A couple of months after Grandma Grubaugh died in 1996, I received a call from mom. She wanted to know if there was anything I might like from Grandma’s things. I immediately answered “The Pink Elephant and Blue Monkey glasses.” She Said “What?! Nothing else?” “No, those are how I best remember Grandma.”
Grandma and I Just Shy of my Second Birthday
Lillian Henrietta Grubaugh was born on the 2nd of January, 1905 and died on the 4th of December, 1996 at the age of 91. When Grandma died, my Uncle Don was executor of the will and divided the major assets equally out among Aunt Pauline, Aunt Cecilia, mom, Uncle Sonny and himself.
As to the belongings in the house, they took turns picking things each of them wanted, starting with Aunt Pauline, the oldest, and then reversing the order for the next pick. When they finished this up, there were of course many things still left in the house. It fell to mom and my Aunt Pauline to go through the remainder of the stuff in the house, sort it, and give it away or otherwise dispose of it. I think it was around then I received the call from mom, asking if there was anything I might want.
So why did I want those glasses of pink elephants and blue monkeys? Why did I remember them and why did they call to me? I’ve thought about that for awhile.
Sometime around 5th or 6th grade, I started a business of mowing lawns. Or I suppose my dad encouraged me to start the business. One of my first customers was of course Grandma and Grandpa. I think my cousin Joey had the job before, but he’d grown older and moved on to real work of some sort, and the opportunity fell to me.
On mowing day, dad and I loaded the mower in the back of his car and drove across town to 916 Chestnut street, where Grandma and Grandpa lived. He helped me take the mower out of the car and then drive home, with instructions to call him when I finished up.
916 Chestnut Street – The Yard Seemed Bigger Back Then
I’d mow the lawn for the next half hour or 45 minutes. The yard wasn’t big, but there were lots of things to mow around – the old swing set, the low metal fence with posts, a couple of big trees, the vegetable garden, including grandma’s rhubarb plants, and the ancient garage out back. After I finished mowing, I’d do a quick trim of the hard-to-get spots with some manual clippers.
Eventually, I’d finish everything up and head to the house, ready to call Dad. Inevitably Grandma would greet me and have me sit down at the kitchen table. She’d bring out a piece of spice cake, or unwrap some of her date nut bread, or pull some of her rhubarb sauce out of the fridge if the season was right. No matter what she served, she also poured me a big glass of milk in one of those elephant or monkey glasses and the two of us sat and talked.
I don’t remember much of what we talked about. I do remember us having those conversations – maybe about school, or summer camp, or Little League or whatever. It was just the two of us in our own little world.
Eventually we finished up and I’d call dad. He’d drive the 5 or 10 minutes across town and pick me up. Grandma and I would say goodbye, she’d give me a hug, and I’d wave goodbye from the car.
Wonderful Memories Involving Pink Elephants and Blue Monkeys
I cut their lawn for three or four years and the ritual was almost always the same. Around 8th grade, I started a “real job” working at the local pool as a locker room attendant, eventually graduating to lifeguard. I think my cousin Jimmy, Joey’s younger brother may have taken over the lawn mowing at Grandma and Grandpa’s home. Grandma and I stayed close, even after I left for West Point, but those regular private times together disappeared. I’d see her on breaks from school, or when we returned on vacation from an overseas assignment, but of course it was never the same. There was still spice cake or date nut bread, and a glass of milk or cup of coffee. We had wonderful conversations, but they were obviously more grown up. The innocence of those previous times was gone.
Grandma and I at my Graduation from West Point in 1978
I’ve thought back to those younger years and sitting at the table eating one of Grandma’s treats and drinking milk out of those glasses. It’s a warm memory, and I always smile when I see the glasses sitting on a shelf at our home now. Grandma and I having a summer conversation at her kitchen table, wrapped up in our own little world…
Addendum:
Something we also found out from mom and Aunt Pauline was that Grandma often times didn’t use the Christmas gifts we gave her. Instead, she tagged them with our names and put them away in a chest. The tagged items went back to the giver after she passed away. One of the tagged items was an umbrella of questionable fashion I’d given her one Christmas. it still sits by our back door here in Virginia, in case it’s needed.
I was recently at Linden Vineyards for a wine tasting. It was a beautiful day. While there, I recalled a nice little wine they made in 2017 called Wabi Sabi. Jim Law, the owner and winemaker, said this about the wine when it was released in 2020 – “Wabi Sabi refers to a Japanese aesthetic that reveres the “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete … It is an unintentional wine that resulted in a spontaneous decision ” I was so taken with Jim’s description of Wabi Sabi, I started looking into the concept.
Wine Tasting at Linden on a Beautiful Day
After a year of researching online, and reading one book, I’m no expert. But I learned some things I’m trying to blend into my outlook, and my life. (yes, you can sometimes teach an old dog new tricks.)
The concept of Wabi Sabi is hundreds of years old and almost the opposite of order and perfection. As an engineer, and former military guy, this is 180 degrees from much of my professional career. It has taken some mental adjustments and rethinking. With Wabi Sabi, beauty is “spontaneous, fleeting, and singular”.
Stop and say that again, out loud to yourself. Spontaneous. Fleeting. Singular. Think of the changing colors of a maple tree’s leaves in autumn, before they finally fall to the ground.
It’s a very different view of beauty than we have here in the US and the western world in general, and focuses more on the simple and imperfect. Here, we often seem to think of beauty in terms of a state of perfection that is unattainable for most of us. Something that is often out of our reach.
Wabi Sabi stresses a simpler way of looking at and appreciating things in our lives. It also pushes two views at the same time – against the accumulation of objects to no set purpose, and recognizing the good things you already have in your life.
In the book, WABI SABI SIMPLE,* Richard Powell states it even more plainly – “Wabi Sabi nurtures all that is authentic by acknowledging three realities: nothing lasts, nothing is finished, and nothing is perfect.“
It is the crack in an old pitcher from your grandmother or an old friend, that makes it unique and dear, and maybe more interesting with a story behind it. You know you cannot replace it, and you treasure it. Someday, you also know it might break.
A Gift to Cathy from Mrs Pray** – Some Simple Wabi Sabi
Perhaps it is seen in the gnarly heirloom tomato with a blemish that you have grown in your garden, as opposed to the perfectly shaped tomato at the supermarket. Each of those home grown tomatoes is unique in it’s shape, pretty to look at, and will certainly wither on the vine if you do not pick and eat it. And, think of how much better a home grown tomato tastes than one that comes from the store.
An Heirloom Tomato from the Garden
Think of the handcrafted items you make or buy, or receive as a gift, as opposed to those mass produced items we all pick up at nearby big box stores.
A Handmade Wooden Bowl we Received as a gift from our Friend, Kirby.
Again, I’m not an expert. Having said that, I am trying to relook at my life and how I view things. I think a bit of Wabi Sabi could help.
As to the Wabi Sabi wine at Linden, Jim also said this “Wabi Sabi reflects our philosophy behind the wine. It is an unintentional wine that resulted in a spontaneous decision. This is unusual for traditional, conservative, methodical Linden Vineyards. Once all blending decisions were made at the winery, there were several lots of wine that had no home. These misfit barrels were blended and bottled without intention or name.”
Linden’s Wabi Sabi … A Wonderful Little Wine.
Jim may have blended those barrels without intention, but the result was a wonderful little wine. It wasn’t perfect, but tasted awfully nice on a summer day. I have only one bottle left, and Linden has no more. Soon, my last bottle will be gone as well. Wabi Sabi indeed.
Addendum:
⁃ * The book I read on Wabi Sabi is titled “WABI SABI SIMPLE” by Richard R Powell. It’s a slim volume, and has some interesting thoughts for life and for work. One comment made was “maintain a conscious perspective that no job is perfect, no job is forever, and no job finishes completely.” Food for thought.
⁃ ** In the spring of 1973, Cathy and I were both in High School and had been dating for about a year. We took part in a High School Volunteer program to help out older folks around town. We worked together and went to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Pray, who we had never met before. We spent the day helping to clean up their yard, and clean and fix some things in their home. At the end of the day, Mrs Pray served us cake and something to drink. She tried to pay us, which of course we refused. She then disappeared for a moment and came back with the pitcher in the photograph above and gave it to Cathy. It was from her Grandmother, who was born in 1856 and started using the pitcher in 1875. I think it’s one of the most beautiful and generous gifts we ever received.
– In January of 2020, I wrote a blog called “Perfectly Imperfect”. Looking back at the blog now, I was already on a journey towards Wabi Sabi, and didn’t realize it. It’s always interesting to me when I find events in my life that overlap, and I’m not even aware of it at the time. Read this blog, and tell me if it doesn’t sound like Wabi Sabi by another name: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/01/01/perfectly-imperfect/
⁃ For what it’s worth, Linden’s Wabi Sabi wine was a combination of Vidal Blanc, Sémillon and Viognier, not your typical blend. I love Linden Vineyards here in Virginia. They make excellent wines, by any standard. Want to know more about them? Here’s a link to a 2021 article about Jim Law and Linden – https://vinepair.com/articles/linden-vineyards-virginia/ and here’s a link to Linden’s website: https://www.lindenvineyards.com/
It’s always tough when a West Point brother dies, but this one hit me harder than most. Zman is gone. I’ve lost other classmates over the years, but Zman was the first from my company, and I felt a great sadness on hearing the news. I suppose it was sadness both for his passing, and the passing of our youth.
Dan Zimmermann was a big guy with a big personality. The kind of guy whose good mood was infectious. We had some good times at WooPoo U (West Point) our Firstie (Senior) year, although I also remember him studying a lot – he was taking P Chem, a class not for the faint of heart. Still, I remember an evening or two (or three) of partying.
Dan’s Graduation Picture
After graduation in 1978, we reunited several months later in Wurzburg, Germany. I was stationed with the 123d Signal Bn (3ID) at Hindenburg Kaserne, and he was across town with a Chemical unit. I can’t remember now if he was a part of 3ID or some other unit. Over the next three years, we managed to hit more than a few Bier and Wien Fests together in the surrounding area.
I remember one evening in ‘80 or ‘81 when the town he lived in held something called a “Heckenwirtschaft.” In Franconia, a part of Bavaria, small towns would occasionally allow the small wine growers to open their homes as limited seating “pubs” – an event called a “Heckenwirtschaft”. Dan’s landlord was one of the people who opened their homes. We spent the night wandering from house to house, and in their cellars or kitchens sampled some good white wines and wonderful homemade foods. It was a great time – one of those evenings when it’s just you and the locals, and because of Dan’s landlord, we were treated like locals as well. Nights like that don’t come around all that often and I remember it to this day. We may have overserved ourselves a bit that evening.
We lost track of each other after our next assignments and didn’t see each other for a couple of decades. In 2015, Cath and I held a mini-reunion for my West Point Company, B-3. There were about eighteen of us here for the weekend and Dan joined up at the last minute for the two nights of festivities. It’s funny, but the whole group of us clicked back together, as if it was Firstie year in 1978. There were stories told, both old and new. The bonds we’d forged decades before on the banks of the Hudson River still held strong.
We saw each other for what turned out to be the last time at our 40th reunion at West Point in 2018. He had become the National Sergeant at Arms for the American Legion, and told us about escorting both candidates, Secretary Clinton and Mr. Trump, to the stage in 2016, when each spoke at the Legion’s National Meeting prior to the election.
B-3 Classmates at the 40th Reunion in 2018. Dan is in the Center in the Back.
In 2020, Cathy and I were going to hold another mini B-3 reunion in May here in Warrenton, Virginia. Dan and I traded emails and spoke, and he was planning to come. Unfortunately, in April, we cancelled the get-together due to Covid. Dan called me after that and we talked for about 10 or 15 minutes about Covid, along with this and that. It was the last time we spoke with each other. He didn’t mention the lung cancer he already knew he was dying of.
It’s Forty-some years since our graduation from West Point in 1978 and those years have passed much too quickly. I think of Dan, and my other classmates, both living and dead. Our class will still have plenty of good times together, and many more reunions. Having said that, the chapel service honoring our departed classmates at those reunions becomes just a little sadder each time.
I’ve also been thinking about the great Dire Straits/Mark Knopfler song, “Brothers in Arms” and it’s refrain,
“You did not desert me
My brothers in arms…”
Whenever I hear the song, I think of both West Point and my time in the Army. The song is bittersweet, and also a testament to those who have served, and the brotherhood that exists between them. Released in 1985, it also reminds me of my 8 1/2 years with the Army in Germany that decade.
And of course, I can’t help but remember the song “The Corps” from West Point. It celebrates the continuity of The Long Gray Line, past, present and future.
Grip hands with us now tho’ we see not. Grip hands with us strengthen our hearts … Grip hands, tho’ it be from the shadows…
Rest In Peace Zman, Rest in Peace. You are gone, but not forgotten.
– Thanks as always to my friend Colleen for her super editorial assistance. I’m alway thankful for her corrections to my poor English. I’m better than when I started this blog 5 years ago, but still have room for improvement. Thanks Colleen!
We recently bought a new gas grill. I’ve always been a charcoal guy, but decided to add a gas grill as well. So – what would be the first meal to come off the grill – Steaks? Brats? Burgers? Chicken? A Pork Tenderloin? It turned out to be a Pizza Margherita. Yep. Seriously. What the hell!?! Well, there’s a bit of a story to go with the decision.
For the last 40 years, I’ve cooked on (mostly) Weber Kettle charcoal grills. The smoke, the flame, the flavor, it all just worked for me. Yea, I always knew there was a bit of inconvenience to it, but that was no big deal, and I’d argue with “gas guys” about why charcoal was superior.
When Cathy’s mom passed away in 2010, we inherited her gas grill. It took me a bit of time to cook on it, but I made the adjustment. I still mostly cooked with charcoal, but if I was in a hurry, or occasionally had something that just needed a quick sear, like shrimp, I’d use mom’s grill. It was also put to use when we did our annual Oktoberfest Run at the farm – When you need to cook 125 Brats and warm up 100 soft pretzels, all available cooking surfaces are pressed into service.
Last week, two independent events happened that changed my outlook.
First, the New York Times cooking section had an article about making your own pizza. I’d always shied away from making my own pizzas in the past. Making the dough seemed like more effort than it was worth. The Time’s recipe? Easy. You just needed a bit of time. It also had a simple recipe for the sauce. Still, it seemed that, while you could make a good pizza in your oven, the oven still wasn’t Pizzeria-oven hot, not even close. I know lots of people make great pizza at home, but it gave me pause.
The second event? Cathy and I talked and decided to buy a new gas grill to supplement our charcoal grill. Mom’s old grill was toast. Maybe I’m getting old. Maybe I’m getting soft. In any case, I bit the bullet, and bought a new gas Weber grill. Now with the Weber, as I was reading through the manual, they recommend heating the grill to it’s highest temperature for 20 or 30 minutes before you ever use it. I’m not sure why, maybe to help season everything.
In any case, the day the grill arrived, I heated that puppy up for about half an hour. I went out later to shut it down and glanced at the temperature. Whoa! Over 600 degrees!
A Pizza Oven of a Different Sort
That got me to thinking. 600 degrees still isn’t the 1,000 degrees of a wood pizza oven, or as hot as a commercial pizza oven. But, it’s hotter than most home ovens.
A wood oven, at 1,000 degrees takes about 60 seconds to cook the perfect pie. What could I do at 600 degrees? I decided to find out.
I kept it simple for my first try and just went with a traditional Pizza Margherita. On Saturday afternoon I made the dough and let it rise. While that was happening, I made the sauce they recommended, which was really simple – blended crushed tomatoes, a bit of salt and a swirl of olive oil. I added some garlic and oregano.
The Two Dough Balls for the Crusts
About an hour before dinner time, I put my baking-stone on the grill and started heating it up.
Next? I had a cocktail, got a bottle of Zin out of the cellar and relaxed a bit. Finally it was time to assemble the pizza.
I formed the pie, added some sauce, then placed mozzarella cheese on it, and scattered some basil leaves. I added a quick swirl of olive oil and a grating of pepper. I kept the second round of dough handy, in case I screwed up the first pizza. Into the Weber the pizza went. Six minutes later, I took it out.
Homemade Pizza – Yea Baby!
It looked delicious. I let it cool for a minute or two. Yes, I still remember burning the roof of my mouth on occasion with pizzas straight from the oven… 😉
Finally, it was taste test time, and – Whoa! This was pretty damned good. Was it the best pizza I ever had? No. But it was much better than many pizzas I’ve had. It had a nice crust and a good sauce. The cheese was melted and stringy. This was something I could easily enjoy again and again.
We devoured the first pizza and I quickly made the second one. I added a bit more cheese and basil this time and slid it onto the baking stone. A little under six minutes later, I pulled it out. I’d say Cathy liked the pizza as well, as the second one was also quickly gone.
The Second Pizza was as Good as the First.
I realize I’m late to the “make your own pizza party”, but I’m on board now. The grill made me a believer. I’ve got a few topping ideas for the next pizzas, and some thoughts on how I could improve just a bit. Practice makes perfect, or so they say.
So…I bought this Weber Grill that makes good pizzas. I hear it’s not bad with steaks either. We’ll see sometime in the future.
Addendum:
– I love pizza, although we don’t eat it as much these days (that may change now). I think that’s partly because we have to drive 15 or 20 minutes to the nearest pizza places. It sounds foolish, but growing up in Ottawa, Illinois, we had several great pizza places, and I think it spoiled me a bit. Foremost among the places in Ottawa was Sam’s and Bianchi’s. They are legendary back home. Anyone returning for a visit almost always stops at one of those two places for a pie. If you want to read about me having pizza 116 times at Sam’s in 1972, you can do so here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/14/sams-pizza-in-1972/
My Mother-in-Law, Faye received an interesting piece of mail today from the “50 State Action Fund”. The mailing provided a Virginia voter registration application and urged her to register and save Virginia from “the Radical Liberals”. The only problem is mom has been dead since 2010.
Hmmm, Mom may not have Registered to Vote in the last Eleven Years… I Wonder Why?
50 States Action Fund says it is “committed to giving Americans the tools they need to fight back against the rise of socialism. Through registration efforts, we are working to help voters engage in the political process by exercising their constitutional right to vote across the country…. and Protect our values from socialism.” Their website shows us on the road to becoming Venezuela. Their Facebook page of course brings up the bogeyman of taking away people’s guns. Looking closer, it appears they are specifically targeting Virginia.
Uh oh. The Dems are at it Again (Although it’s the Right that’s Trying to Register Dead People…)
It’s interesting to me how the far right, and particularly the Trumpers, continually charge the left with voter fraud. It’s one of the many great crimes committed by us radical leftists. Everyone knows we register illegals, register criminals and register dead people. We evidently do this so we can turn this country into a – take your pick – socialist, communist, or Marxist state. I suppose the 50 State Action Fund is pretty mild, since they only charge us with socialism and not creating a Marxist State.
Here in Virginia, we have an election every single year. It’s actually a bit tiring. This year, the Governor, Lieutenant Governor and Attorney General Offices are all up for election, as well as all members of the House of Delegates. The Republican candidate for Governor was already caught on tape telling supporters that he “has to limit his antiabortion comments on the campaign trail for fear of alienating Virginia’s independent voters, but that he would go “on offense” if he wins office and Republicans take a majority in the House of Delegates.” Of course it’s the Dems who are the liars.
I’m sure there will be many more shenanigans over the next three months before the election, no doubt from both sides. As to mom registering to vote in support of the Far Right, I suppose they will have to pry the registration form from her cold dead hands.
Feel free to share this blog.
Addendum:
I’ve been waiting a long time to find a use for that Chuck Heston/NRA “cold dead hands” tag line. I think this fit the bill.
In the first two hours after I published this blog, three other friends here in Virginia told me about dead relatives or friends who also received this mailing. Maybe they should review their mailing list? I doubt that will happen.
I’ve never ever heard someone say “Man, I can’t stand The Jetty”. In fact, it’s just the opposite. It’s one of those places that has found a way to appeal to old locals, new locals, people passing by, and tourists. As a bonus, dogs are allowed on the outdoor deck, which makes it one of Carmen’s favorite places as well. Every town should have a place like The Jetty Restaurant and Dockbar, but many don’t.
Cathy and I have been stopping at the Jetty for the last ten years. It’s on the way to our house at the Bay, and a great place for lunch. Two hours from home (and about 45 min from The Bayhouse), it’s the perfect stopping point.
The first time we went to The Jetty was with friends Pat and Bob, and Becky and Jim. Cathy mentioned to her girlfriends we were going to the Bay, and maybe we could meet them for a drink along the way. Becky said to Cathy “What about meeting at the jetty?” Cath answered “Becky – which jetty? There must be ten jetties in that stretch along the water.” Becky answered “Not a jetty, THE Jetty – it’s a bar”. And so we were introduced to this wonderful beach bar.
The Jetty has a great location on Kent Narrows.
Located in Maryland, just over the Bay Bridge on the Eastern Shore, the bar has a great view overlooking Kent Narrows. In the spring, summer and fall, the outdoor tables on the deck stay full, while in the wintertime, the indoor bar and restaurant fill up. With all of the glass “garage type doors” for the bar, the view from inside is almost as good as sitting outside.
With all of the roll-up windows, The view from inside the deck bar, is almost as good as from outside.
When stopping for lunch, we know a nice selection of cold beers, excellent Bloody Marys or tasty Crushes are there waiting for us. The food is decent, and this being the Eastern Shore, the crabs in the summertime and oysters in the winter are always excellent. Good burgers, fish sandwiches or tacos, a great Crab Cake, and excellent salads are all on the menu. This is bar food at it’s best… If you are looking for something more substantial, there’s always several wonderful seafood dinners on the menu as well… As a bonus, dogs are allowed on the outdoor deck, which also makes it one of Carmen’s favorite places. They always bring her a bowl of water, and if you are inclined, you can order special doggie “meals” off the menu for your fourlegged companion (we don’t). She always enjoys barking “hi” to the other dogs on the deck.
The mental transition to vacation mode starts pretty quickly when sitting on the deck, looking at the water and relaxing with a drink. A beer, or two, along with a sandwich makes that last 45 minutes of driving time to Tilghman pass pretty quickly.
Getting in vacation mode….
I’ve seen bikes, motorcycles, cars, trucks, and one year on St Paddy’s Day, a bus parked outside. Many folk also arrive by boat, docking in one of the slips.
We’ve also met friends there for drinks, or for dinner. It’s not a bad way to while away a few hours on a sunny afternoon. On weekends, they often have a band. Our friends, Pat and Bob live just three or four miles from The Jetty – in Pat’s words – “The Jetty is practically our every Friday happy hour go-to bar. Such a beautiful setting, especially the gorgeous sunsets.“
Every town should have a place like The Jetty, but many don’t. The water and view certainly help, but the way they appeal to everyone, local or not, is what makes the difference for me. I’m glad it’s on our list of local watering holes and places for a meal. If you happen to cross the Bay Bridge on Route 50 heading to the Eastern Shore or the Atlantic Ocean, make sure and give The Jetty a try. If you’ve been making the trip for awhile, you probably already knew that.
Addendum:
– Thanks to our friend Pat for reviewing and providing input for this blog.
– Note – this isn’t an advertisement for the Jetty and I was provided no money (or drink) in exchange for writing this blog! It’s a local bar/restaurant we just really like.
It would appear Saruman’s Orcs have moved into the woods across the street from us. The only apparent difference is they are using chainsaws and bulldozers to take down trees, instead of the axes the Orcs used in the book and movie “The Lord of the Rings”.*
Cath and I have lived on our small farm in rural Fauquier County for the past 22 years. While only 20 acres, it’s our slice of heaven. Around us, most homes sit on 5-50 acre lots. It’s been that way for the entire time we’ve lived here. Across the street from our driveway, there’s a piece of land that is somewhere between 100-150 acres. It’s virtually all woods. It’s used by hunters in the fall and early winter. The rest of the time, it just sits there looking pretty.
When we first moved in, Cathy predicted we would have 20 years before development affected us. We are lucky we live in Fauquier County where the zoning laws are quite strict. Several decades ago, the decision was made to preserve Fauquier as a rural county, rather than going the way of development seen in Prince William, or eastern Loudoun County. Real “development” can only come near one of the existing towns and can’t just spring up in the woods. All of the rest of the property in the county has already been zoned for how many houses it can have on it, and so, as an example, we are not able to subdivide our 20 acre property. One of our friends has 50 acres, but can’t subdivide. Many properties, even as large as 100 acres, are only allowed to build two additional homes on the property (these “cut outs” were put in place decades ago, so the owner could have a couple of places his kids could build on).
The woods across the street from us were owned by a couple who lived about 20 miles away in Upperville. When the husband died, the wife still kept the property. A few years ago, she too passed away. There was a for sale sign on the property for a year or so, and we thought perhaps someone would buy the place to create an “estate”, or if lucky, maybe they would leave it as it was. The sign eventually disappeared.
Now we know. The property was originally zoned to allow ten houses and the folks who bought the property are building those ten houses. A few on 2 acres, a few on 5-10 acres, and a couple on 20+ acre lots. The foundation is laid for the first of those houses, on one of the smaller lots.
The First of Ten New Homes Coming to the Woods
It looks like they aren’t clear cutting the woods, which is something we were afraid would happen. Still, they are chopping down the trees to build the houses and to put in a couple of roads. You can hear the saws and bulldozers all day long. They are busy little orcs. At least they are leaving a screen of trees along our road to mask the eventual houses.
Here’s a Road and Potential House Site. At Least no Clear Cutting is Taking Place.
Based on what is happening in other parts of the county, the assumption is many of the families moving in will be “City People”. They are in for a few surprises. Internet service is not great out here, and no where near what most people expect in towns and cities. Fiber optic cabling doesn’t exist in rural areas. Winters are … interesting. Will the newbies come with four wheel drive vehicles, or will it take them a year or two to learn that lesson? The property itself is hilly, and they may have trouble getting out of their little subdivision on a snowy day, not to mention traversing local roads to town before the plow comes through (and sometimes, even after the plow has gone through).
With the power outages we sometimes experience due to winter storms or high winds, I wonder how long it will take them to consider installing a generator. Since we are in the country and on a well, no power means no water.
Hopefully, they quickly learn composting isn’t a particularly good idea. Our local bear population loves nothing better than feasting on partially composted food, in between tearing down bird feeders. Also, there are the occasional guns going off from hunters, or neighbors just trying to squeeze in a bit of target practice.
They are destined to freak out when carpenter bees start munching on their houses or snakes appear, or the lady bugs invade their homes. And of course, they are in for the treat of stink bugs. They are everywhere and crawl in between the lining of curtains and anywhere else they can find to hide in and stay warm in the winter. When spring arrives, they are quite active in looking for ways to leave the house. If you step on them, or in any way disturb them, they emit the most horrible smell.
Cathy and I have never been NIMBY people (Not in my back yard), and knew this day was inevitable. Still, it’s a bit sad to watch it happen. I’m sure when all is said and done, we will welcome the new folk to the neighborhood. Secretly, we may chuckle a bit and can’t wait for them to experience the entirety of country living. Let’s hope they figure out how to exist in the country, respect this beautiful place, and not try and change everything to some version of city living.
We expect after they move in, the new folk will visit one of our local nurseries to buy some Mountain Laurel, Holly, Dogwoods or Redbuds to plant and beautify their new properties. It will be nice. They will replace the Mountain Laurel, Holly, Dogwoods and Redbuds recently cut down by the Orcs.
Addendum:
* If by chance you are not familiar with “The Lord of the Rings”, Orcs are evil creatures. In the second book of the trilogy, “The Two Towers”, we learn that at the behest of the wizard Saruman, Orcs are chopping down trees in an old forest to feed the fires of a furnace.
– Thanks to my wife Cathy for her help on this blog, particularly on the back half.
Is it no longer possible for neighbors of different political persuasions to get along? Our friend Sam* recently relayed an exchange with her neighbor that isn’t just unneighborly, it’s downright scary. Is this what we have come to?
Sam lives several miles away from us, but still here in Fauquier County. She has about 1 1/2 acres and has lived in her home for 23 years. Her neighbor, John*, has lived next to her for about 15 years.
While they were never best friends, they got along. Every neighborhood seems to have a “strange guy” and John fit the bill. Having said that, other than the occasional conspiracy theory, strange complaints about other neighbors, and complaints about people lying about him, they more or less got along. And they never talked about politics. It just didn’t come up.
In the last three or four years, John seemed to get worse. There were more and growing conspiracy theories. He had a restraining order put in place against him. He was arrested for violating the restraining order, and was later arrested for brandishing a firearm. He also told a “whopping lie” about Sam to another neighbor (Sam’s words).
Last fall, Sam put a Biden sign in her yard, near their shared driveway. John moved the sign away from the drive and further into Sam’s yard. There were still no political conversations.
A few years ago, John started raising chickens (and a few roosters). Initially, there was no problem and the chickens happily clucked around his yard. Things changed this year. He wanted “free range chickens” and didn’t confine them. Of course chickens don’t recognize property lines and in the spring, more and more of them came to Sam’s yard to eat and dig up her plants and garden. Many of these plants were perennials, some of which she planted over a decade ago. As the new growth came up, the chickens ate or scratched the plants (Hostas were a favorite) into oblivion.
Initially, Sam tried to be a good neighbor and just shoo the chickens away. The chickens evidently liked the plants and kept returning. On one occasion, she chased the chickens away six times in just a few hours.
In March, Sam finally complained to John about the chickens. It did no good. In April she did the same, and this time John replied “Please Don’t tell me how to manage my chickens, or suggest I “enclose” them, when I already do. They are free range Earthlings and have their own rights to travel. They don’t believe in fences or politics, they don’t yell at and berate their neighbors, or treat them like second class citizens…”
The Bird Might be Innocent, but Neighbor John? Not So Much…
Sam eventually called Animal Control. Before she even mentioned his name, the officer said “Trust me, I’ve had my handcuffs on him before.“
John’s response this time? “Calling the cops on those evil chickens and that evil white Republican man next door for trespassing… seems like such a great plan. They can Shoot all neighboring creatures great and small, and with implied immunity. Let them be your heel and heavy gun to do the dirty work, let them threaten to extinguish life over a nibbled plant…”
John offered that Sam could trap, kill and eat a chicken if she wanted. Sam, understandably, doesn’t care about trapping, killing and eating one of his chickens. She just wants her garden left alone.
And so it continued. Sam has put countless hours and dollars into her garden. The chickens continued to eat and destroy plants. She complained to John again in June. This time? You can see his reply in this photo:
Not Your Ordinary Exchange Between Neighbors…
That “You pandered uncountable votes for Creepy Corn Pop the blundering commie, and the irony of a liberal democrat or Marxist calling someone out over “property rights”, rather, the concept of “no regard for other people’s property”… is priceless…” is the most rational statement in the entire text says something about his state of mind.
If you were Sam, what would you do? Animal Control says they can do no more than fine him (and have already done so), but he just doesn’t pay the fines. She has discussed John with the sheriff’s office, but hasn’t yet involved them in resolving the issue. She has grown tired of engaging him in conversations and texts, which do no good, and in fact seem to exacerbate the situation.
I realize not all Trump supporters are as extreme as John has become, but I can’t help but believe our former president’s actions and comments have encouraged John’s behavior. His text from June shows just how irate and irrational he has become …BlowbamaJiden … beeLM … children being trafficked and regendered by perverts … human debt enslavement … plandemics … genocidal geoengineering … an orangemanbadassed styled eco-friendly border wall …
Sam has spent 23 years in her house. Her bit of paradise is now closer to a living hell. This is evidently what we have come to – forget being friendly or neighborly, you can’t even engage in conversation to resolve issues. I realize in the big scheme of things, Sam’s problem is rather small. Having said that, it also seems to tie to our national problems and issues. For many of us, comity no longer appears to be an American quality.
If you were Sam, what would you do?
….. Feel free to share this blog …..
Addendum:
• *Sam is not our friend’s real name. For privacy and security reasons, I’m using a pseudonym. The same is true for her neighbor’s name.
The night wasn’t supposed to happen. As a matter of fact, in today’s post 9-11 world, it couldn’t happen. They never would have made it through security. But in 1991? Yea, my buddies Howard and June sprung me from O’Hare Airport during a layover, and we had an unexpected night in Chicago.
It was July 2nd, 1991 and I’d been in Omaha, Nebraska for a week. We were running communications tests on the President’s “other plane” – the National Emergency Airborne Command Post (NEACP – pronounced Kneecap). NEACP is the plane the president uses in the event of a nuclear attack. The tests went well and ended quicker than expected. As a result, I was racing to the airport to try and catch a flight home that evening, rather than my scheduled flight the next day.
NEACP – The President’s Other Plane
I made the airport with twenty minutes to spare and was able to get a ticket. At the time, there were no direct flights from DC to Omaha and I would need to connect through Chicago with a two hour layover. At the airport, I found a pay phone (don’t forget this was the pre-cellphone age) and called my buddies June and Howard in Chicago to see if they could meet me at the airport for a beer (remember pre 9-11 times at the airport? Anyone could walk out to the plane gates, and in fact, many people did. Usually not for a beer, but to meet loved ones when their plane arrived). Neither Howard or June were home so I left them a message on their answering machine. I figured the odds of them receiving the message AND making it to the airport on time were between slim and none. I ran to the plane and boarded.
An Entry From my Journal About the Weekend in Question*
An hour and a half later we landed in Chicago and I left the plane. I’ll be damned – both June and Howard were there at the gate to meet me! Handshakes all around and we found a bar near the gate I would fly out of two hours later.
We drank a couple of beers and June offhandedly said “Why don’t you spend the night?” I told him United wouldn’t let it happen, and how I was lucky to be on this flight at all. Then we thought, what the hell, let’s give it a shot. I walked over to the ticket agent at the gate and talked with him about changing my connecting flight to the next day. We went back and forth about it, but he gave me about fifteen reasons why he couldn’t do it. I walked back to the bar, which was within site of the agent and reported to the boys that it was no dice.
The Chances of Spending the Night in Chicago Didn’t Look Good*
Howard wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He set his beer down and marched over to the agent. He proceeded to berate the agent and said something like this to him – “What kind of American are you? Here’s my friend, a soldier doing his duty protecting our country while here you are, sitting on your ass and not doing anything to help out. My friend puts his life on the line every day – don’t you think he’s worth that small gesture?” (Or words to that effect. Howard was pretty animated – as he related to me recently, he was performing on stage regularly then including at the Improv Olympic in Chicago. That gave him some of the confidence to pull off the role of “irate friend”). They talked a bit more and Howard came back to the table with a smile – It was on! The agent gave me a return ticket for the next day and we left O’Hare.
We were starving by now, and headed to a new Giordano’s Pizzaria. At the time, Giordano’s had only two or three locations in Chicago, and no where else. We ordered a couple of stuffed pizzas along with a few more beers. The night progressed. From there, it was on to another bar, and then to a bar across the street from their apartment for a final beer and a tequila (or two). We finally made it to bed around 1:30AM.
The next morning, I was moving a bit slowly. When I woke up, Howard was already gone, as he had to be at work early. June and I cleaned up and went out for a quick breakfast, before he drove me back to the airport. We arrived at 10:15, just in time to catch my 11:10 flight – it was my original flight, before I rescheduled everything the day before… ;-).
It was an unexpected night in Chicago with my oldest friends. What could possibly be better?
Howard, Me and June, Two Months Later in September of 1991. I was Back in Illinois for a Couple More Days. Bloodies were Evidently on the Menu this Particular Day.
Addendum:
⁃ * I’ve kept a journal for decades. I’ve rarely used it for any of my blogs, because I’m usually sporadic about what I write. When I was younger, it seems I wrote in it most often while traveling. The “writing” pictures you see in this blog are extracts from the journal. I’ve told this particular story several times before, but never looked in my journal to see if I recorded it. I was looking for something else, and came across these entries. My memory was pretty close to what I had written, although I didn’t specifically remember going to Giordano’s, drinking tequila that night, or the breakfast the next day. Those recollections are straight from the journal.
⁃ Thanks to June (Tim Stouffer) and Howard (Kim Johnson) for contributing to this blog. Thanks even more for being lifelong friends.
⁃ The job I had in the Army at the time was pretty interesting, and involved Nuclear Command and Control (C2) systems, among other things. A week after this trip on NEACP, I went to Norfolk for a week and was on the USS Nassau, a Tarawa Class Amphibious Assault ship. We were again testing Nuclear C2 systems.
Bob Bishop is a friend of mine and shared this story with me from his time aboard a Ballistic Missile Submarine. It’s a compelling story from the Cold War and I hope you will give it a read. The movie, “The Hunt for Red October” is a bit of child’s play, compared to what these guys did on a daily basis. My only contribution here is a bit of editing.
My first real duty station was the USS Nathanael Greene (SSBN-636), Blue Crew*. She had just completed her fourth patrol (two Blue, two Gold) when I reported aboard in April 1966 in Charleston, South Carolina. She was about as seasoned as I was and commissioned the same year I graduated from the Academy. We were in the middle of the Cold War, and Russia was building submarines as fast as we were. Vietnam was still just a little country somewhere over there, on the other side of the Pacific.
Bob, at Graduation from The Naval Academy in 1964
Every day on patrol on a Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine (FBM) is, in many ways, just like the day before or the day after. You have watches to stand, duties to perform, qualifications to train for and, at random times, all-hands drills (such as, “FIRE IN THE TORPEDO ROOM,” or “FLOODING IN THE MISSILE COMPARTMENT”) to wake you if you are off-watch or to interrupt the routine of your duties if you are on watch.
While on patrol, all FBMs, like the Nathanael Greene, must remain in constant radio contact to receive any and all incoming traffic all day, every day. However, a FBM only broke radio silence to send a message in a dire emergency, as sending a message would risk giving away the ship’s position to any nearby enemy ship or aircraft.
Because any change in the volume of message traffic from the sender (i.e., the Pentagon) could have some intelligence value, the radio schedule is purposefully full 24 hours a day.
The most important messages are the operational orders — to change a submarine’s patrol area and thus its missile target package. The Navy filled the remaining time with national news, sports scores and stories, all of it in coded 5-character groups. Every ship received the same radio broadcast, but you only really paid attention to messages sent for your ship. All of the news, sports scores, etc. were printed out and attached to a clipboard in the Radio Shack for anyone to read.
The Navy used the same radio system to conduct simultaneous tests of the combat readiness of all FBMs on patrol through a periodic WSRT (Weapons System Readiness Test). The WSRT begins (and the clock starts counting) with the receipt of a special message which begins, exactly as a real launch message would, with the heading “Top Secret — Cryptographic.” The text that follows, even though still in five-character groupings, is in a code that can only be deciphered through use of a special code book.
When such a message was received, the radioman immediately alerts the Captain (CO) and Executive Officer (XO) a potential Launch message has been received, and the Officer of the Deck instantly sounds “BATTLE STATIONS – MISSILE.” Every member of the crew has an assigned battle station, in addition to their regular job, and moves there at a dead run.
Meanwhile, the Communications Officer hustles to the Radio Shack, as does another officer designated at the start of the patrol by the CO to fulfill the required Two-Man rule. The Communications Officer opens the first safe, and the other officer opens the inner safe where the code book is kept. They extract the code book and break the text into English. They then rush to the Control Room to give the CO the plain-text message. Based on the message, the CO unlocks a cabinet in the overhead just forward of the #1 periscope shear, and pulls out the appropriate firing key – black if it is a drill and red if it is Launch. It’s a little cabinet, maybe 3 inches high by 14 inches wide and 8 inches deep, but within it is the key to launch 16 ICBMs towards their targets thousands of miles away.
WSRTs occurred about every eight to ten days. The time and day chosen were “random.” The experience of the “Old Salts” suggested the frequency was selected by somebody in the Pentagon seemingly based on a roll of the dice – it was never sooner than 2 days after the previous drill, and always within 12 days. It also never occurred on a Sunday morning (i.e., between Saturday midnight and Sunday noon) – to give the crew a break from the chaotic 24/7 pace of shipboard life and to allow an opportunity for anyone who wanted to worship (as a result, Jewish services were also held on Sunday mornings).
The USS Nathanael Greene (SSBN-636) at Sea
Fast forward two years…
The world had become a much more dangerous place. The summer of 1968 was a time of great turmoil, both nationally and internationally. Vietnam was raging. The USSR invaded Czechoslovakia and crushed the Prague uprising. North Korea had captured the USS Pueblo. France was in turmoil – as student protests turned into riots, workers joined them striking across the nation and Charles de Gaulle dissolved the National Assembly. At home, LBJ decided not to run, due to the Vietnam War. Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in April, resulting in race riots across the country. Whole blocks of cities were ablaze. Bobby Kennedy’s assassination in June added still another dimension to the generally bleak outlook. It was a time of high unemployment in the U.S, strained race relations, unprecedented heat waves, and scattered power outages. The tone and tenor of the news we received in those coded messages was alarming.
You couldn’t help but be affected by thinking about where your loved ones were, how they were, and what was going on around them. I had married a scant 3 months before, between patrols, and Suzan was in DC. The turmoil there was frequently mentioned in the news reports, both as local news and as a setting for reporting on what the Federal government was doing to respond.
I was a Lieutenant now, in charge of the largest Division in the Engineering Department, and on my fifth patrol. I was the only junior officer qualified both to operate the ship and to run the nuclear plant (the only other officers qualified both “forward” and “aft” were the XO and the Engineer). As a result, instead of a typical watch rotation of one in three (six hours on and twelve hours off), I was standing a watch aft as Engineering Officer of Watch, in charge of the nuclear plant et al., then a watch forward as Officer of the Deck, in charge of driving the ship (so my schedule was twelve hours on and six hours off, repeated every 18 hours).
It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and we had just finished a WSRT. My Battle Station was, with Chief Blackmon, to oversee the operation of the Torpedo Fire Control System, which was on the starboard side of the Control Room. Once we launched our sixteen ICBMs, we would immediately leave the launch area and become an attack submarine, to seek out, track and sink any hostile ships. During Battle Stations, my boss, Bill Fernow, the Engineer, was aft, watching over the nuclear plant and other engineering systems.
As we stood down from Battle Stations, there was a palpable tension in the ship because of what seemed to be the deteriorating situation in the U.S. and the world. More than one of us was thinking “Someday this could be real.”
I was dog-tired, but the WSRT had occurred while I was Engineering Officer of the Watch, so after we secured from Battle Stations, I went aft to relieve my boss. He looked at me, and then at his watch, looked up and smiled and said, “I’ll take it from here. You look like you could use some sack time.”
I didn’t argue. I went forward to Officer’s Quarters, and leapt into my rack. Forty minutes later, I was woken for my next watch, the 1800 to 2400 shift.
After a quick bite in the Wardroom, I went up to the Control Room to assume the Conn.
I was relieved at 11:45 p.m. after a thankfully routine watch, sat down in the Wardroom for a quick sandwich, and was asleep within seconds of hitting my rack. Exhaustion does that to you. (When the patrol was over, I found I had logged just a bit over 5 hours of sleep per 24-hour period – for 72 days.)
At 3:42 a.m., the klaxon sounded and the cry “BATTLE STATIONS – MISSILE” came over the 1MC. The advantage of being so tired was that you wore your jumpsuit to bed so you didn’t have to waste precious seconds getting your clothes off, or on. I was at my station at the Fire Control panel in the Control Room within 20 seconds, probably the last 10 seconds of which I became cognizant of the situation we were going into.
The last WSRT was just hours ago and never – never – had there been another WSRT so close to the previous one. And it was early morning on a Sunday.
Battle Stations is always a time of pressure – to do your job as well as possible and to hope your systems performed as designed. This time, however, there was a unique quiet. Everyone knew this was the real thing.
There was no emotion, only a deathly quiet. Given my Battle Station location in the Control Room, I was standing about six feet from the XO, and the CO was about eight feet to my left, standing on the raised platform of the Conn. I could hear each of the stations reporting “Battle Stations manned and ready” to the XO’s sound-powered phone-talker. When the last of the stations had reported in, I watched the XO turn to the CO and report formally “Battle Stations are manned, Captain.”
Although everyone was tightly focused on making sure they did what they were supposed to do exactly right, part of each of our brains was recognizing the inevitability that we would never again see everything we knew and loved. Our families, our country, were surely gone. Our future was the ship, and our sole mission was to launch our missiles, seek the solace of the deep, and then seek revenge.
At that moment, the Communications Officer ran into the Control Room and handed the CO the decoded message. The CO read the message, took the lanyard from his neck, unlocked the firing key cabinet, and reached in for the firing key. We were about to launch… And then, he took out the black key, the WSRT drill key, NOT the red firing key.
Among those of us who could see what had just occurred, there was a moment of disbelief, the sure knowledge that you couldn’t believe your eyes. A double-take, and then the realization it really was a drill after all. The sense of relief was palpable, almost as if everyone, at the same time, slowly exhaled the breath they had been holding since Battle Stations had been called what seemed like hours ago, but was in reality, only a few minutes.
We knew we were at war. And then, suddenly, not. Just as there had been no sobbing or other shows of emotion when we each realized we were at war, there were also no cheers or high-fives to find that we weren’t. Instead, there was only a somber reflection that we were, to a man, trained and ready, but fortunately had not been called upon.
Bob Enjoying Life a Couple of Years Ago
Addendum:
– * Submarines have two separate identical crews, called Blue and Gold, which alternate manning the boat. While one crew is deployed, the other is in port for leave, refresher training, and preparation for their next patrol. This maximizes the amount of time the submarine itself is deployed. At the time, a typical deployment was 72 days – the complete cycle, taking over from the other crew, making needed repairs, installing new equipment, and a short sea trial to test everything out, meant nearly 100 days away from home, twice a year.
– Special thanks to my friend Bob Bishop for sharing this story. Bob graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1964. At the time, Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, the founder of the modern nuclear Navy, personally interviewed and approved or denied every prospective officer being considered for a nuclear ship. The selection rate was not very high.
Live Life Exuberantly 