My friend Ed Meagher, a Vietnam Vet, recently told this story. I asked him if I could clean it up a bit, and post it here on my blog. He readily agreed. As tensions ratchet up between us and Iran, and around the world, I think it’s good to listen to personal stories from our past wars and not just the official histories, or news articles. The voices of those who were there are always worth hearing. Here’s Ed’s story in his own words.

Whenever I hear a helicopter, I stop what I am doing and lookup. Nothing too unusual about that, except I am also hit by a momentary shot of adrenalin, the hair on my arms and neck stand up, and a feeling arises in my chest and gut I have trouble describing. It is quick, and after all these years it fades rapidly. I cover it by trying to identify the type of helicopter and unless it is an old “Huey” or “Chinook”, the whole episode is over before anyone notices. If it is one of those, it is another matter and it brings back memories.

I arrived in Vietnam about 3AM on January 30th, 1968. By coincidence, or poor luck, it was the same day the Tet Offensive started. I was a recently promoted Air Force Staff Sergeant (E-5) radio operator. I was assigned to a Comm Squadron and detailed to a place called “Paris Control” where we coordinated air strikes up and down III Corps. I worked the night shift from 6 PM to 6 AM every day. We would eat breakfast or dinner, depending on your preference, about 6:30 AM and then try to sleep in the hot, noisy barracks before getting up and doing it all again.

During daytime, they often needed warm bodies for crap details like sandbag filling, or riding shotgun on convoys, or just about any gritty, shitty job you can imagine. They would send a runner to wake you and tell you where to go and when to be there. It was a royal pain in the ass. As an NCO, I usually had to lead the details.

One time around May of ‘68, after being woken, I show up at the head-shed and am told to simply load the assembled troops into two pickup trucks and take them to the mortuary at Ton Son Knut. It is a large aluminum Quonset hut at the end of a taxiway on the northside of the runways, and away from the main base. We arrive at the mortuary and it is hot and miserable and all I am told is to “standby”.

Time passes and a fire truck shows up and they know even less than we do. Finally, over the tower radio, we hear a helicopter being cleared to land near the Quonset hut. It is a big helicopter known as a Chinook. It is a twin-engined, tandem rotor, noisy beast, that throws up dirt, pebbles and small rocks in every direction.

Over the tower radio, we hear a request for the fire engine to move closer to the helicopter. After the fire truck moves, nothing happens for a while as the exhaust fumes from the JP4 fuel mixes with the hot humid air. It can overwhelm you, but strangely I have always loved that smell.

In the military, you learn to do a lot of standing around waiting for your orders. You learn patience and to deal with a lot of ambiguity. Time passes. Finally, and slowly, figures emerge from the Quonset hut a couple at a time. They are dressed in various colored medical scrubs and are all wearing scrub hats and masks. Some have rubber aprons and gloves on. They walk slowly, very slowly. They are not in any hurry to get to where they are going and are in fact meandering. I haven’t been told anything yet and the rest of my little detail knows better than to ask what is going on. We wait some more.

There are small conferences taking place, first with the crew chief, then the fire truck driver and then with the helicopter crew. Still not a clue. Then several of the folk from the Quonset hut wander back to the building at no better than a stroll. It is at least 100 degrees outside. We stand and wait for orders.

Finally, the folk reemerge from the hut pushing wagons and gurneys. The crew chief waves me over to the helicopter. I bend down even though the blades are 20 feet above my head. The noise up close is even worse and the crew chief screams in my ear. Something to do with my men and what is on the helicopter. I give him the classic palms up “what did you say” sign and he registers disgust and grabs me by the arm and takes me to the back of the helicopter.

The Chinook has a very large rear door/ramp. The crew chief is wearing a bulbous helmet and is tethered to the aircraft via a long cord plugged into the helicopter near the front access door. He keys his microphone and talks to the crew in the front, and suddenly the ramp starts to come down. He again grabs me by the arm and pulls me to the side.

I am not prepared for what happens next. Nothing could prepare anyone for what happens next. As the ramp touches the ground, multiple streams of liquid pour off the helicopter into the grass and dirt. I stare at it for a few seconds, before I realize the liquid is a dirty reddish-brown color. It still doesn’t register with me, when the crew chief grabs me again and pulls me further away from the aircraft. Two of the firemen, in full battle rattle, move in with a small hose and start to spray the ramp with a high-pressure stream of water.

The crew chief pantomimes to me to get my detail and bring them over. As I trot over to our pickup trucks, it begins to dawn on me what the red liquid might be. The troops are curious and have questions, but I put on my best “the NCO knows all, and does not need to explain himself to the troops” look, and tell them to just form up and follow me. When we get back, the firemen are exiting down the ramp from inside the helicopter and one of them takes a massive, both feet in the air, pratfall. We all instinctively laugh.

The crew chief grabs me again and screams directly into my ear, “Careful. It’s slippery in there. Just two guys to a bag, one bag at a time“. The guys in scrubs inch closer to the side of the helicopter with their gurneys and carts, but stop short of the back of the helicopter. I return to my waiting crew and not knowing what to say or how to give the order, I grab the first two guys and indicate to the rest to wait where they were. Again in an unneeded crouch, the three of us approach the ramp and start up. There are two corrugated metal tracks running up the ramp and they are wet. The first few steps make it clear there is no traction, so we step onto the inside of the fuselage and there it is only marginally better.

We make our way up the ramp grabbing hold of each other and anything else we can reach. It is comical and the crew chief calls us off and brings the firemen back. There is a long discussion and it is decided they are going to use a bigger hose and mix the water with some fire-retardant foam. There are pros and cons back and forth about the wisdom of this, but they decide to try it. The pressure from the larger hose is truly impressive and maybe the foam helps, or maybe it doesn’t. After 10 minutes, the fireman come out and we go back in.

We reach the top of the ramp and it takes several seconds for our eyes to adapt from the bright sunshine to the dark inside the ship. Then we see the body bags. They are piled like cords of wood on the deck and secured with brightly colored canvas straps connected to pinions in the deck. The crew chief brushes by us and begins to release the straps. The bags settle and spread out as each strap is released. There are probably six or seven bags to a pile, and there are multiple piles.

The three of us just stand there, staring with our mouths agape. The crew chief comes back to me and hits me on the shoulder and indicates I need to get started. My two guys grab the first bag and lift it. The body inside the bag is still warm and flexible and slides into more of a ball, which they have to lift higher. They raise their arms to near shoulder height for the bag to clear the ground. I watch as the two troops, who should have been asleep in bed, slither and stumble down the ramp. The crew chief hits me between the shoulder blades and indicates I am to take the other end of the next bag and we start out of the aircraft.

The first body is hoisted onto one of the gurneys and I get angry none of the folks in scrubs offer to help my guys. They just stand there. When we get close to the next gurney, I am ready to say something, then notice the look in their eyes. It dawns on me they are gearing up for the horror awaiting them, when they have to open these bags inside the Quonset hut. To us, they are still just messy bags, but to them, they would soon become bodies, soldiers, dead people.

I go over to my guys and tell them to follow me. We quickly set up an assembly line of sorts and it becomes clear we have to operate methodically so that every team takes the exact number of turns into the ship, grab the body bag, and then returns down the ramp. One trip for each of us and we became experts at this macabre parade. I wish I kept better track of how many bags we offloaded. My best guess is it was over thirty, but I can’t be sure. Some of the bags were suspiciously light. Was a small soldier inside, or was it just body parts? One of the guys later mentioned he thought one of the bags contained a dog.

It is all over in two hours. No one dismisses us, they all just leave. The firemen go back on the helicopter and spray the inside for a long time. When they are finished, the helicopter simply takes off. The firemen set out a canvas tub about 8 feet across and half-fill it with water and what looks like detergent. They step in it with their rubber boots and invited us to do the same. We step in and stomp around in our canvas jungle boots which immediately soaks our socks. After a few moments, one of the firemen releases a latch and the pool collapsed and empties. They throw it on the top of the truck and off they go.

We are now alone with no one to tell us what to do next. I’m 21 years old and the rest of the guys are about the same age, but I have one or two more stripes, so they looked to me for guidance, for direction, for orders. I have nothing.

We stand there for a few long seconds and then I say something like “who wants to go back to the barracks and who wants to go to the chow hall?”, and we split the two trucks up by destination.

The last thing I remember about the day is that as I prepared to go to work for my 6 PM shift, I took a shower and noticed my feet were pinkish. I had to wear those boots for quite a while before I could get a new pair and no matter how many times, I soaked them, they always seemed to have a stiffness to them.

–

I haven’t shared this story with too many people because it is normally not a place I want to go and it is still is a deep scar on my soul. But recently, because of my criticism of President Trump and my view that he wants to start a “wag the dog” war, a person questioned my love for my country and my unwillingness to support another war in the Middle East. All I know is someone has to stand up for all the PFC’s who will pay the price of old white men’s bloodlust, and who will end up in body bags.

Addendum:

Ed is the real deal. After his time in Vietnam, he eventually went to work for the VA, and helped his fellow veterans there for several years. After leaving the government, he continued to support veterans in other ways. 16 years ago, he and two other Vietnam vets started a charity to support veterans returning from Afghanistan and Iraq. It eventually became the Aleethia Foundation. You can find out more about it, and it’s mission at: https://www.aleethia.org

Feel free to share this blog…… https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/01/08/after-his-patriotism-is-questioned-a-vietnam-vet-reflects-on-war/

I saw the pears in the grocery store a week ago, and on impulse, bought them. I don’t usually buy fruit out of season, but as I was looking at them, a phrase popped in my brain – “These are perfectly imperfect”, and I put them in my basket. They looked pretty good, although there were some blemishes on them.

At home, I started thinking about the phrase “perfectly imperfect” and what did I mean. And then I thought about “perfectly imperfect” and why did I use that instead of “imperfectly perfect”, and what was the difference. It was time for Google.

Google, of course, had an infinite number of things to say about perfectly imperfect as it pertains to pears, fruit, vegetables, lifestyles, and people. I explored a number of these rabbit holes. It turns out there are companies selling “perfectly imperfect” fruit, appealing to people against food waste, or people looking for a bargain, depending on the ad. There was another blog site titled “perfectlyImperfect”, with the goal of helping people with branding and home decor. These links didn’t seem to get at what I was thinking.

Then came links focused more on people. There was a HuffPost piece about “perfectly imperfect” and self acceptance. Several Psychology Today articles explored the idea, including – “We are designed to be perfectly imperfect.” Music explored the phrase, with John Legend singing “…Love your curves and all your edges, All your perfect imperfections…”. And finally, the Urban Dictionary provided: “when someone has feelings for you, they may tell you you’re “perfectly imperfect”, basically saying they accept your flaws, they like you enough that they see past your faults, a way of saying that you’re perfect to them.”

Now we were getting somewhere and I started thinking about perfectly imperfect more broadly.

I left the internet and looked back at my pears and realized what I really meant was the pears looked real, not artificial or plastic. They had experienced some bumps and bruises in their brief life. They may not look perfect, but they looked the way pears are suppose to look.

I sat there thinking about perfectly imperfect pears and people. I thought about how much time gets wasted looking for perfection, whether in food, friends, or ourselves. New Year’s Eve was almost here, and while I don’t normally make New Year’s resolutions, three immediately popped in my head and I wrote them down.

• First, I will continue to look for the “real”, in life, and try to avoid the artificial.

• Second, I will strive to do better in accepting people as they are, rather than trying to project my view of what “perfection” is on them.

• And finally, I will try and do better in accepting myself the way I am, warts, spreadsheets, to-do lists, and all. I’ll still try to improve, but I’ll also cut myself a bit of slack here and there.

I don’t know how I’ll do with these resolutions, but I’m going to give it my best.

When I first looked at those pears at the supermarket, I didn’t realize they would take me on a small journey of self assessment and awareness, but they did. As we know, insight can come to you from any number of different sources. You just need to be open to it.

All the best for 2020….

Addendum:

I didn’t go into “perfectly imperfect” versus “imperfectly perfect” in this blog. There’s a whole other discussion there. If you have a couple of hours to wander around the internet on a rainy day, go for it.

My cousin, Janice Connell, shared this memory of Christmas love and joy with me. I helped clean up the writing, but it’s her own voice.

I moved to Arizona in October of 2013 to reunite with my father and my daughter. I didn’t have much in the way of furniture, dishes, or actually, anything I needed to set up a house. I’d left Illinois with a suitcase, my dog, Baby, who had lived with me eleven years, and the clothes on my back.

I was 53 years old and really wanted to live alone, something I had never had the chance to do over the course of my life. When I arrived, my dad and stepmom, Dorothy, took me under their wings. They set me up with a doctor and took care of me. They helped me find a place to live, and helped buy all I needed to live on my own. My dad and I went to rummage sales, where he and Dorothy bought me furniture, a bed, dishes, literally everything I needed for my own home. He would often stop by my new house with food and we would just sit and talk. It was nice.

I always remember that first Christmas in Arizona. I didn’t have much money and there would be no tree, or decorations in my new home. It was OK, as I was just happy to have a place of my own. I did have fun helping Dad and Dorothy decorate the Christmas Cactus they had outside their home, and that was enough for me.

It wasn’t enough for my Dad, who knew I loved Nativity Sets. One day, as Christmas neared, Dad stopped by the house with a Christmas present and said I should open it right then. He was like a kid in a candy store beaming ear to ear when he handed me the package. I slowly opened the gift …. and …. he’d bought me a large Nativity Set! In addition to Mary and Joseph with baby Jesus, it had a barn and all the animals. There were three wise men and shepherds watching their flock. We put the set up together that first Christmas and I don’t think I’ve ever been as happy as I was that day.

I have had the set for six years now. I have loved it more each year and display it every Christmas, no matter what. The barn broke during a subsequent move, but I still put Mary and Joseph with baby Jesus out, along with the wisemen and shepherds. Mary and Joseph don’t seem to mind the lack of shelter.

Dad passed away in March and this is my first Christmas without him. I love him and miss him every day. He made sure I had everything I needed and a lot of what I just wanted. No one needs a Nativity Set, but it was important to me to have one, and he knew it. I love this Nativity Set, and will always remember the look on his face when he gave it to me in 2013. He knew the meaning of Christmas and how to share it.

Addendum:

Janice Connell is my second cousin, the daughter of my cousin Pooch. Pooch was one of those people you always remember. Halfway between my age, and that of my own father, he provided some insights and stories about my dad I only learned later in life. If you want to read more about Pooch, here are a few other blogs about him.

June 1944. Dad and Pooch on D-Day. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/08/19/dad-and-pooch/

Pooch and Stickball in the ‘40s. – https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/03/27/stickball%EF%BB%BF/

Pooch – A Eulogy. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/19/pooch/

My friend Tim said, “I was in Ashkhabad (Ashgabat) in June 1979, wondering why there was such a heavy Red Army presence in a sleepy place like that on the Iranian border. It was put together for me later in December of that year.”

Forty years ago, on December 24th, 1979, our current problems in Afghanistan began, when the Soviet Union invaded that country. As midnight approached on Christmas Eve, the Soviets organized a massive military airlift into Kabul. Within a few days, the Soviets had secured Kabul, but over time, they met with fierce resistance whenever they ventured into the countryside. For the next decade, the Mujahideen mounted a continuous, effective guerrilla campaign against the Soviets.

The United States became covertly involved in the war in Afghanistan, and provided about $3 billion in military and economic assistance to the Mujahideen. In addition to weapons, we provided school books, which on the surface sounds pretty nice; unfortunately, not only were the books anti-Soviet, they encouraged a jihadist outlook, and used guns and soldiers as a part of the text. One lesson instructed that only Muslims can rule Kabul, and Russians, and indeed ALL invaders, are nonbelievers.

In the late ‘80s, Al-Qaeda, under Osama Bin Laden, was born and supported the Mujahideen against the Soviets. As their situation continued to worsen, Soviet forces started withdrawing in 1988 and the last Soviet soldier crossed back into the USSR on February 15, 1989. Fifteen thousand Soviet soldiers were killed in those ten years.

The US walked away from involvement in Afghanistan during the 1990s, and with both the US and the USSR gone, a governing vacuum was created. In that vacuum, the Taliban formed in 1994. As a part of their work, they used the US provided text books to preach continued Jihad. Al-Qaeda also continued to grow in the ‘90s and began exporting violence outside of Afghanistan, culminating in the September 11th attacks in America in 2001.

Most of us know the rest of the story. We are now in our 18th year of war in Afghanistan, the longest war in American history. More than 491,500 soldiers have served there, and at least 28,000 U.S. troops have deployed there five or more times, sometimes coming home with both wounds and PTSD. Approximately 2,400 US troops have died there, with another 20,000 wounded. This doesn’t include those who have committed suicide after they returned home. Presidents Bush, Obama and Trump have all said they “don’t want to be in the business of Nation building,”* and yet we remain in Afghanistan with no apparent end in sight. We’ve now spent $975 Billion on the war since 2001. How could those dollars have been better spent?

Although I said “most of us know the rest of the story” in the previous paragraph, it now turns out we didn’t know the whole story. The Washington Post recently published a series of articles about the war and how the American people were misled. The articles are based on “confidential government documents which … reveal that senior U.S. officials failed to tell the truth about the war in Afghanistan throughout the 18-year campaign, making rosy pronouncements they knew to be false and hiding unmistakable evidence the war had become unwinnable.”* While not quite The Pentagon Papers, the interviews are equally as damning about our involvement in Afghanistan, and again raise the question of what are we doing there? How long have we known we shouldn’t really be there? As a veteran, I’m saddened to see we have been given only half-truths. When I was at West Point, a part of the Cadet Prayer included “never be content with a half-truth when the whole can be won.” Once again, we have fallen short as a country.

In addition to our country misleading us, the sad fact is, most Americans just don’t give a damn. With the average American having no skin in the game, their focus is elsewhere. We have no draft, no national service, and we’ve funded much of the war with deficit spending. There is no reason to care.

Afghanistan has long had a reputation as “The graveyard of empires”. Alexander the Great, the Arab Caliphate, and Genghis Khan all crossed that land in ancient history, without impact. Both the British and the Russians have tried their hands there and failed. After 18 years, 2,400 American deaths, the deployment of hundreds of thousands of troops, and nearly one trillion dollars in spending, maybe, just maybe, it’s time to come home.

Merry Christmas to you, and to the over 12,000 troops who remain in Afghanistan.

Addendum:

• * Both sets of quotes come from the Washington Post.

• I know it’s a bit ridiculous to try and sum up 18-40 years of history in 1,000 words or so, but felt it was worth trying to do.  I realize what I’ve presented here is incomplete and doesn’t go into many aspects of either the Soviet war in Afghanistan, or our own.  Having said that, I feel the bottom line still prevails – what are we doing there, and when are we coming home? By the way, the $975B we’ve spent is only the DoD money. It doesn’t include money spent by the CIA, VA or other agencies.

• Special thanks to Tim Stouffer for providing both historical and current information for this blog.  I’ve know Tim since 1st Grade, and he is one of my oldest and best friends.  He is an amateur historian, and knows more about Russia and the Soviet Union than anyone I know. In the ’70s and early ’80s, he travelled to the USSR multiple times.  His additonal recollections from his trip to the USSR in 1979: “Ashkhabad was just part of the trip in ‘79. We flew in from Baku on an old 2 prop Ilyushin12/14 that was a copy of a DC 3. We flew across the Caspian Sea, and if that did not scare me nothing in the air has bothered me since. There were soldiers all over and the 20 of us stood out. Supposedly we were first US student group to visit and were treated like kings compared to other places. It is also where I rode the camel 🐪. “

• Ashkhabad was from 1924 to 1990 the capital of Turkmenistan, in the USSR.  When Turkmenistan became independent,  they officially adopted the Turkmen version of the city’s name, Ashgabat In 1992.  I kept the name as Ashkhabad for this blog, keeping it consistent with Tim’s telling of events in the 1979 timeframe.

• Thanks to my friends Michael McClary and Colleen Conroy for providing much needed editorial assistance on this blog.

December of 1963 was cold in Ottawa, Illinois. The average temperature was 13 degrees, and it was as low as -18. This was cold, even by Illinois standards. I was in Third grade and my sister Roberta was in First. Our youngest sister, Tanya wouldn’t start kindergarten for one more year. Mom bundled Roberta and I up every morning and we’d walk the half mile to McKinley School together. Big brothers and younger sisters always have an interesting relationship – when we weren’t fighting, I like to think I was pretty protective of ‘Berta.

With the cold, the pond at Varland’s cow pasture, a block from the house, froze solid and after school, we kids went there to play on it. (Varland’s pasture later became Varland Park, and the pond was in what is now center field of the second baseball diamond). A few of the older kids had ice skates, but us younger ones just slid around the ice in our boots. That was about to change.

The Winter Olympics in Innsbruck, would start in January of ‘64. There was lots of talk of skating and skiing in the news and on TV. There was a young 16 year old by the name of Peggy Fleming who was particularly creating interest in figure skating. It spiked an interest in the winter sports, and lots of kids were hoping for skates on Christmas morning.

Christmas came and the three of us kids tore open our presents. Roberta and I were both excited to receive skates and wanted to head to the pond immediately to try them out. Common sense (and mom) prevailed, and we finished opening our presents and had breakfast. Then it was time to go.

We bundled up, grabbed our skates, and ran to the pond. It had snowed the night before, so Dad came along with a shovel to clear the pond surface. We arrived, and a couple of other kids were already there skating. As dad slid around with the shovel clearing the snow, Berta and I shucked our boots and tied on our new skates. Roberta finished first, stood up and skated off with hardly a wobble. She moved with ease and skated around the pond. Then it was my turn. I stood up and whomp! Down I went. Up again, a step or two and whomp! Down I went. I was like an extra in a Laurel and Hardy movie – you know the guy with arms and legs flying all over the place before comically falling to the ground? That was me.

Roberta, of course, had figure skates, while I had hockey skates. The thinner blade of the hockey skates, combined with the lack of a toe pick was causing me problems. The fact I was always a bit clumsy as a kid didn’t help any either. Dad went back home, while Berta and I stayed at the pond. The morning went on and Roberta continued to skate beautifully. Me? I finally started to move and could skate across the pond, although turning and stopping were still a problem. Eventually, it was time to go home and get ready to go to Grandma and Grandpa’s house for Christmas Dinner. We changed from our skates back into our boots. Our feet were frozen blocks of ice and it was hard to walk at first.

Over the coming months, the weather stayed fairly cold and we skated many times. After school, we’d head to the pond, but on weekends dad took us to the slough from the Illinois River on the East Side, or downtown to the Illinois & Michigan Canal. The canal hadn’t been used for boat traffic in decades, and the city flooded one section to make a skating rink. My skating finally improved and I was able to join in with the pick-up hockey games going on. Roberta continued gliding effortlessly around the ice with the other girls. At the canal and the slough, there was an added bonus, as there was usually a fire built on the edge of the ice where you could warm up.

I remember skating at the slough and the canal that winter, and the fun we had with all the other kids. But my lasting memory was skating at Varland’s Pasture on Christmas Day. In my mind’s eye, I still can see my younger sister Roberta looking like Peggy Fleming gliding across the pond that morning. She sure didn’t need any protection that day.

Addendum:

Thanks to Roberta for contributing to this blog. She and I have almost exactly the same memory of that Christmas morning – her gliding off, and me stumbling all over the place. It’s actually eerie how identical our memories of the morning are. You’ll have to ask her if she was secretly laughing at her older brother….;-)

Peggy Fleming finished in 6th place in figure skating at the Innsbruck Olympics. Four years later, she would win gold at Grenoble, France. She was the only American to win a gold medal in ‘68.

The skates in the picture are Roberta’s from later in life. When she had her own children, she bought them skates one year for Christmas. She bought herself a pair as well. They currently hang on a nail in her garage

This graph shows the daily temperature readings in December ‘63. It really was quite cold. It looks like it warmed up a bit on Christmas Day.

I still remember Grandma Grubaugh’s Date Nut Bread and how wonderful it tasted at Christmas time. It was always good, but if you were there when she pulled it out of the oven, you’d cut off a slice, put a knob of butter on it and watch the butter melt into the bread. It was delicious.

Grandma made the bread at both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Talking with my sisters and cousins, we all loved her bread in our youth. Not only did it taste great, it looked different than other nut breads. First, there was the color – it was a rich dark brown, unlike the light brown of most nut breads. And second, Grandma’s loaves were round, which made it more fun than a regular loaf of bread. Years later, I learned the secret behind both of those differences.

When we were young kids, Christmas dinner was at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. In addition to turkey and all the trimmings, Grandma’s Date Nut Bread was served. Later, after grandpa died, mom and dad, and the other uncles and aunts hosted Christmas at their own homes. Sometimes we were all together, but eventually, each family held their own Christmas. Grandma went to a different home each year, but always delivered a loaf or two of the Date Nut Bread to everyone’s house ahead of time. They arrived frozen and wrapped in aluminum foil. All you needed to do was thaw it out.

Time passed. I went away to West Point, and then the Army. Any time I was home, I’d stop by to see Grandma. Usually, it was during the holidays, and she’d pull out a loaf of Date Nut Bread, butter, and a glass of milk for me. We’d sit at her kitchen table and talk, while I ate a slice (or three) of the bread. I always told her how much I enjoyed the bread, and would love the recipe. She’d say “I hain’ta gonna give it to you now, but I will one day.” (“I hain’ta gonna…” was one of Grandma’s all time famous phrases. Grandma spoke well, but, “I’m not going to” wasn’t in her vocabulary. Neither was “I ain’t going to”. It was “I hain’ta gonna” pure and simple.)

“One Day” finally came, around Christmas 1989. We’d returned from Germany and I hadn’t seen Grandma since we departed in 1985. We hugged each other and I sat at the kitchen table. She brought me some of the Date Nut Bread and a glass of milk. As we talked, she got up from the table, went out on her porch, and returned with 4 empty vegetable cans with the labels removed. She handed the cans to me, along with a piece of paper with the recipe on it. The empty cans were what she cooked the Date Nut Bread in. Years ago, Grandpa had filed the open edges of the cans down until they were smooth and Grandma used them to make the bread.

I baked the bread for Christmas at my mom and dad’s house that year. Looking at the recipe, I realized why the bread was such a dark rich color. Grandma soaked the dates in hot water, before adding the water to the recipe. This turned the water a dark brown color, which then colored the whole loaf. Grandma pronounced my version of the bread “pretty good” when she came for Christmas dinner. That was about the best compliment you received from Grandma.

Lillian Henrietta Grubaugh died in December, 1996. She was 91 years old. I’ve made the recipe off and on over the years, and never fail to think of Grandma. Like Ebenezer, we nostalgically remember Christmases past, particularly from our youth. Often times, rose colored glasses are involved. That’s not the case with Grandma’s Date Nut Bread – It’s still delicious after all these years. With lots going on in our lives these days, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic myself and I plan to add some Date Nut Bread to our Christmas festivities this December. I’m sure Grandma will be there with me, while I’m baking the bread.

Addendum:

– Note the recipe makes 8 loaves. When Grandma gave me the 4 cans, she was holding onto the other 4 cans. I believe she told me she was going to give them to to my cousin Janice, but when I recently spoke with Janice, she didn’t have them. I don’t know if someone else ended up with the cans, or they were thrown away after she passed away. They were in a box on her back porch, and someone may have confused them for trash.

– A couple notes about the recipe – I use butter instead of the shortening or margarine called for. The recipe halves nicely, if you only have 4 cans or 4 small loaf pans. You could cook it in a regular bread pan or 2, but I’m not sure of how much time it would need to bake. Probably a bit more than an hour

– Thanks to Cathy, my sister Roberta, and my cousins Janice and Don for adding to parts of this story. They definitely filled in details, and confirmed some of my impressions from back then.

It’s not easy to gain nine pounds in a single day. It requires a bit of focus and dedication to make it happen. I did it on Thanksgiving Day of my Plebe year at West Point.

I had reported to West Point at the start of July that year. As a Plebe, you were under what is known as, the Fourth Class System, which prescribed everything you could and couldn’t do. One part of the system specified how to eat your meals in the dining hall. As a Plebe, you were required to eat meals while sitting ”at attention.” You sat on the edge of your chair, with back erect and your hands in your lap. Your “beady eyeballs” focused on the West Point crest at the top of your plate. As you ate, you put a small bite of food on your fork, transfer the bite to your mouth, put the fork back on your plate, put your hand back in your lap, and only then start to chew your food. Once you swallowed the bite, you could repeat the process. Of course you were in trouble for taking too big of a bite, not chewing your food enough, starting to chew before your hand was back in your lap…. you get the idea. Plebes tended to stay a bit hungry.

Now, if you were a member of an Intercollegiate team, you sat at a table with the other members of your team. The upperclassmen at your table let you eat like a regular person, fostering team unity, while also serving as something of a reward to the Plebes who made the team.

In September it was announced they were holding Plebe tryouts for the Wrestling team, and if interested, report to the gym on a certain day. In high school, I’d wrestled for four years and did well enough to Letter, but that was about it. Wrestling in college had been the last thing on my mind. Given the Fourth Class system, I decided to give it a shot and reported to the gym on the given day. They paired you with other Plebes your size and you wrestled. If you won, you came back the next day for a second match. The first day, I pinned the guy I wrestled. I came back the next day and amazingly, pinned my opponent that day as well. Evidently, I found food a powerful motivator. Two weeks later, they notified me I made the team. Life was about to get better.

On October 1st, after three months of eating at attention as a beanhead, I reported to the Corps Squad (Intercollegiate) wrestling tables, and started eating like a human being. This was great, except for one small problem. For any of you who have been around wrestlers, you know we are almost constantly trying to cut weight. At the time, my natural weight was about 174 pounds, but my wrestling weight class was 157. My weight was down a bit as a Plebe, but getting to 157 still meant dieting most of the time. You can see my problem – although I was finally able to eat normally, now I couldn’t eat as much because I was trying to cut weight. I had created my own Faustian dilemma.

Time passed and I was cutting the weight. By mid-November I was around 157, sometimes a little above, sometimes a little below. Thanksgiving Day arrived and we had practice in the morning. I weighed out after practice at 156 1/2 pounds. Coach told us to take it easy, and not overdo it. I heard what he said, but it must not have sunk in.

Later, our Thanksgiving meal was served and I ate, and ate, and ate some more. That night, I was still hungry and ate leftovers and snacks. Friday came and boom, boom, boom, I was like a locomotive engine needing to be stoked with more and more food. I pigged out at both breakfast and lunch. That afternoon, we had practice and unfortunately coach was there for our weigh in before practice. He put the scale at 157 and it didn’t budge. He slid the weight right, and there was no movement. Further right… further right…Finally, at 166 pounds the scale balanced out. Coach looked at me. I looked back, wisely choosing to say nothing. He started to ream me out, then stopped and just said “go.”

I chuckle when I tell the story now. I have no idea why I went on the eating binge. My guess is there was some mental reaction to being away from my family and home on Thanksgiving for the first time, but I don’t really know for sure. I’d certainly gained 3 or 4 pounds overnight while wrestling, but 9+ pounds was something new for me.

As a Plebe, even with cutting weight, sitting at Corps Squad tables was infinitely better than sitting at regular company tables. For that, I’ll always be grateful to the sport of wrestling. It also gave me a piece of trivia I occasionally pull out for laughs – I mean, how many people can say they gained 9 pounds in a single day?

Addendum:

– I wrestled in a couple of matches my Plebe year, but mostly I served as a practice partner for varsity guys. As a Yearling (Sophomore) I decided not to rejoin the wrestling team. I knew I’d never really be a good wrestler at the college level, and there were many other, and perhaps better, ways to spend my time.

– My name was evidently captured on a list of West Point Wrestlers somewhere in an archive. About 5 years ago, I started receiving monthly updates on the status of the current Army Wrestling team. The current teams look much bigger and better than anything I remember.

When I first tasted Snooks’ Lasagna as a kid, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. After marrying Cathy, and finding out she had Snooks’ recipe, I knew I’d gone to heaven. It’s the best lasagna in the world.

Snooks and Isabelle Grobe were friends of my parents. His real name was Dallard Anthony Grobe, but no one called him that. As a matter of fact, I think he was only rarely called Tony – usually it was just Snooks, a nickname from his early days. We kids all thought he looked a bit like Jimmy Durante. He and Isabelle lived on the south side of Ottawa, on Allen Street. Although my folks knew them from church, I think the real friendship grew from the four of them getting together with other couples and playing Pinochle or Euchre in the evenings. Both were big card games in Ottawa, and I suppose Illinois in general.

As a child, while I remember going to their house with mom and dad for the card games, what I really remember was the smell of the lasagna cooking when you entered their home. It was wonderful. Eventually, it was taken out of the oven, and you were given a piping hot piece with a caution to be careful, or “you’ll burn the roof of your mouth!” I don’t recall ever being cautious, or burning my mouth. I do remember how delicious it was, and inevitably, I’d have two or three pieces, until mom would say “quit acting like you’re starving and never fed at home!”

Over the years, I saw less of Snooks and Isabelle, but I always remembered his lasagna. At the time, the recipe was “a secret” and supposedly never shared. Somehow though, mom ended up with a copy. She made Snooks’ Lasagna once or twice growing up, but not often. It was a bit labor intensive, and so mom usually made her all-day-simmer spaghetti sauce if we were eating “Italian”.

Time passed. Cathy and I married and the Army sent us overseas to Germany. One night I came home from work, and as I entered the house, there was a wonderful smell. I asked Cathy what was for dinner and she said “lasagna.” I laughed a bit and told her the story of Snooks and his lasagna. Cathy looked at me like I was stupid, and finally said “this is Snooks’ Lasagna – your mother gave me the recipe…” Sometimes, things don’t measure up to your memories – this was NOT one of those times. The lasagna was delicious, and just as good as I remembered. I think the cheese mixture in the recipe is what really made it special. I’m sure I ate two or three pieces, and washed it down with wine instead of the milk of my childhood. Thankfully, Cathy didn’t tell me to quit acting like I was starving.

For the past 40 years, it’s been a go-to recipe for Cathy. It’s still delicious, and I still get excited when she makes it. As I was recently searching around for my next blog idea, I thought Snooks’ Lasagna might make a good topic. I mentioned this to Cathy, and she immediately said “I’M NOT SHARING THE RECIPE! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT….”.

Now the story gets a bit more interesting. In doing some research, I reached out to Charlean Grobe, who was my Kindergarten teacher and Snooks daughter-in-law, and is also a current Facebook friend (yes, Ottawa was a fairly small town, and almost everyone knew everyone else). The following is information she provided.

The recipe actually came from the mother of a girl Snooks’ son, Bob, dated in high school. Bob was at the girl’s home for dinner, loved the lasagna and asked the mother for the recipe. The mother gave him the recipe, and he then gave it to Snooks to see if he could recreate it at home. In another twist to the story, Bob eventually stopped dating the girl, and later met and married Charlean. Charlean told me “Now I don’t know if dad Grobe tweaked it or not, but it became Tony Grobe’s recipe.”

Charlean also told me the lasagna was served at an annual Antique Auction the Epworth United Methodist Church held as a church fund raiser every year. It was a two day event and people came from Iowa, Wisconsin and Illinois. The Friday night dinner was lasagna, salad and dessert. The dinner was a big deal and brought customers in for the show. Snooks made the lasagna in the beginning, and used large pans, not the 9″x13” dish called for in the recipe. Originally, he was making 6 pans, with 12 huge pieces in each. As the auction grew larger, there was a crew under Snooks’ direction making the lasagna, and they were up to 14 pans.

Snooks passed away in 1977. He had given the recipe to others, so his lasagna was still made at the church for several years after he died. With Snooks no longer there to supervise, the church replaced him with an entire committee, and in the ‘80s, they were up to 18 large pans of lasagna with 18 pieces in every pan. Eventually, the recipe was included in an Epworth Church Cookbook. You know the type of book – a collection of recipes from the congregation, gathered into a soft cover cookbook and sold to raise money for the church.

I mentioned all of this to Cathy, in the hope she would reconsider including the recipe in this blog. Her answer was an emphatic no. “I’m not letting you publish the recipe. If you do, don’t bother coming to bed. If someone wants it so bad, they can go look for the cookbook.”

So there you have it. You can certainly enjoy the lasagna at our home. And I’m sure there are copies of the recipe still floating around Ottawa, and among the Grobes. I think your best bet is to look for an old copy of the Epworth United Methodist Church Cookbook. It may be a difficult find, but trust me, it’s well worth the effort.

Addendum:

It was great fun exchanging texts with Charlean about Snooks and his lasagna. She obviously loved him very much, and was quite generous in sharing information about him, their family and the lasagna. The last thing she shared was “He was a great guy, loved by many, and always enjoyed dressing up. He handed out gum to all the kids at church…. He taught me how to build steps, recover furniture, and sure knew how to catch mice. He was someone who could do just about anything.” Charlean’s husband Bob passed away several years ago and she now lives in Texas with her daughter, Brenda.