FJB and Signs

FJB and Signs

WARNING! If you don’t like seeing the F-Bomb in print, you shouldn’t read this week’s blog. I regret using it here, but it’s germane to the vandalism that has taken place with political signs and a building here in sleepy little Fauquier County. There is, of course, stupidity everywhere. It’s always fun when it hits close to home.

The sign crew from the Fauquier County Democratic Committee (FCDC) has been installing large signs, with the permission of landowners, along the highways and byways of our lovely county to support the re-election of Jennifer Wexton to Congress. Due to redistricting, Fauquier County moved from the very RED 5th Congressional District, to the slightly BLUE 10th Congressional District. Congresswoman Wexton has served in Congress for the last four years. Before that, she was a State Senator and a prosecutor. She is a great public servant who actually listens, and we are doing everything we can to re-elect her.

We’ve installed over 120 large 4×8 and 4×4 foot signs around the county over the past month. We placed them on road frontage and properties of landowners who specifically granted permission for these signs. If you are driving through the county, they are hard to miss. Recently, someone decided to deface two of the signs and wrote FJB in spray paint on the signs. — sigh — FJB? What’s does FJB stand for, you ask? “Fuck Joe Biden” would be the correct response.

The homeowners called the police, who dutifully took their report. Several horrified Republicans offered to pay to have the sign replaced. The owners gracefully declined. Our committee planned to replace the sign (we have extras for just such occasions), but for now, the homeowners wants them left up, so EVERYONE can see what respect some idiots have for political signs.

FJB in Script….

Afterwards, I was looking around online, thinking maybe they were using FJB to represent something else. No, “Fuck Joe Biden” was the first thing that came up. And then there was a wonderful song titled “FJB” by Parradox. Here are a few of the lyrics, or as a certain former President might say, very fine lyrics, very special lyrics, probably the best lyrics ever:

“Fuck Joe Biden and that bitch Kamala, too

And fuck Nancy Pelosi, don’t think I forgot ‘bout you

You attention craving bitch, that’s all the fuck you want

You think you high and mighty, but trust me, you are not”

I contacted my counterpart, Greg, with the Fauquier County Republican Committee to see if he would sign a joint statement with me for publication in our hardcopy and online local papers, requesting people respect election signs. He readily agreed. A letter was drafted and we sent it to the papers, where it was published.

A Joint Letter to the Editor

In the next week, we had two roadside signs stolen.

Then, last Friday night, our FJB friends struck again. Maybe the miscreants who defaced our signs can’t read. Maybe they thought they were clever. Instead of spraying FJB on more signs, they decided to spray it on the side of a shop in downtown Warrenton. Yep. They graduated from defacing disposable signs, to defacing permanent buildings.

Graduating to Bigger Vandalism

I realize both sides have their nitwits, but c’mon, some people are just stupid. Just south of here about 30 miles, you can find farms and homes with 8×4 foot “Fuck Joe Biden” signs right there on the road side. You can also go to Amazon and buy your very own “Fuck Biden” banner to display outside your home. Certainly the 1st Amendment protects people’s right to say what they want, and that’s fine. I guess I should be happy they are displaying those signs on their own property. There is nothing wrong with proudly letting people know your command of the English language. I always wonder how folk driving by explain those signs to their kids in the back seat of the car.

You Too can Order this Fine Sign on Amazon

Still, I can’t help but wonder if the level of discourse has fallen enough, that it’s not toooooo much of a leap to go from seeing a “Fuck Joe Biden” sign on the side of the road, to cowardly scribbling FJB on a sign, or the side of a building in the dark of night. I’m sure their mothers, and many of their buddies are proud of them.

Keep scribbling. Show the world how ignorant you are. We have plenty of signs, and we are going to win this election.

—- Feel free to share this blog —-

Addendum:

Thanks to my friends Irv, David and Colleen for their help with this blog.

Wind Turbine Tumult

Wind Turbine Tumult

Am I going crazy? The weird feelings and nausea while driving by the wind turbines were real. I furtively look at them and yep, they were still standing there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. My eyes snapped back to the road and I tried to focus.

On our recent trip home to Illinois, Cath and I drove through some huge wind farms off of Interstate 65 between Indianapolis and Chicago. As I saw the wind turbines in the distance, I felt a rumble in my stomach. D@mn… With a nervous laugh, I started telling Cathy about the last time I drove through them, thinking maybe telling the story would make the rising feelings go away.

It was 2017 and I was driving home to see mom. She hadn’t been well for a while and as a result, I was probably off a little. I was going to stay at my Sister Berta and her husband Jack’s home near Pontiac, and Google Maps was taking me a different way for the last section of the trip. As I was driving north from Indianapolis, I entered a field of wind turbines. There were hundreds of them and it went on for miles. The turbines were huge, with three blades turning on each. I looked across the fields, mesmerized.

Wind Turbines… For as Far as the Eye Can See

The turbines were turning at different speeds. Some weren’t turning at all. There were lines of them. There were scattered individual ones. There was a pattern. There was no pattern. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh the blades continued to turn silently. I rolled down a window to hear them, but they made no discernible sound. And still they turned, independent and out of synch with each other. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I started to think of them as the evil cousins of the quaint wooden windmills in Holland.

The Evil Cousin of the Quaint Wooden Windmills in Holland

And that’s when I started to feel funny. A bit of nausea, a little out of sorts, foggy in the brain. I tried to keep my eyes on the road and ignore them, but found my eyes continually drifting to the left or right to watch them some more. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I felt myself drifting. Whoosh… whoosh…whoosh… With a start, I popped out of my reverie, saw an exit and pulled off the interstate and into a gas station.

I got out of my car and shook my body a couple of times. Inside the station, I bought a Diet Coke, and with a nervous laugh, told the clerk about the windmills and that I needed a break. He chuckled, and said something like “Yea, that happens around here sometimes. ” After about 15 minutes, I resumed driving. Ten minutes later I was past the turbines without incident.

I finished telling Cathy the story. Without commenting, she just looked at me like I was nuts.

About then, we started passing through the first wind farm and initially everything was fine. I kept up a steady chatter with Cathy, and tried to ignore the beasts outside. Unfortunately, after a bit, I found myself looking at them, standing there, extended in every direction as far as you could see. I kept talking to Cathy. “What do you think about them hon?” “They’re kind of ugly.” was all she said.

No Traffic, but Plenty of Wind Turbines

About then, nausea started creeping in. This was ridiculous. Hmmm, did I eat anything for breakfast that might cause nausea? No… I focused on the road ahead. Ten more miles and we’d exit the interstate. I furtively look left and right. Yep, they were still there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… My eyes snapped back and I focused on the road. I suggested to Cathy she take a couple of pictures of the turbines. I turned the radio up. The feeling was getting worse. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… Suddenly, our exit appeared, and we left the interstate. A mile or so to the west, we were finally free of the windmills and my nausea disappeared. I didn’t tell Cathy about this second wind turbine experience, except to say I thought they were creepy.

Was I going crazy? Later, I looked around on the internet to see if I could find anything. It turns out, something DOES happen to some people, but not most. They even have a name for it – Wind Turbine Syndrome (of course).

Symptoms have been observed in some of those who live near the farms, and in people passing through them. Effects including headaches, nausea, lack of concentration, vertigo and ringing in the ears have all been documented.

The cause? They aren’t sure, but two possibilities have been suggested. First, “Infrasound”, a sound-wave just below what the ear can actually detect (I immediately thought of what has happened to some of our diplomatic folk in Cuba). It is created by the turbines disturbing wind flow. The second possibility is something called “Flicker”. Flicker is caused by the sun reflecting off turbine blades creating a strobe effect. Both can cause headaches and nausea. Apparently, I’m in a minority and most people aren’t effected by the wind turbines at all. Still, I was happy to learn I’m not totally crazy, at least not due to the wind turbines.

As I sit here typing now, I think of them silently and stoically waiting for my return. Maybe next time, they will have a bigger effect, and I won’t get off so easy. Maybe even now they are plotting something new. Maybe they will get closer to the road. Maybe they will… Maybe next time… Maybe… Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…

Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…

Going Home

Going Home

We are driving home to Illinois this week. The last time we drove to Ottawa was in 2017, and mom was dying. This time, we are going to see living family and friends, and stay at one of the touchstones of my youth.

We never get back to see folk as often as we would like. Life gets in the way, and time keeps on ticking, or depending on your perspective, racing along. We have visited a couple of times since 2017, but always flew. Our last trip was a short one a little over a year ago, and my sister Berta and her husband Jack had a great family reunion while we were there.

The Last Visit Home

This time, Cath and I are bringing our dog, Carmen, and driving. It typically takes 12 to 14 hours to cover the 750 miles, but you don’t measure progress by time or by miles. You track the States you cross. We’ll go from Virginia to West Virginia, then Maryland, back to West Virginia, then Pennsylvania, West Virginia a third time, Ohio, Indiana, and finally, Illinois. You get to see a bit of ‘Murica along the way.

The Northern Route is Shorter, but the Southern Route is an Easier Drive

Cathy is never crazy about the drive. For her, it’s a bit like Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road” (if you haven’t read the book, you may have seen the movie with Viggo Mortensen.) Me? I always enjoy it. I watch the land transform from the Piedmont here in Virginia, to the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, the rolling hills of Ohio, and eventually the flatlands of Indiana and Illinois. None of it is dramatic landscape, but if you have the time, it’s a beautiful way to see and reach the heartland.

It’s funny. I started this blog with “We are driving home…”. Neither Cathy or I have lived in Ottawa since we were 18, nearly 50 years ago. We have lived in our current home here if Virginia for over 23 years. “Going home” of course isn’t always about going to a place. It can be about a time in your life as well. Some may think it’s corny, but there’s something gratifying about occasionally returning to your roots, however short the visit is.

This visit is actually starting at Kishauwau Cabins, a resort we knew in our younger days as Camp Kishauwau, our local Boy Scout Camp. During our youth, my friends, Tim, Howard, Mark and I spent many a night there, either camping in tents or sleeping in one of the few run down cabins it had at the time. The Boy Scouts sold the camp decades ago, and it was turned into a getaway that attracts people from Chicago and the suburbs now. On this trip, we’ll be with our wives and girlfriends and staying in their new and remodeled cabins. My guess is our food and adult beverages will be better than the camp fare we ate and bug juice we drank during our previous stays in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

High Above Vermillion’s Waters…Camp Kishauwau

I’m sure we will tell an old story or two, but we’ll try and keep it in check. Still, I would be surprised if WrongWay LeBeau isn’t mentioned a time or two. Other subjects might come up as well – marshmallow fights, the time we started to run a fellow scout up the flagpole, or the time our troop failed to keep a proper fire-watch during summer camp, or … We’ve only told and heard these stories a few hundred times before, so there’s no reason to repeat them. And yet we probably will, at least a few times.

Like These Old Photos From Camp, our Memories may be a bit Blurry.

Later, we’ll spend a few nights at Berta and Jack’s beautiful home and see them, along with my other sister, Tanya and husband Shawn. The trip is short enough that it’s doubtful we’ll have time to see all of the nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews. Sadly, that’s just how life is sometimes, especially when you live six states away.

Over the course of the week, we will probably have a pizza from Sam’s or Bianchi’s, and maybe a pork tenderloin sandwich somewhere. I’m sure we will visit Allen Park as well. There are some things you just “have to do” when back in Ottawa, no matter the length of the trip.

Eventually, the visit will end and we will return to our home in Virginia. The departure, not money, is always the real price of a trip back home. Knowing time is fleeting and we are growing older, departing is always a little bittersweet for me. The hugs, the handshakes, the I love you’s … the thought of “When will we gather together again?”

Memories are nice. Keeping friendships and family love alive are even better. The best trips make new memories, and I know it will happen this time as well. Still, there is always a question in the back of my mind – “Where does the time go, and when will we gather together again?”

Addendum:

My friend Tim is always more poetic than I am, and suggested adding the 1969 song “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by Fairport Convention in the Addendum. It’s a nice listen and adds perspective as well – https://youtu.be/OkOB57UcYk8

Classified Claptrap

Classified Claptrap

I have held various security clearances for decades in the past. I spent years working in a Special Compartmented Information Facility (SCIF), both in the military, and as a civilian. I’m not here to judge, but I’d probably be in jail if I’d done what our former President did.

One of the things we learned about classified information early on is that in order to access classified documents, or programs, there are actually two requirements. First, you need the security clearance level required for that information. Second, you must have a “need to know” the information. That is, holding a TOP SECRET* (TS) clearance isn’t a sufficient reason to see a TS document. You also must have a specific need to see the particular information.

I obtained my first clearance, SECRET, while still at West Point in the seventies. They don’t just give you a SECRET clearance, or any clearance for that matter. You fill out a form answering several pages of questions, they do a background check, interview family and friends and determine whether you are “trustworthy”. The process takes a while. For most folk, unless you have done hard drugs, committed a crime, declared bankruptcy, or declared hostility to the United States, it isn’t too hard to receive a SECRET clearance.

Bankruptcy is One of the Reasons you Can be denied a Clearance.

In 1989, we returned from an assignment in Germany to the States and I transferred to a job in the DC area. For that work, I underwent a Special Background Investigation (SBI) in order to receive a TS/SCI/SI/TK (TOP SECRET, Special Compartmented Information, Special Intelligence, Talent Keyhole, clearance). These are a wee bit harder to obtain. Actually, a lot harder. It took months and months for the investigations to take place and for the government to grant my clearance (today, it’s not unusual for the process to take nearly a year). I provided information on where I’d lived over the course of my life, background about my jobs and employers, info on family members and friends, and several references. I documented all overseas travel. I documented any communications I had with East Bloc or communist personnel. In addition to verifying the information I provided, and talking with my references, the government also interviewed neighbors, former bosses, coworkers and family members. They physically went to my prior homes, talked with neighbors and asked about my habits. It’s an intensive and invasive process. When I finally received my clearance, I was also eventually “read in” to a couple of highly classified Special Access Programs (SAPs) further restricting who could access the information.

My TS Renewal in 2012 – All 38 Pages of It.

Everything we did in support of those SAPs was done in a SCIF. To access the SCIF, in addition to the combination lock, there was a retina reader at the outside door, and it was only after your eye was scanned that the door would unlock. Our particular SCIF also required two person access. That is, a person was not allowed in the facility by him or herself. There was a requirement for at least two people to occupy the SCIF, whenever it was opened. This was to prevent someone taking unauthorized information or files out of the SCIF.

The SCIF had intrusion detection systems, and needed to meet a host of other requirements effecting communication systems, the size of duct work and special wiring and HVAC requirements. Cell phones, or any other personal electronic devices weren’t allowed in the SCIF. Inside the facility, all of our classified information was stored in safes which met certain requirements. When you opened the safe, you initialed a form that you opened the safe, and what day and time it was. At the end of the day, when you returned the classified documents to the safe, after locking the safe, you again initialed the form, provided the time you locked it, and the date and time were then verified by a second person.

This is me, During the Time I was Working in my First SCIF

If you ever transported classified information outside the SCIF to another location, you needed a special permit. The classified info was double wrapped. You followed a schedule in delivering the information, including the expected arrival time. If there were schedule variances, you notified the authorities.

When I left those SAPs several years later, I was sworn to secrecy, and signed papers indicating I wouldn’t reveal anything about those programs for seventy years.

Honestly, it was all a pain in the ass. BUT, we all understood why it was required, and so we complied without complaining. We understood the security of the nation could be put at risk if there were security compromises, whether intentional or not.

I don’t know what is in the material the former President took to Florida. I also don’t know what he intended to do with it. I doubt we ever will. Based on the covers and documents shown in the now world famous photo, there was TS/SCI material, SECRET/SCI material and other classified information. There were empty SCI folders, with the info, perhaps, stored elsewhere. None of this was stored in a SCIF. As the President was now the former President, there was no longer a “need to know”. The information should not have been at Mar-a-Lago.

Just. Totally. Unbelievable.

Was this a politically motivated search? I don’t know, but given the material found, it’s a moot point. The search was justified. What he did was wrong. Are there always two standards for everything – one for the former President, and one for everyone else? Why do citizens continue to listen to his claptrap**?

Here are some things I do know:

  • The government held constant dialogs with the former President, his staff, and his lawyers about returning the missing information for over a year, as required by the the Presidential Records Act (enacted after the criminal Nixon tried to destroy documents in 1974).
  • The former President’s lawyers apparently lied when they swore in June there was no more classified information stored in Florida.
  • In 2005, former National Security Advisor, Sandy Berger, was convicted of removing, and then destroying five classified documents from the National Archives. He received a $50,000 fine, two years of probation and 100 hours of community service.
  • In 2015, General Petraeus was convicted for mishandling classified information with his lover. He received a $100,000 fine and two years of probation.
  • When Hilary Clinton was investigated for her server, people were calling for her prosecution and spoke of how she was unfit for office. Many of those same people are now saying what the former President has done is no big deal, and he can do what he wants.
With the former President, there are Always Two Sets of Standards. Always.

The final thing I know is that If I had done anything remotely close to this, I would have been dishonorably discharged if in the military, fired if a civilian, received a huge fine, and very possibly gone to jail. My public life would have been over.

Of course, unlike some people, I couldn’t shoot someone in the middle of 5th Avenue and get away with it either.

Addendum:

  • One of the reasons I published this blog is I became aware that many people have no idea what is required to get a clearance, or what is required for the correct handling of classified information. I thought it might be useful for folk to actually understand why this is a big deal, if you work with classified documents. Feel free to share the blog with others.
  • *TOP SECRET material is defines as something “that would cause exceptionally great damage to US national security and US persons should it reach the eyes of a foreign adversary.”
  • **Claptrap – noun – absurd or nonsensical talk or ideas.
  • The Presidential Records Act was enacted in 1978 after President Nixon sought to destroy records relating to his presidential tenure upon his resignation in 1974. The law superseded the policy in effect during Nixon’s tenure that a president’s records were considered private property, making clear that presidential records are owned by the public.
  • More info on SCIFs can be found here: https://www.dni.gov/files/NCSC/documents/Regulations/ICS-705-1.pdf
  • Thanks to my good friend Morgan Johnson for reviewing this blog, providing some editing support and suggesting some additions.

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Sometimes, it’s the little things we remember. With a small assist from Burt Lancaster, I once surprised Dad with a present of WWII mess hall coffee mugs he’d been trying to find in antique shops for years. The gift brought joy to both of us at the time, and continues giving me comfort to this day.

Dad always liked his coffee. From the time we were kids, I remember the role it played in his life. On early weekday mornings, he packed the big thermos with him as he left for work on the railroad. On weekends, there was a pot available all day long on Saturdays, and half the day on Sunday. On Saturday mornings, various uncles or aunts stopped by. They all sat around the kitchen table drinking endless cups of coffee, while telling, or retelling, the stories of their youth, and the war years. We kids often listened in, laughing at the stories we came to know by heart.

I started understanding a bit more about his love for coffee when I was applying to West Point. On a couple of occasions, dad drove me to Fort Sheridan (an Army Post in Illinois that no longer exists) for a physical and a fitness test. As we were walking on the Post, he surprised me by becoming a bit nostalgic for the “good old days” in the Army, and talked about how good the coffee was. I think he may have even joked with one of the folk we interfaced with about reenlisting, if he could have a cup of coffee from the Mess Hall. It’s strange, the things you remember, but I distinctly recall the conversations about Army coffee on those trips. It was about 27 years after World War II and he was 48 at the time.

Dad in the “Good Old Days” in 1941, Sometime Before Pearl Harbor

I eventually graduated from West Point and Cath and I were deployed to Germany for most of the ‘80s. We didn’t see Mom and Dad much during our time overseas.

In ‘85, Dad retired from the railroad, and he and mom started traveling more, particularly to jazz concerts around the country. They also managed to visit us in Germany in ‘88. While there, dad talked about their travels. In a side conversation, he mentioned they also typically visited “antique” stores during their trips. He was looking for mess hall coffee mugs from WWII, but hadn’t found any. I was intrigued. What the hell do WWII mess hall coffee mugs look like, and why did he want them?

In Dad’s words, they were thick, heavy white mugs with no handle. You could put both hands around the mug when you took your first sip in the morning, and the mug warmed your hands. He’d used them throughout his time in the Army during the war. I mean, he was waxing poetic about these mugs. I still didn’t quite know what they looked like, but that was OK. During their visit, we stopped in a couple of shops with older items, and Dad would poke around. His thinking was maybe during the occupation of Germany after the war, some mugs made it into the local economy. The looking was to no avail, and no mugs were found.

Dad, Cathy and I at a Winefest on the ‘88 Trip to Germany.

We eventually returned to the States in ‘89, and on a visit at Mom and Dad’s over Christmas, Dad and I were watching TV. The classic WWII movie, From Here to Eternity, was on. You know the movie… Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Donna Reed, Debora Kerr and Ernest Borgnine. It has the great scene with Lancaster and Kerr kissing on the beach as the waves crash over them.

As we were watching, Dad suddenly shouted out “There’s the coffee mug! Look in Burt’s hand!” What!? I look up, and I’ll be damned. Just as the Japanese are about to attack Pearl Harbor, there’s Burt with a white, thick, handleless coffee mug… which he immediately throws on the ground to go out and confront the attacking Japanese.

Everyone Knows the Scene of Burt and Deborah Kerr on the Beach, but Dad and I Were More Interested in Burt and the Coffee Mug.

I’d completely forgotten about the mugs until Dad’s outburst. Of course I immediately asked him how the hunt was going. He’d visited a lot of shops, but never seen any, or really even met anyone who knew what he was looking for.

At the time, I was involved in a couple of classified Black programs for the military and traveling a fair amount. Cathy couldn’t know where I was going, only the approximate day of my return. On the trips, we could only use cash, and no credit cards were allowed. We often had some spare time, and now that I knew how the mugs looked, I too started poking around in the occasional store.

A couple of years went by, and I wasn’t having much luck either. That changed in the spring of ‘93. I was looking around a junk shop in the middle of no where, and there they were – Six of them! Holy hell. Were these really them? I asked the owner what he knew about them, which wasn’t much, only that they were old coffee mugs. It was enough for me. I counted out some cash, bought all six mugs, and returned home with them a week later.

Six Handleless Coffee Mugs, Bought with Cash at an Unnamed Location

Cathy and I thought about giving them to Dad for a Christmas or Birthday present, however those were still a while away. Mom and Dad were coming for a visit in July, and we decided we would give them to him then, with a twist. Rather than just hand them over, we would not say anything, serve soup in them, and see if Dad noticed.

They finally made it to Virginia and the big night arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and we ate dinner in the backyard on the picnic table. Cathy made Gazpacho for a first course, and we served it in the mugs. As she and I brought the soup out, we set a mug in front of each of us.

I could hardly contain myself, I was so excited. We started eating and both Mom and Dad complemented Cath on the soup. There was no word from Dad on the mugs. Were these not the right ones? We continued eating, and all of a sudden Dad paused, and started looking at his mug. He looked more intently, and then, “Say! I … I … I think these are the mess hall coffee mugs!”, at which point I burst out laughing.

Dad verified these were INDEED the mugs. By then, we were all laughing, and I told him the story of how I found them.

We used those mugs for coffee in the morning for the rest of their visit. Dad would use both hands, and bring it up to his mouth and nose to inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, probably the same way he did back in 1940-‘45. When they left, I sent four of the mugs home with them, and kept two for us.

Nostalgia and Coffee. What’s Not to Like?

Eventually, Dad passed away in 2010. At some point in time, mom gave the four mugs back to us. Occasionally, I use one of them for my own Cuppa Joe in the morning. I feel the warmth of the mug in my hands, inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, and think back to Dad – It’s a wonderful way to start the day.

Addendum:

If you want to see the scene of Burt Lancaster with the coffee mug as the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, you can view it here: https://youtu.be/2UxTGH7cR5Y

Pacino and Hamilton

Pacino and Hamilton

In 2015, we blew off the opportunity to see a new play on Broadway called Hamilton, and attended a play featuring Al Pacino instead. After seven years, and four additional tries, we finally made it to Hamilton last week. The delay? I think fate was punishing us for our initial choice of Pacino.

In August of 2015, we were planning a December birthday celebration for Cathy in the Big Apple. While there, we intended to see a play on Broadway. We’d narrowed it down to an upcoming play starring Al Pacino, and some new play about Alexander Hamilton.

It’s true. In December 2015, we could have gone to Hamilton. That August, it opened on Broadway, after a several month stint Off-Broadway. The initial reviews were great, tickets were available and we were considering it. Still, the combination of Hip Hop, History and Alexander Hamilton didn’t seem particularly enthralling. We were also looking at a new play from David Mamet called China Doll, with Al Pacino. We both LOVE Pacino, and he and Mamet worked together before, with great success. There was a lot of buzz in the New York press about the potential for the play. For us, it wasn’t even close – we chose Pacino and China Doll, and reserved our tickets.

In December, we arrived in the City and stayed at a great little AirBnB in the East Village. We enjoyed a couple of wonderful dinners out, had drinks at several good bars, saw a museum or two, and visited Time Square. The weather was brisk, just how you want it in New York at Christmas time.

Of course by the time of our visit, all anyone was talking about was Hamilton, which went on to win 11 Tony awards. Tickets were impossible to locate, and if you could find them, impossible to afford.

And China Doll? Well, after it opened in November at the renowned Schoenfeld Theatre, the reviews were mixed at best, with one critic calling Pacino “haggard looking.” I remember thinking that at 75, I might look a bit haggard as well. Besides, wasn’t that part of the character? For us, it didn’t matter. Seeing Pacino essentially playing Pacino in a two person play, was perfect. He roamed the stage like the giant he is, and we loved it. The rest of the audience seemed to as well.

Al Pacino in China Doll

Still, we’d missed our shot at Hamilton. Back home, there were more than a few jokes made at our expense. We decided we would try and see it in the future in New York on another visit, or in DC when it toured.

Unfortunately, life, fate, karma, the gods, timing and/or bad luck intervened … for seven years.

We started planning another trip to New York in 2017, but my mom’s death occurred, along with a couple of other life activities and we never got our act together.

In 2018, Hamilton came to the Kennedy Center and we thought that was our chance. Instead, the first choice of tickets went to subscribers and members of the Kennedy Center and they went quickly. I tried purchasing tickets later without luck. They did have 40 tickets awarded by lottery at $10 each (get the joke? A Hamilton for Hamilton) for each performance. My luck with the Hamilton Lottery was similar to my luck with the Powerball Lottery – no chance, no way, no how.

In 2020, Hamilton returned to the Kennedy Center. I spent hours on the phone and online. This time, I scored tickets and we would be going in the summer. Unfortunately, this little thing called Covid occurred. They cancelled the entire run, along with everything else for the year. They would endeavor to host it again “sometime in the future”, although nothing was guaranteed.

At the start of 2022, I received a notice from the Kennedy Center they were once again going to present Hamilton. As a previous ticket holder, I was given priority for ordering new tickets. On March 15th of this year, I was able to reserve two tickets for a performance on August 17th. Now, we just needed to knock on wood that something else didn’t happen.

Finally…

Finally, August 17th arrived, we had dinner at the Kennedy Center, took the obligatory picture on the terrace and afterwards, settled into our seats.

The Stage for Hamilton at The Kennedy Center

The play? Powerful, lush, lyrical, musical, fresh, dynamic, spirited, high energy, memorable lines, memorable characters, Hamilton’s Story, America’s Story… it was everything you could hope for and we were incredibly glad to finally see it. I know that Disney had their version on TV, but for those of you who have not seen it on stage, I urge you to do so.

Looking back, I’m glad we were able to see Al Pacino live. A forgettable play? Yes. But, Pacino essentially playing Pacino? I won’t ever forget it. Still, the opportunity to see Lin-Manuel Miranda in Hamilton, on Broadway? We threw away our shot, and I’ll always regret it.

Addendum:

– We do have a few friends who saw Hamilton in New York. Many more viewed it in Chicago, or other cities where it played, including at the Kennedy Center, during it’s first run. For the current show here in DC, I see on FB, Instagram and Twitter that multiple friends are, like us, finally getting a chance to see it. I’ve yet to hear anyone say, “Oh, the play was just OK.” If you get a chance, go.

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

In August of 1970, I started to sweat and no, it wasn’t from the summer heat. I was taking Biology my sophomore year at Ottawa High School, with Charlie Alikonis as my teacher. We were to turn in our Insect Collections in early September. In theory, I had been collecting bugs all summer, but I’d been a bit lax, and the bill was coming due.

High School biology at OHS under Charlie Alikonis was something. There were other good biology teachers, including Mr Anderson and Mr Carlin, but Charlie was legendary. He had already taught at OHS for 36 years, starting in 1934. Hell, he taught my mom in ‘47. When mom had him, he was also the JV Football coach and had two undefeated teams in ‘47 and ‘48. Those of us who had him in ‘70, approached the class with a combination of awe and dread.

Charlie in the OHS Yearbooks from 1949 and 1971

OHS biology classes had plenty of class time, lab time and tests, but what everyone really remembers is the three collections we were required to submit – Insects in the summer, Leaves in the fall, and Wildflowers in the spring. They could make or break your grade, that’s how important they were. It’s also why I was starting to sweat.

Earlier that summer, I’d made the trip to The Book Store at the corner of Main and Court Street. I bought the little pins and labels for the bugs, and most importantly, carbon tetrachloride*, or carbon tet, as we learned to call it. Soak a cotton ball in it, put the cotton ball in a jar, and drop in your bugs – good night! To box the collection, some classmates bought styrofoam boxes, or used shoe boxes. My buddy Howard and I obtained old cigar boxes from Senate Billiards, just up the block on Court Street. We’d gone to Senate Billiards for years, as it was also the best place in town to buy comic books.

I eventually kicked my bug hunting skills into high gear for those last two weeks of August and the first couple of weeks in September. The little glass jar with the carbon tet worked overtime producing specimens for my collection. The tiny labels were a pain, but everything came together. I turned in a reasonable collection, although I don’t recall my grade.

An OHS Insect Collection From Back in the Day

It didn’t really matter though, as we were already starting our leaf collections. We were mostly on our own to find and identify the leaves, although I seem to recall a class field trip or two on the East Side of town. I distinctly remember a Ginkgo tree there, one of only a few in town. To this day, I still recognize their unique fan-shaped leaves, with the veins radiating out into the leaf blade. There were other unique trees in town, if you knew where to look. Sally Richland recalls her family having a sassafras tree in their yard and students came from all over to pluck leaves. At the time, it was the only one in LaSalle County.

Although not as impressive as some, I did better on my leaf collection than with my insect collection. Not everyone did though. My friend Mark recalls two other buddies, Clay and Mike only starting their collections the day before they were due. They evidently spent a good part of the night outside with flashlights trying to find particular leaves. No word on what their grades were… ;-).

An OHS Leaf Collection and a Couple of Covers – I Don’t Recall being so Clever, or Typing the Info for each Leaf

By now it was late fall, or early winter, and in addition to studying bugs and leaves, Howard and I were studying Charlie Alikonis himself. We were fascinated by him. He was of Lithuanian heritage and spoke with a bit of an accent. He also had a unique way of communicating, that anyone who studied under him remembers. As he was identifying something for you to learn, he always started with a question and then answered his own question. As an example, when holding up a Ginkgo leaf he would say, “and this is a what-ah? This is a Ginkgo Leaf”. We thought it was brilliantly funny and started imitating him ourselves, while doing other things around town, as in – “and this is a what-ah? This is a pepperoni pizza…”. , or, “and this is a what-ah? This is a cheeseburger.”

We didn’t stop there. At the time, Charlie mostly wore bow ties. Howard and I went to Bell’s Clothing in town and bought tie bow-ties. Charlie wore a flat cap to and from school. We returned to Bell’s, and both bought similar, if a bit more brightly colored caps, and wore them for the next couple of years. I don’t recall anyone else among the teachers, or for that matter the students, wearing flat caps at the time, and yet there we were. (I lost mine over the years, while Howard still has his).

A 1973 OHS Yearbook Photo of me with my Flat Cap, and Howard Sporting his Just a Few Months Ago

We may have started out doing all of this to have some fun at Charlie’s expense, but as time progressed, things shifted. It evolved into us paying homage to him. I can’t say when or why the transformation started, but it was real. I’d like to think we matured a bit and began to understand what a great teacher he was, but we were teenage boys at the time, so who knows.

Winter eventually turned to spring, and we were back in the woods and fields surrounding Ottawa. This time, we were looking for wildflowers. I recall Charlie leading a collection/identification trip after school one day, near his house in the country. Although he had to be in his 60s, he was nimble as a mountain goat running around pointing out different flowers. We kids had a tough time keeping up. He also pointed out a flower called a White Trillium, but warned us not to have it in our collections. It was rare, and endangered in Illinois at the time.

Second semester eventually ended and I passed biology. The next year, I would have Red Ryder for Chemistry and a year later, Mr Krabel for physics. OHS had a great science department back then, and I learned from all of them. Having said that, Charlie Alikonis and those collections are what have stayed in my memory over the years.

It turns out I wasn’t alone. In talking with friends and others from Ottawa, everyone who took biology remembers the collections. And those under Charlie? A near universal seal of approval, particularly from those going on to study science in college.

Charlie retired from OHS just a couple of years after we had him. In 2009, he was posthumously inducted into the OHS Hall of Fame. The highlighted words in the citation below say it all.

Charlie Alikonis – Preparing Students for Future Success

Addendum:

  • * Carbon tet is now a known carcinogen and no longer used. As Howard recently said, “Carbon tet and cigars—those collections were deadly…”
  • I owe thanks to a number of people for contributions to this blog, including buddies Tim Stouffer, and Mark Dunavan, along with Dan Shoulders, Sally Richland, Mary Cunningham Heider, and Jeanie Cunningham Ruhland.
  • Thanks to Karen Crisler and Leslie Poole for providing photos from their insect and leaf collections – they were a perfect addition!
  • Special thanks to my old friend Howard Johnson, who I’ve known since before first grade. His memories on Charlie in particular helped round out this blog.

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl. Do all families have one? You know, the one you pull out to put next to your kid’s bed when they have an upset stomach and things are sketchy? That, and coke syrup were staples of our childhood when sick. Our family puke bowl also had a dirty little secret.

Puke… not such a pleasant word, but I suppose it’s an apt descriptor. I’m not sure it’s better or worse than vomit, upchuck, ralphing, throw-up, or barf. All get the idea across pretty graphically. As kids, when the flu or some other illness turned our stomachs, the answer was always the same – a spoonful of coke syrup from the fridge, and then off to bed with the Puke Bowl by the bed. Running to the bathroom toilet was always the first option, but the bowl was right there if you didn’t think you could make it. Mom would dutifully wash and clean the bowl through out our misery, and when we finally became better, gave the bowl a thorough double cleaning and put it away in the utility room by the kitchen.

The Puke Bowl … In all it’s Glory …

Over the years, the Puke Bowl was also used by our nieces and nephews, if they happened to get sick when visiting Grandma and Grandpa. Three generations now called that big Tupperware bowl, the Puke Bowl. All of our spouses do as well. It became it’s own family tradition.

My sister Roberta “inherited” the bowl after mom died in 2017. All three of us kids were interested in it for nostalgic reasons, but Berta was the one who claimed it. To be honest, I did not realize mom still owned it, but of course I should have. Mom didn’t throw much away, and everything had multiple uses. Back then, America wasn’t the throw-away society we are today.

Mom Never Threw Much Away…At that Time, Most Folk Didn’t

Fast forward to this year…

A couple of months ago, Roberta’s granddaughter, Lydia, was visiting, became sick and started throwing up. When her mom, Kathi, came to pick Lydia up, Berta sent the Puke Bowl home with them, in case Lydia needed it in the car. A couple of weeks later, Berta was at Kathi’s, along with Kathi’s mother-in-law, Penny. As Roberta was getting ready to leave, Kathi said, “mom, don’t forget the Puke Bowl”, and handed Berta the bowl. Penny had a strange look on her face, and evidently thought the bowl was just a regular Tupperware bowl, like those you use for cooking or food storage. She exclaimed “What?!” Berta and Kathi started laughing, and then explained the WHOLE back story of the bowl to Penny.

In addition to being The Puke Bowl, the bowl had a secret life. It also doubled as THE bowl in which mom made her much acclaimed Potato Salad. It made an appearance whenever there was a big gathering or picnic for the family, church, neighborhood, or where ever. It was a massive bowl and the largest she owned, and due to the popularity of her potato salad, she didn’t want to run out. I don’t recall mom ever running out of potato salad at family (or other) gatherings when growing up. Never.

Tanya, Roberta and I Didn’t Seem to Suffer any Adverse Effects from the Puke Bowl…

The bowl is mostly retired now and lives in Berta’s basement. Lydia’s use a couple of months ago was the first time it was pulled out in quite awhile.

I should also mention Roberta’s daughter, Diane, is the official “holder” of mom’s potato salad recipe. Her version is the closest to mom’s of any I’ve tasted, which means it’s pretty d@mned good. Although Diane has her own set of bowls and Tupperware, including a large one she makes her potato salad in, when ever there’s a big family gathering, inevitably one of her sisters will laugh, and say to her, “Diane, you gonna make grandma’s potato salad in the Puke Bowl for the get together?” No, she doesn’t, but old family memories die hard… 😉

No, Diane Doesn’t use the Puke Bowl, to Make Grandma’s Potato Salad

Addendum:

– Our Niece, Tami, also remembered that the bowl almost always seemed to be the hiding place for someone’s Easter Basket each year at Grandma and Grandpa’s house… 😉

– In writing this blog, and talking with friends, two items became clear.

  • First, most all families had some version of a “puke bowl” or bucket, and many of them were multi-use products, particularly for holding popcorn.
  • And second, many lamented the throw-away society we have become. As Americans, we retain very little – Of course diapers, cups, plastic silverware and paper plates are all disposable. These days, so are phones, computers, mixers, coffee pots, stereo equipment, and a great deal of furniture. Washing machines, dryers and dish washers fit the same mode, unless they break down in the first few years of use.

⁃ Special Thanks to Cathy, and my sister Roberta for all of their help on this blog.

⁃ Thanks to sister Tanya, along with nephew Casey, and nieces Diane, Tami, Bre, Kathi and Jordan for their memories as well.

– Thanks and photo credit of the picture of Diane about to make potato salad, to her four year old daughter, Riley! Roberta took the pics of the bowl itself.

⁃ As always, MAJOR thanks to my old friend and editor, Colleen (who didn’t own a Puke Bowl growing up.) She always keeps me straight and on track.

Granddaughter of Juda

Granddaughter of Juda

There were no gardens here at Rohan Farm 23 years ago. Now, they dominate our landscape. Cathy made this happen, through a combination of inherited knowledge, hard work and love. She is the daughter of Faye and a Granddaughter of Juda Catherine Strickland.

The hillside garden, the shade garden, the front garden, the vegetable garden, the cutting garden, Cathy designed them and created them. I provided a bit of the grunt labor for the hard scape, but the secret to all of it is Cathy. When she gardens, she is in her Zen Zone. For me, weeding is the ultimate drudgery. Not her. She spends hours each week weeding, improving and cutting in the garden. She once shared with me, “Patience is the key ingredient in gardening, and pays off when a plant reaches maturity and blooms. There’s a special excitement seeing something you have planted, nurtured, cared for and thought about finally bloom. The journey is as important as the end result.”

A Few Glimpses of the Gardens, and Cathy Peaking Around Some of her Daffodils

Cathy’s gardening talent was born long before I was on the scene. She inherited a love of gardening from her mother Faye. Mom was a wonderful gardener and always had flower gardens at the house. Cathy noticed. When her family lived in Chattanooga, Cathy persuaded her mom to let her have a flower garden of her own at age 12. Faye was fine with the idea, but Cathy had to plant it and maintain it.

Whenever mom moved to a new home, the first thing she did was start planning out the flower gardens. Her last home in Alabama was gorgeous with a combination of plants, pathways and surrounding woodland, and I could lose myself in thought while wandering through them.

Faye gained her garden skills from her mother Juda Strickland, who lived a hard life in rural Alabama. She and her husband Ernest had 11 children, 8 of them boys. Electricity and indoor plumbing didn’t come until much later in her life. Cathy remembers that when she visited as a child, they were still using an outhouse. I think two things sustained Grandma Strickland in life – her faith in God, and her gardening. For her, I think they were related.

Juda Catherine Strickland

Cathy spent years following Faye and Juda around grandma’s farm in Alabama, talking about plants and flowers the whole time. They were often joined by Jeff, Cathy’s cousin. While he did the usual “boy stuff”, he also liked to garden. They all discussed the merits of the plants, as they walked and talked. Some plant wouldn’t be doing well and they would decide if it should be replaced or maybe it needed a different spot, or just some love. Most were not exotic plants, but southern favorites like four o’clocks.

In Cathy’s telling, it was great fun walking around the farm. There was always something to see, whether plants, newly born piglets, or watching how live chickens were turned into dinner (I think there’s a whole other blog right here ;-)…). Sometimes the meanderings ended at the vegetable garden, where fresh tomatos were a tasty treat of summer – warm, fragrant and oh so juicy. Summer afternoons were spent on the porch with newspapers stretched over everyone’s laps. There were beans to string, peas to shell and corn to shuck…

Later, after Cathy and I were married, we made several trips to visit Grandma, particularly when stationed in Georgia. Grandma would lead Cathy around the house and garden showing her new, or different plants. She wasn’t quite as mobile then, having broken her hip during a fall in her sixties. She was using a wooden crutch to get around, and would point out the plants or blooms with the crutch. Cathy loved and cherished those times together.

…

Cathy’s younger sister Bonnie also has the gardening gene. At her home near Mendocino, CA, she has roses, flower gardens, a big vegetable garden and fruit trees. It’s all beautiful and fits the Northern California setting perfectly. She has a greenhouse that many professionals would envy. Cathy and Bonnie trade cuttings and seeds back and forth, and more than a few plants have made coast to coast journeys.

Cathy and Bonnie Cutting Roses in California

There are several other Granddaughters of Juda who inherited her green thumb. As an example, in addition to Jeff, Cathy and Bonnie’s cousin Debbie has beautiful gardens in her back yard, and will frequently post pictures that reveal she too has the touch. Other cousins such as Margaret and Dylilah have the gift, and it’s already seen in the next generation – Sasha, the daughter of their cousin Rusty is also an avid gardener. It wasn’t a universal gift though. Cindy, Cathy and Bonnie’s middle sister, was never much of a gardener. Nor was their cousin Loretta, who claims she can’t grow anything. Still, I think Juda’s spirit remains with all of them. As Loretta related, “I definitely did not inherit her green thumb. I manage to kill every plant I get EXCEPT for one. I inherited a Mother-in-Law’s Tongue from Mawmaw in the ‘90s. Believe it or not, despite my best efforts, that plant is still alive.” 😉

Loretta’s Mother-in-Law’s Tongue – Nearly Thirty Years Old, and Still Going Strong

Grandma eventually passed away in 1997, at the age of 98. She was in a nursing home for her last few years. Although she could no longer garden, her faith in God remained with her until the end. I like to think there are gardens scattered across America that are living testaments to her life and her legacy.

Addendum:

  • Special thanks to Cathy, not only for her gardens, but also for sharing memories of her youth and visiting Grandma in Alabama. She filled in missing critical pieces that I “sensed”, but didn’t specifically know.
  • Thanks to Bonnie, Loretta and Debi for sharing their own gardening backgrounds. Special thanks to Loretta for sharing the photo of her Mother-in-law’s Tongue (photo credit to Cynthia Smith).
  • I first met Grandma Strickland in 1973, when Cathy’s family went there for a vacation over spring break. Cathy and I were dating and in high school, and we somehow persuaded our parents that it would be OK for me to go with them. I think at first Grandma was a bit suspicious of this token northerner who was dating her granddaughter. The suspicion was allayed at least a bit on the second night, when she cooked fried okra. I’d never had okra before. Three helpings later, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, and grandma started warming up to me.

Here are two other blogs I’ve written in the past about Cathy and her gardening:

  • Through Cathy, I’ve gained an appreciation for the colors that make up the palette of our life. For years, I didn’t get it, or understand it. Or perhaps even worse, I didn’t think about it. Sometimes though, you can teach an old engineer new […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/03/23/the-palette-of-our-life/
  • Ask Cath how she grows orchids and she’ll say “Oh, I just water them. After that, it’s tough love.” Tough love evidently works. In winter, I enjoy looking at the results. The color, the texture, the beauty of orchids and their individual parts – Sepals, Petals, Lip, and Column, make each unique… Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/04/cathy-and-her-orchids/

Odin

Odin

Odin is not only the god called upon in preparation for war, he is the god of poetry, the dead and magic as well. In a little known side gig, he was also petitioned by cadets at West Point to cancel parades with thunderstorms.

One fall day Plebe Year, my company, B-3, along with our entire regiment, was standing in formation in Central Area waiting for the start of yet another weekday afternoon parade. Central Area is out of view of the general public and where we lined up in preparation for parades. While the upperclassmen were more relaxed, we plebes stood there in full dress uniform, our tar buckets on our heads, and our M14 rifles extended at parade rest. The sky was dark with clouds and foretold the possible arrival of an impending storm. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a plaintive chant starting up, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, it grew louder, closer and more distinct –

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

One of our upperclassmen called out – “Beanheads! Take up the chant!!” (Beanhead was one of the less flattering terms the upperclassmen would call us Plebes)

What?!

“Beanheads!! Take up the call to ODIN. Let’s see if we can get this parade canceled!”

The thirty or so of us Plebes in B-3 quickly joined the cacophony.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

Soon, all 300 or so Plebes in the regiment were chanting. I have no idea what it sounded like to anyone in the bleachers on the parade ground itself, but they had to have heard us. We were LOUD and unrelenting. Always the same pace, always the same mournful sound, we continued…

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

…

Parades… I never knew anyone at West Point, or in the military for that matter, who actually liked taking part in a parade. The public may enjoy watching them, but the participants? The cadets or soldiers who actually march in the parade? I don’t recall anyone ever saying to me “Wow Max, I am so looking forward to cleaning my weapon, dressing up in uniform, standing around in the hot sun (or freezing cold), and then marching in a review in front of the General. How about you?”

At West Point we did a lot of marching, and A LOT of parades, starting the day we arrived. The soundtrack of that first day was the drums from the Hellcats (West Point’s drum and bugle corps, made up of professional soldiers). They beat their drums all day long, as we learned to march and keep in step. That evening? We paraded to our swearing in ceremony, with parents, family, and the general public looking on.

Our last official parade took place the day before graduation in 1978.

In between those two events, we marched in an untold number of parades. Mondays through Thursdays, one of the four regiments would be in a parade for the public virtually every afternoon in the spring and fall. On Football Saturdays, there would be a double-regimental parade for every home game, and on Homecoming, the entire Corps of Cadets would perform in a parade. While we didn’t parade in the winter, the overall schedule resumed in the spring, and graduation provided another parade for the entire Corps. I learned to hate parades.

We Marched in an Untold Number of Parades at West Point

… In Central Area, our petition to Odin continued …

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

A few raindrops started to fall. And then, a few more and it turned in to something between a sprinkle and a light shower. Our chant droned on.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

I could see our commander conferring with the Battalion commander nearby. Suddenly, he returned. “COMPANY… ATTENNNSHUN!” We snapped to attention, the chanting stopped and there was silence, except for the sound of the rain hitting our hats and the ground. Would we march, or not?? Our Commander called out: “B-3 …DISMISSED!”

It worked! We all sprinted to our rooms, gaining an extra hour of rack time.

That evening as we assembled for dinner formation, our squad leader informed us that appealing to Odin to cancel a parade was an Old West Point tradition, and advised us to study up on him. He would quiz us later.

We learned Odin was the god of war in Germanic and Norse mythology. He was a protector of heroes, and fallen warriors joined him in Valhalla. In a bit of a juxtaposition, he was also the god of poets. He was associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, victory, and sorcery. He gave up one of his eyes to gain wisdom. You will notice no where in that description is there any mention of rain, storms, or weather. Evidently, that skill was buried in history.

Odin… a god with Many Talents

Over my remaining years at West Point, there were many times we appealed to Odin for rain to cancel a parade. The vast majority of the time, he ignored our pleas, and we emerged through the Sally Ports and onto The Plain for our parade before the Great American Public. They say the gods are fickle. Maybe that was the case with Odin.

As I was thinking about writing this blog a couple of months ago, 40-some years after that initial appeal to Odin, I was trading messages with a few classmates. We were discussing how infrequently parades were actually cancelled due to calling Odin, when Leroy Hurt said, “By the way, I finally found out why we chanted to Odin.” What!?

It turns out Leroy is teaching a class on West Point History. In his research for the class, he came across a book called “The West Point Sketchbook”, published in 1976. In the book, the authors state that in 1958, some cadets saw the movie “The Vikings”. It’s a so-so adventure movie, with an all-star cast of Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, Ernest Borgnine and Janet Leigh. Throughout the movie, The Vikings make various appeals and chants to Odin, including asking him to effect the weather and bring rain. In the movie, it worked. The cadets brought the Odin chant back to West Point, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis BOTH Appeal to Odin in the Classic Movie, The Vikings

Of course time and history evolve. Another classmate, Pete Eschbach was recently back at West Point and spoke with a few cadets about some of our past traditions. None of the current cadets had ever heard of appealing to Odin to cancel a parade. Not one. For the West Pointers reading this blog, Pete privately speculated to me that “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”.* Maybe with the increases in technology, and the weather apps we have today, it’s no longer required. The weather is a foregone conclusion, and an appeal to Odin isn’t going to change things one way or another. Another mystery…

The legend of Odin may have died at West Point, but he remains an item of interest for me and my classmates. Occasionally, one of us still calls on him. Classmate Joe Mislinski even named his dog Odin. Joe lives pretty close to the Great Lakes Naval Station, where Navy basic training is conducted. He likes to occasionally take Odin for a walk outside the station, once a parade has already started. From the look of the slick streets in the photo below, Odin still has the occasional magic touch.

Odin… Bringing Rain to a Navy Parade

Addendum:

⁃ * Pete was making a bit of an inside joke to me about “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”. In a tradition probably as old as West Point itself, among old grads you frequently hear the phrase, “The Corps Has…” Every class at West Point believes that the classes who came after them had it easier than they did. Gone to Hell is never stated, but always implied. 😉

⁃ Thanks to classmates Peter Eschbach and Leroy Hurt for their contributions to this blog, and their reviews. They were invaluable. Special Thanks to Joe Mislinksi for suggesting the idea for a blog about Odin, and providing a picture of his dog Odin!

⁃ In The West Point Sketch Book, it is reported that prior to 1958, Plebes would whistle a song called the “Missouri National” to try and bring on rain. Part of the adapted lyrics include: And now the rain drops patter down/ Our hearts fill with delight/ For hear the OD sounding off-/ “There is no parade tonight.”

⁃ The movie, The Vikings, is actually not bad. You might give it a watch sometime when you have nothing to do. In the meantime, here are several of the callouts to Odin, throughout the movie: https://youtu.be/uAM85DFfR24

If you wish to read a few of the previous blogs from my time at West Point, you can find them here: