My cousin “Pooch” recently passed away. I loved this man, who was the last living connection to my own father’s younger years. Dad, along with my Uncle Mick, were more like older brothers to Pooch, rather than uncles. There were many stories of their times together over the years. As a young boy, he idolized my dad and Uncle Mick when they were both serving overseas during WWII.

These comments are based on my conversations with George (I always called him “Pooch”), past memories from my father, and some written information that Pooch gave me. Any inaccuracies here are strictly my own, and shouldn’t be attributed to anyone else.

George Francis Connell Jr passed away on Sunday, March 10th, 2019. He was 84 years old.

George, also known as “Pooch”, was born on July 27th, 1934 in Orient, Illinois. It was the middle of the depression, and his parents, George and Ellen Connell were poor by today’s standards, but at the time, it was the plight that many people faced. In George’s words “ I was born next door in a duplex. The doctor was late in coming. Dad was up town drinking and someone was sent to tell him I was born.”

As a child, times were tough. In his early years, he grew up in a three room “shack” that was owned by the coal company his father worked for. There was a stove in the kitchen for both cooking and heating the house. Out back, there was a well and an outhouse. The house had no running water or electricity.

Even at an early age, Pooch was an observer of life and always trying to learn more. In 1939, at the age of 5, he watched men in the WPA improve the road in front of their house. He got to know many of the men by name and he would talk with them during their lunch hour. At the end of summer, as the men were finishing up their work, they approached the house and gave him a present – a Bull Durham tobacco bag filled with about 20 pennies. Later, George tried to plant the pennies, figuring when they grew, he’d have 40 or 50 pennies….

In 1940, the coal company drilled for oil near their home. Pooch spent the summer watching the drilling, smelling the oil in the tanks, and talking with the workmen. He got to know them well enough that they often gave him their extra dessert or a few pennies from their pockets.

The war years came and George was attending school. His inquisitiveness grew and by the end of 1942, although only in 3rd grade, he had read every book in the school library. One of the high points of those years was moving to a new school, with a new library. He had a whole new set of books to read.

If you ever had the chance to sit with George, he’d tell you wonderful stories of those days. Stories about shooting marbles, or playing stickball, or swimming in “shit creek”. Stories about both his granddad’s and his dad’s drinking, or the exploits of his young uncles, Bill and Mick, during WWII. While home recovering from a wound, Bill (my dad) taught Pooch how to swim in ’44, and after the war, Uncle Mick taught him how to throw a perfect curve ball. There were a lifetime of stories, all well told.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about his youth, but I think it was key to the man he became. Growing up poor and dealing with hardship, his ability to observe the world, his hunger for knowledge, along with his capacity to remember things, all served him well. He had learned the values of duty and hardwork and applied these throughout his adult life.

After high school, he did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War. Following Korea, he went to college using the GI Bill and graduated from Southern Illinois University. He started working there at SIU, while he was also raising a family. Eventually, his job took him to Western Illinois University, where over the years his role grew, until he was managing all of the physical plant and support infrastructure for the University. In addition to his work, and raising his 7 children, he also met the love of his life, Dorothy during this time. They married and stayed in love for the remaining 41 years of his life.

George leveraged his work and management experience to increase his capabilities and land other jobs managing the physical plants and facilities at Hayward State and San Jose State in California. Throughout his career, he always worked for the little guy, and never forgot where he came from.

Eventually he retired, and Dorothy and he moved to Arizona. Even in retirement, George stayed active in his community and worked part time at the local golf course. He continued to find ways to enjoy life. The last we saw of Pooch and Dorothy was in October of ’17. We had a wonderful stay with them in Arizona and listened to many stories of his youth and his times with my dad.

And now, he’s gone. 84 is young, or old, I guess depending on who you are. I like to think that even as he grew older and developed health issues, he remained young. He stayed inquisitive, loved to share stories from his past, and never met a stranger that didn’t become a friend. I will miss him, cherish the memories, and promise to keep him alive in my heart. What I wouldn’t give for one more night of listening to his stories.

Rest In Peace Pooch. Rest In Peace.

Addendum: You can read two previous blogs I wrote about Pooch at the following links:

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

2. Stickball. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/03/27/stickball%EF%BB%BF/

Uncle Don and I were talking a while back, and the subject of my Grandpa Grubaugh, (Don’s Father) came up. Don said to me “did I ever tell you about Grandpa beating me in a race across the park?” “What?!” I answered. “No, I’ve never heard the story.”

It was 1956 and Don was a freshman at Ottawa High School. In addition to playing in the high school band, he also tried out for, and made the track team. In fact he was pretty good at track, and ran both the 100 and 220 yard dash. He was running regularly for the team and winning. He also was aware his dad never came to any of the track meets, so one day he approached his father and said “Dad, I know you come to my band concerts at school, and when I was younger, you came to my Little League games, but you never make any of my track meets. How about coming out for one?”

Grandpa looked at him for a bit and finally said “I’ll tell you what. When you can beat me in a race, I’ll come watch you run.” Don thought this was great and said “OK. When will we race?” and Grandpa answered “Tomorrow. I’ll meet you across the street at the park. We’ll race diagonally across the park and If you win, I’ll come. If you don’t, I won’t.”

The next day, Don was waiting for Grandpa across the street in Shabbona Square (now Rigden Park). Don was in his high school track clothes and wearing his spikes. Grandpa eventually arrived from his job with the Burlington Railroad. He was in his work boots, bib overalls, and a work shirt. Don looked at him and asked if he wanted to change, and Grandpa answered he was fine.

Now, I’ve measured the diagonal across Shabbona Square. It’s 135 yards between Chestnut and Sycamore Streets. I also know the year my uncle was born, Grandpa was 46, making him 60 years old in 1956. Don was feeling pretty damned confident.

Don called “ready, get set, go!” and they were off. It wasn’t even close. Grandpa blew him away and finished well ahead. He wouldn’t be attending any of Don’s races that year.

The next year, his sophomore year at OHS, Don would receive his varsity letter in track. He ran a 10.1 100 yard dash. He ran 23.2 in the 220. He won the conference championship in the 220. He anchored the 880 relay team that qualified for the state meet. When he raced Grandpa? “Grandpa whomped me again.”

Junior year? Don lettered again. He went to state again in the relay. The race with Grandpa? “Grandpa beat me again.”

Finally, it was 1959, my uncle’s senior year. They met in the park one final time, Don was again in his track uniform, with Grandpa still in boots and bib overalls. They lined up, go was called and they were off. Don pushed the hardest he ever had, and….he beat Grandpa to the other side. Barely, but yes, he beat him.

Grandpa came to a few races Don’s senior year. He watched his son win the conference championship again, and also win at districts. The relay team qualified for the state meet for the third year in a row…..

Don and I were both laughing about the story, and were amazed at how fast Grandpa was. I told my own story about challenging my dad to a wrestling match in high school (I was on the wrestling team and had lettered) and getting my ass kicked in about 20 seconds. We both chuckled at the hubris of youth.

Don looked at me then and said, “you know, I’ve thought about that final race over the years, and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am Grandpa let me win senior year. When I, “won”, I think he ran just fast enough to make it a contest”.

My memories of Grandpa are from the ‘60s. By then, he’d become older, but I still remember him playing and running around with us kids. He had a youthfulness to him that I hadn’t understood when I was young. I know I would pay a good amount now to go back in time and see him and my uncle racing across Shabonna Square.

Addendum:

1. Uncle Don is the last of my aunts and uncles on either side of the family. He’s still youthful as well, and although I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like, I love and admire him very much. If you want to read a blog about his time during the 1968 Tet Offensive in Vietnam, you can find it at this link: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/04/uncle-don-and-the-1968-tet-offe%EF%BB%BFnsive/

2. My sisters and I noticed something else of interest in the photo of Grandpa and Uncle Don at the bottom of this blog. My folks moved into this house when I was 1 year old in 1956. The phone behind my Grandpa’s head in the photo was still in the house and being used when our mom died 60 years later in 2017!

The four of us gathered about 5PM at Magoo’s house a few nights ago. It was finally THE NIGHT. The spreadsheet went to all of us about two weeks before, and individually, we had mulled our choices. Now, it was time – we were completing the first distribution of our 2019 Nats season ticket package.

Bill is the actual owner. The tickets are for four great seats on the club level, in section 219, directly in line with 1st base. They are on the aisle, underneath an overhang (which is handy in case of rain) and have full access to club level amenities. I love these seats.

Bill has a long list of people who buy some of the tickets. About 5 years ago he was looking for a few folk to help with the upfront costs, so Magoo, Willie and I became “partners”. The tickets are still in Bill’s name, and he is the sole owner, but as partners, we get first crack at the games. Each of us also “rep” some other folk who are heavy buyers.

If you have ever seen the Farrelly brothers’ 2005 baseball movie, “Fever Pitch”, (Note: some claim this is a “chick flick” disguised as a baseball movie, but I disagree) with Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, you might have a sense of a draft night. Early in the movie, Jimmy Fallon gets together with his buddies to divide up his newly arrived Red Sox season tickets package. They smell and feel the new tickets. They have a white board on which they are tracking the tickets. They argue, they trade dates, they talk about which games are must haves. The meeting goes on for a long time.

We are now 14 years after that movie, and all of our partners are a bit older than Fallon and crew, so things are a bit different. There are no more physical tickets delivered – it’s all electronic, so we do everything online in excel. There’s no shouting or fighting – I think with us being older, we’ve all calmed down a bit. We have a few “rules” – the four of us go to opening day, and the final game of the season together. Willie always gets the 4th of July tickets, because it’s his anniversary and both he, and his wife, are diehard baseball fans. When my young niece was traveling here on a yearly basis from San Francisco, I always got the day Giant game, so she wouldn’t be up to late. And, everyone is honest about whether the tickets are for themselves, or for someone they are repping. Tickets for partners almost ALWAYS take precedent.

On this year’s draft night, everyone grabbed something to drink, and we started. We work through the season, a series at a time. Philly is the second series of the year, normally, a tough sell. With Harper’s return for the first time, the games go quickly. There’s the occasional snarky comment about a team or series (Will the fish be the worst team in baseball this year? How many Marlin tickets will we have to try and trade in, when all is said and done?). There are the teams that are always big draws, like the Cubs, Cards, Dodgers and Giants, but this year, a few games sneak through and aren’t taken. Also this year, both the Indians and White Sox are coming to DC, and those tickets disappear pretty quickly. No one can remember the last time the Sox were here in DC (side note to Morgan – I scored two of those Sox tickets!).

After about an hour and twenty minutes, we make it through all of the games in the season, and take a break. Magoo pulls some dinner out of the oven, we all pour another round and have a great meal. Over dinner, there’s some discussion about the Nats, and on baseball in general. In the division, everyone agrees that Atlanta will be tough, and Philly will probably be a contender. The consensus is the Mets aren’t there yet but could be a sleeper. And the Fish? They will occupy their usual place in the cellar. Eventually, we finish the meal, clear the table and pull the spreadsheet back out. We go through it one more time, find a few errors that we correct, and also compile a list of games that people want additional tickets for. The Dodgers are particularly popular this year.

A little over three hours after starting, the evening is over. 213 out of a possible 324 tickets are gone, with 111 remaining. Handshakes all around, and we go our separate ways. We’ll all review the spreadsheet privately one more time, and ensure it’s correct for all of the tickets we repped. In a few days, the remaining games will go out to the rest of the folk on Bill’s list and they will pick the tickets they are interested in as well. With luck, over 80% of all the tickets will be gone before the start of the season. Over the summer, people will buy the remaining available tickets, or we will try and trade them for other games.

Opening day is about three weeks away on Thursday, March 28th. Game time is 1:05PM. If I don’t see them before, I know I’ll see these guys at our usual beer stand about 1130AM on the 28th. Hope springs eternal in baseball, and I have the feeling it’s gonna be a great year….

While stationed in Germany in the 1980s, Cathy and I went to many Fasching* parties and parades. Here in the States, we call it Mardi Gras; but there, it’s known as Fasching. New Orleans has nothing on Germany when it comes to partying, and I can safely say I’ve had more than one hangover after a Fasching party. Of all of the parties and parades we attended, two particularly stand out in my memory, and both occurred in Rheindurkheim, a town we lived in from ‘85-‘89.

It was our second tour and we were stationed in Worms, the city of Martin Luther fame in the year 1521 (“Here I stand, I can do no other…God help me...”) We arrived a few years later than Martin Luther. It was 1985, and we ended up living in the small town of Rheindurkheim, about 10 kilometers outside of Worms. The town had a population of about 1,000 people. There were four Gasthaus’s (restaurants), a few small stores, a couple of butcher shops and three bakeries. As time passed, we were regulars at a couple of the Gasthaus’s, but particularly Wolfgang and Vroni’s place, Sportheim. We bought our bread and baked goods from Frau Kneckt’s Bakerei, and our sausage and meat from Adolf’s Metzgerei (butcher shop). We became regulars around town and were known as much for our black and white dog, Top, as for ourselves. After some time passed, I was asked to join the local over-30 soccer team and we were even more imbedded in the community.

In January of ‘88, Wolfgang and Adolf approached me one evening at Sportheim. They had an idea for the town’s Fasching parade that year, and wanted to see if I could help. They planned to enter a joint float in the parade, with Wolfgang and Vroni handing out beers, while Adolf would hand out small wursts (sausages). I thought they were going to ask me to help hand out beers, but they had something else in mind – would I drive my Ford F-150 Pickup in the parade, while they handed out the goodies from the back of the truck? Are you kidding!?!?? This was a no-brainer, and I immediately said yes.

Plans were made, and the big day finally arrived. We “decorated” the truck during the morning and the parade started in the afternoon. Wolfgang handed me a beer through the window, and we were off.

We were an immediate hit. People were clamoring for both the beers and the sausages. The pace was slow and people could walk up to the truck to get one of each. Now, as the driver of the truck, there was also a side benefit. My window was about the same height as the first-floor windows of the houses along the side of the narrow streets we were driving through. Periodically, some one would hand a shot of German Schnapps to me through their window, we’d toast, and shoot the shots. Thank heavens the parade route was only a few blocks long, and I survived reasonably intact. We eventually made it back to Sportheim, celebrated the successful parade run, and had a last beer….That evening, we went to the local event hall (The Turnhalle) for that year’s Fasching Party. Several folk approached me and we had good laughs over the truck and the parade (German’s at that time, did not have the equivalent of a full size pickup). Cath and I eventually made it home to a good night’s slumber.

A year later, Wolfgang and Adolf rented a mobile “Gasthaus” for the parade, so they didn’t need our truck. Cathy and I were both asked to work on the Gasthaus float and hand out beers. Along the parade route, we knew many in the crowd that we were serving. We’d become a part of the community, something that became particularly evident in the evening.

That night, we walked through town to the Turnhalle. We paid our entrance fee and went inside. It was crowded already, and after getting our beer, we located some of our neighbors and joined them.

Fasching parties are interesting, and they ALL follow a similar format. The party is always on Rosenmontag (the Monday before Ash Wednesday). The party always starts at 8:11 PM. And for the first couple of hours, there are a couple of local “celebrities” (think mayor, fire chief, business owner, etc) who tell jokes, introduce speakers, tell bawdy stories about local town’s people, conduct roasts, and then finally, introduce the band, which starts playing around 10:00PM or so. The music and dancing continue into the wee hours of the morning, and finally, everyone staggers home.

On this particular evening, we were listening to the monologues, jokes and stories, when we suddenly felt several hundred pairs of eyes fixed on us. The speaker was telling a joke/story about me, and our landlord, Herman. The story involved Herman and I arguing about gummis (rubbers). In Germany, the slang for condoms is the same as in America, and gummis can mean rubber, erasers, or condoms. In the story, we were arguing about who had the bigger and better gummis – Germany, or America. The story went on for a couple of minutes, with double entendres throughout. Finally, the speaker got to the punchline and Cathy and I burst out laughing, as did Herman, and then the entire crowd. I think they were waiting to see if we understood the joke, and to see if we were offended. Several people got up from nearby tables, came over and slapped us on the back, or shook our hands. The laughter continued for a while longer, before subsiding. The speaker finally went on to poke fun at the next victim. For me, I’d never felt so much a part of a community.

Eventually the jokes and stories ended and the music started. Cath and I danced with each other, danced with neighbors, or slid off to the bar for a drink with someone. People continued to greet us, and ask me whether I preferred Ami or Deutche gummis (American or German rubbers). Finally, the music ended and it was time to go home.

Four months later, we rotated back to the States and said our tearful goodbyes to our friends and neighbors. We made it back to Rheindurkheim for a visit a time or two, but of course, it’s never quite the same. I’ve thought about those two Fasching parties over the years and what a wonderful time we had in Rheindurkheim. The friendships, the community, the sense of belonging….we are all lucky when it happens, and we should always remember and treasure it.

******

Addendum:

*What is Fasching? The following is from: http://www.deutscheshaus.cc/html/newsletters/fasching_germany.html

Fasching is Germany’s carnival or Mardi Gras season. It starts on the 11th day of November at exactly 11 minutes after 11am and ends at the stroke of midnight on Shroud Tuesday – often referred to as Fat Tuesday (the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday).

Fasching (also known as Karneval) is a time of festivity and merry making – a time to break the rules, poke fun at those who make them and then to make your own new rules. In Germany, particularly in the Rhineland area, the tradition can be traced to medieval times where many countries existed under harsh rules.

During Karneval time, the common people took a chance at ‘living it up” and “talking back to their rulers”. They would make a mock government of eleven people, as well as other officials. Political authorities, high placed persons and sovereigns were the target of ridicule, and featured in humorous and satirical speeches. To avoid persecution and punishment, these antics were played out from behind masks and costumes. Parades, dancing in the streets, masquerade balls and comical skits filled the days and nights.

Although the festivities and parties start as early as the beginning of January, the actual carnival week starts on the Fat Thursday (Weiberfastnacht) before Ash Wednesday. The big German carnival parades and parties are held on the weekend before and especially on Rosenmontag, the day before Shrove Tuesday….

No, not a robin. That’s not the first sign of spring here at the farm. For me, the first sign is the returning geese.

Earlier this week I saw two geese on our pond. They were there again this morning and I can hear other geese honking from our neighbor’s pond. It was the first I’d seen or heard of them since sometime late last fall. I’m not actually sure where they returned from – the north, or the south, but every year we have 2-10 geese who return and make our pond (and our neighbor’s) home. Inevitably, they appear in the late winter time frame, when the weather is still raw, and there is definitely the chance of more snow and freezing weather.

Right now, there are two geese on the pond. In addition to swimming and floating around, they are in the nearby field eating grass or grain. Somewhere around here, they have a private home that is out of sight. And there, they will have goslings before long. In the next couple of months (probably April), I will see mom, followed by 4-6 goslings, followed by dad, walking into the pond.

One year, three pair of geese had goslings. I think I counted 22 total geese hanging out on our pond.

It’s very cute. But, it also shows how nature works. One day you will see the proud parents with 6 goslings. The next day, maybe 5. A few days later, 3 or 4. It’s a tough world, the pond at Rohan Farm. There are foxes and coyotes in the neighborhood, along with a couple of mean snapping turtles in the pond. The geese do their best to protect the goslings, but inevitably a few are lost, and happily, several survive.

Next winter, when February is dragging on, I know that at least two of them will show back up and help me realize that spring is not that far away.

*****

Addendum:

⁃ A version of this blog first appeared as a Facebook post in February, 2009. I recently came across the post, and found it to be as relevant today, as it was when first published.

They say that death comes in threes, but last week I was hit with a four pack. Classmate, local running friend, friend from a local winery, and a coworker. Boom. All came out of the blue, and all died before their time, or what I thought was their time. Of course death has no timetable, but we often seem to forget that.

The time I’d last seen any of the four varied from a few days, to a couple months, to a few years, to a lifetime ago. And yet, memories of each of them flooded my mind. I think the time proximity of their deaths accentuated the memory blast. It seemed almost over the top for a bit, and then settled back into levelness.

Today, I was at the funeral service for one of them. My mind wandered during the ceremony and I spent the time thinking about all four. I wasn’t seeking answers so much, as I was thinking about the shortness of life. Their lives, my family’s lives, my life.

It was raining while driving back from the funeral. My friend Joe and I discussed the suddenness of our friend’s death and how much we would miss him. We also discussed the future and what it held for each of us. I suppose it’s a common enough story to have those discussions when you reach a certain age. We always know that death is somewhere in the future, but when it appears so suddenly for others, it makes you think a bit more about life, or at least it has for me.

John, Kyle, Jane and Vish – I will do my best to remember you and remember your names. I hope to honor you by showing love to my family and friends, and living my life to the fullest.

Things are failing quickly in Zimbabwe.  The country we spent 17 days visiting last October, is coming apart at the seams. Inflation, riots, crime, censorship, and lack of fuel are all taking their toll.  The government of Emmerson Mnangagwa appears no better than that of Mugabe and may be worse. With the government’s ruthless actions, the people are becoming more and more restless.

We are trying to stay in touch with our friends in Harare, but it is difficult. Internet connectivity to Zim has been cut a couple of times by the government. The same goes for voice communications.  In the emails we have received, they don’t paint a pretty picture.  

Inflation is rampant, particularly for fuel and necessities.  Gas is now over $12 a gallon, if you can find it.  Many people are waiting in line for a day or more, trying to get fuel and hoping the station doesn’t run out, which frequently happens.  Our friends were also cautioned about driving unnecessarily, as cars are sometimes stopped by people who think that if you are driving, you have gas, and therefore you are rich.

Crime has increased at both the small and large level.  Last week, thieves attempted to steal the whole transformer from where our friends get their electricity.  Someone heard them and alerted their new “Neighborhood Crime Watch” and the thieves ran off.  However, all the parts were lying on the ground, with oil everywhere. They must now guard the parts, as the power company hasn’t yet come to fix it.  In the interim, they are without power, except for a generator they run for part of each day, but it’s difficult to find diesel fuel for the generator. They were also without electricity for thirteen days over Christmas, due to stolen copper wires from the transformer to their home.

Here is part of a recent email from them, as I think it conveys the situation better than I can:

“I don’t think I have ever experienced anything like this since arriving here in late 1972.  There was a civil war going on then but I never really felt unsafe.  Perhaps being younger and not having children made me more full of bravado…

Today, for the first time, I feel a little frightened.  It is because the people who are angry today and shouting out slogans and threats such as “no mercy will be shown” are targeting anyone they come across, anyone in a mobile car, anyone on the streets and I gather even people in their homes.  They are targeting some of the wealthier areas and also the poorer ones, like xxx near us.  They sent out messages which have been passed around on Whatsapp yesterday telling everyone to keep their children at home as they don’t want them to be hurt and they say they are going to attack the xxx School today, along with other places.  They say they are furious with the government and the police and the army and they will not stop until the whole Country is at a standstill.  

Who “they” are we have no idea.  We don’t know who has rallied them together but we have seen quite a lot of videos, sent around yesterday of crowds stoning ordinary vehicles.  One woman sent a video of “my son being stoned”.  I don’t know if he was black or white but it doesn’t seem to make any difference.  If you are driving, it means you have petrol and if you have managed to get petrol, you probably have some American dollars!  Or you have paid for it with a foreign card.  Or you are a member of government.  They will not consider that you might have sat all night and day in a queue and been lucky enough to get to the front before the fuel station ran out.  You would not have a chance to explain!

The steady rain today seems to exacerbate the feeling of doom and gloom but of course this is silly because it is a good thing.  One reason is that we need more rain this season not just for the crops but to replenish the underground water and boreholes that some of us are lucky enough to have.  The other reason is that we are hoping it might deter the demonstrators from getting out of hand and doing unnecessary damage.  So far we have seen that they have burnt down a police station and have set fire to an out-of-town toll gate.  

This morning we saw a video of looting in a high-density township.  Some brave person continued to video while hundreds of people ran to the closed Supermarket and were seen to run back down the street with ploughs and big drums of stuff, maybe soap powder or paint or flour?  It was endless, with people shouting and shoving and screaming.  What good this will do if it is part of a demonstration I don’t know but of course some people are so very poor and starving that they will take any opportunity.  I think this is why we feel nervous as we have more than so many people have. But we are pretty hard up when compared with the people who are milking this Country dry.

I might add that the unruly demonstrations have been superceeded by something much worse in the form of the brutality by the police and army who appear to be indiscriminately breaking into houses and beating and torturing the inhabitants and arresting hundreds.  We have already heard terrible stories, and how some of these people are children and young girls.  The government is excusing this saying the people arrested are the perpetrators of violent demonstrations but most of them are totally innocent.”

Our friends have kept their sense of humor.  They recently read my blog about the three day beef daube (stew) I made, that requires a bottle of wine for the stew.  They commented “We hope you enjoyed your 3-day “stew”!!!  We are now down to the last bottle of red wine and it is definitely NOT going in the cooking”.

Cath and I are so sad at this turn of events. Zimbabwe is a beautiful country and has much to offer. We hope to return there in the future to see our friends, the beauty of the country, and of course the animals.

I fear that under Mnangagwa, things are only going to get worse. He is trying to get help from Putin and additional help from the Chinese, which should concern us. He has also travelled to Davos to appeal to the countries attending the summit there. It would not surprise me to see another coup, but for now, he controls the Army and they are responding to him and his wishes. That’s part of the reason things are getting so ugly. Here in the States we don’t pay much attention to events in African nations, but we should.

______

Addendum:

1. Thanks to our friend for letting us extract from their email for this blog. We have kept their name anonymous for security reasons.

2. If you want a more strategic look at Zimbabwe’s issues and how their economy is in shambles, try this link: https://worldview.stratfor.com/article/theres-little-zimbabwe-can-do-reverse-its-economic-rot – it’s a pretty good analysis. Thanks To Marty Hanratty for the link.

The thaw started yesterday, while the rain started last night. By this morning, the yard, fields and barn area are turning into a muddy mess. The delivery driver thinking our driveway was an address on Swains road made an honest mistake. Her decision to turn the truck and goose neck trailer around in our back yard was not. The driver buried the back tires pretty quickly and just after that is when I got the call from Cathy.

My neighbor Mike called earlier that morning to ask a favor. A tractor was being delivered to his house, and due to the weather, was delayed. Would I mind meeting the driver at his house and backing the tractor off the trailer? No problem. It’s raining a bit, but what are neighbors for?

The driver calls me mid-morning to say she will be here shortly, and I say great, I’ll meet you at Mike’s house. I drive over there and wait. And Wait. Then, I get a call from Cathy – “There’s @#@%&@ truck and trailer stuck in our @$^*&&@ back yard!”

I drive home, and sure enough, there’s the truck, trailer, and Mike’s tractor all sitting in the back yard. The yard is torn up and the truck rear tires are about 8 inches deep in mud. Cathy is visibly pissed (Note to self: check later on why Cathy is barefoot, and carrying her winter boots in her hands.), and the driver, Barb as it turns out, is saying she will pay for any and all damages. For some reason, she thought our house was my neighbor’s, even though we have different house numbers, and live on different streets.

Cath goes inside, and Barb and I proceed to get better acquainted. Her F250 has 4 wheel drive, but can’t seem to get moving. We decide to offload the tractor, and maybe with the lesser weight, the truck can get unstuck. The rain is coming down heavier now. She puts the back ramp of the trailer down, and I back the tractor off and park it. We try and move the truck and still no good. We unhook the trailer, and still no good. The 4 wheel drive doesn’t appear to be engaging. I come back to Barb’s truck to talk with her, and she’s crying in the cab. I say “hey, don’t worry, this’ll work out”. She answers back that she’s had some bad times lately. She buried her 85 year old father last week in Georgia. My brain flashes to my folks, Cathy’s mom, and you know, when it gets down to it, we are all just people. I tell her I’m sorry, and “it’ll be OK, we’ll figure this out.”

I look at her 4 wheel drive switch and something doesn’t look right. I call my local truck guy and we discuss. Finally, I send him a photo. Sorry, it’s not 4 wheel, it’s 2 wheel drive with rear differential lock. Crap.

OK. I get my F250 with 4 wheel drive and my 15 foot chain. We hook up, put it in low and I get her truck to move. The problem is I’ve only got a narrow gap to make it through a gate. It’s close, but no cigar. I stop. I look at the gate. I curse. I look some more. Finally, I go over to Barb. “We are going to need a professional. Let’s go inside and get warm.”

We go inside and shed our wet jackets. Cath has started a fire and we all settle in. I call Aaron’s towing and they are going to get the boss out in a couple of hours. We have lunch, Barb has a pick-up she’s suppose to do in Baltimore today, but that’s looking doubtful. She gives me the other key for Mike’s new tractor, and I sign that it’s arrived.

Time passes.

Cathy and Barb compare stories of taking care of their dying parents with home hospice. Barb, with her father, and Cathy, with her mom. The day has taken a couple of interesting turns, and is way off from what was expected this morning.

More time passes. The rain stops.

Finally, around 3:30PM, the tow truck arrives. It’s Conner, the owner of Aaron’s towing. We talk, and he takes a look. He’s a pro, you can just tell. He gets Barb’s truck pulled out fairly easy, but the 33 foot long trailer is a problem. It’s in the middle of the yard, and legs are buried in the mud that use to be our yard.

After a couple of false starts, Conner, the genius, figures out a way to get the front end of the trailer to the driveway, without tearing up the yard much worse. His plan works and miraculously, the goose neck is over the drive. Barb backs her truck up, we connect the trailer, and then Conner drives the truck and trailer free. Fifteen minutes later, after tearing up some more ground by our barn, Conner gets the truck and 33 foot trailer out the gate, and up the drive. As he passes me, he yells “Drive my truck up the drive! I’ll meet you at the road.” What? Never mind. I jump in his tow truck, tell Barb to get in the passenger seat and we drive up the drive and onto Enon School Road, where Conner has parked the truck on the side of the road. It’s now about 5:30PM.

It’s time to pay. Conner tells us the final price and Barb is going to pay. Except there’s a problem with her business card. It’s not the right type, or there’s not the right approval, or something else that I don’t quite understand. I try to call Mike (you remember Mike, it was his tractor that was on the trailer), but we have a bad connection. He says he will be there soon. A half hour later, Barb pulls out her personal credit card and gives it to Conner. About this time, Mike pulls up, ready to pay if needed. I tell him it’s OK.

By now, Conner’s internet isn’t working so well and the card info won’t transfer. Finally, Conner Says to Barb, follow me to Warrenton, and we’ll process the card there. She agrees, and they drive off. I look at Mike and say “I need a drink. Want to come to the house?” He agrees, and we proceed home. It’s 6:30PM and the day I never saw coming is finally over.

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Addendum:

If you ever need towing help in the Fauquier area, or the 66 corridor, I can’t recommend Aaron’s Towing enough. You can reach them at 540.253.7799.

I was one of the first to arrive. I was handed a peeler, offered a beer, and told to head outside. Three or four people were already there, including my buddy Magoo. The pile on the table was huge, and the guys had already started, some with knives, some with peelers. I took a breath, grabbed my first horseradish root, and started peeling. Jim’s 2018 horseradish making party was underway…

Jim has been making horseradish sauce since the ‘90s. Before marrying his wife Janis, he ground horseradish with her Uncle George, an old Croatian from Pittsburgh. The uncle claimed to have a secret sauce and vowed he would not share the secret with Jim until he married into the family, which Jim did in 1999. It turns out Uncle George’s secret was to drink a lot while preparing the roots.

Jim started hosting his horseradish parties in 2004, and over time, it grew in size. I’d been invited for a couple of years, but always had a conflict and couldn’t make it. This year when I received the invite, I cleared my calendar and vowed I wouldn’t miss it. The date finally arrived last November, and I left home early to ensure I’d arrive on time.

Jim met me at the door and offered a beer. As I was a first-timer, he walked me through the steps required to make horseradish and told me some of the history of the party. He also encouraged me to work all of the stations, so I would understand the process. Originally he only used horseradish he grew at home, but the party became so large, he now supplements it with horseradish roots ordered through his local grocery.

After grabbing the peeler, I went outside, where the first two steps in the process were taking place. I started by peeling as much of the skin off a horseradish root as possible, and also digging out any small brown spots. After finishing, I handed the root to a cutter.

The cutter’s job is to remove any larger brown spots remaining, and to cut the root into smaller chunks. Now with all his years of experience in making horseradish, Jim had acquired a wide range of tools to help with this task, and the team was using most of them. There were large knives, saws, small axes, and other devices I’ve since forgotten. In the past, they have also used power tools, chisels and hammers. This year’s addition was a Khashoggi-style bone saw. The thing is, the horseradish root is tough as hell, and oddly shaped – a 4 inch kitchen knife isn’t going to get the job done. While smiling, Jim told me blood has been lost in the past, but so far, no fingers (just a few finger tips that were added to the grind).

Next, the horseradish chunks are brought indoors. The large chunks are cut into smaller cubes, and everything is washed in the sink. From there, it’s loaded into the food processor. Prior to this step, the horseradish root doesn’t have any of that eye-watering aroma we associate with horseradish sauce. That’s about to change.

The food processor step is something of a right of passage, and all newcomers are required to work it. After putting the lid on the blender, you pulse the processor a few times, turning the horseradish into a fine grind. Newbies are then encouraged to take the lid off and do a “quality control” check by smelling the horseradish and ensuring it’s OK. When I completed my first QC check, my eyes watered, my sinuses cleared, and I think there was a burn in the back of my throat. There were laughs all around of course.

The processed horseradish is then dumped into a bowl and left to rest for five minutes or so. White wine and a bit of vinegar are then added. You want just enough to moisten the ground horseradish, but not enough to make it liquidy. The white vinegar is added as a fixer to keep the grind from turning brown and to help stop the chemical reaction that occurs during the grinding. Jim adds the wine to spike the taste.

Next, you have a choice. The horseradish is ready to “can” now, or you can add some sour cream. If using the sour cream, you add just enough to mix in, but you don’t want any liquid in the bottom of the bowl. I think over the course of the day, maybe 20% of the grind had sour cream added, with the rest just using vinegar and wine.

The final step is filling the canning jars and putting lids on them. We filled three or four cases of half-pint jars (24 jars to a case) and probably another case or two of quarter-pint jars. I’m told the creamed horseradish lasts a couple of weeks, and the wine cured a couple of months, if kept in the fridge. We didn’t seal the jars with a water bath or pressure cooker, although that can be done, allowing you to keep it longer.

While all of this processing was going on, the group continued to gather until there were probably 25 or so guys and the party was at a dull roar. Some people were helping to make the horseradish, while many were just standing around, talking, drinking an adult beverage, and having a good time. The event is also a potluck and almost everyone brought a dish to pass. The food items are also known as horseradish delivery devices. There were several traditional foods you think of with horseradish, such as beef, sausages, mashed potatoes, bloody Mary’s and so on, but there were also some nontraditional ones like cheese, apple pie and horseradish infused pickles. From my personal taste testing, I can tell you fresh horseradish sauce is similar to bacon – almost everything is better with it.

I finally had to leave and drive home. As I gathered up my jars of sauce, I thanked Jim for the great afternoon. He knows I enjoy cooking, and asked if I wanted to take a couple of horseradish plants home. Of course I said yes and we went to his garden and dug up a couple of tops. I’m looking forward to growing some of my own horseradish next year.

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Addendum:

1. Jim told me a great story about Billy Horseradish, a distance cousin of Johnny Appleseed’s. Instead of apples, Billy went around the countryside handing out horseradish tops, but It never caught on the same way apples did. Jim promised if I came back next year, he’d share the entire legend of Billy Horseradish. In the meantime, he did recite the Billy Horseradish prayer (sung to the tune of the Johnny Appleseed Prayer):

Oh the Lord is good to me;

And so I thank the Lord

For giving me the things I need;

The bread and the fish and the horseradish;

The Lord is good to me.

The internet is surprisingly sparse on information about Billy Horseradish, so I’m really looking forward to next year’s party. ;-).

2. Janis’ uncle came to a couple of the early parties and Jim used to call him during later parties to let him join in on a bit of what he started. Uncle George died last year two months shy of his 100th birthday. Jim gave him his last jar shortly after his 99th birthday and George pronounced it the best ever.

3. Jim explained to me the reason the party is guys only is a reaction to his wife Janis’ lady craft nights– the women got together, made crafts and drank some amount of wine. Jim was expelled from the house on craft night…

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Special thanks to Jim Overdahl for hosting the party, reviewing this blog for accuracy (so that’s what the vinegar is for!), and providing some of the photos.