Diversity in 2016…
Bigotry is a horrible thing. Black, white. Mexican. Gay, Straight. Misogyny. Muslim, Christian.  Good Cops, Bad Cops. ‘Foreigners’. I don’t understand it. Where does this hatred come from? Why do we have this inability to embrace people and the diversity of our great country?

I guess you learn about diversity the same way some people learn to hate. From your parents, your coaches, your friends, your coworkers….I’m not sure I understand the world now, and the hatred that seems to have grown all around us. I think back through my life, the lessons I’ve learned, and the experiences I’ve had, and I am thankful for them . While institutional activities have grown (and continue to grow) to support diversity over the years, it’s the small, personal encounters that I recall and that make a difference.

I remember as a grade school kid, there was a young African American couple that moved in across the street. It caused a bit of consternation at the time, because the “black neighborhood” was down off of Third Avenue. What did Dad do? I remember to this day. The guy was out watering his lawn, and Dad crossed the street, went over and shook his hand, and welcomed him to the neighborhood. If he needed anything, don’t hesitate to ask…

A few years later, my cousin married a “Mexican Girl”. The wedding? One of the most fun I’ve ever been to, and, I think it was the best food I had at any wedding I’ve attended. By the way, they’re still married, 40-some years later

At my own wedding, one of our groomsmen happened to be African American. I didn’t think anything about it, as Chuck was a good friend and classmate from West Point. 30 some years later, I was talking with some friends back home and one of them said “ya know, that was pretty brave of you Back then.” And I said, “what was pretty brave?” And he answered back “you know…having a black guy in your wedding.” …really?

Half way through my time at West Point, the decision was made to admit women. Before the decision, there was much angst and fighting about the issue. After the decision was made, the Superintendent made a presentation to the entire Corps of Cadets. He said, “If there are female soldiers, and female officers, why wouldn’t we want women to attend West Point, one of the premier leadership schools in the world?” And all of a sudden the issue disappeared, or at least it did for me.

Over time, other happenings….

Several years ago, we were with a friend who was trying hard to tell us something, he was tearful while doing so. Finally it comes out “I’m gay” he says. And we say “so? We love you no matter who you are”. And then he was crying tears of happiness, because he wasn’t sure how we would react.

Or the coworker and office mate I had while working on the Pentagon Renovation, who is one of the smartest engineers I’ve ever known. Sajeel was the lead engineer for all of the new Information Technology (IT) in the Pentagon. He also happened to be Muslim. Guess who led all of the IT reconstruction efforts at the Pentagon after the events of 9/11?

Or a former boss who is Vietnamese, and was stranded in this country when South Viet Nam fell. After stints teaching at UCal and Georgetown, he started an IT company and has grown it to over $200M in annual revenue through hard work and persistence.

Or your sister-in-law and brother-in-law adopt a little girl from Guatemala.   And the love in that family is totally color blind.

Or the lesbian friend and coworker who is the best operations person I’ve ever seen. After she and her wife were married, they had a little boy. If you see the three of them together, I defy you to find a better family, or see more loving parents.

These are just a few of the countless examples throughout my life. Look around people – I’m sure you have many of the same in your own life, if you just take the time to look. I’m not trying to be Pollyanna – I know that bad things happen as well. But I have to believe that the good in people out-weighs the bad.

Hatred and bigotry? They have no place in my life. Life is too precious, and too short to waste time on them. I’ve always thought our diversity is what makes us such a great country. Each of us needs to do what we can to end bigotry and I’m convinced it can only happen at a personal level.

Make A Difference. You can. Embrace diversity and take a stand against bigotry today, and everyday.  Diversity…Really.

    Who gets to decide, 

    Which is a flower? 

     And what is a weed?

     I see bush and vine In my neighbor’s yard.

    Both look pretty to me.

The photo shows a knockout rose bush, and (probably) an Autumn Clematis. It’s in our neighbor Bill’s yard (he hasn’t had much time to pay attention to his plants lately).

I know that if left unattended, the vine will eventually encompass the bush. And maybe that makes the difference.

Maybe one is native and one is not, but I’m not sure.

I just asked my wife Cathy, she of the green thumb, the answer, and she laughed, and then said “a weed is something unwanted, and unplanned in a garden. It robs the wanted plant of sunlight, nutrients and water. Some people think of the dandelion as a plant, but I don’t”

According to the Chicago Tribune, “In broad terms, a weed can be characterized as any specimen that a gardener feels is an unwelcome and annoying plant”…..hmmm, that’s a little harsh.

Maybe there’s no totally common definition of what makes a weed, but in nosing around on the Internet, I likes Ralph Waldo Emerson’s definition:

        “What is a weed?  A plant whose virtues have not yet been discovered.”

Dad and Pooch…..

Recently, a second cousin of mine reached out and shared a couple of stories about her dad (my cousin Pooch) and my dad. This is one of those stories.

It was Late May, 1944, and World War II had been going on for awhile. Dad, who had joined the Army in 1940, was home on furlough from the Army. He was severely wounded in Sicily in August of ’43, and after recovering in North Africa, this was his first trip home. His body was scarred, and his recovery still wasn’t 100%. In fact, he hadn’t been cleared to go back to combat duty.

Dad was staying at his folks home, and it was a pretty big deal and everyone wanted to see him. My Aunt Ellen (also known as ‘The Head Pecker’, but that’s another story) came by bus from Southern Illinois to stay, and brought along her son Pooch, who was 10 years old.

At the time, dad was 19 years old, so while older than Pooch, they weren’t that far apart, and during the day, they would hang out some together. As a matter of fact, dad started taking Pooch with him when he walked to a local swimming hole, known as Blackhawk Beach, a few miles away. Everyday they would walk there, swim for several hours, and then walk home. 

 My Aunt Ellen couldn’t understand why a “grown man” would want to spend so much time with his nephew.   One day she asked why he took Pooch with him everyday, and if Pooch was bothering him. If he was, she would stop it. Dad smiled. He said “No, he’s not bothering me. Actually, I’m using him for bait”. Aunt Ellen looked at him quizzically, and Dad started to laugh, and then explained. “Pooch is so cute, I’m using him to attract the pretty girls at the beach”.

The trips to the beach continued, until one day in June. Pooch was ready to go to the beach, and found dad pacing back and forth in front of the radio. It was June 6th, 1944 and the D-Day invasion had started. Reports were coming in, and dad was talking to himself. He was trying to figure out the status of his old unit, and was concerned about the guys he knew. He also didn’t know that his brother, my Uncle Mick, would be landing with the Navy at one of the Normandy beaches on June 7th, delivering supplies.  

They didn’t walk to the beach together that day, or ever again.

Dad ended his furlough the next day and had to walk to the bus station to head back to Fort Bragg, North Carolina. Everyone wanted to go to the terminal with him to say goodbye, as they didn’t know when or if they would see him again. Dad wouldn’t allow it. He didn’t want a big scene at the terminal, and so told his mother and his sisters that they all had to stay home. But not Pooch. Pooch walked with Dad to the terminal. At the station, they said their goodbyes. Dad got on the bus and made his way to Fort Bragg. Pooch, a little man at 10 years old, cried all the way home, because he knew there was a chance his Uncle Bill wouldn’t be coming back.

 When I think back to that June of ’44, I see a relationship between an uncle and a nephew that came to be that of two brothers. They stayed close over the years, even though they were often miles apart. When dad died six years ago, Pooch traveled from Arizona to pay his respects. To quote my cousin Jan “Uncle Bill went out of his way to take care of my dad when he was a young boy. He was one of his heroes”.

The Decision – an Experiment in Coexistence….

Carmen actually saw them first. Cathy was at the barn cleaning stalls and Carmen was barking like crazy. And kept barking like crazy. That’s usually the sign of a snake, or some other animal that she has cornered or is unsure about. So Cath went outside the barn to see what was causing the commotion. But Carmen wasn’t looking down at the ground, she was looking up. Cathy followed Carmen’s gaze upward, and then she saw it. The wasp nest was at the top of the barn, about 16 feet off the ground, and anchored between two barn lights. Maybe a foot wide, by a foot deep, by a foot and a half high. And while maybe not a freeway, there was county road of wasps flying in and out of the hive.

Cath told me about it that night and I took a look. At home, we have about a half can of sure-shot 20 foot hornet spray, which is not enough in my opinion. So I took a couple of pictures, and figured I’d go to the store the next day, get a couple more cans, and do the job the next night.

Of course, me being me, I posted one of the photos on Facebook, and the comments came pouring in. “Yikes!” was probably the most popular comment. After that, there many helpful comments about how to destroy the nest – Call the pros…. Hit it with a stick and then run….Multiple suggestions on spraying, and doing it at night, when all the wasps were in the nest….And there were a surprisingly large number of people suggesting fire as the solution: use a flamethrower; squirt lighter fluid on it and strike a match; tie a rag to a stick, soak it in gasoline, and use it to torch the hive; use a drone with a mini flamethrower on it (do those exist?!?!)…. Now, I’m not against fire in general, but the nest IS attached to the barn, and I know how my luck would go on something like this.

And finally, there were a few folk (our sisters Roberta and Bonnie, an old Boy Scout friend, now photographer, Bryan, and our good friend Cory), who all said versions of “Is it bothering anyone? If not, just leave it there until the first hard frost, the wasps will die, and you can take it down then.” Bryan and Roberta even posted pictures of old wasp nests hanging in their houses. Cory, who is a crazy good artist, wants the nest so she can make paper out of it. WHAT?!? ARE YOU ALL CRAZY – DON’T DO ANYTHING?!?! And then I thought “hmmmmm” and went on line to do some research.

It turns out that wasps generally don’t bother people, unless their hive is being threatened. And they do some good things. They actually kill and eat many common garden pests, including predatory insects, caterpillars, tomato worms and flies. They are decent pollinators. Not as good as bees (something about leg size), but pretty good. AND, it turns out they carry and store yeasts. Yep, it turns out they can have a positive impact on bread, wine, and beer.

So, the whole yeast thing finally put me over the top and helped me make my decision. We are going to try an experiment in coexistence. If the wasps can leave us and the horses alone, I’m ok with them hanging out, helping us reduce pests in the garden, and doing their yeast thing. Their flight path needs to stay up there, and maybe we can make this whole thing work.

And Cory – you can have the nest sometime in October or November…

You say tomaytoes,

I say tomahtoes…..

Summer is definitely here. As a matter of fact, it’s almost high-summer in my mind. Some recognizable signs of high-summer?

      July 4th has come and gone

      The All Star game in baseball is over

      High temperatures, with high humidity

      Crabs and crabfeasts

      Drinking an occasional “lawnmower beer” while working outside

      Oh, and the tomatoes in our garden are finally ripening!  

In my mind, nothing says summer like a tomato from the garden. Just picked, washed off, sliced, and maybe a sprinkle of salt on it. Or whole and hot from the vine, dripping juice and seeds down my chin and shirt. That could be a feast unto itself.

We’ve been eating some items out of the garden for awhile now – broccoli, onions, basil, various peppers, some baby beets, but so far, no tomatoes. That changes tonight, when we will have our first grape tomatoes from the garden, halved, and added to a salad.  

It’s been a strange growing season, and things are a bit delayed. May was cold and rainy for almost the whole month, so even though we put the tomatoes in near the start of May, they are just now starting to really grow and ripen. The grape tomatoes will go into salads, starting tonight. The Early Girls aren’t so early this year. And the Roma, Beefsteak, and Heirlooms? Still to come.  

In our future? Cheeseburgers with a slice of ‘mater… Caprese Salads….. Gazpacho…. and of course that king of summer sandwiches – the BLT. The bacon and lettuce, along with a smear of mayo are important. You can toast or not toast the bread. But what’s the true key? A couple of slices of fresh tomatoes from the garden. When our good friend Tim’s tomatoes come in, he says….

       “yep, fry up a pound of bacon, get a loaf of bread, keep slicing tomatoes and eat till the bacon is gone. It is not pretty, so do not watch if you are squeamish”.  

Summertime is a sandwich.  Or at least this sandwich is summertime.

As August gets here, we’ll hit critical mass on the tomatoes in the garden, and Cathy will start canning her Tomato Provençal Pasta Sauce. It’s a great sauce, and when we have it this winter, it still tastes like summer.

For now, it is high summer. With apologies to George Gershwin,

          Summertime,

          And the livin’ is easy.

          Fish are jumpin’

          And the ‘maters are ripe….

Civic Duty, and Cell Phones…..

I recently received a letter in the mail from Fauquier County (note to people who live elsewhere: this is pronounced Faw-keare, not Fuc-here, as my mother-in-law use to occasionally mispronunce….). Cathy opened it for me, and I heard “uh-oh” as she handed the letter to me.

Special Grand Jury leaped off the page at me and my pulse increased a bit. Then I realized that I was being summoned as a potential juror, and not to be investigated…”whew, dodged a bullet there” I thought. Kidding…I’m not currently aware of doing anything that a grand jury would want to investigate….;-)

I read and then reread the letter. It turns out this is a serious time commitment – the first and third Thursday of the month, for a period of six months to “investigate any condition that involves, or tends to promote criminal activity“. Two days a month for six months….If you are working fulltime, how could you possibly do this?

But, I’m not working fulltime. As a matter of fact, I’m (mostly) retired, with a bit of consulting on the side, so I don’t have to worry about that impact. And you know what? This IS important. We all need to do our part to support our communities, and maybe this is another way I can support mine. It will be interesting to see the makeup of the jury, once selection is completed. Will we be a collection of retirees, unemployed people, and house wives/house husbands?  

I looked at the letter again, and they provided a number to call, confirming you received the letter. I called the number and a lady answered. I confirmed receipt and said I would be there on the 14th. The lady said “make sure you wear appropriate attire (no shorts)”, and then wanted to confirm my telephone number. I was about to give her my home number, when she recited my cell number to me, and wanted to know if that was correct. I said “yes”, and then it hit me – why and how did the county have my cell phone number? I asked her that question and there was momentary silence on the line. Then, “I don’t know, that’s just the number we show for you”. I thanked her, and hung up the phone.  

So, on the 14th, I’ll be in downtown Warrenton, dressed appropriately, and not carrying my cellphone (on the backside of the letter – no cellphones allowed). I sure hope they don’t have to call me that day….

Rats DO desert a sinking ship…..

We were over on Tilghman Island, at our neighbor Bill’s house for dinner. Also there that night was another of our neighbors, Captain Stanley Larrimore. Captain Stanley (as everyone calls him) is a retired Skipjack captain, and semi-celebrity around here. Captain Stanley has been featured in more than a few books about the Eastern Shore, and particularly books about oystering, and Skipjack sailing boats. For those not aware, Skipjacks are a low slung sailing boat used for oystering, through a method known as dredging. Back in the 1800s, there were literally hundreds of them on the bay. Over the next century, there came to be fewer and fewer of them, until now, there are only 2 working Skipjacks left on Tilghman.

For dinner that night, we were having soft shell crabs, and Captain Stanley was showing us how he prepares soft shells. Anytime a waterman is giving you cooking instructions on seafood, you want to pay attention – in this case, this is a man who has spent over 60 of his 80-something years making a living on the water – he knows what he’s talking about…..A drink or two later, we fried up the crabs and they were delicious.

After dinner, we were sitting around the table, when all of a sudden Captain Stanley says “ya know, rats do desert a sinking ship”. We looked at him, and with a bit of sparkle in his eye, he relayed the following story…

“We were out oysterin’ and the day had gone well. We’d hit our limit, and were heading for Tilghman. As we passed Poplar Island, it seemed to me that the boat was handling funny, so I told one of the crew to check below. He took a quick look and said everything was fine. It turned out not to be fine. The hold was filling with water and The Reliance (his Skipack) kept running lower and lower in the water. I wasn’t sure we were going to make the harbor, so I ran her to a point near the entrance to Knapps Narrows and ran her aground…as we hit the ground, two rats came out of the hold and leapt off the deck and swam to shore……..Well, I got the buy boat to come by and we offloaded the oysters. Without the weight, I was able to nurse her home. It turned out that the rats had eaten a two inch hole near the centerboard and that’s what caused the hold to flood. We got her repaired the next day, and we were back out the day after that. Not only had the rats caused the hole in the boat that caused the leak, they were the first one off when it looked like we were going to sink”.

We all laughed and made a few jokes about the rats. A few more stories were told, and the dinner ended an hour or so later. For me, it ended way to soon.

Captain Stanley is a great neighbor and I count myself lucky to know him. I’d first heard about him 7 or 8 years ago, when reading a book called Skipjack (White). When we bought our home on Tilghman, I couldn’t believe that he was a neighbor across the street. If you want a living history of the Eastern Shore, he’s about as close as you can get. Well, he, and a few others like him. Vocal histories are something to be treasured.  I’ve found this to be true not only with my own father’s stories, but also many other people I’ve met along life’s path.  Captain Stanley is one of those people.

Now when you hear the phrase “They left like rats deserting a sinking ship” in reference to a business, or friends, or politics, you will know there’s a real basis for the phrase…..at least on one ship in the Chesapeake.

Potato Salad – Pickles? Or no pickles?…..

My sister-in-law Cindy recently called to get a couple of clarifications on Cathy’s potato salad recipe. She’s catering a wedding reception in the near future, and needs to make potato salad for 100 guests. Cindy and I joked a bit about Cath’s and my somewhat tortured history with potato salad.

When Cathy and I first started dating in high school in the summer of ’72, after about a month of dating, we decided to go on a picnic at Deer Park. My job was to get the soda and drive us there. Cathy’s was making and packing the picnic. The day of the picnic arrived and we drove out to the park. Not wanting to be disturbed, we ignored the picnic grounds and hiked one of the trails for a mile or two and found the perfect spot by a stream running through the park. We put the blanket down by the stream, pulled out the plates, napkins and silverware, and then Cathy proceeded to reveal our lunch, all of which she made that day. Fried chicken, potato salad, deviled eggs, and brownies for dessert. I mean, my mouth was watering. She served each of us a plate of food and we started eating.  

As we continued to eat, Cathy asked me “How is everything”? Now I could have said “This is the best fried chicken I’ve ever had”, or “gosh, these deviled eggs are delicious” (Both statements would have been absolutely true). But what I actually said was “My mom doesn’t put pickles in her potato salad”. Seriously? Really?? Unbelievable, but true. Cathy shot me a look, but to be honest, I was pretty clueless (some would say I’m still pretty clueless) and didn’t catch it. I actually hadn’t realized what an idiot I was at the time. The picnic continued, and we had a good time the rest of the meal, and the rest of the day.

A couple weeks later, Cathy made a dinner for us and we had potato salad again. She chose this time to inform me that I had been mean to her on the picnic, and informed me of my transgression. She asked how was the potato salad this time? I can be a quick learner when I need to, and I answered “pretty good!”  

Puppy love, or young love, can survive a lot and we survived that episode. At some point in time, Cathy stopped putting pickles in her potato salad. I should have been a happy man, but I couldn’t leave well enough alone. Over the coming years, I made several jokes about how her potato salad was good, but I still wasn’t sure it was as good as mom’s. At Fort Sill Oklahoma, in the fall of 1978, I made the joke once too often after a wonderful meal of brats and Cathy’s potato salad. Cath put down her fork, looked me straight in the eye, and said in the calmest voice imaginable “You know what? You’re right. Since it’s not good enough, I’ve just made the last potato salad I’m ever going to make for you”. I laughed. Cathy didn’t laugh.

One month passed…two months passed….a year passed….eighteen months passed…two years came and went, and still no potato salad. Finally I begged, pleaded, almost got down on my knees and said “I will never criticize your potato salad again. You make the best potato salad in the world. Would you please start making it again?”. She looked me straight in the eye and said “OK, but consider this a warning….”.

I’m hear to tell you, Cathy makes the best potato salad in the world. My mom’s was really good, and my niece Diane who carried on mom’s recipe, makes awfully good potato salad…but Cathy’s is the best.

Some potatoes, more eggs than you think you’ll need, celery, onions, Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, salt and pepper…………and no pickles.

Fathers Day is this weekend.  I’m thinking not only about Dad, but other influencers on my life.   This is the story of Dad, Deason, Boggs, and Noble…

When dad told his stories from WWII, they often involved 4 guys – dad, Jack Deason, Bob Boggs, and Noble Clevenger. We heard many stories, most of them funny, about their times together at Ft Bragg, in North Carolina, and then over in North Africa and Sicily. They were all young, full of life, and full of mischief. They were also all in B Company, of the 60th Regimental Combat Team, 9th Infantry Division. Each had his own story as the war went on.

Dad was wounded in Sicily and the war was over for him. After his recovery, and some additional time as an MP in North Africa, he was sent back to the States. Stationed at Camp Butner, NC, he’d get occasional passes or leaves, and liked to go to DC when he could.  

On one of those trips to DC, in early 1945, he was partying at a bar in Georgetown, when amazingly, he and Boggs ran into each other. There was much backslapping whooping, and drinking. It turned out that Boggs was severely wounded in France and eventually evacuated to the States. From Boggs, dad found out that Deason had been killed in France, and he (Boggs) had last seen Noble in France…..

Dad and Boggs continued to party and made the rounds of the bars in Georgetown. At some point in the night, they were feeling no pain, and Boggs said “I’ll be right back….” and disappeared into the crowd. It turned out they were separated, and didn’t see each other later that night, or ever again. Dad tried to locate him over the years, but only found false trails.

And Noble?    

Dad didn’t hear anything else about Noble after that night with Boggs.  The war ended in ’45. Dad met mom in the summer of ’47, and married her in May of ’50.

In July of 1950, there was a knock at my parents door and mom answered. A young couple was standing there and wanted to know if William Hall lived there.  Mom said yes, and called dad to the door, and all of a sudden there was yelling, and exclamations, and hugging, and dancing and back pounding…..It was Noble, and his new wife Myra.  

It turned out that Noble was traveling from a vacation in Wisconsin back to Southern Illinois where they lived, when they passed our home town – Ottawa. Noble thought dad had probably died in Sicily, and then remembering that dad was from Ottawa, decided to stop in and see if he could find dad’s parents to offer his condolences. He looked the name William Hall up in the phone book, and stopped off at the local VFW to see if anyone knew of dad. They then drove over to the address from the phone book, assuming it was my grandfather. Instead, he and dad saw each other for the first time since August of 1943…..

Amazingly, Noble survived the war without a scratch. After Sicily, he fought in France, and then crossed the Bridge at Remagen into Germany itself. When the European war ended in May 1945, he was near the Elbe River. Two and a half years of combat, and not a scratch…

I was born in ’55 and was named Max Noble Hall to honor Noble.  Mom, Dad, “Uncle” Noble and “Aunt” Myra remained great friends through the years and would get together several times a year at our house, or theirs.  The four of them had a close friendship that lasted a lifetime.  I learned a lot about life, and about enjoying life from all of them, but particularly from Dad and Noble.  Later, when I was at West Point, and then spending my own time in the Army, I often asked myself if I was measuring up to these men from B Company.  I feel so lucky to have known them, and hear the stories that Noble and dad would tell…..