Key West, a Snowstorm, and Connections.

 

I recently returned from Key West, where I had the good or bad fortune to be, depending on your point of view, when the big snowstorm hit the East Coast. I was there doing a small consulting job for two days. Cathy was going to fly down on Thursday, but then our horse-sitter cancelled because of the impending storm (rightfully so). We found someone else to watch them, but didn’t feel right having their first time horse/housesitting at our place to be during Snowzilla, so Cathy made the decision to stay behind. At that time, we knew there was going to be a storm, but the jury was still out on how big. We lined up a couple of neighborhood connections to help Cathy if she needed it.

I flew to Florida with the folks I was supporting on Tuesday, and we had two good days of planning and “team building”. Then on Friday and Saturday, as the storm was hitting the DC area, we had time to enjoy Key West a bit more. It’s a bit hard to totally enjoy Key West, while your wife is back home getting hammered by a snowstorm, but I did my best….. Hemingway’s House, the Truman “Little White House”, Mallory Square, and of course Duvall Street and it’s environs – Hogs Breath Saloon, The Green Parrot, Ricks, and many other places. I was particularly interested in trying Sloppy Joe’s, and Captain Tony’s because of their Hemingway connections. I really enjoy his books, and wanted to find a way to see some of his past.

 Sloppy Joe’s is one of the places that Hemingway hung out at a lot. Except that it moved a half block away a few years after he was in Key West. It still has a lot of Hemingway “stuff”, but the original location is now Captain Tony’s. Captain Tony’s is a true dive (in all the best sense of the word), and you could picture Hemingway there, drinking martinis, daiquiris, absinthe, gin and tonics, or whatever. I enjoyed a couple drinks in both places, and was happy to make a Hemingway connection.

On Monday, I flew back to DC, and on Tuesday, continued the snow clean up. A neighbor had plowed us out, but there was still quite a bit to do, both on our farm, and to help some other friends. By that afternoon, I was out clearing a gate in the back field. I was taking a break, when Bud, our 84 year old neighbor stopped by to see if I needed any help. We talked a bit, and he asked how I liked Key West (evidently most of the neighborhood knew I was down there – funny how word travels). I told him I enjoyed it, and hoped to get back there. Bud then surprised me and told me of his own connection to Key West. In the early 1950s , when he was in his 20s and in the Navy he was stationed there, and really enjoyed it. Once, before his wife got there, he worked his way up Duval Street hitting every bar, then crossed the street, and went back down Duval sampling all the bars on that side. He said he doesn’t know to this day how he got back to the base that night.

His wife Lois, and their baby arrived a few weeks later and they settled in not far from Duval Street. Lois would take the baby out in a stroller everyday. As she walked around, there was always an older gentleman outside one of the bars who would talk with her, and admire her baby. It happened everyday and they became acquaintances, chatting for a few moments before she continued her walk. Then one day, Bud and Lois went to the movies. This was when they still had shorts before the actual movie. As the short came on, it was about Hemingway, and Lois immediately realized that the man she had been talking with everyday outside the bar was none other than Papa himself. Bud and Lois both got to know him a bit after that, and he continued to admire their baby, as Lois took her daily walks.

I had to chuckle to myself. I was happy to connect with one of the places that Hemingway had frequented; it turned out that my neighbor Bud and his wife had the real connection 60 some years ago, when Bud was all of 22. If I hadn’t gone to Key West, I probably never would have heard the story of Bud, Lois, and Papa.

Connections are all around us, but so often we are unaware of their presence. I’m glad for all of the connections that revealed themselves this past weekend.

  

Joe Russo passed away about a year ago. I never met Joe, and didn’t know him, but I feel like I did, and I wish I had a chance to know him better. He was one of those people who cast a shadow bigger than they are.

He and his wife Pat, who is still alive and doing well, were the previous owners of our vacation house on Tilghman Island. MD. I’ve heard many stories of Joe around the neighborhood, and certainly feel his presence in our home.

Our house on Tilghman Island was originally built in the 1890s in a village called Fairbank, at the end of the island. It was a working village and by all accounts, most of the men were watermen. Over the years, the village changed but little, and that included the houses. Many of the houses started to show their age and the passing of time. Some were renovated, some weren’t. Ours was one the houses not renovated, or maybe not even repaired much. We talked to one of the watermen that previously lived in the house, and as a child, he could remember snow coming into his bedroom from a hole in the roof.

  
Pat and Joe bought this house around 1980. They were advised by some to tear it down and start over. It’s a funny thing about old houses – you either love them or hate them, and most folk don’t fall in the middle. Thank heaven, Joe and Pat loved this old house, and slowly renovated it. Pat gave us as a gift, a photo album that recorded their renovation, most of which they did themselves. You can see the love for the home (and each other) in their faces, and in their actions. They owned the place for about 30 years and made it into the place it is today.  

  

When we first saw the house almost 5 years ago, we had been looking for a vacation home, but hadn’t found anything we liked. We gave up looking and went on a bike ride instead. During the ride, we passed this house and it drew us to it immediately. We made an appointment to see it the next morning, and put an offer in 4 hours later.

The day after we put the offer in, we drove back by the house and Pat was sitting on the front porch. We stopped and spoke with her, and she invited us onto the front porch. We spoke with her for quite awhile and wandered around the house again. Pat could not have been more gracious.

Since then, we’ve seen Pat one or two other times, and have ran into some of their children and grandchildren. They were happy to know we’d found the good luck messages they left us written on a wall in one of closets. And I see Joe, or the evidence of Joe around the house as I do my own repairs. Joe was a tinkerer and so as I update, or fix various things, I also get a chance to think about what was Joe thinking when he “installed this”. He had some smart ways (although not always conventional) of doing things, and I’ve learned to appreciate his methods.

I also see or hear Joe in the neighborhood. The kayaks someone bought from him; the motorboat (Rocky) that now belonged to another neighbor; the fig trees in neighbor’s yards (Joe was a fiend about figs…); the old crab pots out back; the Italian and US Flags in our sheds. And the stories I sometimes hear – “So then Joe…..”. In someways, he reminds me of my own father, who always had a presence larger than he actually was.

We’ve made this house into our home and we love it. We’ve had this place for 4 1/2 years now, and while I don’t particularly believe in ghosts, I think older houses keep a spirit of those who lived there before. I sometimes sense a presence – a creak, a sound, or a whiff of something. Whatever it is, it’s comforting.  

I didn’t know Joe, but I feel like I did, and I wish I had a chance to know him better.

  

  
I posted this to Facebook last year, but it seemed worth putting out again. Dad has been gone for five years now, and Uncle Micky is in a VA home, and not doing too well. I plan to see him when we are back visiting at Christmas time this year.

When my sisters and I were growing up, Saturday mornings were great. We would be sitting around the table and various aunts and uncles would stop by for a cup of coffee. They all were great story tellers and would regale us with tales from their youth, or the war (always the funny war stories), or the early days in Ottawa.

The Hall’s (my dad’s family) grew up very poor in Southern Illinois and had a very rough life. Uncle Dave, Aunt Ellen, Aunt Jenny, Aunt Tilly and Uncle George were all older (from a couple of years, to being adults when Dad was a kid). Many of the stories they told us later in life were about Dad and Uncle Micky. In these stories, Dad was always in 4th Grade, and Uncle Mick was in 2nd – they had many adventures together, and there was always some hilarity involved. 

In any case, one year during the depression, it was Christmas time, and Christmas was going to be meager. Grandpa didn’t have any work, and Grandma was doing odd-jobs for people to bring in a bit of money. Dad and Uncle Mick both still believed in Santa Claus at this point. They lived in a “shack” with just a few rooms, and those rooms didn’t provide much privacy. On Christmas Eve, Dad and Uncle Mick finally went to bed, and to sleep, hoping that Santa Claus would bring something that night. A few hours later, they woke up and heard noises coming from the main room (front room) of the house. They both raced over to a hole in a board in the wall that looked into the main room, and they were pushing and shoving each other to be the one that could look through the knot-hole and see what, if anything, Santa was bringing them.

Dad won out and was looking through the hole – Uncle Mick was behind him yelling out – “Is it Santa Claus? Is it Santa? What’s he look like? What’s he look like?!!” 
Dad’s answer back: “He looks a lot like ma”….

….and that’s how they found out there was no Santa Claus, or at least none other than their own mother, who did everything she could to try and make their lives better….

The Christmas Morning That Almost Wasn’t…

Growing up, Christmas at our home was always great. It may not quite have been the same as in the movie, A Christmas Story, but it was close (except I never received a Red Ryder BB gun). My sisters and I would start waking up early and want to get up. Mom and dad made us stay in bed, so we’d end up saying we had to go to the bathroom. Then we could walk by the entry to the front room and see all the presents under the tree.

Finally, we could get up and we would rip open the packages and presents, doing so in some kind of speed record. Then came breakfast, and then later the big meal. When we were little, it was always a trip to grandma’s house where we’d meet up with all of the cousins and compare our gifts. Later, dinners moved to our house and got bigger and bigger. I think one year we must have had 25 people at the dinner. Now there is no way our house could hold 25 people sitting down and eating, and yet at Christmas, it magically did.

This story involves my two sisters, and a different Christmas experience. In fact, it was the Christmas morning that almost wasn’t.

The three of us kids were a bit older at this point. I was in 7th Grade, Roberta, 5th, and Tanya, 3rd. We didn’t believe in Santa Claus any longer (Tanya may have been on the fence), but we sure believed in the magic of Christmas….and we started understanding that if there were presents on Christmas morning, there MUST BE presents hidden around the house ahead of Christmas. There was always some surreptitious “searching”, and occasionally, one of us would find something hidden in a closet, or under a bed.

Then, my sisters hit the motherload. One of them found A LOT of their presents in a chest, out in the garage. One sister grabbed the other and they looked at the presents – dolls, games, clothes, and ‘gasp!’ – a Barbie Doll Case. They looked and touched and finally, shut the lid to the chest. If that’s where they left it, all would have been fine.

Later, they decided they wanted to look at the presents one more time. So after mom drove to work (and gave me a ride to Junior High), they went out to the garage, and there was a 50 pound bag of salt on top of the chest. Being resourceful, they carefully took the bag off, and looked at the presents once more. Then they put the bag back on the chest. Of course, there’s always a price to pay. One of the girls (who will go unnamed) wanted to see that Barbie Doll Case once more, and this time, when taking the bag back off the chest, it burst open spilling everywhere. They tried to clean it up, but couldn’t get the busted bag back on the chest. Finally, they enlisted the aid of our neighbor, Mr. Classon, who cleaned up the mess, put the sand in the bag and the bag in a bucket. He then put the bucket on the chest. Mr. Classon thought the whole thing was pretty funny – “Oh, your parents will laugh about this.” The girls knew that wasn’t the case, and walked to school, where they spent the day knowing their world was about to end….

That evening, all was well for a bit, and then mom saw the busted bag and knew what had happened. To say she was furious is putting it mildly. This was back in the day when spankings happened, or at least they did at our house. As my sister Roberta said “She was so mad. When she went to get the belt, I held my breath hoping I would die before she got back“.

Well, Roberta didn’t die, and they both survived their spankings. Mom swore there wouldn’t be any presents for them that year, because Santa (and evidently mom and dad) didn’t bring presents to bad children. They also didn’t get to eat dinner with the family for a week.

Finally, Christmas morning came and we all went out to the tree. My presents were there, and some of the girls’ presents were there, but they didn’t receive many. Things were pretty glum all around. I mean, I couldn’t even enjoy my presents because it looked like I was gloating. Finally, Dad asked one of the girls to get something out in the family room. She went out there, and all of a sudden there was a shriek. We all ran to the family room and there, beneath a brand new, smaller Christmas tree were all of Roberta and Tanya’s presents, including many from the chest and several new ones. The Barbie Doll Case was among them.

It turned out to be a great Christmas and also gave us a story that we have told and laughed at throughout the years. Mom didn’t laugh at it much early on, but she does now, and the spittle from earlier years has dried. Still, if you ever want to get a rise out of mom, I guarantee this story gets at least a mild harrumph and a comment or two. Oh, and one other twist to the story. Tanya was the one who wanted to see the Barbie Case one more time. It turned out to be a present for Roberta, and she still has it to this day.

Merry Christmas everybody. May your Christmas gives you a story or two that can be passed on to the next generation as well.

Sunday Blunch. With Friends.

Good times, with good friends. What could be better? Well, add in some good food, wine, and beer, and now you’re really talking.

Because we are in the country, a few times a year, we have a Sunday lunch or brunch at out place for “city friends”. Dinners can be a bit more problematic because of where we live. We are 15 minutes to the interstate, and when the sun goes down, it’s DARK outside. I mean really dark. So as an alternative to dinners, we often do brunch or lunch. They usually go from about noon to four, have a few courses and accompanying wines, and are great fun. Folks can eat, enjoy the country, and be back to DC in about an hour.

A couple of weeks ago, we did a “blunch” with a twist. We combined with another couple and, after coming up with a menu, decided to try and pair both beers and wines with each course. Cathy and I paired the wines, our friends paired the beers. We each picked some of the courses, traded recipes, and had almost as much fun testing the recipes with various drinks, as we did hosting the actual blunch. When all was said and done, we had five courses, six beers, and six wines (see the menu in the accompanying photo).

The day of the blunch dawned sunny and clear. After appetizers outside, the 20 of us adjourned into the house for the rest of the meal. As the afternoon progressed, the talking got louder, the laughter more rich, and the sense of “family” increased. There were discussions about which beer was better, why this wine worked well , and the food we were eating (“There were brussels sprout in that salad? No way – I hate brussels sprout, but loved that salad….”). Unfortunately, the afternoon finally ended and our friends helped us clean up the dishes and the house, and then make their way back to the city. The blunch was fun, we were exhuasted, and we made our way to an early bed that night.

The next day we received a thank-you email from one of our guests. His note to us:

     I think it will take 2 days to recover from that wonderful tasting event today….1 day to get over all that I ate and drank……(yes, no one forced me) and another day to let the great feelings and laughs with such great friends  subside …..thanks to you all for such great fun.

And I thought about it, and he was right. The food and beverages were good, and the reason we got together. But what made the day was the celebration of life, the laughter, the talking, and spending time with such good friends. How do you top that?

Later, we were back to cleaning stalls, walking dogs, and our usual life. But I think back to the blunch and what a great celebration of our friendships it was. Very good friends gave us a couple of beer mugs several years ago on the occasion of their wedding. There was a quote from Yeats on them:

     “Think where man’s glory most begins and ends, 

       And say my glory was I had such friends.”

Yeats said it way better than I ever could…..

The City of Light.

Back in the 80s, Cath and I travelled to Paris, and France in general, multiple times. Sometimes alone, other times with friends or family, and once to attend a friend’s wedding. We were stationed in Germany with the Army at the time and it was a relatively easy drive or train trip.

I remember before we went, that various people told us how rude the French were, and that this was particularly true of the Parisians. We found just the opposite to be true. People were friendly, talked with us, and helped us a couple of times when we got lost. We spoke no French, but between our English and German, were able to get by (once while lost on the way to a wedding, I couldn’t understand why the Frenchman wasn’t understanding my questions…I mean, I put a ‘le’ in front of the German word for church (Kirche)).

We had great fun on all of our trips and visited sites both famous and local. We loved the food, enjoyed the wine, and I had my first Pernod. We drove in the madness of the traffic circle that surrounds the Arc de Triomphe. We walked in the parks hand in hand.

Here in Virginia, we have a small painting that we bought from a street artist in the Montmartre area on one of those trips. It’s only a small painting, but we still enjoy it to this day. In the future, I know I will have mixed memories when I look at it – the great fun we had in Paris in the 80s, and now, the horrific events of last night.

As most of the world was “a little bit American” when 9-11 happened, I know many of us are “a little bit French” today. It’s a shame that it takes a tragedy to bring us all a little bit closer.

Veterans Day –

A Blue Star, a Flag, and a Letter

Veterans Day is tomorrow, and although I am a veteran, on this day, I usually think back to my father, and various uncles.  This year, I’m thinking about a bit more.

Sometime after Dad died, my mom gave me a “yearbook” of his from the 60^th Infantry Regiment, in the 9^th Infantry Division. Dad was in that unit in WWII. The book was published in 1942, before they shipped out. Dad had gone home in August of ’42 on furlough for a visit, and evidently left the book behind with my grandma. Inside the book, I found the Blue Star, an American Flag and a letter from my grandmother, all shown in the attached photo.

The Blue Star was my Grandmothers. In fact, she would have had two in her window during World War II – one for my dad, and one for my Uncle Mick, who was in the Navy. Those who lost someone in the war would have displayed Gold Stars.

The Flag. Well, we aren’t sure on the story of the flag. It has 48 stars and is torn and stained with something – Blood? Rust? We aren’t sure. One version is that my dad was carrying it with him when he was wounded. Another version is that Grandma had it hanging in the window, along with the Blue Stars.

The Letter was from my grandma to my dad, who was then 19, and was written about 3 months before he took part in the invasion of North Africa. It’s hard to read the letter in the photo, so I’ve transcribed it here…..

                                                                                                  Ottawa, Ill

                                                                                                  August 15, 1942

My Wonderful boy,

        I am alone now. All are gone somewhere, so my thoughts are with you son. I am sorry I broke down when you left, but I could not help it. My heart is almost broke.

       I have always been a Father and Mother to you. I have went hungry and cold many a time for you children, but it was worth it to me. May God bless and protect you, where ever you go. I hope to live till all you children are old boys and girls. I will close now and say Good Night. With all the love in the world,

                                                                                    Mother

The letter is so simple, and yet so powerful. It makes me think about the fact that Veteran’s Day isn’t just about the veterans, but also the families of those veterans, and the things they have given us. Today, as we thank our veterans, let’s also think about their families and thank them for the sacrifices they have made as well.

In today’s world, with no draft, many folk have no connection to the military, or what “being in the military” means for the soldier, or his or her family.  Spend some time on Veterans Day and think about it.  Then, maybe, spend more than just Veterans Day thanking those who have served, and their families.

What I miss most from work….

…… Is the people. I’m mostly retired, and I’m loving it. I don’t miss the commute, the work, the late nights, the stress of numbers, making my numbers, the people problems, going after new business, completing a project, helping customers solve problems, or solving the challenges of business. What I miss is the people. The good people. The ones you loved, the ones you solved the problems with, the ones in the trenches with you, the ones you worked with to tell the story of the numbers.

I’ve had the great good fortune to work with a lot of wonderful people over the course of my life, both in the Army, and in the civilian world. I know it’s obvious, but when you work with good people, it makes everything else easier, and it also makes it more productive, and more fun. In the Army, we use to say “Mission first, people always”. At the couple of companies I worked for, I always tried to make taking care of people a “core value”. It seems so simple, but so many people don’t understand it.

I had the chance to have a lunch with a couple of those people this week. It had been awhile, and it was great to catch up. We talked about the old days, and about the issues they are dealing with, and solving today. I don’t miss the game, but I dearly miss working with both of them at different times in my career. They made it fun to go to work in the morning, to solve problems, to confront the issues, to commiserate about the craziness around us at various times.

I’m back at the farm now, and they are back in their offices. I know they are doing good work, because that is what they do. I’ll enjoy my life here, and the things Cathy and I are doing, but I miss them, and watching them make a difference.

 
Garlic, ginger, cayenne peppers; 

cumin seeds, cinnamon stick, turmeric, cumin powder, cayenne, garam masala; 

onions, tomatos, yogurt, slivered almonds….

Can you smell it? I can. I can almost mentally transfer myself to a bazaar somewhere. Heady aromas…noonday heat….the buzz and hubbub of people wandering about, some with a purpose, some without….

Growing up in the Midwest, I can’t remember ever eating a curry. We ate lots of good solid comfort food, especially in the fall and winter. There was mom’s spaghetti, chicken and ravioli, or meatloaf and mashed potatoes; Uncle Mick’s vegetable soup recipe; and just about anything with dad’s hash browns. In retrospect, it was all good, but not especially spicy.  

After moving overseas with the Army, my eating became more varied. I think I had my first Indian curry in London, on a trip in the mid eighties. After that, I’d have a curry dish when we were out to dinner at an Indian, or Vietnamese restaurant. We still didn’t have curries at home, mostly because Cathy got sick as a child when her grandmother made chicken and dumplings for the family one year, and for some odd reason, decided to spice it up with half a can of “curry powder”. Some recipes don’t work so well as “fusion food”, and the great curried chicken and dumplings experiment was one of those failures.

Cathy does like and use cumin though. As a matter of fact, her chili has a significant amount of cumin in it, and it’s damned good. Just about every time we have it, we decide it’s the best batch ever.

Which brings me to the present. A couple of weeks ago, I came across a recipe in the NY Times magazine for a chicken curry. I got hungry just reading the article. Toward the end of the article, the recipe originator, Meera Sodha, was quoted: “if you know how to season with black pepper or salt, you can certainly learn how to do it with cumin.”

And that’s how I came to make my first curry, with cumin acting as the common bridge. Chopping, cutting, blending, mixing…. The kitchen started smelling wonderful during the prep work, and became more intense while cooking, as each spice was added. At last, the chicken went into the pot, and simmered for about 20 minutes. The kitchen filled with aromas, and we were starving, Finally, it was dinner time and we both loved the dish, eating to the last bite.

 In the process, we added a new comfort food for this winter….and I think we are going to need a bigger jar of cumin.

* The recipe can be found in the cookbook: Made in India: Recipes from an Indian Family Kitchen, by Meera Sodha. I’m guessing you can also get it online if you look around a bit.  If you can’t find it anywhere, post to the blog and I will send it to you.

With apologies to both Casey, and Ernest Lawrence Thayer…..

Oh, somewhere in this favoured land the sun is shining bright,  

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light;      

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout,    

But there is no joy at Wrigley— the Cubs are done and out.

I will remember October 2015 as the time our family bonded over baseball.

Our family has always had it’s baseball fans. Growing up, in Illinois most of my friends were White Sox, or Cubs fans. But there were also lots of us Cardinal fans. My dad and mom were die hard Cardinal fans, and it ended up that my sisters and I became Cardinal fans. I remember walking around the north side of Ottawa in October ’67 taking Christmas wreath orders. I had a transistor radio glued to my ear listening to Bob Gibson and the Cards beating Boston to win the World Series…

The years passed and the Cardinals won a few more World Series. My White Sox buddies were happy when they won theirs as well. And the Cubbies? Well, there was always next year….and the next….and the next. My sisters both got married and had children, but something went wrong, and low and behold, several of my nieces became Cubs fans. The years went on, and of course there was always a bit of trash talking back and forth on particular Cubs-Cards series.

Fast forward to this year, and the playoffs. The Cards and Cubs, with two of the best records in baseball, were meeting for the first time ever in the playoffs. Emails, texts, phone calls and Facebook comments go back and forth before the series until someone comes up with the brilliant idea to lay down a bet – losers have to wear the winners jerseys at a Christmas get together this year. Everyone quickly agrees and the playoffs start.

Of course, we all know that the Cubs won the series, 3 games to 1 (ouch!). But what I also remember is the great back and forth we had as a family during the series. With most of the family back in Illinois, and us in DC, this largely took place with texts and Facebook….a few hundred texts (!) and several FB posts. One night I was out to dinner with a friend and my phone kept buzzing. I ignored it until he finally said “don’t you have to get that?” I answered, “no, I’ll check later – my guess is the Cubs just scored….”. It turns out the Cubs did score, won that game, and then won the next one to clinch the series. Lot’s of good natured trash talking from our nieces and brother-in-law, a few lame comebacks from me and my sisters. Since then, the Cubs lost in 4 straight to the Mets (I warned you guys), and we now all remember that Back to the Future was just a movie, and not a prediction.

Cath and I are going home for Christmas this year. I’m looking forward to seeing family, eating and drinking to much, and even to wearing a Cubs jersey one night. I’m sure there will be pictures taken, and at least one of them will be suitable for framing.

I can’t wait for next year….

_____________________

Postscript: Here’s a photo of my sisters and I at the Christmas get-together…