Uncle Noble

Uncle Noble

80 years ago this week, my “Uncle” Noble and the 9th Infantry Division sealed off the Cherbourg Peninsula eleven days after D-Day during WWII. I was thinking about him while watching the Band of Brothers on TV. When Easy Company jumped into Normandy for their first wartime engagement, Noble and the 9th had already been in combat for over 1 1/2 years.

 Noble was Dad’s best friend, after his brothers, Mick and George. Both he and Dad joined the Army when underage in 1940, over a year before WWII started. They were in B Company, 60th Regimental Combat Team (RCT), of the storied 9th Infantry Division. 

Dad and Noble in ‘41 or early ‘42.

Mom, Dad, “Uncle” Noble and “Aunt” Myra were great friends through the years and got together several times a year.  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 Dad and Noble. They told stories from their time in the Army – almost always funny stories of things that happened. The serious stuff?  The stories of death and destruction? Those didn’t make it to the kitchen table where folks gathered, drinking coffee and listening, as these two combat veterans told their tales. 

Noble’s actual WWII story is interesting.  It’s one you can’t really tell without also telling the story of the 9th. 

Dad and Noble’s wartime experience started on November 8th, 1942, when the 9th took part in the Invasion of North Africa. Until D-Day happened, it was the largest wartime amphibious assault ever. After three days of battle, they took Port Lyautey, Morocco and the Vichy French surrendered.  After some downtime, in January of ‘43, the 60th RCT was the only unit selected to take part in a review for President Roosevelt who was at the Casablanca Conference. Dad and Noble were both there and told us funny stories of the comments in the ranks as Roosevelt passed their unit in a jeep for the review. “Hey Rosie – who’s leading the country while you’re over here?” “Hey Rosie – Who’s keeping Mamie warm while you’re over here?”

Roosevelt Reviewing the 60th RCT During the Casablanca Conference

Things got tough again after that. Starting in February, they fought their way across Algeria and then Tunisia. Station de Sened, Maknassy, Bizerte – forgotten names now, but deadly locations in the spring of ‘43. The Germans eventually surrendered at Bizerte, on May 9th, 1943, just over a year before D-Day. 

The 9th wasn’t finished though. A little over two months later, in July of ‘43 they took part in the invasion of Sicily.  The 60th conducted the famous “Ghost March” through the mountains of Sicily, which the Germans originally thought were impenetrable. Dad was shot three times there, and almost died. It took them a few days to evacuate Dad to an aid station, and then a hospital. The war was over for him and they eventually sent him back to the States. 

Chicago Tribune Asking for a Picture After Dad was Wounded.

In fact Dad’s wounds were so severe, Noble thought he had died, or would die shortly. As they evacuated him, Noble and the 60th continued the fight. 38 days after the invasion began, Sicily fell on August 20th. Noble was there when Patton addressed the Division on August 26th, congratulating them for their efforts.  

In September of ‘43, the 9th deployed to England for rest and refitting. With just over nine months until D-Day, the 60th had already fought in four countries on two continents.

On June 10th, D-Day plus 4, Noble and the 9th landed on Utah Beach. Their mission? Attack towards Cherbourg and cut off the peninsula. This they did and on the 17th of June, reached the ocean on the other side of the peninsula, and eventually, captured the port of Cherbourg itself. If you’ve forgotten your history, Cherbourg was critical for the allies to establish a port on the Atlantic Seaboard. Back home, the news singled out the 9th for their efforts. 

Ernie Pyle and Time Magazine Talking About the 9th on the Peninsula

From there, they started on the great chase across France. The 9th advanced over 600 miles by the end of September thru France and into Belgium. In 3 1/2 months they were engaged in three major campaigns and were only out of action for a total of five days. 

The 9th was among the first units entering Germany itself. For actions on December 12th in the Hurtgen Forest area of Germany, Noble’s unit, B company 60th RCT, received a Distinguished Unit Citation for combat actions in Germany. At the time, the company probably had around 80 or so men.

Noble and B Company, in Action Just Before the Bulge

Just after the 12th, The 9th was pulled out of the line due to the heavy casualties they had sustained. It was “resting” in the Monschau Forest area of Belgium, when on December 16th, 1944, the German winter offensive, the “Battle of the Bulge” started. Thrown back into combat, the Division beat back the enemy at the northern edge of “The Bulge”. 

The Battle of the Bulge, The Ardennes, the fight across Germany to the Rhine River – Noble saw all of that. On 7 March, when the American 9th Armored Division captured the bridge across the Rhine River at Remagen, Noble and the 60th RCT were among the first Infantry units to cross under heavy fire and defend the bridgehead from the East side of the Rhine. 

The 9th at Remagen

On across Germany – The Ruhr, The Hartz Mountains… On April 26th, 1945, a patrol from the 60th RCT linked up with the Russians at the Elbe River. The war in Europe officially ended on May 7th. 

Noble spent 2 1/2 years in combat, fought in seven countries and survived without a scratch. Miracles do happen. 

In 1950, a minor miracle also happened. 

In July of that year, a knock came at my parent’s 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.  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 Noble and Myra were traveling from a vacation in Wisconsin back to Southern Illinois where they lived, when they passed our hometown – Ottawa. Noble thought Dad had died in Sicily, and then remembering he was from Ottawa, decided to stop in and see if he could find Dad’s parents and 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 or his relations. They then drove to the address from the phone book, assuming it was my grandfather’s home. Instead, he and Dad saw each other for the first time since August of 1943 in Sicily. 

I was born in ’55 and named Max Noble Hall in honor of Noble.  I always enjoyed seeing him and Myra over the years during their visits.  Later, at West Point, and then while spending my own time in the Army, I often asked myself if I was measuring up to these men from B Company of the 60th RCT.  

Noble and Dad in the Mid-‘70s in Ottawa. Still Ready to Kick Ass.

I feel so lucky having known them and having heard the stories Noble and Dad told. It’s only in the last decade I’ve matched those stories up to the details in history books. I can tell you they greatly underplayed what they did for America and the free world. What I wouldn’t give for another day with Noble and Dad – listening to the stories, and this time, asking more questions. 

The “Greatest Generation” is mostly gone now. I think it’s important we not let them, or their stories be forgotten. 

Here’s to you Uncle Noble. Thanks for everything you did for this country and being an influence in my life. It’s a debt I can never repay. 

Addendum:

  • Some of this blog was extracted from a blog I did a few years ago about Dad and three of his buddies from the 9th. You can read it here if you want: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/06/17/dad-deason-boggs-and-noble/
  • I relied on the book, “Eight Stars to Victory, A History of the Veteran Ninth U.S. Infantry Division”, published in 1948, as background for much of the factual information in this blog. 

Tyranny at the Townhouse

Tyranny at the Townhouse

Cath and I bought our first home 35 years ago in June of 1989. It was a townhouse in Fairfax, VA and we were excited. It turned out our townhouse was in a Homeowner Association (HOA), a term I’d never heard before, but grew to hate. Our skirmishes with them lasted a decade.

After living in Germany for most of the ‘80s, we returned to the DC area for our next assignment with the Army. We also decided it was time to take the plunge and buy a home. 

After looking at numerous townhouses (we couldn’t afford a house at that point), we finally found one we liked in Fairfax – four years old, with only one previous owner. Going through the paperwork, we learned our townhouse was in an HOA, a term we’d never heard. Our agent explained we would pay dues to the HOA and they did things like maintaining common grounds, pay for children’s playgrounds, and “help maintain the standards of the community.”  

Now I’m not saying our agent acted dishonestly, but she didn’t quite go into the details of what “maintain the standards of the community” meant. She more or less explained it as making sure people kept their houses painted and looking nice, as how the neighborhood looked affected our property values. I suppose we should have/could have done our own research, but we were eager to buy, and that made sense.  We didn’t think anything more about it, signed away our lives and bought the home. 

We moved in and all was going well. As we’d done since we owned our first horse in 1983, we hung a horseshoe over the door for good luck. We’d done so at our apartment in Augusta, Georgia, our rented townhome in Dayton, Ohio and both houses we rented in Rheindurkheim, Germany.  Couldn’t we all use a little extra luck?

About a month after we moved in, the HOA sent out a notice. They were having elections for all positions and we were encouraged to attend. The night of the election, we showed up, and I was impressed. There were a couple of speeches, printed ballots and then the actual elections themselves.  Wow!  We were watching democracy in action!  This was amazingly cool. Little did I know, or really understand.

Another month passed and Cath and I received a notice in the mail. We were in violation of HOA rules. What!?  The letter informed us that in accordance with section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), nothing was allowed on the door or over the door. Our horseshoe was in violation.

This couldn’t be! I called the number in the letter and the person picked up. I said I didn’t understand. What rules?  How could a good luck horseshoe hanging over the door violate anything?  The gentlemen referred to the HOA code. I said, “What code?  We just moved in and never received any code.”  He answered, “Yes you did.  Check your closing documents when you bought the house. You’ll find a copy there.”

I pulled out our folder from closing, and sure enough, found the HOA document.   I turned to section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), and he was right – nothing was allowed on or above the door, except during the Christmas holidays when a suitable wreath or garland could be hung. 

D@mn. 

With a great deal of complaining, I took down the horseshoe. I think that’s when my unofficial war with the HOA began. 

I went back to the rule book and read through it in its entirety. There were, to put it mildly, a lot of rules and regulations. More than you would think possible. 

I spent a fair amount of time over the next several weeks reading those rules, when all of a sudden, I noticed something. While they said nothing could hang on or over the door, it didn’t say anything about the window frame, three feet left of the door. I read and reread the rules and could find nothing prohibiting hanging something on the window frame. I immediately hung our horseshoe by the window. 

About a month later we received another notice saying we were in violation of section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), just like before. I called the number again, spoke with the same gentleman and asked what the problem was. He said, “One of our inspectors told us you’ve put the horseshoe back up.”  I answered, “Not above the door.”  He answered, “nothing is allowed on the front of the house.”  I paused slightly and said “That’s not what section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3) says. It only talks about the door.”  He answered, “It means the front of the house.”  I answered, “That’s not what it says.”

—Silence—

Then, from his end “I am referring this to the board.  I’d advise you to take the horseshoe down.”

I left the horseshoe up. Surprisingly, I never heard back from the HOA or received another letter about it. Score a small victory for the Halls, along with justice and the American Way.

On Our Front Porch With Some Neighbors. Note the Horseshoe on the Window Framing. 😉

Other letters arrived over the years. I won a couple and lost a couple. My trim paint was off a shade in color one year and I lost that one. A year later, I found out the fence around our back yard was actually inset 3 feet from the community property line and decided to move the fence back to the line itself. If you live in a townhouse, three feet is a big deal. 

The HOA dutifully sent us another letter saying we had illegally moved our fence and needed to restore it to its original location. I asked where it said in the HOA rules that a setback was required. I already knew the answer, but waited for them to find it as well – it didn’t say anything about a setback anywhere. Score another one for the Halls. Two of my neighbors subsequently moved their fences back in the coming months. 

Our last victory, though probably illegal, provided great joy. It was in ‘97 or ‘98.

Parking is usually tight in townhouse communities and regularly managed. In our community, people were parking, usually temporarily, in places where they shouldn’t, including at the end of the pipe-stem we lived on. The HOA dutifully painted the curb in front our house yellow and wrote “NO PARKING” in black letters on the curb. This was fine. As I said, no one really parked there anyway, unless they were packing up or unloading a car. 

Of course, the HOA couldn’t let it end with the painting. They also put up two “NO PARKING” signs at either end of the yellow paint.  One of the signs was literally right in front of our door. I was, needless to say, pissed. It looked ugly setting right in front of our front door, and if approaching our home from the street, you needed to walk around the sign to reach our house. Note, the HOA put the signs up, not the town or county. As a result, they didn’t use any concrete, they just put the sign in the ground, something that turned out to be important. 

Each day when I came home from work, I rocked the sign back and forth just a little bit. And then a little bit more. And then a little bit more. It became looser in the ground. 

A couple months later, we were having a small party. Our neighbors, Laura and Jason, were moving to Texas and we were saying goodbye. A U-Haul truck was parked in front of their house and they were loading it, with some of our help. Suddenly, a genius idea came to me. 

“Hey Jason.  Just curious, will you have any spare room in the back of the truck?  I may have something I’d like to ship to Texas.”  He answered, “I think a little bit.  How much do you need?” 

I said, “ENOUGH FOR A NO PARKING SIGN!.” and smiled. He smiled back and replied, “I think we could fit in one of those.”

And so, over the next hour or so, we worked on the sign. Cathy had the honor of pulling it out of the ground. ;-).  Jason and I loaded it into his truck sometime after dark.

Cathy Triumphantly Holding up the “No Parking Sign”!

We never did hear anything from the HOA about the incident, which seemed a bit strange given the number of people at the party. Maybe everyone else was fed up as well.

I do understand the need at one level for HOAs, particularly in something like a townhouse community, or with a Condo Association. There are some central costs, and you do want your neighborhood looking good. Still, I’ve always wondered what kind of junior fascist signs up as an inspector for their neighborhood. Do they think they are doing good, or are they just addicted to control?

In ’99, we left Fairfax and moved to our present home in the country. One of the requirements for the new property?  It couldn’t be in an HOA. ;-).

At Rohan farm, our horseshoe proudly hangs over the garage door.

The Horseshoe’s Still Hanging, Even After All These Years.

Addendum:

  • I don’t really remember that it was section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), but it was referenced similarly.

Eric

Eric

On a beautiful sunny day, sixteen of us attended the funeral of our brother, Eric Franks. The service was perhaps, more poignant, as it was the Friday before Memorial Day. It’s always bittersweet when members of the West Point Proud and Great class of ‘78 gather and say goodbye to a classmate. 

At our 45th class reunion last fall, we held a memorial service for the 82 classmates who have passed away. This year, since January, at least ten additional classmates have died. The rate of our passing seems to have increased, but I suppose we are at that age. The youngest of us is 67.  The oldest, maybe 71. 

For those who pass away, a contingent of classmates typically attends the funeral services. Depending on when and where it is, there might be only one or two of us able to make it, or as at Eric’s, as many as 16 or more. It’s not only a last chance to honor a brother, but also an opportunity to spend time with each other and catch up in person. The sands drop through the hourglass more quickly these days and I think we all know it. Bittersweet indeed.

And so it was with Eric. Over the years, Cath and I saw Eric and his wife Robin at various reunions, or mini-reunions. The past few years, we also met them, along with our classmate Gus Hellzen and his wife Janice for an occasional beer or lunch on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. All three couples were married over 45 years ago in the weeks after our June, 1978 graduation. Our wives also made the journey through West Point and the Army.

B-3 Company-Mates and Wives at a Class Mini Reunion in 2022: Hellzens, Wells, Franks, Halls and Powells.

At the service, most classmates in attendance were from the MidAtlantic region, but some flew in from Alabama and Florida among other places. Classmate Brad Andrews, a close friend of Eric’s was one of two speakers giving a eulogy. He told stories of Eric from our cadet days and his time in the Army, including Panama. He talked about Eric becoming a renowned and pioneering Orthopedic Surgeon and the impact he had both on his patients and on other doctors. He also spoke of Eric having cancer and how it didn’t slow him down, even at the end of his life. At the end of his talk, he called the attending West Point graduates to attention and we rendered a final hand salute to Eric. 

After the service, we gathered outside the church and a group photo was taken, something that has become a tradition at funerals, but also other times when some of us gather together to celebrate life and each other. The photos are usually posted to our class Facebook Page, or our email server. “Yes,” we seem to say, “we are still alive, celebrating our brother, each other and The Long Grey Line. Grip Hands.” At funerals in particular, the phrase “Grip Hands”, from the song The Corps* is more real and more important. 

Class of 1978 at Dr. Eric Franks funeral in Salisbury, MD. L-R: Charlie Bartolotta, Max Hall, Bond Wells, Bob Rush, Craig College, Kevin MacCaffery, Kevin Beam, Bob Maszarose, Charlie Dixon, Adolf Ernst, Brad Andrews, Jack Paul, Hank Gillen, Chris Maxfield, Gus Hellzen & Jim Galloway.

Most of us eventually made our way to Robin and Eric’s home for lunch and libation. It was a lively time, with more laughter than tears as far as I could tell. We met with family and friends of Eric from throughout his life. At one point, Gus poured small glasses of WhistlePig** for all who wished to join us in a toast – “To Eric – Grip hands and be thou at peace. Proud & Great ‘78! Here’s to Eric.”   And then, echoing from our formal events in the military (in an Army that was still mostly male in our early days), his second toast, “To the ladies!”

Eventually Cath and I said our goodbyes and left for the drive home. Along the way, we talked of the day and what a fine tribute to Eric it was.

During the drive, I also thought of some of the words Brad used in his eulogy for Eric. He quoted Samual Johnson, saying “To my question, as to whether we might fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered in a passion, ‘No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.’ “

Our hearts are with Robin, their children Erica and Ricky, and with their families. Here’s to you Eric – You led a life worth living. Be Thou at Peace.

Eric and Robin

Addendum:

  • Here are the words to “The Corps”:

  • WhistlePig Rye Whiskey holds a special place with our class. If you want to learn why, you can read more here – We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/
  • Thanks to Gus Hellzen for the photo of Eric and Robin at the start of this blog. Thanks to Cathy for the photo of classmates at Eric’s service.

Goodbye Mama Cat

Goodbye Mama Cat

It was a May morning when Mama Cat said her goodbyes. It was sunny, but I strongly felt the physical presence of death. I couldn’t see him, but he was there with us, waiting. Mama Cat, Carmen and Ollie knew it as well. I felt a shiver, in spite of the sun. 

Our dog Carmen and I had walked to the barn to put the horses out. Mama laid in the sun in the driveway near the barn entrance. Ollie, our other barn cat was nosing up to her and he and Mama were nuzzling each other, something I’d never seen them do. Carmen didn’t chase her like he usually did. Although we walked up within three or four feet, Mama didn’t run and Carmen didn’t chase. They just sat there looking at each other, something I’d also never seen before. That’s when I knew.

Actually, I believe Mama, Ollie and Carmen knew the score before I did.  That’s why they were all acting so strange, which is what made me pick up on death’s presence.

I sat in the driveway by Mama and petted her. Carmen and Ollie just stood there looking at us. I picked her up, put her in my lap and felt her body for any injuries or wounds. I couldn’t find any. I rolled Mama on her back and rubbed her belly. She purred a bit.  I turned her back over and rubbed her back. After a couple of minutes, she climbed out of my lap and lay back on the driveway looking at me. 

Maybe something was wrong with her, or maybe it was just her time. I thought she’d gradually gone downhill in the last couple of weeks. And then one day she just looked “old”. Not bad, but old. She’d lost a bit of weight and moved slower. She wasn’t as interested in her breakfast, whereas before, she always ate as if starving. Old age creeps up on all of us I guess. 

That morning, I decided we needed to take her to the vet and see if something was wrong with her, or if it was time to put her down. I decided I would put the cat food out in the barn, take the horses out and then come back and get Mama while she was eating breakfast. 

As Carmen and I led the second horse out, I saw Ollie-Cat walk slowly by on the other side of the fence and I thought to myself, “OK, time to get Mama.”  I went back through the barn and … she was gone. Not in the driveway basking in the sun, not by her food, not anywhere in the barn. I looked across our yard and our neighbor’s field and she was nowhere in sight.  I called, but there was no answering meow.  

I shivered again and felt a tear fall from one of my eyes.  I didn’t know for sure, but felt I would never see her again. 

She didn’t come for dinner that night and neither Cath or I saw her after that. Not the next day, or the day after, or over a week later. 

I suppose a wild animal could have killed her, but I don’t think that’s what happened. I think she knew it was her time. I’d like to think she found a favorite spot in the woods, or fields, or by the pond and was lying there peacefully when death came to her and whispered softly, “It’s time old girl. It’s time to cross the bridge Mama Cat.” 

Mama Cat, a Little Over a Year Ago.

Goodbye Mama Cat. We were lucky to have you in our life.

Addendum:

⁃ I wrote one previous blog about Mama Cat. You can read it here – We inherited Mama Cat about four years ago. Our neighbor had to move to a small apartment and had two other cats she was taking with her, but couldn’t take three. Mama roamed the neighborhood at will and was a frequent overnight guest at our barn, so Cathy said we’d look out for her […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/10/03/mama-cat/

Spreadsheets and Stories

Spreadsheets and Stories

Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary was last week. They were married 73 years ago on May 14th, 1951.  I was thinking about them and how both influenced my life and the lives of others. Many people say I remind them of dad, but Cathy, my wife, says mom shines through me. 

In my view, both views are right and I’m a product of the two of them. Upbringing and genetics combined, making me who I am, although not always in ways people think. 

Our environment at home was a good one. They had a unified front in how to raise the three of us kids and supported and reinforced each other at home. I’m hard pressed to remember a single time with any separation between them in their views about how to raise us. Home was a good environment, but they were also strict about what we could and couldn’t do as kids. They certainly encouraged us, and gave us carrots/rewards, but they also weren’t opposed to spankings and we all received our fair share. We learned about honesty, work, fairness, friendship and love in our home on Cherokee Lane. I think that environment and those ideals prepared me for life.  

Our Family in the 60s.

There were differences in their individual personalities and how they approached life for themselves. Like many good marriages, their ways were complementary to each other and for them, it was a classic case of 1 + 1 = 3.    I’ll talk about a couple of examples here and how they rubbed off on me. 

Most who know me would say I’m pretty organized – some might even say anally so. I’ve been that way for much of my life. I use to-do lists, spreadsheets, outlines, plans … probably more than most. While some think I inherited that from dad, it’s actually pure mom. That’s how she attacked life, and her work. She was the secretary in the main office at our local high school. If you needed to find out something, the standard answer was “go ask Gen”.  When I applied to West Point, it was mom who organized everything, making sure my packet was complete and reflected well on me. 

Mom and I on Graduation Day at West Point.

I’ve thought about how much of my “orderliness” was a product of her, or of my time at West Point and in the Army. Maybe over the years, they became mutually reinforcing. 

Dad on the other hand, was a bit looser in his approach to life.  I’m not sure how much the war influenced him, but I think quite a bit. I’m betting getting wounded and almost dying makes you approach a lot of things differently, and so it was with dad. He was a hard worker, but when work was done, he enjoyed life. Dinners out, dancing, having a few drinks. When the weekend came, he was ready to enjoy it and life. I think he approached life in general that way, and tried not to let things burden or worry him, even when there were challenges. 

He was also a gifted storyteller. Telling tales about his childhood, or the war, or one of the railroads he worked for – he could tell his story and make you feel you were right there. You were living it with him while he talked. It was a special gift and over the years if you were ever with dad at our home, or somewhere else, you probably heard more than a few of his stories.  Even when he repeated them, he could still make you laugh.  

One other thing about Dad. He never made all that much money, but money never had a hold on him. He was always generous, with family, friends and strangers.

I certainly inherited his lust for life and try to enjoy every day. As for story telling, well, I think I have some of his ability to tell a tale, however if I’m honest with myself, I’m only a pale imitation in that department.  It’s perhaps what I miss about him the most. 

Dad and I Swapping Stories, While Drinking Some Wine in the Alps

They both were friends with people of all ages and had the ability to put people at ease. When traveling, they would inevitably make new friends.  

My cousin Dawn may have given the best description of mom and dad I’ve ever heard. “Your mom was like home.  Comfortable and warm.  Your dad was like a spark that gets a flame going then keeps the fire dancing. They were special people.  I’m smiling now thinking about it.”

Although both mom and dad have passed on, I’m wishing them a happy belated anniversary. I’m thankful for the gifts they’ve given me, and for the enrichment they brought so many others. 

Happy Anniversary and Thank You for Everything.

Addendum:

  • Thanks to my cousin, Dawn Tedrick, for her wonderful description of my folks!

No One Stands Alone

No One Stands Alone

On May 1st of this year, The United Methodist Church voted overwhelmingly to accept LGBTQ clergy and allow ministers to perform LGBTQ weddings. It was a good day for my church and for all of us. Raised as a Methodist, I’m happy to see the church finally take this next step, although it hasn’t been an easy path getting to this point. 

I grew up a Methodist.  I was baptized in the church as a baby, confirmed in my youth, and received my Boy Scout God and Country award after working with our minister, Reverened Hearn, for nearly a year. I belonged to the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) both in Junior High and High School. When mom passed away in 2017, her service was held at the same church I grew up in and where she and my dad were married in 1951. I believe our church was a part of my foundation, helping me grow into the person I’ve become.

Photo of my Methodist Church Confirmation Class in the ‘60s

John Wesley founded the Methodist Church in the mid 1700s and over time, it grew to become the second largest Protestant denomination in the United States. The church has focused on social issues from the beginning, including the abolition of slavery. The Methodist Church also promoted the idea of women pastors, who were officially recognized in 1956, earlier than most other churches.

Although the Methodist Church had openly gay members and ministers for quite some time, in 2019, delegates from around the world voted 438 to 384 passing what was called the “Traditional Plan”, which tightened the church’s existing ban on same-sex marriage and gay and lesbian clergy. Many of those that voted to tighten the ban were from overseas churches, particularly in Africa, and from conservative churches here in the southern United States. However, the writing was on the wall, and it was inevitable that change would come. As a result, in 2019 churches were also given a four-year window to choose to leave over “reasons of conscience” if they desired, and still keep their church property. 

In the intervening four years, nearly a quarter of the nation’s roughly 30,000 United Methodist churches departed by the December ‘23 deadline. In Texas, more than forty percent of the churches left. 

I prefer looking at the statistics another way. Three-quarters of the churches elected to stay and embrace love, and the future. The tally Wednesday to remove the 40-year-old ban on the ordination of “self-avowed practicing homosexuals” was 692 to 51.  Embrace the future, indeed. 

Sign Outside my Old Church Back Home. **

“We’ve always been a big-tent church where all of God’s beloved were fully welcome,” said Bishop Tracy Smith Malone, the new president of the Council of Bishops. She called the vote “a celebration of God breaking down walls.” *

After the votes, some attendees gathered in a circle to sing a Methodist song that has become a refrain for many LGBTQ Christians. “Draw the circle wide, draw it wider still. Let this be our song: No one stands alone.” *

I spoke with a friend, Bob, who I grew up with. Bob still lives back home and goes to our old church there. He told me that at last week’s service, as communion was offered, the minister made an extra point of saying everyone is welcome to take communion. Everyone.

Yes, I grew up a Methodist. I’m proud of what the Church did this month. God’s love is alive and with all of us. Let this be our song – no one stands alone. 

++Feel free to share this blog.++

Addendum:

  • Thanks to my friend Bob, back in Ottawa for reviewing this blog and providing some input. We had some texts back and forth on what was going on in the Methodist Church in general, and more specifically in my old church there. Bob is a true person of faith and I respect him, and his opinions.
  • * These two paragraphs were modified from a New York Times article on the recent vote.
  • ** Photo is from 1st United Methodist Church of Ottawa, Il Facebook page.

Cacophony of Color

Cacophony of Color

In his poem, The Wasteland, TS Eliot famously said, “April is the cruelest month.” Perhaps Mr. Eliot is correct, but it’s hard to imagine that in our gardens this year. It’s as if God said, “We’ll put on a show in April, and worry about the other months later.” And what a show, at our home here in the Virginia Piedmont. 

When we moved here twenty-five years ago, there were no gardens. Yes, we inherited a few azaleas, some forsythia, and a couple of dogwoods, but that was it. Everything since has been all Cathy. The hillside garden, the shade garden, the front garden, Cathy’s cutting garden, some redbuds – they were all put in by Cathy. Her labor of love is both amazing and beautiful. 

The Hillside Garden in Early Spring.

This year, it was if all of our plants were on a clock that had somehow both accelerated and compressed time. In February the hellebores and crocuses started the show. March blended in the daffodils and forsythia, which led to the cacophony of color that was April.  

In March, the Pre-Show of Daffodils and Hellebores.

I don’t know if it was global warming, a warm winter, a mild spring, plenty of rain or what. All I know is the flowers were unbelievable – an endless parade of new blooms, all consolidated over the past thirty days. 

April Flowers (1)

The month started with Virginia Bluebells, Viburnum and the Redbuds. The Dogwoods, Forget Me Nots and our Japanese Maple with its red leaves then joined in. Bugle weed and Dandelions added their flowers to the crowd and were soon followed by our Azaleas, which never bloom as early as they did this year. 

April Flowers (2)

The Shade Garden started contributing as well, with Lillies of the Valley, Bleeding Hearts and Spice Bush all getting in on the act. At the end of the month the Clematis and Columbine became a part of the show. 

April Flowers (3)

April is gone now. Other than the Crocuses, Daffodils and Redbuds, most of the flowers and blooms still remain, with more coming. I know “April Showers bring May Flowers”, but it’s hard for me to believe the month of May could be more beautiful than this past April. In my mind, it’s only cruel that April is over.

April Flowers (4)

Addendum:

  • In all honesty, I know next to nothing about plants or flowers. What I’ve learned has come over the past ten years since retiring. While I was working, I didn’t have a full understanding, or appreciation for what Cathy did here at the farm with her gardens. It’s only been since I’ve retired that the scales have fallen from my eyes and I truly see the beauty. I know it sounds silly, but it’s true. Since then, my awareness and interest have grown. I’m still not great on names, but Cath helps me with that.  Continually.

The Dog Star

The Dog Star

Sirius, the Dog Star, faded from the night sky at the farm by mid-April. Carmen, our Star Dog, was in ascension and finishing her Physical Therapy (PT) from leg surgery at the end of April. The three of us kept each other company for three months during Carmen’s recovery.

Carmen injured her back leg in January and required TPLO* surgery to repair it.  Regular readers of this blog will remember that I talked about her injury and first week of PT previously**.  Since then, we’ve done twelve weeks of PT, plus confinement in a crate at night and doing everything on a leash. To prevent her from reinjuring the leg, no free running or walking was allowed. It’s been a challenge. 

I have two lasting memories from the past twelve weeks. 

The first was our daily PT sessions. During the first week, we started with three five-minute sessions each day with Carmen tripoding around. By the six-week mark, she started barking in the middle of the morning and then later in the afternoon when it was time for her PT. “Let’s go!”, she seemed to say. By week twelve, Carmen graduated to two daily workouts of 35-40 minutes each, covering about two miles in each session. A stellar patient, by the end of three months, she was rock solid with no apparent issues. 

We Walked a Lot of On-Leash Miles Together.

My second memory was of our walk each night at the end of the evening, for her to go to the bathroom one last time before bed. Looking up in the southern sky, I would see Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. In the crisp winter air, I often stood and contemplated the Dog Star, as Carmen went about her business. 

Photo on the Right From Our Backyard in February.

Sirius is a part of the constellation, Canis Major, which translates to the “Great Dog”. In Greek mythology, Canis Major is often associated with Orion, the hunter. In fact, if you look up in the winter sky, the two constellations are near each other and Orion’s belt always points to Sirius. They are forever tied together as they pass overhead. As with Orion and Canis Major, Carmen and I were also tied together this past winter, focusing on her return to good health.

Backyard Photo of Orion’s Belt Pointing to the Dog Star in March.

Over the course of history, ancient mariners used Sirius for navigation.  It was also considered a somewhat mystical star and regarded as a source of inspiration, guiding spiritual searchers on their journeys.

I think the Dog Star was doing that for us a little bit as well. Viewing Sirius gave me comfort and encouragement during the passing weeks. Maybe it was just knowing something out there was permanent and lasting. It had been in the sky forever and would continue shining long after we were gone. Our problems and dramas seemed a bit inconsequential in the big scheme of things. 

Through February and March, I marked the passage of Sirius across the heavens. Starting high and to the East in the southern sky, as winter passed, the Dog Star moved a little lower and a little further to the West each evening.  

As April arrived, Carmen grew stronger, while Sirius continued moving lower in the sky. By the middle of the month, the Dog Star was no longer visible at the farm – nearby hills and tall trees blocked a view as it fell lower and lower in the night sky. Carmen and I were left to finish her recovery on our own, or so I thought. 

We continued working hard for the next couple of weeks …

Then, near the end of April, Cath, Carmen and I went to the Chesapeake Bay for a few days. Early one evening, I took Carmen out a little after dinner for a short walk. I happened to look to the southwest across the Bay, and there was our old companion, Sirius, low in the sky. I wasn’t sure at first, as it seemed a bit pale in the evening gloam.  Looking to the right, I found Orion, just above the horizon, with his belt pointing straight at our friend. I smiled and gave Carmen a pat on the head. The Dog Star, back with us for one last night, was telling me all was well with the world.

Two days later, Cath and I called the vet and received the green light to let Carmen start walking and running off leash again. We took it slow, with off-leash activities confined to the yard, between the house and barn.  Those first few days were great. Carmen has stuck close to us, even though she’s off leash. You can see her wiggle and know she’s happy, but she too is taking it easy and not overdoing it. I think she understands what’s going on as well. As time passes, we’ll begin doing our regular off leash walks, but for now we’re careful. 

Cath and Carmen, Enjoying the Sunshine, and No Leash.

As May arrived and Canis Major totally disappeared, we continued our training with more off-leash exercise. There have been a couple minor bumps, but we seem on track. By early August, when the Dog Days of Summer*** arrive and Sirius rises in conjunction with the sun, our lives will, with more work and some luck, return to normal.  In the meantime, we are taking it day-by-day, tied together like Orion and Canis Major, traversing our nearby fields and trails. 

Addendum:

  • * TPLO surgery – You can’t really repair a dog’s ligaments. Instead, they now do something called tibial plateau leveling osteotomy (TPLO) surgery, a major advancement in the treatment of ligament rupture. “This surgery changes the angle and relationship between the thigh bone (femur) and the shin bone (tibia).  The overall intent of the surgery is to reduce the amount the tibia shifts forward during a stride. This is accomplished by making a semicircular cut through the top of the tibia, rotating the top of the tibia, and using a bone plate to allow the tibia to heal.  This realignment of the surfaces within the knee (stifle) helps provide stability during a stride and helps reduce future joint inflammation and osteoarthritis. By carefully adjusting the angle or slope of the top of the tibia, surgeons can create a more normal configuration of the knee joint and reduce mechanical stress.”  You can learn more here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibial-plateau-leveling_osteotomy
  • If you live in Northern Virginia/the Virginia Piedmont I can’t recommend DR Nicholson and Salutaris Veterinary Specialists enough. You can learn more about them here: http://www.salutarisvet.com
  • ** Here’s the blog about Carmen’s injury, surgery and initial PT: My walking companion for the past nine years is sidelined. Carmen needed surgery last week to repair a ruptured ligament in her left rear leg. We went down this road with a previous dog and are familiar with the journey. It doesn’t make it any less distressing for […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2024/02/06/carmens-surgery/
  • *** The “Dog Days of Summer” have been called that for over 2,000 years.  Early August is called the Dog Days of Summer, as that is when Sirius is first seen again, after disappearing from the night sky. It’s observable in the early morning sky and rises over the horizon about the same time the sun does. In ancient history, they thought the extra bright star, in addition to the sun, is what made it so hot. 

Window Dressing

Window Dressing

My birthday was a couple of weeks ago.  At dinner, Cathy gave me a hand-written birthday letter that I love. Her words that have stayed with me?  “How does one encapsulate so many years?  You Don’t. You live in the present and move to the future.  The past is window dressing.” 

The night of my birthday, we went out for dinner at one of our favorite local restaurants, Field and Main.  As we were having a cocktail, Cathy gave me my birthday “letter”. It talked about our lives together, aging, and particularly this past year. I won’t go into detail, but this year has had its challenges. I loved the letter.  In her honest way, Cath summed up so much, and gave me so much with the letter.  

My favorite part came about halfway through. Talking about my birthday, and all of our years together, Cathy said “How does one encapsulate so many years? You don’t. You live in the present and move to the future.  The past is window dressing.”

What a true statement. From the dictionary – Window Dressing – 1: the act of decorating and arranging products to display in a store window. 2: something intended to make a person or thing seem better or more attractive but does not have any real importance or effect.

Isn’t that accurate?  “Does not have any real importance or effect”. Certainly we are all products of our past, and I know I love telling stories of the past, but you can’t live there. You need to live in the present and look to the future. Otherwise, what’s the point? If you stay buried in the past, what is the future?

Thanks to Cathy for a lovely birthday evening and a letter I’m saving. Her words of wisdom are something all of us could use as an occasional reminder. 

Live life exuberantly – Live in the present and move to the future. 

Cathy, Living in the Present, the Night of my Birthday.

Top and Cathy

Top and Cathy

With no kids to talk about, Cath and I have a million stories about our dogs, particularly our first dog, Top. Don’t parents always have the most pictures and stories about their first born?! A German friend called Top “Einmalig”, which translates to “one of a kind”. This story, from 1981, involved Top, Cathy hitting a tree with our car, the MPs, the German Polizei and a little old lady. We were stationed in Würzburg, Germany at the time.

Cathy and Top, Around the Time of the Story.

Cathy had been shopping at the commissary and was returning home with both Top and our groceries in the back seat. Here is her version of what happened.

#—#

Top and I were on our way home from shopping at the commissary at Leighton Barracks in Würzburg one afternoon. As we entered a traffic circle, I must have been going a little too fast, as the groceries fell over onto Top and scared him. Out of my peripheral vision I saw him try and jump out my car window. I caught him by the collar and pulled him back into the car, but of course I didn’t pay attention to where I was driving. When I looked back at the road I was heading straight for a tree, which I hit. I must have only glanced off of it because the car was fine, or so I thought at the time.

I kept driving and stopped at a red light, where reaction to the accident set in. I said to Top in the back seat, “Well at least we are still together and OK!” I looked in the back and Top wasn’t there – he jumped out of the window after all. I pulled over and imagining the worst, got out of the car and looked under it, making sure I hadn’t dragged him by his leash. No Top there, so that was a small bit of grace, but where was he, and what to do?

I was near the American MP station, so I drove there.  I repeated the story of what happened, and they decided it would be prudent to call the Polizei.  

In Germany, they treat their animals and trees well. Really well. If you illegally kill an animal or damage or fell a tree, there are hefty fines. Hearing we were involving the PoIizei, I naturally became concerned and worried about both them and a potential fine. My only real interaction with the Polizei up to this time was at the German airports where they guarded against terrorists, were always in riot gear and carrying automatic weapons.  You didn’t mess around with them.

The Polizei arrived and looked a bit stern at first.  I explained everything again, this time in German, and at one point I think I saw one of the Polizei hiding a laugh or a small smirk.  I should point out you generally didn’t see the Polizei laughing.   In this instance they were quite nice and helpful.  We determined the tree wasn’t really damaged and they let me go with a warning to drive more carefully.  

As I was getting ready to leave, it turned out something was wrong with the car, as it was making a funny noise. The MPs and I decided to leave the car at the MP station and have someone pick me up. We called Hindenburg Kaserne where Max was stationed, but he had deployed to an undisclosed location in the field and was unreachable. His company said they would send Lieutenant Smrt (yes, that really was his last name – it had no vowels) from his Company to pick me up.

I was waiting on a corner for LT Smrt’s arrival when all of a sudden Top, seemingly without a care, trotted down the sidewalk towards me, trailing his leash. I grabbed him and sat on the corner hugging and holding him, crying tears of joy and relief. A little old lady who was walking by, stopped and asked me what was wrong and “Ist dein Hund krank?” (Is your dog sick?) I looked at her and just couldn’t go through the story a third time, and for a second time in German. I said the easiest thing that came to mind. “Ja. Er hat Krebs.” (Yes, he has cancer.) She petted Top, wished us good luck and looking sad, walked away.

We’ve told this story over the years and it always gets a chuckle. I laugh at myself a bit in the telling. We spoke fluent, or near fluent German at the time, but I was so overwhelmed with emotions, the “Krebs” story was the best I could do. 

#—#

Top was with us for 16 years, dying, not of cancer, but old age in 1997. By then he was a world traveler, having crossed the Atlantic three times, visited numerous European countries and several States back home. He truly was Einmalig and we still miss him and his antics.

Top – With and Without a Haircut.

Addendum:

Here are three previous blogs about Top.

  • I don’t know if our dog,Top, could bark in both German and English, but he had a fluent understanding of the two languages … We discovered this outside our local Bäckerei (Bakery), when an old German lady bent down, looked at Top and said “Gib mir deine Pfote”. As she extended her hand, Top […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/07/15/our-bilingual-dog-top/
  • Next month, it will be 25 years since our first dog, Top, passed away. He was 17 at the time. I was recently thinking about him, as we placed baskets on couches and chairs, so our current dog, Carmen, couldn’t hop up for a quick snooze while we were out. We weren’t that smart with Top. He was a covert couch sleeper the entire […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/12/01/let-sleeping-dogs-lie/
  • Top was our first dog, but not our last. When he died in 1997 at seventeen years of age, I think we cried for three days. We still have a book with all of the sympathy cards our friends sent us. If you want to know a bit more about Top, here’s the eulogy we read when we spread his ashes at Tibbet Knob, on the border between Virginia and West Virginia […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/01/09/top/