In 1956, when I was one year old, mom and dad bought their first home, at 1517 Cherokee Lane in Ottawa. It was in a brand new subdivision called Tomahawk Terrace on the south side of town next to the cornfields. The house was a modest brick ranch with two bedrooms and one bathroom on a corner lot.

A couple weeks after moving in, mom’s folks came for dinner. Dad and grandpa were standing outside admiring the property, when my grandpa said “Well Bill, if you don’t mind my asking, how much did you pay for this house?” Dad answered “Nah, George, I don’t mind telling you. It was $12,000.”

“HOOOLEEEY JEEEEEZ!” Grandpa shouted. “Where’d you get that kind of money!?”

Dad told me the story years later, probably about the time Cathy and I were buying our own first home in ‘89 (it was a bit more than $12,000). We had a pretty good chuckle over the price, and grandpa’s reaction.

Mom and dad raised me, along with my sisters Roberta and Tanya, in that two bedroom ranch. They refinanced a couple of times along the way and added a garage, and eventually a family room, which served as my room for several years. Around 1970, they closed the garage in, and turned the front half into a bedroom for me.

Eventually the three of us kids married, and moved on, while mom and dad remained on Cherokee Lane. There were wonderful family get togethers over the years. Somehow they’d fit 30 or more people in for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Immediate family, relatives, friends, and neighbors would gather and it was always a great mix of people, love and laughter.

In 1996, dad had a stroke and was in the hospital for a week. Before we could bring him home, we had to make some modifications to the house, including adding a shower to the bathroom.

I’d never really thought about it before. All those years growing up, the five of us shared the one bathroom with a bathtub and no shower. I kept thinking about it, and finally said to mom “Why didn’t you have a shower put in when you built the house? It would have been an easy thing to do.”

She looked at me straight faced and answered “Your father and I talked about it at the time, but putting in a shower was going to add $34 dollars to the price, and we were just afraid it was going to make the mortgage too high.”

….silence…..

And then we both burst out laughing. Between the laughs mom said, “I know it seems silly now, but it’s true. Money was tight and we just didn’t see how we could afford anything more.” It gave us some comic relief during a stressful time.

$34 dollars….. It’s hard to go out to dinner for $34 these days.

Dad passed away nine years ago, and mom died in 2017. Since then, my sister Tanya and our brother-in-law Shawn moved into 1517 Cherokee Lane. They’ve updated the house and made it their own. When I saw it last, I marveled at the changes and upgrades they made. The good news is, they didn’t have to add a shower. That 63 year old house is still going strong.

Addendum: Thanks to Roberta and Tanya for reviewing and adding to this blog. I have the best sisters in the world.

Next week is the 74th anniversary of the end of WWII. When the fighting ended in 1945, the GIs all wanted to go home, but it wasn’t quite that simple. You needed “points” to muster out of the service at the end of the war.

….Points…. If you ever watched the “Band of Brothers” HBO series, the last episode focused on “points” and who could get discharged from the army first. Most GIs were more than ready to get out of the Army and go home. Some were overseas for years. Others had only recently deployed. There were combat veterans who saw horrific killing. There were also REMFs (rear echelon MFers) who were never near the front line. ALL wanted to go home.

The Army, while reducing it’s size, needed to balance the needs of the service with the needs of the soldier. They wanted to find a way to balance length of service, combat service, and what sacrifice was made back home. The end result was the development of a point system used to rank soldiers according to four criteria:

1. Months in service since September 1940 = One point for each month

2. Month in service overseas = One point each, in addition to months in service

3. Combat awards (Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Distinguished Service Medal, Legion of Merit, Silver Star Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, Soldier’s Medal, Bronze Star Medal, Air Medal, Purple Heart), or combat campaign participation star = Five points each

4. Dependent child under eighteen years old = Twelve points each

These four criteria were the only ones from which points were calculated. In August of 1945, an enlisted man needed a score of 85 points to be considered for discharge. (This dropped to 75 after Japan’s formal surrender).

…..85 Points….. You can see from the criteria it wasn’t easy to get to that point total, and yet, in August of 1945, Dad’s total was 96 points. This photo of his awards tells the story of his 96 points.

The ribbon on the lower right (yellow ribbon) is the “American Defense Service Medal” established by Roosevelt to recognize those soldiers in the military PRIOR to Pearl Harbor. Dad joined the Army in September of 1940, meaning for the first criteria (total service), he served 59 months by July of ’45, and was awarded 59 points.

Of those 59 months, he was overseas from November 8th, 1942 (The invasion of North Africa) to March of 1944 (when he finished recovering from the wounds he received in Sicily). Those 17 months overseas resulted in an additional 17 points under criteria 2.

The ribbon on the lower left (brown and green) is The European–African–Middle Eastern Campaign Medal. Dad has three stars in the ribbon for the three campaigns he participated in (criteria 3) – Algeria/French Morocco, Tunisia, and Sicily. Those campaigns counted for 5 points each, or 15 points total.

Above the two ribbons is the Purple Heart he received for being shot three times in Sicily. Under criteria 3, he earned an additional 5 points for almost dying.

It’s also interesting to note where he didn’t receive points. At the top of his medals, you see the blue badge with a rifle. This is the Combat Infantryman Badge (CIB) and was awarded only to infantrymen who fought in active ground combat while assigned as members of an infantry unit. General Eisenhower once said “he would have traded all his medals for a Combat Infantryman Badge”, which he never obtained. Dad received 0 points for this.

After the war, he was awarded the Bronze Star. If you look at criteria 3, this should have added an additional 5 points, however, because he was already discharged when the paperwork finally went through, he received 0 points.

As to criteria 4, dad was only 16 when he joined the Army, and had no (known ;-)…) dependent children under 18 years of age. This resulted in 0 points.

Total up the points and you get to 96. Because of this, he was discharged after the Japanese announced they would surrender on August 14th, but before they officially surrendered on September 2nd, 1945.

Dad joined the army in 1940 when he was 16 years old. When he was discharged in August of ‘45, he’d spent 5 years in the Army. By the end of those 5 years, he invaded two continents, fought in four countries, was shot three times, and developed malaria. Oh, and he was just 21 years old. I think he paid his dues. It was time to return home.

Addendum:

Points: You can get more information on points at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adjusted_Service_Rating_Score

European campaigns: You can get more info on the European Campaigns counting towards points at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/European–African–Middle_Eastern_Campaign_Medal

There are certain events that occur and even years later, we remember where we were when they happened. Kennedy’s assassination. The Challenger Disaster. 9/11. They are often catastrophic events, but not always. When man first landed on the moon 50 years ago, on July 20th, 1969, I know exactly where I was – The Boy Scout National Jamboree in Idaho.

The National Jamboree was held at Farragut State Park, Idaho, from July 16 to 22, and had over 34,000 attendees. I was lucky to be one of them, as my folks had originally said no to attending. Then Farrell Brooks, our Scoutmaster, had a private conversation with mom and dad, and they changed their minds – I could go, but had to pay for some of the trip myself.

On July 12th, we boarded a special train in Chicago for the trip west. The train was for Scouts only, and there were approximately 600 of us on it (it must have been a zoo….;-)….). The trip took a couple of days and included a one day stopover at Glacier National Park.

Arriving at Farragut State Part we built our camp. We put up our tents, lashed together an entrance and perimeter fence, built fire pits, and nailed together our picnic tables and cooking stations.

In addition to all of the activities going on at the Jamboree, I distinctly remember excitement building about the upcoming moon landing. Both Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, the two men who would walk on the moon, were former Boy Scouts and Armstrong had obtained Eagle, Scouting’s highest rank.

On July 18, while flying toward the moon, Armstrong greeted us Scouts via Radio: “I’d like to say hello to all my fellow Scouts and Scouters at Farragut State Park in Idaho having a National Jamboree there this week and Apollo’s 11 would like to send them best wishes.” We couldn’t believe it when we heard about the broadcast. Here he was, going to the moon, and he took time to reach out to us. The transcript of the broadcast made our Jamboree newspaper the next day.

Then came the big day, July 20th. We knew the landing was in the afternoon, however, weren’t exactly sure when. Of course we didn’t have any TV to follow Walter Cronkite and the coverage of the landing, but one of the older scouts had a radio. After lunch, several us stayed in camp and sat at the picnic table listening to the radio. We followed the conversations between Aldrin and Armstrong as they neared the moon, and Mission Control back on earth. I think with no visual for us, it was perhaps even scarier. At 2:17PM local time, Armstrong announced “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed.”

Six hours later, Armstrong and Aldrin both walked on the moon. Without TVs, we didn’t see any of the live footage shown on network television. However, on the following evening, July 21st, all of us Scouts marched to the amphitheater used for the opening and closing events during the Jamboree. That evening they had erected huge white screens. Tapes of the lunar landing, along with the footage of Armstrong and Aldrin walking on the moon were projected on the screens. There were 34,000 of us there, but I bet you could hear a pin drop as we watched history unfolding.

The Jamboree ended the next day and the following day we returned by train to Illinois. I don’t remember anything of the trip home. Three weeks later, Woodstock happened, and a few weeks after that, I started my freshman year in high school.

Over the years, I’ve forgotten most of what happened at the Jamboree, except for a few scattered memories. Sitting at the picnic table, listening to the landing on the moon? It’s clear as a bell in my mind.

Addendum:

1. Later in life, in addition to the Boy Scouts, I had another connection with Apollo 11. Both Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were West Point graduates. Aldrin graduated in ‘51 and Collins in ‘52. Neil Armstrong was a civilian. One of the reasons Armstrong was the first to set foot on the moon (in addition to acting as the Commander), was NASA wanted to make sure the first person to set foot on the moon was a Civilian and not a member of the Armed Forces.

2. Mom saved almost everything from when I was a kid, and then returned things to me over the years. I still have my Jamboree patches, coffee mug, special badges and the daily newspapers they gave us while there. I also still have the Look Magazine Special Edition issued the week after the moon landing.

50 years ago in June of 1969, I was awarded the Boy Scout’s highest rank, Eagle Scout. I was thinking about this recently when Cath and I were attending the Eagle Court of Honor for Mark, the son of good friends of ours. At the presentation, I thought about Scouting, both now, and when I was a boy. I also thought about two important mentors from my youth.

On one level, time hasn’t been kind to the Boy Scouts. They were recently again in the news for cases of possible sexual child abuse. A couple of years ago, after probably taking too long to decide, they opened Scouting to gay youth and leaders, and a year later, transgender youth. Recently, they allowed girls to join. All of these activities have raised passions both supporting and disparaging the Boy Scouts and I sometimes wonder if scouting will survive. I for one, hope it does.

The Boy Scouts of my youth with Troop 45 were great fun, and taught me skills I continue to use. The camping trips, hikes and summer camps provided memories my friends and I still talk and laugh about. We learned about camping, cooking, knots, nature, first aid, and lifesaving among other “hard” skills. Perhaps more importantly, the Scout Oath and Scout Law taught us (or reinforced in us) softer skills. Learning about doing your duty, helping others, and respecting yourself are not bad things to absorb at a young age. Gaining those hard skills and internalizing the softer skills led to my Eagle award in 1969, at the age of 14.

One of the greatest gifts Scouting gave me was two of my first mentors, Farrell Brooks and Don Willy. They were our Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster. There were other adults involved in our troop, although looking back, it’s easy to see that many were involved either to watch out for their own son, or to fulfill some leadership longing in their personal life. The kind of adult who liked to be in charge of a bunch of kids. We never paid much attention to those guys. As a matter of fact, we tried to figure out ways of outsmarting them, or doing things behind their backs.

Farrell and Don were different. They practiced what today I would call “quiet leadership”. They let us boys run things as much as possible, with the occasional course correction. They set good examples of how to act as a man and we noticed. They didn’t berate us, chastise us, belittle us, or make us feel like kids. Instead, they encouraged, challenged, and listened to us.

In my youth, I don’t think I knew what a mentor was, but I know I respected Farrell and Don and listened to them. As I became an adult, their example formed a part of the bedrock of my own leadership skills that served me in the Army and later in business. Both Don and Farrell passed away several years ago. I wish I had just one more evening as an adult sitting around a campfire with them. I’d enjoy picking their brains about a thing or two. I’d give a lot for that night….

We congratulated Mark after his Eagle ceremony. He’s a fine young man and I believe he will do well in life. Listening to his current and former Scoutmasters speak at the ceremony gives me faith there are still leaders in the Scouts helping boys become good adults. I hope as Mark gets older he reflects back on the mentoring he received and find it a source of strength. I know I have.

Addendum:

1. In the included photo of the four of us receiving our Eagle Scout awards, I’m the only one still alive. Ken, Randy, and Larry all passed away too soon, at relatively young ages. When I look at the picture, I smile remembering the evening, but I’m also sad as I reflect on each of their deaths. The possibilities, and the promises of life seemed endless in 1969, and yet, here I am the last one alive.

2. Since the 1920s, the Boy Scouts have compiled “ineligible files,” listing adult volunteers considered to pose a risk of child molestation. About 5,000 of these files were made public as a result of court action; another 2,000 or so remain confidential. The Scouts say when a BSA volunteer is added to the database for suspected abuse, “they are reported to law enforcement, removed entirely from any Scouting program and prohibited from re-joining anywhere.”

Boy Scout Oath

On my honor, I will do my best

To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law;

To help other people at all times;

To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight.

About a year before mom died, she and I were sitting in her front room and talking about this and that. Suddenly she said to me “when you left for West Point, I didn’t realize then that you would never return to Ottawa.” The words hit home, and made me a bit sad. Later, I thought back to that departure…

I’d received my appointment to West Point in March of my senior year at OHS. After the initial giddiness of getting accepted passed, the reality of what I signed up for started to sink in. While most of my friends would be partying all summer before going to college in the fall, I would be reporting to West Point at the start of July for Beast Barracks. “Beast” was the Academy’s intense two month introduction to West Point, the Army and the Fourth Class System (Freshmen at West Point are known as Fourth Classmen or Plebes).

After graduation from OHS, my days and nights were spent in a combination of dates with Cathy, partying with Tim and Howard, and the occasional family get together. The time passed quickly. Three weeks till I reported; two weeks; one week; three nights, two nights, and then just one night left. Cathy and I were going on our final date that night.

I’m not sure how we came up with the idea, but that last date was a dinner at her house. Her parents and sisters were going out for the evening, leaving the house to us. Cathy would fix dinner and we were going to just hang out. Interestingly, her parents called mine to see if it was OK for Cathy to serve a bottle of wine at the dinner. My folks agreed. I was 18 and she was 17. The drinking age for beer and wine in Illinois at the time was 19. I try to imagine this happening today, and maybe it would, but I think a lot of parents would be vilified for allowing the wine to be served.

The night of the dinner came and I rode my bike to her house. She greeted me at the door and then opened the wine. It was an Italian straw basket Chianti and we had a glass. For dinner, she made spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and a salad. I’m sure there was a dessert as well, but neither of us can remember what it was. It was a bittersweet night, as farewells often are. In some ways, it was almost like we were play acting as adults. I suppose our excuse was that we were young, and in love in that high school way. We promised to write, and said we’d see each other soon. The date finally ended, we said our goodbyes and had our farewell kiss.

The next day, mom, dad and I were leaving mid morning for the drive to New York. Howard stopped by for a final farewell. We joked about resuming the party times when I came back at Christmas. When Howard was about to leave, Cathy surprised me and rode up on her bike. We went off to the side and talked a bit more. As we hugged goodbye, she pressed a letter in my hand, and made me promise not to read it until after I left.

And then it was time. Mom, dad and I got in the car and left Ottawa. I think I waited about an hour before opening the letter from Cathy. I probably read it about 50 times on the drive to West Point.

I started Beast two days later and my West Point and Army journey began.

I made it home for Christmas break that year and saw family, friends and Cathy. Mom was right though. I’d left Ottawa for good, although I didn’t know it yet. For the next 45 plus years, Cathy and I would make it back for vacations, or different family milestones. To this day, we still return to Ottawa on trips, but never did return to live there. We both love Ottawa and it was a great place to grow up, but you can’t go back.

In the book Shadows in Paradise, the author Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front) said it much more eloquently than I ever could:

“But I also knew that there was no going back. One can never go back; nothing and no one is ever the same. All that remains is an occasional evening of sadness. The sadness that we all feel because everything passes and man is the only animal who knows it.”

Addendum:

⁃ I carried the letter from Cathy with me when I checked in to the Academy, and it was in my desk for the entire time at West Point. Today, all these years later, I still have it in a drawer next to our bed. I won’t tell you the contents, but the letter is special to me and I still read it occasionally.

⁃ In the, “it doesn’t really matter, but something else I still remember category”, besides reading Cathy’s letter on the drive to West Point, I also read the book, The Boys of Summer. The book, by Roger Kahn, was written in 1972 and tells the history of the Brooklyn Dodgers up to their victory in the 1955 World Series. I got in trouble from mom for reading the whole way out, instead of looking at the beautiful scenery we were going through when we hit the Appalachian Mountains. I should point out that I still have my copy of that book as well. ;-).

In June of 1977, I was on a break from West Point, and would return for my Firstie (Senior) year in July. I decided to spend some time on my own, and hiked the 105 miles of the Appalachian Trail (AT) in the Shenandoah National Park. You can always hike or camp with friends, but I distinctly remember wanting to do this sojourn alone.

I would graduate as a Second Lieutenant in a year. Cathy and I were already engaged and would marry after graduation. I don’t know I consciously thought it in ‘77, but looking back, I think I wanted a bit of time for reflection.

I’d studied the AT for a while. Most people take six months to hike the 2,190 miles from Georgia to Maine, and that wasn’t going to happen for me anytime soon. Instead, I realized I could do a small chunk of the trail and finally settled on the 105 miles running through Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. I decided to start at Rockfish Gap near Charlottesville and hike north, finishing just outside of Front Royal. I allocated one week to complete the hike, meaning I needed to average about 15 miles a day.

Departure day arrived, and Cathy drove me to Rockfish Gap. We went over where and when we’d meet in seven days. The agreed meeting point was mile marker xx on route 55 at 1PM, or something like that. It’s a bit funny to think back on doing the meet-up planning in the pre-internet/cell phone days. I kind of chuckle at the thought process now.

I kissed Cathy goodby, put my pack on, and started hiking north on the trail. I carried 30-35 pounds, and among my supplies were a sleeping bag, tube tent, small Svea 123 stove (I still own it), first aid kit and change of clothes. For food, I had freeze dried dinners, oatmeal for breakfast, and gorp. The four canteens I carried contained a gallon of water, both for drinking and cooking. At eight pounds to the gallon, the water was the heaviest thing in my pack. It was critical to have enough, as the only water along the way would be in creeks or springs I passed. I had marked all of the known water sources on my map and there were a couple streams each day, although I’d hoped for more. Iodine tablets were a must, to ensure the water was safe to drink.

I kept a small journal on the trail, and as I look at it now I find it interesting not so much for what’s there, but for what’s not. There are no big thoughts or revelations, no self defining statements, and no insightful reflections. Instead, it’s a collection of what I saw or passed along the way, or what I did on a particular day. And so, there were journal entries recounting the animals encountered; the two hawks I watched circling and hunting, while I ate my lunch; almost running out of water one day, before getting to my camp location; the light rain falling one evening; passing, or being passed by a few through hikers who had started in Georgia the previous March; hanging my pack from a rope in the trees so bear couldn’t reach it at night; and several other anecdotal stories or comments. I saw a few other hikers over the course of the week, but not many.

At about the half way point, I hiked into Big Meadows Campground. There were showers, along with a concession stand. After cleaning up, I ordered a cheeseburger and a Michelob beer. The cheeseburger tasted incredibly good. And the Michelob? It tasted pretty damned good too. You need to remember in the pre microbrew beer time frame, Mich was the best beer in America in ‘77, unless you had a friend who was visiting out west and could bring back a case of Coors from Colorado, or Olympia from Washington State.

On the last full day, I hiked up a strenuous section of trail to arrive at the top of Hogback Mountain. To my amazement, there were people running off a cliff, launching themselves into space. They were hang gliding, and it was the first time I’d ever witnessed it. I pulled out my lunch and watched them take off and fly over the Shenandoah Valley. As with the hawks I’d observed earlier, they circled the valley for seemingly hours, before finally landing miles away. I remember thinking at the time this must be what freedom feels like.

The next day, I woke early, and started my final day’s hike at dawn. I eventually arrived at route 55, an hour or two before the appointed time and hung out on the side of the road. A couple of cars stopped and the drivers asked if I needed a ride to town. After thanking them, I explained I was waiting for my girlfriend. Cath eventually arrived, and we went to Shenandoah Park for a couple more days of camping, before returning to her house.

A few days later, I reported back to West Point for my final year. I don’t know that I gained any great clarity from the hike. I do remember a sense of peace and confidence after the adventure. In retrospect, I think reflection can be more a feeling, rather than a big decisive moment. At least it was for me.

Since the hike in ‘77, Cathy and I have backpacked a fair amount including in Alaska, the Grand Canyon, the Trinity Alps, Yosemite, and yes, the Shenandoah National Park. It’s a few years since our last trip, and we’ve gotten a bit softer now. Doing day hikes and staying at a B&B seems a pretty good compromise.

I still think about the AT and maybe one day doing the whole thing. I know it’s mostly a pipe dream, and yet….

First, you need to understand this is a true story. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. How many times have you had a bird poop on you not once, not twice, but three times? At a ball game? Within five innings? It happened to me at a Nats – White Sox day game on June 5th, 2019. Seriously.

The day starts innocently enough at the Bluejacket Brewery where four of us had lunch and a beer. Morgan and I arrive first, and then Magoo and Evan join us. After lunch, we walk to the park and arrive at our seats in section 219.

As the first inning starts, something hits my head, or actually, my hat on my head. It feels like somebody threw crushed ice from a drink on me. I look up, but no one is there, so I take my hat off to see what hit me. No, it isn’t ice. It’s bird poop. What? I look up again and don’t see anything, and then show my hat to the guys. Everyone is in shock, including the people around us. I mean, what are the odds of getting hit by bird poop at a ball game? As the inning ends, I go to the restroom to wash off my hat. I pass Michael, the usher in our section, and mention jokingly, about the bird and my hat. We both have a bit of a laugh, and I move on.

The game progresses. In the bottom of the third, something hits my shirt and my hat. I look at my shirt. Bird poop. I take off my hat. More bird poop. How is this even possible?! Now people around me, including my so called friends, are laughing. Getting hit once with bird poop is cause for shock. It turns out getting hit twice is cause for laughter. What are the odds of getting hit with bird poop twice? I look up, and this time I see the culprit. There it is, sitting on the ledge directly above me. I call out a couple of times, but the bird doesn’t move, and nobody on the 300 level can hear me. So, I go to the washroom and clean my hat, and my shirt, and then return to my seat. I look up, and the bird is still there. It hasn’t moved.

As the game goes on, I scrunch a bit to the right, but I don’t leave my seat. No bird is going to force me to move. I look up a couple times. The bird hasn’t moved either. We seem to be in a war of wills. And then, in the top of the 5th, something hits the top of my hat. Again. I take off the hat and look, and you guessed it, more bird poop. I look up. Yep, the bird is still there. It hasn’t moved in 5 innings. Now I yell at the bird. It still doesn’t move. My friend Morgan laughingly asks if I’d like him to go up to the third level and see if the staff can do something. Morgan takes off, and goes upstairs. People around me are laughing and saying that I definitely need to play Lotto tonight, as I will win for sure. I go back to the restroom to wash my hat. I pass Michael again and point out my hat. “Michael!” I say. “What the heck is going on? The park is going to hell!”

I wash my hat for the third time. It’s pretty well wet all over now. As I return to my seat, I look up. The bird….is gone! At that exact moment, Morgan shows up and I ask him if he talked with anyone. He answers “Yea. I went up to the 3rd level and found an usher and told him there was a bird crapping on my friend from a lodge directly about section 219. He went in the lodge, saw the bird, and shooed it away.”

We watch a lone pigeon circling endlessly above us, but we don’t know if it’s my bird. The game continues. In the 7th, Michael shows up at our seats with a smile on his face (or maybe a snicker) and a Nats courtesy rep. The courtesy rep gives me a giveaway bag, which included a shirt and a Bobblehead. I thank the rep and put the bag under my seat.

The Nats are up 4-1 until the 8th inning when, of course, their bullpen again collapses and it’s now tied 4-4. Bottom of the 9th…Dozier walks, and who comes up? Trea Turner. Now Turner has struck out three times today, and grounded out once to the shortstop. This time? A walk off dinger!

We all high five each other and head for the exit and our separate ways. As I’m riding home on metro, I open the bag the courtesy rep gave me and look inside. I take a look at the Bobblehead, and who is it? Wait for it…yep, Trea Turner. Karma? Luck? The fates having a fun afternoon? Who knows, but on the drive home, I decide that maybe I should buy those lotto tickets people were mentioning earlier. It can’t hurt.

Addendum:

I did buy three Powerball tickets on the way home and checked the numbers this morning. Nadda….Nothing….Bupkis…. I guess the fates think that Trea hitting the walk off was compensation enough. With the way the Nats have played until recently, maybe they’re right. Still, if as a loyal fan, I can contribute to the team by having a pigeon poop on me three times, I’m in. But, just this once.

As we gathered at the bar, we were older, heavier and grayer than in June of 1978 when we graduated from West Point. We’d come together to honor our classmate, General (4 stars) Curtis Michael “Scap” Scaparrotti, who was retiring after 41 years of service. Scap was the last member of our class to serve on active duty in the Army.

Scap had recently relinquished his job as the The Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR), and commander of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). Since the start of NATO in the 1950s, there have been 18 commanders, including Eisenhower and Ridgeway. Not bad company.

There were 30 or 40 of us at the get-together and it was great to catch up. There were war stories (literally), news about kids and grandkids, jokes about old times, cancer updates, discussions of business possibilities, and any number of other topics. In addition to local DC folk, guys arrived from Georgia, Tennessee, Texas, New York and Colorado among other places. One classmate was departing for Afghanistan the next day (as a civilian). At one point, Scap shared a few thoughts with us, and spoke about the importance of our class to him over the course of his career. As I looked around the room, I thought about the story of our class since graduation.

981 of us graduated from the Academy in 1978. Some stayed in the military 5 or 10 years, while others retired at 20 or 30 years. We were Cold Warriors at the start, but then, among other places, fought in Somalia, Granada, Panama, the First Gulf War, Iraq, Afghanistan and the Global War on Terror. There were Peacekeeping operations in Bosnia and Kosovo. We held assignments taking us to at least 6 of the 7 continents in this world. Some of us worked missions we still aren’t allowed to talk about.

Our class produced 33 General Officers, 21 Civilian equivalents (SES level), and 1 General Officer in a foreign army (the Philippines). We count a Secretary of the Army and President’s Physician in our class. We have politicians, judges, lawyers, scientists, engineers, doctors, dentists, government employees, school teachers, and school superintendents among us. There are any number of captains of industry, including CEOs and Board Members of Fortune 500 firms, along with owners, managers, and CXOs of many, many other companies.

54 of us have passed away.

We are now in our 60s. With Scap’s military retirement, one phase of our class’s contribution to society is officially over. Some of us have retired and are playing with our grandchildren. Some are still actively working, in government, or in the business world. Others are starting totally new business ventures, or personal adventures, seeking the next big thing, or new ways to have an impact on our country and the world.

Many of you have watched the Army Navy Football game over the years, and observed the tradition that whoever wins the game, gets to sing their Alma Mater second. The third verse of the West Point Alma Mater is:

And when our work is done,
Our course on earth is run,
May it be said, ‘Well Done;
Be Thou At Peace.’
E’er may that line of gray
Increase from day to day,
Live, serve, and die, we pray,
West Point, for thee.

I’d like to think our class has earned a “well done” to date, but I also know we will continue to have influences, large and small, on this great country of ours. I can’t say enough about how thankful I am to be a member of the Proud and Great West Point class of 1978.

Go Army! Beat Navy!

____________

Addendum:

1. Scap truly served a soldiers life. I won’t go through his whole career; however, in addition to serving as SACEUR, he held several other notable command positions, including:

• Commandant of the United States Military Academy

• Commander, 82d Airborne Division

• Commander, I Corps

• Commander, US Forces Korea

During his time on active duty, troops under his command served in the United States, Europe, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Zaire, Rwanda, Bosnia, and Liberia among other locations.

2. Thanks to classmate Rob Grubbs for providing the photo. In the group photo, attendees were, left to right:

Blair Ross, Mark ONeill, Steve Anderson, Jim Yuengert, Vinnie Schultz, Tim Hope, Bob Walcott, Bob Olds, Bob Hendricks, Bob Rush, Matt Saitta, Monte Warner, Eric Hughes, Pete Henry, Kevin Sheehan, Andy Soldo, Rick DeFatta, Max Hall, Scap, Dale Hamby, Mike Silva, Hank Gillen, Rob Grubbs, Curtis McCoy, Tom McWhorter, Jim Nagy, and Marion Seaton (some folk had already left, or not arrived yet when the photo was taken, including George Tronsrue, Earl Rasmussen, and Rusty Roberts as a minimum).

The literal translation of Schlachtfest is “Slaughter Festival”. A better translation might be “a country feast to eat the meat of a freshly slaughtered pig.” When we were stationed in Germany in the late 80s, our friend Wolfgang held a Schlachtfest about four times a year at his Gasthaus, Sportheim, in the village of Rheindurkheim.

Wolfgang would order a whole pig from Adolf, our local butcher, and then prepare it 3 or 4 different ways. There were cutlets, different sausages, including bratwurst, currywurst and blutwurst (blood sausage), and the German equivalent of a roasted pig. He spent a couple of days butchering the meat and preparing it for the festival. The night before the fest, he and his wife, Vroni, rearranged the tables in the Gasthaus so they were connected together in long rows, like in a fest tent.

The big day arrived and Wolfgang and Vroni opened Sportheim around 10:30AM. Some of the regulars would gather at the bar for a Fruhshoppen (Early drink) and to harass Wolfgang as he was finishing up with the pig. Diners started arriving around 11:00 or 11:30 and the Gasthaus was filled wall to wall with people until early evening, or when Wolfgang ran out of meat, whichever came first.

The food was good. Actually, it was more than good – pardon the pun, but I was in hog heaven at his Schlachtfests. In addition to the meat, there was sauerkraut, spatzle (little noodles), roast potatoes, or potato dumplings (always made by Wolfgang’s father – I have his recipe…;-)…) depending on what you ordered. Of course, you washed it all down with bier or wein. Sportheim was packed, and you sat wherever you could find an open place at a table. You might sit next to a friend, a neighbor, or a complete stranger. If they were strangers, you’d be friends by the end of the meal. The clinking of glasses, along with “Prosit!” (toast!) or “Zum Wohl!” (to your heath!) were heard throughout the day.

Inevitably, Cath and I overate (as did many of the people there) and at the end of the meal you needed something to relieve the heaviness you were feeling. No problem. Vroni had the perfect cure, and a bottle of Malteser Kreuz Aquavit appeared at your table . A shot of the aquavit, and immediately you felt better. Cathy and I still say we drank a “bores a hole” for the magical way it seemed to relieve your stomach and clear the way for more food and drink.

One year at the fest, we were seated next to our neighbor, Wolfgang (not to be confused with Wolfgang, the owner of Sportheim) and his wife Karen. As we ordered our food and drinks, their food arrived. I happened to glance at Wolfgang’s plate and there was a perfectly round cut of meat with two small holes in the meat at the bottom of the circle. I hadn’t seen this cut before and asked Wolfgang what it was, and he answered “Die Schnute”. “Was?” (what?) was my reply. “Die Schnute… Die Schnute!” he repeated, while pointing at his nose. Oh – The snout! He explained how it was the very best cut of the whole pig, and how lucky he was they hadn’t run out. He offered a bite, which I took and agreed it was tasty (think pork belly), but I would stick with the meal I already ordered. Later, I was speaking with Wolfgang (Sportheim’s owner) and asked him about Die Schnute and using the whole pig. He laughed a bit, and then explained the dish was so popular, in addition to the pigs he ordered, he always needed to buy 4 or 5 extra snouts.

We attended our last Schlachtfest in May of ‘89, about a month before returning to the States. I always figured we’d make another one sometime along the way, but of course we never did. I get hungry and thirsty just thinking about those Fests, and the sounds of friends talking and laughing echo faintly in my head. I can almost see Vroni walking towards me with a smile on her face and the Aquavit in her hands.

Zum Wohl……