The incessant high pitch of the drill is whining in my ear….Sort of like 100 mosquitos on steroids. Then the burning bone smell hits my nose. The drill is working it’s way into my tooth, and for the next hour or so, I’ll be sitting there with the dentist and his assistant, getting a root canal.  

The day started with a 7:50AM appointment at my dentist’s office. I’d been having some mild pain off and on with a tooth and finally went to see my dentist, DR M____, who is originally from India. At about 8:15, after X-rays and tests, she informs me that I have a cracked tooth, need a root canal, and by the way, could lose the tooth. They give me a referral to a local Endodontist (dental specialist) and then call to set up the appointment for me. Oh…wait a second…if I’m free right now, they have an appointment available in 45 minutes at 9AM. Can I make that? Sure, but it’s at least 30 miles, it’s rush hour, and I might be a few minutes late. No problem. They will hold the spot for me.

I drive in the morning traffic, which is not moving, and amazingly, I don’t care. Who wants to be early for a root canal? I arrive a bit after 9, and they get me in pretty quickly. The dental assistant, N____ , who is originally from Nepal, takes new X-rays. The Endodontist, DR N_____, who is originally from Iran, informs me that yep, the tooth is dead, there is infection, the infection goes into the gum, there is a crack, and I need a root canal. I ask if they can do it today. Let’s check, he says. So we walk up to the front desk, and there’s an appointment open at 1:15PM. OK, I’ll take it. Then the DR says, “You know what? Hang around. I think my next appointment will go quick, and maybe I can sneak you in”.



So, I wait there. And sure enough, about 10:15, DR H comes out and says, “let’s do this”, and back we go….Oral sedative, Novocain, a dental dam and the drilling starts. Then comes the interesting part. They switch to very, very small drills (approximately .5mm I think) to start going into the root canals themselves. One drill, then flush and on to the next drill which is .05mm bigger. Drill, flush, and onto the next drill which is also .05mm bigger than the last one. Another set of X-rays – did they get everything?  Yep.  

In the background there’s music playing. The soundtrack to my root canal includes The Boss, McCartney, The Temptations, Van Morrison, Dylan, and wait a minute…is that Bread?!? “….And I would give anything I own….I’d give up my life, my heart, my home….Just to have you, back again…” Suddenly the pain to my ears is much worse than anything in my mouth. This is an ear worm that I won’t get rid of for days…..

Finally they clean all of the root canals out with antiseptic and start filling them in. It was sort of fun to watch the little puffs of smoke come out of my mouth. Next, a bit of sponge, then they put in a temp filling. Suddenly Doctor N_____ is coming at me with a pair of pliers, and for a brief second, I flash on Laurence Olivier in the movie Marathon Man (…”Is it safe”?), but the vision passes. He is using the pliers to remove the dental dam. With that, we are done for the day.

I look at the clock and it’s about noon. I still need to get a permanent cap at a later date, but amazingly, 4 hours after I started the day at a different dental office 30-some miles away, the work is done, and I’m on my way to recovery. True, my wallet is a bit lighter, but I could hardly have asked for better service, or a better outcome. The only real damage appears to be that the song by Bread, Everything I Own, is still floating around in my brain.

***

***Special thank you to N_____ the dental assistant, for taking the photo of my tooth half way through the procedure. (She didn’t act like I was tooooo weird for asking).  Incidentally, she recently graduated from Georgetown, and plans to go to school to become a dentist next year.

Last Friday, we took our niece Lana to Charlottesville to see Thomas Jefferson’s home at Monticello. On Saturday, the KKK, White Supremacists and Nazis gathered in that same city, sparking violence and terrorism resulting in the death of three people. The juxtaposition between the two days could not have been greater.  

America’s founding fathers were flawed individuals as we all know. Jefferson’s proclamation that “All men are created equal….” conflicts with the fact that he owned over 600 slaves. As we toured Monticello, our guide didn’t hide the facts, but discussed them openly. Part of what makes America great in my mind is that as we march forward and progress, we aren’t afraid to confront our past. That was so true at Monticello as we discussed slavery, Sally Hemmings, and the fact that Jefferson only freed 10 of his slaves during his lifetime. We aren’t a perfect land, but we improve, and we will continue to improve.

Contrast that with Saturday, when these racists, white supremacists and Nazis advocated violence and followed through. Their vision of the future of America stands in stark contrast to what most of us feel and think. The vast majority  of these terrorists came from outside of Virginia, and were here to cause trouble. In that, they succeeded. The police were slow to respond and the violence escalated, resulting in three deaths, including two police officers. These hate-mongers don’t represent me, my Virginia, or my America.  

My niece Lana is a person of color, as are many of my friends, West Point classmates and coworkers. We all need to stand against this type of hatred. Don’t be silent, speak out. Speak out on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and other social media. More importantly, speak out in person, and be the right kind of example. These vile people need to know that there is no place for them or their bigotry in our America.

Do not hunt for a copperhead while wearing flip flops. That was the lesson I learned five years ago.

It was the summer of 2012. We had just returned home from dropping our friend Morgan off in DC. I was in the house and heard Miles, our Jack Russell, barking like a mad dog outside. I went out to investigate, and lo and behold, he was barking at a copperhead snake from about three feet away. The copperhead was near a woodpile by our garage. I called Miles to no avail as he continued to bark and stomp at the snake, but at least he didn’t go closer. I ran in the house, got a leash and came back outside. I approached Miles from the side, where I was able to get him on the leash.  

After locking Miles in the house, I quickly went back outside. The snake had all but disappeared, slithering under the woodpile. I saw the end of it’s tail, quickly grabbed a hoe from the garage, and started moving pieces of wood aside to see if I could find it, and kill it. No snake. It had gone deep into the pile and was not to be seen. I poked, and moved logs to the side, all to no avail. Finally, I gave up, and went in the house.

Later that night, about 10PM, it was time for bed. I was about to let Miles out, when I thought to myself “Ya know, I should check to make sure that snake isn’t out there. I don’t want Miles tangling with it”. So, I put on my flip flops, went out through the back door and crossed the garage, intending to get the hoe from the corner of the garage. As I was about to pick up the hoe, that’s when it happened. There was a severe stabbing pain in my left foot. I flipped on the light and there was the snake coiled up INSIDE the garage next to the hoe, getting ready to strike at me again. I took two wacks at the snake with the hoe, and then started hopping around the garage on one foot, cursing and yelling.

Cathy came to the back door “Are you OK”? …  “No I’m not OK, I just got bit by a F’ing Copperhead”!! I proceeded to yell, hop, and conjugate the F-bomb about 52 different ways. Verb, noun, adverb, adjective – I was yelling all the best phrases from my Army days. Cathy, cool as a cucumber, got me inside and sitting down. By now, my foot was on fire. Think of a hornet sting, and multiply by twenty. We talked back and forth, and as my foot started to swell, she decided to call 911 (Later, she described me as being somewhat whiny at the time).

The ambulance actually showed up quickly, probably no more than 15 minutes after we called. They asked what happened, looked around for the snake, and said they couldn’t find it. In the meantime, they started loading me in the ambulance. My foot was swelling more and they asked what kind of snake. “Copperhead“, I said. “Are you sure“? they asked. “Definitely“. They put a mark on my foot/leg so they could tell how far the swelling was going up my leg. As we drove to town, one of the EMTs said “Well this is unusual. We don’t see this very often“. And I said “Snake Bites“? He answered, “oh no, we see lots of snake bites, but it’s usually in the woods and the victim is drunk“. We drove on. The punchline from a joke about a rattlesnake bite in a sensitive spot, “sorry, you’re going to die” floated through my brain…..

We get to the hospital, and go to the emergency room. More markings on the leg, as the poison continues to rise. Then, there are more questions about what kind of snake. I assure them it was a copperhead. My foot, and the bottom part of my leg are totally on fire, but I can’t have any painkiller yet, as they are still assessing the situation. At that point, the most interesting exchange of the night takes place.

“Do you want us to give you the anti-venom”? ….. “Yes”, I answer.

“Are you sure”? ….  “Yes”, I answer.

“The reason we are asking is that some people have a reaction to the anti-venom. Are you sure you want it”? ….”Yes, definitely”.

“OK. We’ll give it to you. We also have the anti-anti-venom here, in case you need it”.

More leg markings, and finally, about 1 1/2 hours after I was bitten, they give me the anti-venom. After 15 minutes or so, when I’ve shown no adverse reaction to it, they also give me something to lesson the pain. The swelling continues to rise, but now at a slower pace. It finally crests about an hour later.

I ended up spending two nights in the hospital. Normally, it would have been one, but it turns out that I also went into AFIB from the snake bite. When the AFIB didn’t go away on the second day, they paddled me to get my heart beating right again, and I was finally able to go home. During this time I learned that people rarely die from copperhead bites, but the skin can burst open from the swelling. I think getting the anti-venom was definitely the right decision.

The pain and swelling remained for about a week, and I hobbled around on crutches or a cane. I finally moved the entire wood pile a few days later, but the snake wasn’t there. We killed a copperhead about a month later near the barn, but have no idea if it was the same one.  

I’ve told the story over the years and it always gets some gasps and some chuckles. People always laugh at the thought of copperhead hunting while wearing flip flops, and I laugh along. It makes a great story, but I’m not sure it was worth the trade off….

I feel a bit like Charlie Brown. Every year I lose a fight with a ruthless local predator. And every summer, I vow that this year will be different, I’m going to find a way to win. Maybe this will be the year.

We’ve lived at Rohan Farm for eighteen years now. Predators are a part of the environment, and we deal with them on a regular basis. Bear, coyotes, snakes, a bobcat, skunks, foxes, deer….we have them all, and have had incidents with all of them. We have: trash-proofed our garage against the bear; put the cats in at night so the coyotes can’t get them; filled in holes under the barn to prevent skunk from returning; shot and killed a rabid fox; and “deer proofed” the gardens as much as is possible. Also, as most of you know, I was bitten by a copperhead, although we believe we killed it a couple of months later.  

There’s one predator that continues to thwart us, despite our best efforts – The viscous and wily Eastern Gray Squirrel.

We, and apparently the squirrels, own a plum tree. It’s not very big and to be honest, it doesn’t look particularly happy where it is. It’s in semi-shade, and would probably prefer full sun. Some years there’s little or no fruit. Other years there’s a bit more. The tree is trying to do it’s best, but nature seems to conspire against it.

Well actually, nature, and the local squirrels. In eighteen years, I think I have eaten one actual ripe plum from the tree. When we first moved here, I noticed fruit on the tree, but would wake up one day in late summer and the fruit had vanished. It took me a couple of years to notice the squirrels scampering around with plums in their mouths.

So, I tried to get smarter. As the fruit was getting bigger, I’d pluck a plum and try it, so I would know how long to wait to pick the rest for optimal ripeness. But it turned out the squirrels were doing the same thing. I’d see wasted plums under the tree on the ground with little squirrel bites. They were plum connoisseurs and the plums weren’t ripe enough for them either…. until they were ripe enough, and whoosh – all of the fruit would vanish, typically about a day or two before I was going to pick it.  

This has been going on for years. When I was working full time, it was almost impossible to get my timing ahead of theirs. I mean, this had to be a multigenerational thing – most squirrels only live two to three years, which means there have been 6 or 8 generations of squirrels outwitting me.

This year is going to be different though. The tree seems to be doing better, and I don’t know if it’s the weather, the tree getting older, or global warming, but there’s actually quite a bit of fruit on the branches. Carmen seems to be doing a good job of chasing off errant squirrels in the yard. And, I’m investigating netting. Anti-squirrel netting to be exact. It turns out I’m not alone with this problem and there is a lot of info on the web. Also, a lot of strange people seem fixated on squirrels, including one website that says squirrels are planning to take over the world… 

I’m not that strange.    Really.    My goal by the end of the summer, is to enjoy the best tasting plums around…no matter the cost.

Wait a minute, here’s another website that says squirrels eat netting…..hmmmm……

I didn’t know my dad spoke German, until an awkward evening at our former landlord’s home in Helmstadt, Germany. It was thirty three years ago in August of ’82, and mom and dad were visiting us for the first time. We’d been translating for them throughout the trip, and I had no clue dad spoke any German at all. It turns out he had a few phrases he’d been saving in his back pocket.



….Despite the wine, schnapps, and dancing at the winefest the night before, none of us were suffering.  In fact, we were quite chipper.  We had breakfast at the Gasthaus, and then did some touring around Wurzburg. Later, we checked into the Gashaus near our old house in Helmstadt, and after a bier on the patio, cleaned up for the evening. Fred and Helga, our former landlords, had invited us to dinner at their home.

We arrived at Fred and Helga’s and after hugs and handshakes all round, Cathy gave Helga a bouquet of flowers as is customary in Germany. They invited us inside and offered some of the local wine. We had a wonderful meal with them and went through several additional bottles of wine. After dinner, there was dessert and coffee. And after that, Fred brought out his homemade schnapps. In the States, we think of German schnapps as something that is sweet, and maybe has a hint of cinnamon. Real German schnapps is nothing like that. Think of white lightning – this stuff could peel paint off a wall. When served at the end of the night, it’s typically an indication that the evening is coming to a close.  

So, we had a schnapps, and maybe the men all had a second, when dad suddenly said “I speak German.”   Now Cath and I had been translating for them all night long, just as we had for the whole trip. I said to dad something like “dad, you know you don’t speak German, don’t worry, I don’t mind translating.”   Then he insisted that he spoke German. He turned towards Fred, looked straight at him, and in the calmest, most perfect German said: “Hande hoch!   Kommen Sie hier!”. 

There was nothing but silence in the room. Mom, who didn’t understand German, wanted to know what dad said and what was going on. I said nothing, only that it was time to go. We said our goodbyes, again handshakes and hugs, and got in the car. Then I translated for mom – “Dad said ‘Hande hoch! Kommen Sie hier!’ Which translates to – Hands up! Come here!” Mom was furious at dad, but dad didn’t say much, he only smiled a bit.

For those of you who didn’t know my dad, he was the epitome of a gentleman. At the time, I couldn’t imagine what possessed him to say those words that night. I wanted to think that he meant it as a badly timed joke that didn’t work. Later, it hit me. This story took place in early August of ’82. Almost to the day, thirty nine years earlier in August of ’43, he had been shot three three times by a German in Sicily. In fact, he almost died.  

Maybe he meant it as a joke, maybe it was the wine, or maybe he was flashing back to Sicily or the War in general. I don’t know, and he never did offer an excuse as to why he said those words that night. Sometimes it’s OK to give your dad a little room.



     Not everyone can say they were arrested and interrogated by the Russians, but my wife Cathy can. Somewhere in Moscow, they still have a signed confession from her.

It was the winter of 1989 and Cath and I were stationed in Germany. Baerbel (Barbara in English), a German friend of ours who also worked in a travel agency, suggested that she and Cathy go to Moscow for a short trip. There was an upcoming trip her agency was sponsoring, and they, along with another American friend, Cindy, decided to go.

Cathy spoke with our friend Tim, who had studied in Russia for a few months, about the trip and things to do. He gave her a list of “musts”, and one huge caution:

         “Whatever you do, don’t trade currency on the black market. It is very risky, and is punishable by death. The same thing goes for buying items with foreign currency. Use officially purchased rubles only. Also, trading stuff like blue jeans will get you in trouble”.

Cathy thanked him for the advice, and then she and her two friends promptly packed extra jeans, perfume, American cigarettes, and Deutschmarks “just in case an opportunity presented itself”. They didn’t plan to actively seek out the black market, but if there was a chance, well….. Two days later, they flew from Frankfurt to West Berlin (this was about 9 months before the wall fell), linked up with the 25 other Germans on the trip, and made the connecting flight to Moscow. There, a bus took them to their hotel, where they were required to surrender their passport. Cathy was uncomfortable with that, but had no choice.

They weren’t at the hotel for 10 minutes before someone approached them about trading. Cathy and her friends all quickly turned the man down. That night the tour group had dinner together, and the next day, they all toured the city together in a bus. It was fun, but felt a bit stifling, so they decided to do some things on their own that night.

The following day, rather than board the bus for that day’s tour, they decided to wander the city on their own. They walked, cabbed and took the metro around the city. They started to have more casual meetings with some of the citizens, and that meant they felt emboldened. They bought some stack dolls for a ridiculously low price in Deutschmarks. One of them got an army belt buckle for a pack of cigarettes.  

That night at a restaurant, a waiter approached them – “Paul McCartney? Paul McCartney?” McCartney had recently released an album of old rock and roll songs that was recorded in Russia and only available there. Our friend Howard had specifically asked Cathy to look for it, and if she found it, get a copy or two. She bought three copies from the waiter….. They were on a roll now…

On the way back to the hotel, they met a man who wanted to trade for blue jeans. They arranged for him to come up to their room 5 minutes after they went up. There, Cindy started pulling out jeans and trading with the guy. Barbel and Cathy stayed in the background, where they popped a bottle of champagne and watched their friend Cindy go to work.

They next day, Cathy and Barbel ended up in the Arbat, the central district of Moscow with more of an artsy feel. You could find anything possible to buy. Cathy fell in love with a small painting. Now being a renowned black market trader, she didn’t want to pay the full price. Opportunity presented itself when a young man appeared who wanted to trade money. OK.  Twenty German Marks (about eight dollars at the time) exchanged hands for rubles. 

Just as she paid the man is when it happened. Two men approached her, flashed badges, and placed her under arrest for black marketing. They spoke to her in English, and this is when Cathy got a bit smart. She answered in German “Ich verstehe kein English. Ich bin Deutsch”. (I don’t understand English. I’m German). They persisted in English and she spoke only German. And Cathy and Barbel only spoke German to each other. Finally they took her away to a nearby building, with Barbel accompanying them. 

At the building, the interrogation continued, but only in English. And she continued to maintain she didn’t understand much English. This went on for a couple of hours and then they disappeared for a bit. When they came back, they were dragging the guy who had traded the money with Cathy. He didn’t look particularly happy. That’s when Cathy knew the jig was up. They eventually produced some papers written in Cyrillic, with no translation. She signed them. And as suddenly as it began, it was over. She was released.

Outside, Cathy and Barbel walked quickly away. When they’d gone about a block, Cathy said to Barbel “Do you still have some of the cigarettes”?    Barbel answered “you’re not going to trade again, are you”!? And Cathy answered slowly, “No, I’m going to smoke one”.

The last day of the trip passed without incident. They kept expecting to get stopped at the hotel, or at the airport, but they weren’t. The three made it out safely with their ill gotten gains (e.g. – no official receipts), and you will find the stack dolls, the samovar, the McCartney record, and a few other items scattered around our home. Cathy never did get the little painting….

A couple of weeks ago on a trip to New York, Cathy and I decided to add an overnight visit to West Point. We pulled into the parking lot of the historic Thayer Hotel, which is just outside the main gate. The flashback came as we entered the lobby.

The last time Cathy and I were in the Thayer Hotel together, was the spring of my Plebe year at West Point. Cathy came from Ottawa with my folks for a visit over Plebe-Parent Weekend.  We hadn’t seen each other in months.  We were 18 and 19 at the time, and like any young couple, looking for moments of seclusion (Was that said delicately enough?).

West Point had very strict rules about “Public Display of Affection”, or PDA as we called it, and the rules were pretty straight forward – there will be no PDA. Period.  Done.  No hand holding, no arm over her shoulder, no caressing, and definitely no kissing. You get the idea. Cathy was allowed to link her arm through mine while we were walking, but that was about it. You can bet that the rules were enforced. If caught, you would get demerits, room confinement, or have to march punishment tours.

After a dance one night during the weekend, I escorted Cathy back to the Thayer where she and my folks were staying. We entered the lobby and wandered around. There were signs at the stairs and the elevators: “CADETS NOT PERMITTED BEYOND THIS POINT”. Hmmmm that direction’s no good…   We poked around here and there, and then got lucky. We found a large room where the lights were off, and there were lots of couches and stuffed chairs. Maybe a storage room? Maybe a part of the hotel that was closed up for that period of time? It didn’t matter. It was perfect.

It turns out that we were not the only couple that found the room. You could hear whispers (and other sounds) coming from various corners of the room. Cathy and I found our own corner, where we planned to engage in some private displays of affection. We were there for about ten minutes and making progress on our plan, when all of a sudden the door opened, and the lights turned on. In the door stood the Duty Officer of the Day.

Scrambling to my feet, I looked around the room. There were seven or eight other Plebe couples. More importantly, there were several other doors. I grabbed Cathy’s hand and we ran for the closest one. The other couples were doing the same thing. I’m sure we all looked like rats deserting a ship, or cockroaches scattering when a light comes on. 

I don’t know if the Duty Officer pursued any of the other couples, but I do know he didn’t pursue us. We made our way back to the main lobby, where it seemed like the smart decision was to get out of Dodge, and say good night. I did so pretty quickly, and headed back to my own room….

The flashback was as clear as glass in my mind. While checking in at the hotel, I was thinking about it and chuckling to myself. I started telling Cathy why. I didn’t have to say much before she was laughing as well – she also remembered that night. We got our key and proceeded to the elevator. We were heading to “off limits” territory and looking forward to it.

The alarm went off at 4AM. Shower, coffee, grab my bag, and head out the door. I arrive at our voting location a bit before 5AM. The rest of the team is getting there as well. For this off year dual primary, there are six of us as Election Officers for our district.

We set up the polling place by putting signs out, turning on the computers and voting machines, running the tapes to verify that the machines are working properly, and arranging the privacy booths. As we finish this, our chief gathers us together, and administers the oath of office. At 6AM, Joe goes outside and announces: “This polling place is open”.

Over the course of the day, there is a steady, but slow stream of our fellow citizens arriving to vote. Almost everyone is in a good mood. I see no libtards, wing nuts, repugnuts, cuckservatives, or any of the other derogatory words we use to malign people we don’t agree with politically. What I see are people who are concerned about the direction of our country, no matter which side of the aisle they are on. That seems to be the one thing we all have in common.

At 7PM, we close the poll. We have another hour of taking down the signs, shutting down the computers and tallying the results. For our district, just under 20% of the eligible voters actually voted. This is much higher than a typical primary turnout in an off year election, but much lower than the 75% of us who voted in our district for the last presidential election. I’m happy at the “higher than normal” turnout for this type of primary, but wondering to myself – where is everyone else? We all have a stake in this.

At about 8:30PM, I’m back home. A long day, but one that I enjoy very much. Serving as a voting official is a tiny way to give back to this great country of ours. I just wish more of my fellow citizens would avail themselves of their right to vote.

Turning a home into a house isn’t an easy thing to do. It is bittersweet. My sisters, Roberta and Tanya, and I have had that experience with our mom’s home over the past few weeks – removing 61 years of life, love and laughter, so the house becomes neutral, and ready for the next owners.

The three of us spent a couple of days going through things the week after mom’s funeral, and then I returned to Virginia for a couple of weeks. During my time away, they did a lot of the heavy lifting around the house – getting rid of old clothes, emptying the closets, removing some old items that were of no value, and moving furniture around to improve the look a bit.

When I returned a week ago, we were going over more of mom’s personal items. We went through her hope chest, several small cedar boxes, her jewelry boxes,  and containers of papers and photos. As we were looking through all of them, we found things that were funny, sad, historic, and sometimes, just odd. There were many we had never seen before.

– There was grandpa’s perfect school attendance record from 1907, and mom’s report cards from grade school through high school; 

– Christmas cards from 1949, along with the Christmas card from dad to mom when he gave her the cedar chest in 1948.  

– There was a letter from an Ottawa GI who was in Germany in March of ’45, and hoping the war would soon be over. (He called mom “Toots” in the letter).

– Mom’s garter from her wedding.

– Les Paul and Bing Crosby records from the late 40s or early 50s.  

– Vintage 1950s era naked playing cards (I’m assuming they were dad’s).

– Obituaries of friends and relatives.

– Collected papers, photos, and school stuff from us kids, and all of the grandkids.

– Newspapers from when Kennedy was shot, and Nixon resigned.

– Notes and notebooks from trips, grocery lists, and sometimes just reminders about things around the house.

There was LOTS more, but you get the idea…

We laughed a lot, but also had moments of sadness or pause. For me, finding all the letters from my first year at West Point brought me up short (She’d already given me the penny I’d swallowed). And, silly as it sounds, what do you do with a telephone number (and an actual telephone that still works) that have been in the family since 1956? We made our way through the week, keeping some things, and throwing others away. We slowly removed the soul from the home.

On Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, we had a cookout with the whole family, including kids and grandkids, and our Uncle Don, mom’s last surviving sibling. Before dinner, the grandkids had their own moments of joy and sadness. It was their turn to pick out things they would like to keep as memories of grandma, or just things they could use. And so the clock went, along with knicknacks, Christmas decorations, candy dishes (mom loved M&Ms and jelly beans), some of the furniture and dishes. From the garage, dad’s tools and railroad artifacts, as well as lawn chairs all moved out.

That night, after everyone left, I finished cleaning up and wandered around a bit. It was the same house that I’d known since mom and dad bought it in 1956, and yet it wasn’t. It was all a bit colder, or emptier. Maybe the soul was gone, and it really was just a house, and no longer a home.  

I went to bed, but not really to sleep. Too much emotion…. to many thoughts rattling around my head…. wisps of dreams…. seemingly strange noises from outside….   Finally, I heard the birds starting to chirp in the yard and got up. It wasn’t quite light yet, but it was getting close. I made a pot of coffee and took a quick shower. It was time to get on the road and head to my own home, 750 miles away.




Cathy was driving up the Autobahn at just over 100 mph. It was the 8th of August, 1982. I was a Captain in the Army, and mom and dad had been visiting us in Germany for about 10 days.  We were heading from Stuttgart to Wurzburg to link up with a friend and go to a Weinfest in the small town of Frickenhausen. Ric had been to the fest the night before, and called to tell us we needed to make this one – it was really good. We didn’t want to be late and Cathy covered the 100 miles in about an hour. We parked, walked up to the tent, and  Ric greeted us as we arrived.

          “How’s it going”?

          “Good – how was the fest last night”?  

          “It was crazy – you are going to love it. People were standing on the benches clapping and singing to the music. You couldn’t hear yourself think”!

We introduced Ric to mom and dad, and he retold the story of people dancing, clapping and singing while standing on the benches around the tables.

At that point, mom interjected – “Well, I don’t think I’ll be standing on the benches – not with my bad leg”. We looked at mom, but didn’t say anything. We then entered the festival tent, and joined about 2,000 Germans for the fest. We found a table, and then Ric and I went to get some wein for the five of us.

The night went on, and we had more wine. Somewhere along the way we had brats and other food. The band was in the center of the tent and playing lots of great oompa music and polkas. Cath and I danced a couple of times and everybody was feeling pretty good.

And then it happened. The band shifted gears and broke into Glenn Miller’s “In the Mood”, one of mom and dad’s favorite songs. Dad grabbed mom’s hand to head to the dance floor. Mom resisted only briefly, and then followed dad towards the floor. They got to the main aisle, and it was jammed with people dancing and they couldn’t get any further, so they started dancing there.

If you never saw my folks dance, I have to tell you, they were GREAT dancers. Like many couples who had been together for a long time, they had their own style. Cathy and I use to call the way they danced the ‘Bill and Gen’ – it was a modified boogie-woogie. They were perfect at it when dancing to “In The Mood”.

So, there they were, in the middle of the aisle, doing the ‘Bill and Gen’ dancing to Glenn. A space started forming around them as other nearby couples stopped dancing and started watching them. The space turned into a circle. The circle got bigger. Soon, there was a circle of maybe 20 feet around them, with all of the Germans watching the two dance. But it didn’t stop there. Behind the first circle, the Germans were standing on the benches and formed a second circle around mom and dad. They were in the zone. The band got to that great coda at the end of the tune, and with the third and final repeat of the last stanza, the song finally ended. 

There was a fraction of a a second of silence, and then the crowd went nuts. They were clapping, pointing, stomping and whooping all at the same time. As mom and dad made their way back to the table, the Germans were slapping them on the back, toasting them, and offering them glasses of wein and schnapps. It was a perfect moment. Mom was flushed and smiling. Dad was outright laughing.

Later that night, mom was standing  on the benches with the rest of us. Clapping, singing, and moving her feet in time with the music…..