Our 40th Reunion of the West Point Class of 1978 is over and Cath and I are back home after a wonderful, wonderful time. I have struggled with trying to capture in my own mind the events and emotions of the weekend.

West Point is a beautiful place, and it was ideal this past weekend. It was fun to walk around the Post and see the sites – the massive gray buildings, The Plain, the statues of Patton, Eisenhower, and others, Trophy Point with the Hudson flowing below….

Among other activities, we went to the Cadet Chapel where our class held a heartfelt memorial service for our fifty departed classmates. We have done one of these at every reunion, but as we get older, the words from the song “The Corps” become more meaningful – “They are here in ghostly assemblage, The men of the Corps long dead….”

One of the most rewarding part of the weekend was linking up with old classmates and recapturing a bit of the past. Some, Cathy and I had not seen in 40 years, others not for 5 or 10 years, and some that I’ve only met online. The camaraderie, the love and the fellowship were overwhelming. We told stories of our time at West Point, but also stories about Germany, Italy, Korea, Panama, Granada, Kosovo, Iraq and Afghanistan. Places where our careers had intersected or overlapped.

As we get older, the full meaning of being a part of The Long Gray Line becomes more evident. We truly are a part of a 200 year continuum that has stretched from 1802 to now, and into the future. We met some Firstie (Senior) cadets who will be 2nd Lieutenants in a few weeks. They will soon head to postings around the world. After meeting and talking with them, I am encouraged. These young men and women will do America proud as we go into an uncertain future.

At West Point we have vows, watchwords, and themes that have served as guideposts through the course of our lives….. Duty, Honor, Country…. Choosing the harder right, rather than the easier wrong….Never be content with a half truth, when the whole can be won….. and many more. After attending the reunion, I feel renewed and, as another classmate said, recharged. There is something about the gathering of this group that helps to remind us not only of who we were in our youth, but also who we have strived to be throughout our lives.

I observed my classmates over the course of the weekend, and there is no doubt that we are older, thicker, and grayer (or balding). And yet…there is something else there too. I reflect on West Point, see my classmates, and think of Tennysons’s words at the end of Ulysses…

” We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”

I can’t wait for our next gathering.

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The title of this blog is a line from the song “The Corps”

Strange emotions this week. The 28th of April is the one year anniversary of mom’s death, and next week is the 40th reunion of my West Point class, celebrating our graduation in 1978. As I think about the two events, I have no doubts that it was because of mom that I made it to West Point, and that changed my life.

It was spring of my sophomore year at Ottawa High School. Mom was the principal’s secretary at OHS, and knew everything that was happening at school. One evening over dinner she said “you know, you’re pretty smart, but dad and I don’t have the money to send you kids to college. If you plan to go to college, you need to work, or receive some kind of scholarship. By the way, Colin Willis is back on spring break from West Point next week, and is giving a talk here at school. Maybe you should go hear what he has to say.”

Everyone knew Colin. He was a senior my freshman year at OHS and was all-state in football and wrestling. I played football and wrestled, and while not at his level, I knew him a bit from both sports. So, I thought about it, and the next week I went to hear Colin. He gave a great talk, made West Point sound interesting, and basically said that if you worked hard, you had a good chance of getting in, and then surviving there.

I worked hard in high school, but I think mom worked harder to propel me along the way. She pushed me to talk with the counsellors I needed to see at school; found a connection for me with a local businessman (Mr Thornton) who wrote a letter of recommendation and and sent it to our Congressman; typed up my applications and cataloged all of my “achievements” for both our congressman and for West Point; kept dinners warm on the stove when I came home late from football or wrestling practice; and of course provided me with encouragement and a push from behind, along the way.

On Thanksgiving day of my senior year at OHS, I received the first and only telegram of my life. It was from our congressman, informing me I had received one of his nominations to West Point. On March 8th, just after lunch, a call came over the intercom at high school to report to the principal’s office. I arrived in the office and mom gave me a huge hug. She had gone home for lunch and there was a letter waiting for me there. I had been accepted to West Point.

I made it through West Point, not without a few challenges along the way. With that, the arc of my life changed in many ways that I could not imagine as a boy of eighteen.

Looking back now, with my West Point 40th Reunion approaching, it’s easier to see many of the turning points and influences in my life, although they may not have been so clear when happening. One of the things that is very clear, is mom’s work getting me to the Military Academy. A West Point classmate of mine, Scott Shorr, wrote a song called “Gone so Long”. It’s about returning to the Academy for a visit after many years away. I’ve listened to it several times and a part of the refrain always touches me – the line goes “My mom’s persistence, probably led me there….” With that line, Scott summed up my experience perfectly.

*** *** ***

Mom, It’s a year now since your death. I just wanted to say I miss you, and thank you for all you did. I know your persistence put me on a different path in life, and that’s a debt I can never repay.

The words that grabbed my attention were “…..and then we’ll have a leisurely lunch on the Vic Falls Hotel veranda, while sipping Pink Gins”. We were talking with our friend Marty about an upcoming trip to Africa he was organizing. That quote put a picture in my brain, and I was hooked.

As many of you know, I like an occasional cocktail. OK, maybe more than occasional. My go-to cocktails are a Gin Martini, a Rye Manhattan, or a Negroni, but there is a whole universe of classic drinks out there worth sipping. The classics tend to have a sense of history or place, are bracing, and usually only have a few ingredients. While they are often pretty to look at, drinking more than one or two can lead to….trouble.

So, where does the Pink Gin fit in all of this? After Marty mentioned Pink Gins, I started doing some research. It turns out that the Pink Gin was first developed by the British Navy. They were looking for a way to entice sailors to take “bitters”, which were used to combat seasickness. Coincidentally, in the mid 1800s, over 1,000 casks of Plymouth gin were supplied to the British Navy on an annual basis. After some experimentation, the Navy learned that sailors were more willing to take bitters when they were combined with gin (surprise!). Now the Navy version of the drink was probably served warm and in a wooden mug, but nonetheless, a drink was born. Add some ice, stir a bit, and there you go.

The Pink Gin is a classic drink with a sense of history about it. Stanley and Livingston “discovered” the Falls in 1855 and promptly named it for Queen Victoria. The Victoria Falls Hotel in Zimbabwe was built less than fifty years later in 1904. In addition to afternoon tea, it has served Pink Gins on that veranda for a looooooong time.

I’ve made a few Pink Gins now. You can use any gin, but the original Plymouth still seems to work best, as it is more citrusy than a dryer gin such as Beefeater. The key to the drink is the right amount of dilution. As you stir the gin and bitters in the shaker, the ice melts a bit. Not enough melting, and the drink is too harsh. Too much melting, and the drink is too weak. Just like Goldilocks and her visit to the three bears, it’s important to get it just right.

I think I’ll practice making a few more Pink Gins before our trip to Africa, just to acclimate my taste buds. Having said that, I can’t wait to have one on the veranda of the hotel, with it’s spectacular view of the Victoria Falls Bridge and the spray coming up from the Falls below. I imagine that view might just complete the drink.

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Here are two Pink Gin recipes. I think the traditional is slightly better….

Pink Gin traditional recipe:

Large measure of Plymouth Gin (1 1/2 – 2 oz perhaps)

Large measure of Angostura bitters (3-4 shakes, or to taste)

• • Add Angostura Bitters to a mixing glass; Fill mixing glass with ice; Stir for 10 to 15 seconds
  • Roll the combination of bitters and water (melted from the ice) around the glass
  • Strain off water and bitters leaving the ice and a light wash of bitters in the glass
  • Add Plymouth Navy Strength Gin to the mixing glass over the ice. Add more ice if there is space
  • Stir well to chill and dilute (Taste before serving to ensure enough dilution, the alcohol should feel pleasant not aggressive).
  • Strain into a chilled cocktail glass
  • Add lemon twist (or not), ensuring that the lemon oils are expelled across the surface of the drink
  • View of Victoria Falls is optional

Pink Gin updated recipe:

2 oz Plymouth Gin

4 good shakes of Angostura bitters

• • Combine ingredients and shake vigorously in a cocktail shaker with ice
  • Strain into a chilled cocktail glass and serve sans garnish

I believe it was 1990 when Grand Ridge, Illinois was destroyed in a nuclear attack, or at least that’s what the message said. It’s a strange feeling when you suddenly realize that your family and friends are either dead or dying, and there’s nothing you can do about it.

At the time I was an army captain, and a Nuclear Command and Control (C2) Engineer with the Defense Communications Agency. We tested communications systems and procedures that were used in the event of a nuclear war. It was an interesting job, even as the Cold War was winding down after the fall of the Berlin Wall. My boss, a civilian, said to me at the time “I don’t know what your feelings are about nuclear war, but personnally, I want to make sure the systems used during periods of heightened security (that’s what we called it) are working properly, so no mistakes are made.”

The military and National Command Authority (the President) have multiple systems and platforms that are used for C2 communications and they are tested frequently. During one such exercise, I was flying on the Presidents military plane, the National Emergency Airborne Command Post (NEACP – pronounced Knee-cap). We were in the air for ten or twelve hours at this point, and already had one midair refueling. The scenario was playing out and several exercise messages were sent and received.

We had a bit of down time, and I started flipping through old incoming message traffic, just to see what was happening. …STOP… There it was In black and white…. The message stated that the nuclear power plant near Grand Ridge, Illinois was destroyed during a Russian nuclear attack….. My parents lived about 8 miles as the crow flies from that nuclear reactor. Many other friends and family members lived anywhere from three to fifteen miles from the plant. Now, they were all either dead or dying. I froze for a few minutes, as I contemplated the potential reality. I suppose up until that moment I’d always thought of the possibility of me dying in a war, but in this alternate reality, I was the one surviving, or at least surviving for a while longer, while everyone else died.

I resumed the communication’s system testing. I may even have joked with someone else on the plane about the disappearance of my family. Eventually, the exercise ended, we landed, and I made my way home. I thought about that alternate life for awhile after that, and occasionally told the story. It always brought a few interesting comments or nervous chuckles.

The threat of nuclear war lessened in the ’90s and the early 21st century. It seems to be creeping back up now, and that’s probably what made me remember the story. These days, we are talking about Rocket Man, Putin’s new and improved nuclear weapons, and increasing our own capabilities. I guess the more things change, the more they stay the same. Doctor Strangelove seems as relevant as ever.

My cousin Pooch is 83 now and one of the last ties to my dad and uncles on the Hall side of the family. I was thinking about him as baseball season approaches.

A few months back, Pooch was telling us about growing up during the depression and WWII, and playing baseball as a young boy in southern Illinois. Well, actually, he was telling us about playing stickball. At the time, no one could afford a bat or real ball. They used a broomstick for a bat. And for the ball? They would stuff a sock with old rags and then tape the “ball” tightly with tape his dad brought home from the local coal mine. The tape was similar to duct tape, but sticky on both sides. After taping the “ball” as tightly as he could, he would roll it in dirt to get rid of the stickiness of the outside layer.

There were eight or ten young kids living on his street, counting both boys and girls. They would divide into teams and girls and boys both played. Pooch was the oldest on the block, so he was typically captain of one of the teams. He had a girlfriend at the time and being a smart guy, he usually chose her first for his team. He says it didn’t really matter how they chose the players as no team ever won all of the games.

They played in the street with rocks or pieces of wood for the bases. Occasionally a car came by, but not very often. The ball was so soft, it wouldn’t break any nearby windows and no one needed a glove to catch it. No one could afford a glove in any case. The ball would eventually break after being hit a few times. They would retape the sock and continue. The game would go on all afternoon until they finally got bored, or ran out of tape.

He told me other stories of playing real baseball in hand-me-down uniforms from the local coal-mine team, and then attending games at the local Class D minor league affiliate – the West Frankfort Cardinals. In high school, he made money selling sodas for ten cents a piece at those games, and later working as a ball chaser. He was paid $1.50 per game to retrieve foul balls. He said it was much better than lugging around a case of soda.

The home opener is a week away here in DC. I can’t wait to see the Nats and whether they will make another run to the playoffs this year. Before the game, I’ll be thinking about Pooch and those hot, dusty summers in Southern Illinois, playing stickball, and picking his girlfriend first.

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This blog was based on conversations with Pooch in September of ’17, and also recollections that Pooch had previously written in a family autobiography of his youth in Southern Illinois.

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I don’t think I quite understood the struggle between winter and spring until we moved to the farm. It doesn’t happen every year, and spring always eventually wins, but there’s many a year when winter doesn’t give up without a fight. This seems to be one of those years.

Here at Rohan Farm, I’m much more sensitive to the weather than I was when we lived in the ‘burbs. In the wintertime, that sensitivity is around plowing if it snows tooooo much, loss of power with ice storms, and freezing pipes and water buckets with cold temperature. In the past, we’ve had a horse go through the ice on the pond, lost power for a few days, and plowed snow way more times than I care to remember.

This year, winter hasn’t been bad, but it’s been screwy. After the single digit temperatures of early January, and a busted pipe at the barn, things looked up. Snow totals were minimal, and February was actually unseasonably warm. Then we started March with a wind storm and lost power for almost four days. Since then, it has been unseasonably cold and I am ready for this winter to be over.

Unfortunately, springtime isn’t ready to happen just yet. While yesterday was the official first day of Spring, Old Man Winter decided he wasn’t quite ready to leave, and is socking us with four to eight inches of snow today, or so they say.  There are already three to four inches on the ground, and I think they may have underestimated the total.

The daffodils are up and starting to bloom and the Cherry trees are about to blossom for the tourists. But the pond still has a skim of ice some mornings, and the horses haven’t shed their winter coats.  Today, the daffodils are covered in snow and ice, and the blooms are dying back. I don’t need a ground hog to tell me that spring is still a ways away.  

Both the daffodils and I will survive these waning punches from winter.  This too shall pass.

Billy told me it was the coldest winter Tilghman Island had seen in 100 years. This was while we were discussing the cracked water pipes he found under our house.

I don’t know if it was the coldest winter in 100 years, but I know it was damned cold for lengthy periods of time this year. The kind of cold that just wouldn’t let up. Parts of the Bay froze in early January. Several people had frozen or cracked pipes. Our home on Tilghman was built in the 1890s, and like most older homes, it has any number of issues, water pipes being one of them.



Everyone needs a Billy in their life. He’s the kind of guy that can do just about anything. He’s well known in our community and is everyone’s friend in the winter time, when pipes are likely to freeze. In addition to plumbing, he’s done just about everything. In his past, he was picking cotton at five years old, started laying brick at eleven, and was roofing at twelve. He helped his uncle rebuild a house when he was fourteen . In other lives, he’s been a maintenance man, the foreman of a factory, and delivered computer paper from Philly to the Bronx.

This year, he’s had a bit of tough luck health wise. He had surgery on his knee and is still in a brace. He was also sick with a virus that he probably contracted crawling around under old houses in freezing water. He lost forty pounds in two weeks with that virus. Despite this, he continues to respond to the calls that come to him for help.

He fixed one of our broken pipes in early January, but it turned out there were additional problems. This time he had to go under the house in our two foot high crawl space. A feeder line had frozen and cracked, as well as a line to the hot water heater. Oh, and a line to our washing machine that he had to access through a wall.  

When we arrived yesterday, he’d fixed all of the pipe problems, and already drywalled back over the pipe going to the washing machine. He’ll paint the drywall soon. He also pointed out that we’d lost several shingles in the big windstorm, and he’d take care of those next week. We discussed making some more permanent changes to the pipes under the house this summer, as well as cleaning up the accumulated “stuff” that was under the house. He already knows how he wants to redo the pipes, so they will be less likely to freeze in the future.

Everyone needs a Billy in their life. I’m sure glad he’s in our’s.

Cathy and I are two of the 1.5 million people who have lost power on the East Coast. We are now into day four, sans power. The wind that caused all of this was pretty amazing. It was a Nor’easter and pummeled the east coast. We are lucky here in Virginia that we didn’t have the snow or rain that often accompanies a storm like this.

Wind warnings about the potential for this storm started arriving several days ago, but of course you never know what’s really going to happen. Then it began sometime after midnight Thursday night. Laying in bed, I woke as the wind started growing and growling outside. Small surges at first, but they kept getting bigger and louder. Around three or four, the wind sounded something like a train going by, and the house groaned a bit. Something exploded down the road. A tree falling? A transformer exploding? Not sure, but it didn’t sound good. Sometime after four, the power went out, and then a few seconds later the generator kicked in and started running. Whew….

I had to go to Tysons Corner early that morning, and left home while it was still dark. As I drove our country roads to get to the interstate, there was debris everywhere and trees were down, but luckily, nothing blocking the road. On the interstate, anytime you were on a bridge or in an elevated area, the car was rocked by the winds. Definitely a good day to drive with both hands on the wheel. 

That afternoon, the winds hadn’t really abated. The news said there were gusts up to 70 miles an hour in our area. Driving home over the same country roads, you could now see that several trees had fallen across the road after I had driven through that morning. I counted five between the interstate and our house, and they were now cut up and out of the way. I found out from Cathy that the road to Warrenton was blocked most of the day, due to multiple fallen trees blocking the way. The winds would continue to blow at elevated levels for eighteen hours. Still no power, but the generator keeps running.

On Saturday, Cathy and I walk the fence line. Carmen helps us find one busted up fence section, but that was the only problem. The wind was still blowing, but nothing like Friday. Talking with neighbors, everyone seems to think we will have three or more days without power (**Whoops, past three now**).  There are trees down everywhere, which means there are lots of small problems everywhere. We live in a bit of an isolated area, and the power company fixes those problems that effect the most people first. We know there’s a power line down about 3/4 of a mile away. It is on a path through the woods, and services only our small area. Hmmmm…

The generator keeps running. Power out, and one broken fence section. We are pretty lucky in the big scheme of things. Locally, many of the people we know are without power. Some have generators, some don’t. And, as one friend reminded me on Facebook, after hurricane Maria she was without power for almost three months at their home on Saint Thomas. Another friend has several folk who work for him in Puerto Rico that are STILL without power.  

On the east coast, flights were cancelled, trains were cancelled, schools closed, and the government shutdown. 40 inches of snow fell in New York, it flooded in places from Boston to New Jersey and there were five deaths attributed to this storm.

It’s good to remember our blessings. And to check the gas level in our propane tank that powers the generator.

The generator keeps running….

Last weekend, Cath and I were in Chicago for a Bordeaux Dinner. There were seven of us eating and drinking together for about six hours. It was amazing.

Our good friends Tim and Renee have had this dinner every year for several years, but this is the first time we’ve been able to make it. We’ve always had some sort of conflict, but this year they scheduled it about nine months ahead of time, and we vowed we wouldn’t miss it.

The whole weekend was about friendship, eating, and drinking. We arrived Friday around noon. Dave made it down from Wisconsin Friday evening…. Sushi from a local Japanese market for lunch….wood fired pizza at a wonderful restaurant for dinner…… We generally behaved Friday night and didn’t over serve ourselves. We were looking forward to the Saturday night Bordeaux dinner – Six courses, and several bottles of champagne and wine are not for the faint of heart. You don’t want to go into that kind of dinner not being at the top of your game….. 


Prep work went on for much of Saturday, while dinner activities started around 6:00PM when neighbors Paul and Val joined us. The champagne and fresh oysters were a great way to begin. Renee had the oysters flown in from Massachusetts, and made several accoutrements – Guinness Granita and Radish Mignonette were my favorites. Four dozen oysters and a couple of bottles of champagne later, we adjourned to the table for the serious eating.

Tim started us off with Bourdain’s steak tartare, and the first bottle of Bordeaux. The tartare was everything you could want. Flavorful, complex, and raw. I could have stopped right there, and not eaten anything else, but we moved on to a palate-cleansing salad of baby greens.

A pause, and the hosts disappear for a bit. Then, they return….Braised duck leg with mixed vegetables. I’m in heaven. The duck is braised in Armagnac, a couple head of garlic, and a few other things. Could life be any better? More wine…the conversation gets louder and more engaging. Politics, religion, Chicago weather, food, wine, the Sox, other people we know. Nothing off limits and it’s the kind of conversation that just flows.

We pause a bit, and continue talking. Dishes are cleared, and the cheese course arrives. Six cheeses, including two blues. Time is getting a bit blended now. Not quite a fog, but at this point it’s been over four hours of eating and drinking. We are enjoying life, and appreciating the evening. 

Finally, the last course arrives- Chocolate Truffles. I don’t know where they came from, but they are awesome, and the perfect end to the dinner. We talk a bit more, drink a bit more, and glance at the clock. It’s around midnight now….time is speeding up, but we are slowing down. Cathy and I eventually say goodnight to all, and go to bed and a deep sleep….

The next day is a slow day. Doing dishes, then brunch and some mimosas. Dave heads back to Wisconsin, and now it’s just the four of us. We are in the family room and trying to decide whether to go anywhere, or do anything. Lethargy wins out and we stay put. Talk, catching up, some bad TV, more talk, leftovers, more mimosas. It was the perfect end to the weekend. The kind of weekend you need a weekend afterwards for recovery. I hope we are invited back for next year. 

I’ve only passed out at a parade once, although I suppose that’s once more than most people.

It was the spring of my Yearling (sophomore)  year at West Point. In the summer, I would be going to Germany as a “Third Liuetenant” for a month. In prep for the trip I had to get several shots, and in Army fashion, I received them all on the same day, just after lunch. For some reason I didn’t have a class that afternoon, and ended up taking a nap.Later that afternoon, we had a Regimental parade. I woke up at the ten minute bell (ten minutes until we reported for the parade), quickly dressed, grabbed my rifle and bayonet, and moved out to our formation location. The company formed, dressed, and waited for the drums to start. They finally did and we marched out through the building portal and on to The Plain, the scenic location above the Hudson where all parades take place at West Point.

We arrived at our designated location on The Plain and halted. We went through the normal rigamarole of attention, presenting arms, attention, present arms, and finally we were at Parade Rest. In a minute or two, we’d come back to attention and then present arms for the playing of the National Anthem. So I’m standing there, and then…

The next thing I know, I’m staring upward at a blue sky. What? And do I hear music? Well yes I do! It’s the National Anthem. What the….this is strange….I must have passed out. I slowly look around. Everyone else is, of course, standing at attention and present arms while the Anthem plays. I reach to my side, and sure enough, there’s my rifle on the ground with me. I grab it, and slowly get to my feet, come to attention, and then present arms. There’s a bit of snickering around me, and finally someone asks me if I have any other plans to pass out that afternoon, or whether I’m all right. I whisper that I’m alright. Then, my eyes start to swim a bit…rutro….. I bend my knees and I’m OK. Mercifully, a couple minutes later we start to march off.

After our Company retired from The Plain, our commander dismissed us, and I of course received much good natured hazing. Someone pointed out that the back of my uniform was ripped open. It turned out that when I fainted, I fell backwards on the bayonet of the cadet behind me. It cut a three inch slit in my uniform, and I had a small bruise on my back as a souvenir. The other interesting thing that happened that day was that our company received the high score for the parade. Evidently my fall hadn’t been observed…..