It was 1939 and dad and Uncle George were on a train, bound for the CCCs in Wyoming.

Growing up in Illinois during the Great Depression was a tough life. Their family was poor before the Depression, and things just got worse. Grandpa worked in the coal mines of Southern Illinois, but that work dried up. The family moved north to Ottawa, Illinois. Dad’s oldest brother Dave was there, working on construction of the Starved Rock Dam, and the hope was that Grandpa could get a job at the dam as well. Unfortunately, Grandpa was an alcoholic and couldn’t hold a job for very long. What money he did make never made it home, and was instead spent on booze and nights on the town.

The ’30s dragged on and the Halls continued to struggle. In the spring of 1939, Uncle George heard about new opportunities with The Civilian Conservation Corps (CCCs), one of FDR’s New Deal programs to get the country working again. The CCCs had recently lowered its age requirements to “young men” from the ages of 17-25. Uncle George was 17 at the time, but dad was only 15 (he turned 16 in October of ’39). In the CCCs, they would each make about $30/month, but were required to send $25 home. They would keep the remaining $5 and also would be provided with food, lodging, and medical care. They decided to sign up. Dad lied about his age (no one seemed to check very closely), and he and Uncle George both joined.

Although there were over 50 CCC camps in Illinois, they, along with other Midwestern youth, were put on a train heading west for Wyoming. Once there, they transferred to trucks for the last miles of the journey. Finally, they arrived at their destination – Big Piney, Wyoming, one of 30 CCC camps in the state. It turns out that Big Piney was known as “The ice box of the nation”, due to the harsh winters there.

A foreman at another CCC camp referred to their new arrivals this way – “It was the sorriest assemblage of humans since Indian treaty days.” I’m guessing the crew that Dad and Uncle George were in wasn’t much different, as the depression had continued for so long.

At Big Piney, they rotated in with members of the CCCs that were already there. Their work focused on the National Forest where they built roads, fences, fire towers and other facilities. They slept in Army style group barracks and had three full meals a day. Both dad and Uncle George put on weight. It was the best life either had known at that point. Plus, they were pocketing $5 per month in real money, something neither had really seen. The other $25 each ($50 total) was sent home. It was a huge amount for Grandma.

After their six month tour, they signed up for one more six month stint. Finally, after the year was up, they returned to Illinois. Life hadn’t changed any in Ottawa, but they were different. Bigger, and stronger, they had both seen a bit of the world.

For dad, I think it made him restless, especially since conditions hadn’t changed in Ottawa. A few months later, still only 16, my Aunt Ellen lied about his age for him, and he joined the Army. It was August of 1940 when he boarded the train for North Carolina, where he would make $21 a month as a Private in the Army. He would continue to send money home to Grandma. Over the next five years, he would see more of the world, including Morocco, Tunisia and Sicily. His accommodations in those countries weren’t quite as nice as the good ol’ days at Big Piney, Wyoming.

“The craziest weekend I ever had was in October of ’42” Dad said.

Cath and I were visiting my folks in Illinois several years ago. It was summer and dad and I were sitting in the backyard drinking a couple of beers. We were talking about different “festive” occasions in our respective lives. I’d told of some of the Fasching (Mardi Gras) parties over in Germany. Dad talked about some of the evenings out with his old army buddy Noble.

And then he said to me me “Do you know the craziest weekend I ever had?” I stared at him. Who wouldn’t want to hear about that!? He began to talk…

It was October, 1942, and he was stationed with the 9th Infantry Division at Fort Bragg, North Carolina. He joined the Army two years before, when he was 16. Now he was 18, and a Sergeant. Pearl Harbor had occurered almost a year before and the 9th had trained hard since then.   Everyone knew that an invasion in the European Theater was on the horizon, but no one knew exactly when or where.  Then one weekend in early October of ’42, almost their entire Regiment received 24 hour weekend passes, and everyone knew that deployment was imminent

Dad, along with most of the rest of his platoon, headed to the bus station and caught a bus to Charlotte, NC, a couple hours away. They wanted to get away from the local town of Fayettville, and head to the big city of Charlotte. They had no plans, but knew they were going to party their butts off.

Deason, Dad, and Noble. Probably in late ’41 or early ’42.

Dad, along with his buddies Noble Clevenger and Jack Deason liked to start slow and build up to the night time. They found a quiet dive bar, started drinking beers and feeding nickels into the jukebox. No country music for them. They were all confirmed blues, jazz, and boogie woogie boys. They spent the afternoon there, drinking beer and listening to the jukebox. Along the way, they ate a couple of sandwiches. Finally, it started getting dark outside, and they moved on.

They stopped at the recently opened USO Club. It was jammed with GIs, there was music playing, and there were lots of women. Unfortunately, the USO didn’t serve alcohol, so they only stayed awhile. They moved on to Charlotte’s main drag, Trade Street, and started hitting the bars. It was crowded everywhere. They went from place to place, drinking beers and the occasional shot.  

One place had a boogie woogie band and they stayed. A bit later, a fight broke out between some guys in the 82d Airborne and another unit. Dad and his buddies hated the 82d and had a history with them. It probably started when elements of the 82d were relocated to FT Bragg in the Summer of ’42. They actually moved guys in the 9th from their barracks into tents, so the 82d could move into the barracks. They were about to join the fight, when the MPs arrived at the main door.  Dad, Noble and Deason slipped out a side door, and into the night.

As the evening progressed, they weren’t feeling any pain. They  entered a bar that was on the ground floor of a hotel, and ran into some other guys from their unit. From them, they found out that Sergeant Sopa, their Platoon Sergeant, had a room upstairs. They decided to go up and surprise him. They burst into the room, and there was Sopa, laying in bed wearing a smile, and not much else. There was a woman in the bed with him. NO WAIT, another head appeared from under the sheets – there were two women in bed with Sopa! A half empty bottle of whiskey was on the night stand. After giving him hell, they departed the room, and continued partying. At some point in the early morning hours, dad passed out or went to sleep.

When he woke, he found himself on the floor in Sergeant Sopa’s room. There were bottles, beer bottles, plates, and GIs scattered around on the floor. Sopa was passed-out in bed alone.  

Dad found Noble and they went for some food, and then found a bar and started partying again. Eventually, they left for the bus station, but missed the last bus to Fayettville. They ended up hitchhiking back to FT Bragg, where they reported in, late. It turned out that about a third of their unit, including Sergeant Sopa, was still missing. By the next morning everyone made it back. A lot of GIs thought punishment was coming their way, but it turned out bigger things were afoot. 

Dad finished the story. We drifted on to other topics and eventually finished our beers. Inside, I was smiling to myself, thinking of my 18 year old father tearing up Charlotte.

Of course the rest of the story is what makes that weekend of debauchery particularly interesting. A few days after the weekend, on October 14th, their unit was loaded in trucks and moved to the coast and their embarkation point. They boarded the ship, the USS George Clymer, and departed US waters. On November 8th, the 9th Infantry Division took part in Operation Torch, the invasion of North Africa. Dad came ashore at Port Lyautey, Morocco, and would be in combat operations for the next seven months through May, 1943. His next pass wouldn’t happen until June of 1943, after they had fought and beaten the Germans in North Africa.

I’ve recently thought about Dad and that weekend. It wasn’t in the news much, but this past November was the 75th anniversary of Operation Torch. Getting drunk and tearing up a town may not seem like much, but I guess when you are shipping out to parts and futures unknown, every minute and day matters. I like to think Dad lived his life that way.

Our neighbor Joy is a Squirrel Whisperer…. Seriously, she really is.

Well, technically, she is a licensed wildlife rehabilitator who specializes in squirrels and has done so for the past four years. She’s developed a reputation around the area as someone who knows her job, and so far this year she has saved 24 of the 25 squirrels that have come to her.

The squirrels come from arborists, housewives, referrals, vets, and local rehabilitators, among others. Typically, the squirrels come to her when they are only a week or two old, their eyes are still closed and they have no fur. Some have arrived when they were as young as a couple of days old. When their eyes are still closed, they obviously can’t fend at all for themselves, and must be fed every two hours. It turns out there’s a special Squirrel Baby Formula you can buy that is exactly what they need.

As the squirrels get older, their eyes open, and they start to transition from only formula to real squirrel food – Cheerios, fruit, nuts and vegetables and eventually they will be weaned off the formula. When they are around 12-14 weeks old, Joy starts to transition them to an outside “Pre-release” cage that’s on their porch. They get formula twice a day along with solid food in the cage and start to acclimate to outside.

  

After 2-3 weeks in that cage, Joy opens the door to the cage during the daytime. The squirrels eat breakfast, and eventually wander out the door of the cage. There’s a ramp from the cage to a nearby tree and they start to play in the tree. In early evening, they return to the cage for dinner, and as she feeds them, she locks the cage door for the night. Occasionally, a wild squirrel returns with “Joy’s squirrels”, but races out of the cage when it sees Joy.

And then after about ten more days, comes graduation. She feeds them one morning, opens the door, and doesn’t close it in the evening. The squirrels eventually quit coming back to the cage as they adjust to life in the wild. There are some she knows by sight, and can see them running in nearby trees.

Squirrels typically live two to three years in the wild, although they can live four or five years. It’s rare that they die of old age as they have so many predators. I’ve asked Joy why she does this, when squirrels have such a tough life to begin with. Her answer?   



Crescendo returned from the vet today, after having her left eye removed on Thursday.

It wasn’t an easy decision, and of course these things never are. We think we made the right choice, although we may not know for weeks or months.

‘Schendo has been with us for almost 13 years, and is now 26 years old. She’s a sturdy little Appaloosa that Cathy originally purchased in 2005 for dressage. She developed navicular (a bone problem) not long after we bought her, and her riding days were through. Normally, we would have sold her, or given her to someone at that point, but we decided to keep her.

I’m not sure why we decided to keep her at the time. She was pretty, and she was an easy keeper. But she was also the most recessive horse we ever owned. As many of you know, horses are pack animals, and they always have a hierarchy within the herd. In our horse “herds”, whether two animals, or seven, Crescendo was always at the bottom of the pack. The last in line. The last to eat. The one that was always chased away from the hay by the other horses. If this were a Christmas story, she was Rudolf, before the foggy Christmas Eve.  

We are a small farm, so all of our animals have to have a role to justify their staying here. As time passed, we didn’t really see a role for Crescendo and thought it might be time to move her on. And then like Rudolf on that foggy Christmas Eve, we discovered her role.

Cathy bought two brood areas and started breeding horses. Now, one of the things you need to do with new foals is wean (separate) them from their dam at about six months of age. It can seem a bit brutal for the foal, but it’s necessary. As to the mares, one of ours didn’t like it, but the other couldn’t wait for her foals to be gone.

And this is when we discovered Crescendo’s job on the farm. She became the babysitter horse for our foals. When we weaned a foal, we put it in a separate pasture, and put Crescendo with it. The foal would be quite agitated for a day or so, but then would start to follow Crescendo around. Crescendo wouldn’t act like mom, but did something much better. She taught the foals horse manners and how to interact with other horses. She was quite the stern taskmaster, and in fact, I think she enjoyed being the lead horse for a change. After six or eight months, we would return them to the main herd, and Crescendo would revert to her old place in the pack. We had six foals, and she performed the babysitter role admirably for all of them.

In the past year, her left eye developed cataracts and also a reoccurring eye infection. Eventually, she lost most of the eyesight in that eye, but even worse, the infections continued and were giving her a great deal of pain. We had the inevitable conversation with the vet – Do nothing (not a fair option to the horse); remove the eye; or put her down.  

26 isn’t ancient in horse years, but it’s getting pretty old. We went back and forth between removing the eye, or easing her on to the next world. The right decision? The right business decision would be to put her down. The right decision for her? I’m not sure. The vet assured us the pain would be gone from the eye and she would adjust pretty quickly to having only one eye. How much does sentiment weigh in on a decision like this? How do you know what’s truly right for the horse?

Eventually, we decided to remove the eye, and see how things turn out.

‘Schendo’s been a good horse, and has done her job well here at Rohan Farm. I hope she has a few more seasons of cantering out to the back field with the other horses, even if she is third in line.

My neighbor dropped his voice and said “I’ve got a Concealed Carry permit, and I’m now carrying at church.”

We were in a public place, and talking about various things, including the town of Marshall, the Nats, and of course the recent Virginia election. From there, the talk drifted to the recent mass shooting at the church in Texas. That’s when B_______ lowered his voice and let me know he was packing heat at church.  

It turns out that B________ is a regular usher for his church, and has concerns not only for his own safety, but also for that of his fellow worshippers. He feels the need to protect them. I asked if his priest knew, and he lowered his voice further and said no.

He said that he was at church the previous day getting ready for the upcoming Sunday service. He was alone at the time, and carrying his Glock. With no one else around, he drew his pistol and took aim at a statue on the far side of the church. He proudly told me that he activated the laser sight on the pistol, and was able to hold his aim steady on the head of the statue, with no shaking of his hands.

I didn’t really challenge him about carrying in church, because I knew the conversation would go no where, and both of us would feel frustrated. We parted a short time later.

I’ve thought about the conversation off and on since then, and one of the questions I’ve asked myself is, what would Jesus say?   I think the Bible has already given us the answer to that question in Mathew 26: 50-52 which describes his arrest in the Garden of Gethsemane. As Judas gave him a kiss, 

Jesus said “My friends, go ahead and do what you have come for”. Then the others grabbed Jesus and arrested him. One of the men with Jesus (Peter) pulled out a sword and slashed off an ear of the high priest’s servant. “Put away your sword,” Jesus told him. “Those who use the sword will be killed by the sword…”

I’ve discussed this with an old friend of mine who is a minister. A part of the discussion focused on incident response and issues of liability for the church. For me, the greater interest was in a series of questions he asked me –       “What does the church teach its members, and the observant culture beyond the four walls of the church, when we are armed to the teeth in the house of God?      That this physical life is more sacred and should be protected at all costs on this side of eternity?       That we fight fire with fire, literally?      That we have greater faith in our sidearms that in faith itself?      Does the Christian life teach that we’ll be protected from all forms of harm and adversity?”  

In discussions with another minister friend (who also spoke of incident response), she referred to I John 4:18 – 

There is no fear in love; but perfect love [perfect love of God] casts out fear, because fear involves torment.  He that fears is not made perfect in love. 

Then she asked me –     “Isn’t it fear that motivates us to conceal carry in a church?!       Are we succumbing to fear?      Where is our faith…  in life and death and life beyond death?”

While I certainly have some thoughts,  I’m not smart enough to have the answers to any of the questions from my minister friends. I think I have a pretty good understanding of the First and Second Ammendments, but it’s not as clear to me about  God’s will. As an imperfect Christian, I’m always a bit amazed that others, including my neighbor, seem to arrive at the answers more quickly than I do and have a better idea of what God wants us to do. 

Packing in church. Maybe that’s what we’ve come to here in America, but I’m not quite sure Jesus would agree.

My dad was my hero. He passed away in June of 2010, at the age of 86.
 
Seventy-seven years ago, he joined the Army, in August of 1940. He was 16 at the time. My aunt Ellen vouched for his age and said he was seventeen, but that wouldn’t happen for another two months. (At 16, I was a lifeguard at the local pool, and playing backup on the high school football team). Before joining the army, he had just finished spending 6 months in the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCCs) in Big Piney, Wyoming, one of President Roosevelt’s programs to end the depression. 
 
In November of 1942, he took part in the invasion of North Africa, after Normandy, the second largest invasion ever. He was 19 at the time, and had already spent a bit over 2 years in the army – enough time to be promoted to sergeant. After taking part in the invasion with the 9th Infantry Division, he fought his way across Tunisia. There were several engagements with the Germans, but he also had time to get in trouble. In fact, he was busted to private, for sneaking into the off limits walled city of Oran (twice) in one night. After being arrested by the MPs, he was turned over to his company, and reported in to the commander. “Sergeant Hall reporting as ordered”….”that will be all, Private Hall”…..
 
In the summer of 1943, still age 19, he took part in the invasion of Sicily. While fighting in the mountains in the center of the island, he was shot three times and almost died. They carried him out of the mountains by hand, and it took over a day to get him to an aid station. After being operated on, he still had difficulties. Turns out he also had malaria. They finally treated the malaria, and he started to recover.
 
The war was over for him, but he remained in the army for another two years. He served as an MP, back in North Africa (talk about irony!), and then was shipped to North Carolina, where he finished out the war. In August of 1945, after Hiroshima, he was mustered out. He was 22 at the time, and had spent 5 years in the army. (33 years later, I was 22, and would soon graduate from West Point).
 
I’ve often thought about how the war must have shaped his life, and because of that, how it shaped mine. We throw around words like “the greatest generation”, but most of us never think about what that really meant to their lives then, or later. They served, they sacrificed, and they went on with their lives. I remember the stories he told as I grew up, but they were almost always the funny stories about the war. It was only after his stroke that I heard some of the other stories.
 
From the time I went to West Point through the rest of my life, I asked him his advice. He was never judgmental, and always helped out. He was a good listener, and always treated me like an adult and a friend.
 
My dad was my hero. He passed away in June of 2010, at the age of 86. I miss him every day.
 

My wife too. My sisters too. My nieces too.  My friends too. I shouldn’t be surprised. The real question is what woman do I know that hasn’t been sexually harassed or assaulted? Anyone?

I’ve known of at least one sexual harassment/verbal assault of Cathy since it happened to her at work in 1990. We talked about suing at that point, but proving the event was going to be difficult. And the asshole who harassed her and showed her dirty stories (and said he’d like to do the same with her) was the husband of the owner of the company. She was getting ready to leave the company already. When she told a female “friend” about the incident, the friend told management. They walked her out of the company later that day. Justice…..

The Harvey Weinstein incident has incited the current “Me too” campaign, but why are we surprised? Our current president has bragged about “grabbing women by the pussy”. Bill Clinton received blowjobs from an intern in the Oval Office – no pressure there, I’m sure. Bill Cosby has drugged women for sex. Our society has tolerated this for so long, we don’t remember when this wasn’t “tolerated”.

When do we as a society say, enough? This is our problem to solve, both men and women. When do we men say to our friends, coworkers, bosses, and relatives, “stop this you dumb shit. It’s offensive to me, AND it’s against the law”. Why is this so hard to do?  Enough.

Hashtags aren’t enough.  Facebook posts aren’t enough.  Telling stories isn’t enough.  What are you going to do to make a difference?
                                                  ** Crude language used purposefully ** 



It was about 8:30 at night when the tree fell on the house. The KA-BOOM was loud, and while the house didn’t shake, you felt it when it happened. We went outside and checked around and found the tree hanging partially on and partially off the roof. Branches were a couple of inches away from our bay window in front of the house, but no windows were broken.

We made two calls that night. One to the insurance company, and one to Allen, who owns Green Acres Tree and Landscaping in Culpeper. Allen was going to a job in Fairfax the next morning, but would stop by on the way to town.

Allen was at the house at 7:15 the next morning, right when he said he would arrive. We looked at the tree, and he said he could take it down, but we were going to need a crane because of the precarious way the tree was hanging on the house. I said fine, let’s do what we need to. Later that day he called me from the road. He’d arranged for a crane the next morning at 8:00 AM, so we were in business. I talked to the insurance company again and the adjuster said he would wait till the tree was down before coming to assess the damage.

Today, Allen and a 6 man crew arrived at 7:30 AM and the crane arrive just after 8:00. The crane was big. I mean really big. They positioned the crane in the yard, and then one of the men climbed onto the skyhook and rode it up above the fallen tree. They lowered him to the tree, where he proceeded to hook ropes around the various branches, and then connect the ropes and belts to the skyhook. Once he completed that, he repelled down from the tree to the ground.


Now the crane took over. Slowly it raised the tree, but the tree wasn’t moving far. They had to cut side branches that were stuck in the ground, and cut the base of the tree away from the stump. John, the crane guy, raised the crane again, and this time, the tree moved freely. Up, and oh so slowly, he move the tree off the house and to the side. Then….stop. One of the branches was up against our big bay window. Two of the guys threw a rope over the branch, and the team pulled it away from the window. John slowly lowered, lowered, lowered the tree until it gently touched the ground. There wasn’t one broken window and there was no new damage to the house. Quite simply amazing.

The truck was gone by 10:00AM and the crew started cutting up the tree. It will be several hours before they finish.

I love it when you can watch professionals at work. Everyone plainly knew their job and did it well. It’s not that they made it look easy, as it wasn’t an easy job. They just went about their work professionally, and you can’t beat that. 

You can bet that I will hire Allen and Green Acres again for any tree work needed. I’d recommend them to anyone here in Northern Virginia.

As we were driving towards Bears Ears, I realized we hadn’t planned enough time, and that four days was going to be too short for a visit. The area was so big, and so beautiful, it was almost overwhelming.

We had arrived in Arizona a few days before and spent some time seeing my cousin in Phoenix, who I hadn’t seen since Dad’s funeral, and then attending the wedding of an old friend from Germany near Prescott. The trip was originally scheduled because of the wedding, and then we expanded it to ten days so we could do some exploring. Originally, we  planned to tour Zion, or Bryce for a few days.   

Then, the Bears Ears Monument controversy heated up with President Trump deciding to downsize the recently established Monument. President Obama had created the Monument in 2016 and it included over one million acres of federal land that had previously been under BLM or National Forest control. All of the local Indian tribes supported the act, as much of this is considered sacred ground. The local non-Indian populace is divided, with some towns actively supporting the creation of the Monument, and others viewing it as a federal land grab (never mind that the land had always belonged to the federal government). President Trump plans to reduce it to 160,000 acres, and open the land up to uranium, oil, and coal mining, although there’s no proof of any minerals being there. We decided to visit the Monument before it was gone, or desecrated.Originally, we were going to drive around some, but mostly spend three days hiking different trails. Then a few days before we left on vacation, Cathy fell from her horse and injured her back. Hiking was pretty much out for Cath, so we would drive around more. It turned out to be an accidental great choice, as we covered more of the area and saw sights that we would have missed.

I won’t bore you with all of the details, but you need to visit this area before it’s reduced to nothing, or overwhelmed with development. We drove through the Valley of the Gods, and saw scenery that blew Sedona away. We visited ruins that had existed since the 1200s and saw petroglyphs that were equally as old. We viewed the “Bears Ears” themselves from several points and directions throughout the area, as they are a dominant feature that can be seen for miles.  They have been known by the name “Bears Ears” for hundreds of years in both English, and several different native languages. 

 There is both great beauty and living history here, a combination that you don’t always see.  In the past, we’ve visited the Grand Canyon, Sedona, Yellowstone, Yosemite, and several other of our national treasures. I would put Bears Ears with them, minus the crowds and development. If you are looking for T-Shirt shops, art stores, fine dining and souvenir stands, this isn’t the place for you. If you want to see amazing views, artifacts of the early years of our land, and not run into thousands of your fellow tourists, put Bears Ears on your list of places to visit.  

No matter what happens, Bears Ears is not going to be around for very long as it currently exists. Either great chunks of the Monument will be opened for mining, or over the next few decades there will be greater development to support tourists. For us, there’s no doubt about this wonderful place. We are already planning a trip to visit the area again next year.