Don’t open this ‘til later…” With that, mom, dad and I climbed in the car and with honks and waves, were on our way.

I looked at that envelope for a long time. I believe we were in either Indiana or, maybe, Ohio before I opened it. I probably read the letter about 50 times on the drive east, and another 500 times during my time at West Point. I won’t share the contents here, but know the letter still sits in a drawer on my side of the bed, and I occasionally pull it out and read it.

I Still Occasionally Read that First Letter from Cathy

I think about that dinner, and the letter. We were just kids in so many ways, but we were also adults, or thought we were. The world turned out to not be quite as black and white as we imagined it in those last 24 hours in Ottawa, but here we are, decades later, reminiscing about our past, and still thinking about the future and what it holds for the two of us.

Addendum:

It’s worth noting a couple of things from that pre-Internet era:

  • There are no pictures of that last dinner or the farewell the next day. Why? With no cell phones or iPhones to document the events, we simply lived them. Who’s to say which is better?
  • People actually did write letters to each other back in the day. Particularly that first summer at West Point, the letters that came from Cathy, Howard, mom and dad and others helped sustain me.

Russian Command and Control

Russian Command and Control

Command and Control (C2), along with Command Centers, are phrases you might hear with regard to the Russians in Ukraine these days. In my military career, I worked all levels of C2 from Infantry Brigade to Presidential, and I can see that the Russians are shockingly missing, or ignoring some C2 fundamentals.

There are other reasons for Russia’s initial bad performance in the first 100+ days of this war as well – too broad of an initial attack, poor logistics and poor morale in a conscript army all come to mind. What I keep returning to is their lack of C2 fundamentals, which impacts everything else.

Command and Control is defined by the Defense Department in military speak as “the exercise of authority and direction by a properly designated commander over assigned and attached forces in the accomplishment of the mission.” What does it really mean? In lay-terms – having the necessary leadership, team and systems to successfully manage a battle or war.

I know a thing or two about C2. From 1979 to 1983 as a junior officer, I supported Command Centers and command and control elements for 2nd Brigade 3ID, the 3rd Infantry Division itself, and VII Corps in Germany. When I returned to Germany from 1985-89, I was involved in work supporting the United States Army HQ in Heidelberg, the US European Command Alternate Support Headquarters in England, and NATO Headquarters in Belgium. In the 1990s I was involved in classified Nuclear Command and Control elements and programs at the Pentagon, and for the White House. For twenty years, virtually all of my work was involved in Command Centers, along with Command and Control processes and systems.

A Personal History of Command and Control Related Assignments

There were several truths and common best practices at all of those levels. I’d like to highlight just a few, including mobility, multiple communications links, and independent and inspired leadership at all levels. The Russians have problems with all three of those concepts.

First, they appear to have forgotten that the closer your Command Center is to the front, the more mobile you must be. You can’t allow your Command and Control elements to stay in one place, otherwise they are identified and targeted. This is particularly true today with the availability of satellite imagery. The result of them ignoring this maxim? We have seen multiple Command Centers destroyed, and at least 12 Russian General Officers killed at those Command Centers. As a comparison, the US lost 40 General Officers in all of WWII and 12 GOs in the entire Vietnam war.

A few of the dead Russian General Officers

Next, your command and control centers need multiple communications elements and links, particularly systems which are bi-directional, not Omni-directional. Why is that? Well, for one thing, Omni-directional systems (think HF Radio as an example) are easily detectable by your enemy, and as a result easily targeted. Also, without multiple systems, if one system isn’t working, your messages don’t get through. How did the Russians try and solve this second problem? By using cell phones, which are, guess what? Easily detectable. Combine this problem with their lack of mobility, and the issues for C2 elements are compounded.

I think it is a third issue that is causing the greatest harm for them – their seeming inability to push Command and Control leadership to the lowest levels possible. In the US Army, we try to encourage resourcefulness and independent thinking at all levels of leadership, down to and including individual platoons and squads. It’s not that they act independent of each other, but if there is an issue, individual action, leadership and gumption are expected. With the Russian army, this doesn’t appear to be the case. Putin, or his henchmen, are managing all aspects of the war and they have little ingenuity or original battlefield thinking going on at any level.

In the US, I’ve watched C2 migrate to C3 (add communications), to C3I (add intelligence) to C4I (add computers), to C4ISR (add Surveillance and Reconnaissance), to C5ISR (add Cyber) and today, C6ISR (add Combat Systems). There are two important lessons here: First, The US Military, of course, always loves a growing acronym (kidding … 😉 …); and second, the true lesson is the US Military continues to adapt and improve. All of those additional letters added to the C2 acronym? They are ways we continue to improve and support the fundamentals of Command and Control. We view enhancements to Command and Control as force multipliers.

The Russians continue to press their attack and they are making progress in the East. I will not be surprised to see the Donbas region fall into their hands, and probably sooner rather than later. But it’s coming at a tremendous cost of lives and equipment to them. Currently, the Pentagon reports they have lost in excess of 20% of their fighting forces, including over 1,000 tanks. They have reverted to Russian WWII type tactics of leveling everything in their path as they approach an area. The areas they are “conquering” are reduced to rubble, and remember, these are the areas supposedly “friendly” to the Russians.

Putin, of course, doesn’t care about the loss of Russian manpower, or the destruction of Ukraine. He only wants a victory. When all is said and done, I don’t know that he will regret the lack of Command and Control fundamentals and force multipliers in his military structure, but the families of thousands of dead soldiers back home might.

Addendum:

  • To my West Point classmates and old military buddies, I realize this is an overly simplified version of Command and Control and what is going on in Ukraine. I’m sure there already are, or soon will be many complex studies and reviews of what is happening in Ukraine, and what problems the Russians are having. I also believe simplicity sometimes serves a purpose, and in this case, its relatively accurate.
  • Rick Steinke, a West Point classmate, retired Colonel, and Former Associate Dean at the George C Marshall Center in Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Germany, sent this note to me after I posted the blog: Well said, Max. I would also humbly add that you must exercise and train said C2, across a combined arms environment. This training must be honest in exposing problems and weaknesses. This approach is anathema to the Russian military. After all, generals and colonels might end up looking incompetent. Said another way, with their training approach it has always been better to LOOK competent than BE competent. At our National Training Center (three trips as BN/ BDE S-3)in the Mojave desert, after action reviews, brutal and transparent as they were, always made well-led units – and leaders – better.