The Silver Maple sits on the property line between The Bayhouse, and our neighbor Vinnie’s home. It’s old and gnarled. Half the trunk appears to have rotted out from the inside. Vinnie says it looks like something that would grow at Hogwarts.

While not ancient, the tree is old. It’s 136 inches in circumference, which, according to tree guides, makes it about 130 years old*. Our home at the Bay was built in 1890, so maybe the people planted this tree around the time they built the house. Or perhaps it was already here, and they built the home next to the, then, small tree. The Faulkner store and house (Vinnie’s home now) weren’t built until 1912, so it’s entirely possible they planted it, not thinking another house would be built so close.

Now, it’s hoary and contorted, and probably doesn’t have many years left. A Silver Maple at 130 years of age is considered quite old. A storm, or lightning, broke the top two main trunks off the tree sometime in the past, so it’s not as tall as it once was. Instead, it has that knobby, twisted, slightly wizened look that old trees, and some old people develop. A bit of a Halloween look, if you will. There’s also a metal “door” of sorts embedded at the base of the tree. I’ve tried to lift it, or move it, but it won’t budge. At some point in time, I fully expect Christopher Walken, as The Headless Horseman, to emerge through the door.

Vinnie is right, there is a bit of Hogwarts about the tree, although for my money, it looks more like an Ent**. If only it could talk. I think about what it has seen with the passing of time – it could tell a tale or two.

Many different families have lived in our home since 1890, but no one ever chose to take the tree down, even though it has hung over the top of the house. The tree has survived hurricanes and Nor’easters over the years, including Isabel in 2003, which tore out the County Dock, not 50 yards away. In June of 2011, a derecho came across Tilghman and toppled several old trees on our street. This was the day before we put an offer on The Bayhouse. The sound of chainsaws filled the air as we looked at the house, and the tree for the first time that day. Neighboring trees had splintered or blown over, but our Silver Maple was untouched.

The tree is gnarled, stunted and twisted, but it’s still here. Maybe John Prine is right and “… old trees just grow stronger”. Every year in springtime, it produces whirligig seeds. The leaves pop out, and it again shades our back porch, and house. We’ve strung old floats and crab pot markers in the branches, giving it a more festive look. Lunches on the porch are nice. Having a candlelight twilight dinner under it’s branches is always a special evening.

Some folk, who are either wiser, or more cautious, have said it’s time, we should take the tree down to prevent it from falling and causing damage. We politely thank them for their advice, but look at each other and know that’s not going to happen. I’m not sure why, but in our minds, the tree has earned the right to be here a while longer. I don’t know how many years it has left, but I think at least a few. We will enjoy this Silver Maple for as long as we can.

Addendum:

• * I found a couple of different ways online to measure the approximate age of a tree. The most common method was to:

– Measure the circumference of the tree at 4 1/2 feet from the base
– Divide the circumference by Pi (3.14) to get the diameter
– Multiply the diameter (in inches) by the tree growth factor (3 for a Silver Maple). This gives you the approximate age.

For this tree, the circumference at 4 1/2 feet was 136 inches
– 136/3.14 = 43.31 inch diameter
– 43.31 x 3 = 129.9 years

While not exact, the method is a good approximation. Interestingly, another method I used (measuring a foot off the ground) came up with almost exactly the same age. Perhaps the tree isn’t 130 years old, but I have to believe it’s at least 108. Vinnie’s house was built in 1912. No one would plant the tree right between the two homes, fourteen feet from our house, and eleven feet from Vinnie’s. No one.

• ** Ents are the Tree Herders in the book and movie The Lord Of The Rings by JRR Tolkien. They look like old trees, and can talk and walk.
• Thanks to my old friend Tim Stouffer for the John Prine quote.
• Fairbank, our little two street village here on Tilgman Island, looks much as it did in a map from the 1930s. The makeup of the village though, has changed significantly. Back then, many of the villagers were watermen, working the Bay for crabs, oysters, and fish, or in fishing related industries. Today? About half the homes are owned by “part timers” such as ourselves, or retirees who have moved here. There are still a few families with connections to the Bay. Fritz, a waterman in his youth, now owns a local lawn service. Chris and his wife Christine moved here a few years ago. Chris is an active Waterman, and part time boatbuilder. Captain Stanley Larrimore, a 90 year old local legend, still lives across the street from us. He sailed and worked his Skipjack, Lady Katie, on the Bay for decades.

I was sad to learn that Lou Brock, one of my boyhood heroes, recently passed away. He was 81. As a young kid playing Little League Baseball in the ‘60s, if I could have been anyone in the world, it was Lou Brock. In my dreams, he was who I wanted to be. There’s nothing like losing a childhood hero to make you reflect on your past.

The Saint Louis Cardinals baseball team acquired Brock from the Cubs for Ernie Broglio in a deal since considered the “steal of the century”. Brock played left field for the Cards, helping lead them to pennants in ‘64, ‘67, and ‘68, and World Series Titles in ‘64 and ‘67. Me? I played left field for the Ottawa, Illinois Yanks in Little League. We won the City Championship in 1967.

The resemblance between us, at least as far as left field goes, ended there. Brock was elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1985. Along the way, he surpassed Ty Cobb’s stolen base record, and collected over 3,000 hits, putting him in elite company. Me? My baseball career ended the year we won the city championship. I’d made the cut for Little League (yes, Ottawa Little League held a “draft”), but didn’t make Pony League, and didn’t try out for High School Baseball. I had a pretty short baseball career.

Fortunately, there were other lessons I learned from Lou, including hard work, dedication, humility, and playing while hurt. Those are good life lessons, no matter what you are doing. Later, it also wasn’t lost on me that he was a Black man finding his way in America, during one of the more tumultuous periods in our history. I learned about dignity from him as well.

Between recently turning 65, and witnessing a close and old friend deal with cancer, I’m in a more thoughtful mood these days. My friend had some good news lately, and for that we are all thankful. As for turning 65, I have been texting with friends I’ve known since grade school about Medicare and Social Security. While the discussions are humorous, there’s also a bit of grim reaper attitude in them.

With Brock’s passing, I was thinking back to my youth. Through the rose tinted glasses of my memory, I see Lou and I both chasing down deep fly balls in left field. I’ve also thought of the rest of my life. There’s nothing like losing a childhood hero to make you reflect on your past. I’ve been lucky and had a good run so far. As Sinatra sang, “Regrets? I’ve had a few…”, though I wouldn’t trade any of it. The good, the bad and the in between have all made for a pretty good life.

Kris Kristofferson, who is still among the living, penned a song called ”Feeling Mortal” a few years ago. I love how the song ends –

“Soon or later I’ll be leaving

I’m a winner either way

For the laughter and the loving

That I’m living with today.”

I’m going to continue to try and live life exuberantly each and every day. Thanks for reminding me to do so, Mr. Brock.

Addendum:

• Lou Brock had quite the career. In addition to helping the Cards with three pennants, and two World Series, he was a National League All Star six times, and led the League in stolen bases eight times. He surpassed Ty Cobb’s stolen base record, which many thought unassailable (Brock’s record was later broken by Ricky Henderson). He had 3026 hits (number 27 on the all time list for MLB), and had a .293 lifetime batting average. Brock’s .391 World Series batting average is still the highest for anyone who played over 20 series games. He was inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1985, his first year of eligibility. After his baseball career, he became a successful florist in Saint Louis, and still later, an ordained minister. He had a pretty good life, especially if you consider he was born in 1939 to a Louisiana sharecropper.

• Frank Sinatra singing “My Way” is of course a classic. “… Regrets, I’ve had a few, But then again, too few to mention …” – For those who may have forgotten, the song was actually written by Paul Anka.

I was in 6th grade when I first realized adults lied. I’m not talking white lies, but honest to goodness, flout the truth lies. Mrs R____ told a lie to our principal at McKinley School. He knew it, Gene and I knew it, and she knew it, but she still got her way.

It was 1966. I was one of several sixth graders selected to serve on McKinley School’s Safety Patrol. Our job was to act as crossing guards at two key intersections the kids used on their way to and from school. Back then, there were no adult crossing guards, just us sixth graders. Speaking with old friends now, we were all pretty proud and happy to have been selected. As my friend Joy recently said “We were like the Postal Service, doing our job in snow, sleet, rain and ice … Such different times”.

The two crossing points were on State Street on the West Side of school, and Route 23 to the East of the school. State Street was a city street and fairly busy, but the traffic was relatively slow. Route 23 was a state highway and the crossing point was only 1/2 mile inside Ottawa’s city limits, so traffic moved at a high rate of speed. At the Route 23 crossing point, there was one of those old stoplights where you pushed a button to turn on the red light for oncoming traffic. The last stopsign before that stoplight was seven miles away, in Grand Ridge.

Gene Grobe and I were the early morning crossing guards on Route 23. This was when kids were on the way to school at the start of the day. We received instruction on use of the stoplight, checking especially for semi truck traffic, and were told to never let kids cross the road until the traffic had actually stopped at the light. We were actually given a booklet with additional instructions in it.

The school year started, and Gene and I met at the crossing early each morning. We kept the little kids under control, pumped our arms to get a honk from the passing semis, and never ever let kids cross the road until traffic was completely stopped.

Occasionally at the start of the year, a parent might accompany their Kindergarten child as far as our crossing point. Once we stopped the traffic with the light, their kid crossed the road, while the parent returned home. There were no other major roads or crossing points between our stoplight and the school, so the parents were OK with their child walking the rest of the way with the other children.

Mrs R____ was one of those parents. At the crossing, while other parents would just say hello, or stay quiet, Mrs. R_____ always offered advice on when to push the button on the light, when to let the kids cross and so on. You know the type. A nice enough lady, but a bit overbearing. In today’s world, she would definitely be considered a “Helicopter Parent”. We felt sorry for her son.

After the first couple of weeks, only one parent still accompanied their child to school. Yep, you guessed it, Mrs. R_____. She was still bringing her son every morning, and still offering advice. It was, to be honest, a bit annoying.

Time passed, as did the seasons. It was darker in the mornings. Cars and trucks had headlights on and our stoplight was visible a long ways away. Eventually winter arrived, and with it the occasional snow. Gene and I, bundled up against the cold, were at the crossing every morning doing our job. And Mrs. R____? She still arrived faithfully every morning, and chattered away. In fact she talked more, and offered even more advice, if that was possible. Gene and I thought her a bit odd by then. You know how as a kid, you sometime had a sense something wasn’t quite right with an adult? That was how we thought about her.

Then one day, Gene and I were called to the principal’s office. Our principal, Mr. Powell was THE MAN. He was universally respected, but in general, you didn’t want to get called to his office. When we arrived, Mr. Powell looked a bit uncomfortable, something you never saw. He proceeded to explain Mrs. R_____ was going to start working the Route 23 crossing with us in the morning. One of us asked why. It turns out she claimed her son was nearly killed when a truck didn’t stop at the light. What?! We told Mr. Powell it never happened. We never let the kids cross until the traffic HAD stopped. He could check with any of the kids. It didn’t make sense. Her son never left her side until she told him to. How could he almost be hit, if she were controlling him so closely? He listened to us, and didn’t say anything at first. His eyes shifted back and forth a bit, and eventually, he said something like “Well, I understand, but we need to move on”. Gene and I returned to Mr. Ledbetter’s class wondering what the hell had just happened.

A few days later, an article appeared in the local paper. In the article, she claimed her son was almost struck by a semi, and would have been thrown a block if she hadn’t grabbed him. As a result, she would now work as a crossing guard, while her son went back and forth to school.

This was all a complete fabrication. Nothing even close to this happened. As an adult, I would call it a flat out lie. Even as a kid, I felt my personal honor was impugned. I remember talking to mom about it, and asking why Mrs. R____ would lie. She paused, and in a controlled voice replied “That’s the way some people are. They want to feel important, so they make up stories”, or words to that effect.

Mrs. R_____ worked the remainder of the year with Gene and I. We pushed the light button, and she always went onto the highway with a small stop sign on a paddle and held it up. My buddy Howard was on the 1150 shift with Jim Carroll. This was when kids returned home for lunch, including the Kindergarteners, who were released a bit later than the rest of the grade schoolers. She worked their shift as well. As Howard recently said, “ She was a psycho. She just started showing up, and we were demoted”. Kindergarteners only went to school for half a day, so those were the only two shifts affected.

Mrs. R_____ never spoke about the alleged incident with Gene and I, and we never brought it up. Actually, we didn’t speak to her much at all, although she continued to chatter away. As a child, what do you say to an adult, who you know has lied about you?

Addendum:

• I’ve thought quite a bit about Mr. Powell’s reaction to all of this. He was always a straight shooter. I’m guessing she threatened some sort of legal action, or that she was going to the newspaper. Plainly, she lied to get her way. As he spoke with us that day, I knew he didn’t believe her, but I couldn’t figure out why he was making the decision he did. Now, I also wonder if she wasn’t one of those parents who are at the school, always complaining about something. The other thing I’ve thought about since then is this: if she was at the light and saved him at the last second, how did she even allow the incident to happen? If she were at the light, she never would have let her son leave her side with a truck approaching and not stopping. As an eleven year old boy, it was particularly frustrating for me.

• Thanks to Joy Starjak Algate, Lynne Galley Robinson, Tim Stouffer and Howard Johnson for sharing memories with me about McKinley School and serving as a School Patrol Officer. We all chuckled at some of the memories. Only Howard and I had the “honor” of Mrs. R____ working with us at the stoplight on Route 23. Gene Grobe has since passed away.

• Special thanks to Joy Starjak Algate for the included photos of our schedule and the Safety Patrol Members Handbook. They backed up the memories provided by others.

• Another interesting memory surfaced among several of us as we talked. We all remember going home at lunchtime, and watching “Bozo’s Circus” on TV while at home. If you grew up in the Midwest, I think Bozo was almost required

• I haven’t named Mrs. R_____ here, as I don’t know if she, or any of her family are still alive and living in Ottawa, Illinois. The intent of the blog is not to disparage an individual, but to reflect on how the incident effected me at the time.

• McKinley was a great place to go to for elementary school. If you want to read other blogs about the school, you can find them here:

• • A May 2020 blog about Mr. Powell and our Memorial Day services at the school and in town: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/05/20/mr-powell-and-flanders-fields/

• • A June 2020 blog about my First Grade Teacher, Mrs Thelma Finkeldey: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/06/04/mrs-thelma-finkeldey/

• • A March 2020 blog about Mr. Ledbetter, Wally, and the incident with the stolen paddle: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/10/wally-mr-ledbetter-and-the-stolen-paddle/

It was January of ‘87 and we were living in Rheindurkheim, Germany. I was sitting at Sportheim Gasthaus’s Stammtisch (regular’s table) enjoying a bier, when Jürgen sat down next to me. After a bit of small talk, he asked me how old I was. I answered 31. He then wanted to know if I’d ever played Fussball (soccer), and I told him I’d played a couple of years of intramural soccer at West Point. “Was ist los, Jürgen?” (What’s up Jürgen?)

Jürgen explained he was the captain of the local “over 30” soccer team, and wanted to know if I would be interested in joining the team. The name of the team was “Die Alte Herren” (The Old Men).

After laughing, I explained to Jürgen I wasn’t all that good. There was a large difference between a couple years of college intramural soccer and people who had played in organized leagues since they were little kids. Everyone knows the Germans are fanatics about soccer and I thought honesty was the best policy for my answer. Jürgen wasn’t deterred. He told me it was mostly about fun, and they could always use an extra guy. Sometimes it was tough to get everyone together on game day. Finally he said “Kommst du zu einer Übung, und siehst du, was du denkst” (Come to a practice and see what you think) and I agreed to give it a try.

It was early January and practices were held at night in a local gym, as our soccer field had no lights. At that first practice, I arrived and it turned out I knew about 2/3 of the players from my time at Sportheim. All were in their mid thirties to mid forties, so I was the youngster on the team. We started with some drills, and then played seven on seven. I was in good shape, better than most on the team, but the back and forth on the wood floors was brutal on my feet and I had at least one blood blister at the end of practice. Afterwards, I told Jürgen to count me in, if the offer still stood. He laughed, and I officially became an Old Man. Well, not quite officially yet. Jürgen had told one small lie.

It wasn’t just about fun. As this was Germany, anyone playing soccer in an official league had to have a Spieler Pass (Player Identification Card). It’s actually the same ID used throughout Germany for all league play, up and down all levels. I had my picture taken, filled out the paperwork and submitted the required information and forms. In mid February, I received my Pass. You can see on the Pass, if another team ever wanted to pick me up, there are ample spaces to record transfers. ;-).

It was finally the day of our first game. Just before the start, Jürgen presented all of our ID Cards to the head referee. There was a bit of consternation when they came to my card. The refs thought the team might have hired a ringer. Jürgen explained I was stationed locally and had joined the team. He also explained I wasn’t all that good, as the ref would see if I entered the game.

I didn’t get into the first game, but we won 1-0, so there was cause for celebration. After the game, we gathered in Sportheim and there were biers all around. We also had a two-liter “boot” of bier we passed around the table. It was a good time, and we continued the tradition after every game, win or lose.

I played in the second half of the second game that year and we won that game too. My soccer skills weren’t so good, but I was in great shape and could usually make up for a mistake with speed.

The season progressed and we lost a couple, and then won again. Midseason, we received some bad news. The goalie for Rheindurkheim’s main team (TSV Rhenania, our parent club) was injured, and Hans, our goalie, was called up to the big team. It was good news for him; not so much for Die Alte Herren. Our backup goalie wasn’t as good and the season went downhill. The low point came during a game when we only had eight players. Eight on eleven isn’t a good matchup, and while we played well for most of the first half, the dam finally broke and we lost 5-0. We ended the season just under .500.

A couple of weeks later, we had our end of year Dinner at Sportheim. Vroni and Wolfgang, Sportheim’s owners, closed the restaurant and we took over the place. All the players, their wives and girlfriends were there. It was quite the night, with platters of food, bottles of wine and mugs of bier. There was singing, dancing, and lots of laughing and storytelling. As the night progressed, schnapps and brandy were also consumed, frequently in toasts to Die Alte Herren. Finally, sometime well after midnight, Cathy and I walked home. We were moving more slowly the next day.

Die Alte Herren’s record didn’t show it, but it was a good season for me. The soccer was fun, and I did get better. Cathy and I had become a real part of the community. When you live in a town of around 1,000 people, everyone knows who everyone is…. what you do, what you don’t do. This was true, even if you were “a foreigner”. Did you make any efforts to integrate, or did you just stay at home? When we first came to town, we were known as “Die Amis mit dem Scwartz Weiss” – The Americans with the black and white (dog). Now, we were an active part of the town. We had people over to the house, or went to their homes. We went on vacation with Vroni and Wolfgang. Local Christmas parties and events, fests, soccer games and participating in parades all became a part of our lives. We were given a rare gift for those four years in Rheindurkheim, and Die Alte Herren were a part of making that happen.

I returned to play for the team the next year as well, and had more playing time. I was traveling to England and Belgium for the Army quite a bit that year, and missed several games, but it didn’t matter. Jürgen, Hans, Dieter, Freddy and the others always greeted me as a teammate and friend when I could be there. Mates are good to have, no matter where you live.

Addendum:

TSV Rhenania has played soccer for a long time. The club originated in 1908, and is still active today, 122 years later. Here’s their symbol (note you can also see it above in the picture of Wolfgang serving our dinner). They have a grass field now, but at the time I played, it was dirt.

The Drunken Potato Children at RAR Brewery in Cambridge, MD were good. Crunchy outside, soft inside, and smothered with bacon, sour cream, two cheeses and scallions. Delicious. What, you’ve never had Potato Children? Sure you have, you just called them something else.

When I was a Plebe (Freshman) at West Point, as part of the effort to make officers and gentlemen of us, they also strove to improve our English language skills. As a Plebe, you were not allowed to use slang, contractions, or abbreviations in conversation. For example, we were required to say: “yes”, instead of “yea”; “Roast Thomas Turkey” instead of “Roast Tom Turkey”; “will not” instead of “won’t”; and DC was the District of Columbia. One other quirk of Plebe year was that unless asked for an explanation, you had four answers you could give to any question: Yes Sir, No Sir, No Excuse Sir, and Sir, I do not Understand (note, “do not” not “don’t”).

One day early in the year, I was one of the Minute Callers for my company. A Minute Caller stood at attention near one of the hallway clocks and announced how many minutes until the next formation, and information concerning the formation. They did this on the 10, 5, 4, 3, and 2 minute marks. On this particular day, I announced:

“Sir! There are ten minutes until assembly for dinner formation. Uniform is white over gray. For dinner we are having: Green salad, hamburgers, tater tots and chocolate chip cookies. Ten minutes sir!”

A door flew open and my squad leader came out. “New Cadet HALL! What did you say was for dinner!?”

“Sir, we are having green salad, hamburgers, tater tots and ”

“STOP! Hall, why are you using slang?”

….silence for a second on my part, while I’m thinking “what?”. I answer –

“Sir, I do not understand”.

“What’s for dinner Hall?”

“Sir, green salad, hamburgers, tater tots and”

STOP! Hall, why are you using slang!?”

… now I’m really confused…

“Sir, I do not understand”.

“Hall – did you say tater tots?”

“Yes Sir!”

“What part of the word “slang”, do you not understand? You said Tater. What is the proper word for Tater, New Cadet Hall?”

…me thinking…

“Sir, Potato”.

“That’s right Hall. And what is the correct word for tots?”

…more thinking…

“Sir, Children.”

“Correct, New Cadet Hall. What are we having for dinner?”

…silence…

“Sir, Potato Children!”

“Carry on Hall.”

At the five minute mark I called out:

“Sir! There are five minutes until assembly for dinner formation. Uniform is white over gray. For dinner we are having: Green salad, hamburgers, potato children and chocolate chip cookies. Five minutes sir!”

Another lessen learned….

Ever since that summer, “tater tots” have been “potato children” for me, and it turns out, for most of my classmates. I recently posted the picture of Cathy and me having potato children for lunch and it garnered quite a bit of laughter and varied comments. One of my classmates (looking at you Jim Ray), has even passed the tradition of calling tater tots “potato children” on to his own children. I’m not sure if his kids see the humor in it.

If you ever make it to RAR brewery in Cambridge, Maryland, make sure to order the Drunken Potato Children. I guarantee you will love them.

It’s that time of year. I’ve (we’ve) been waiting for it since sometime last fall when the last tomato came off the vine. Last night we had our first Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato sandwiches of the year. They were perfect.

I’m not sure why I like the BLT so much, but I do. They taste of summer I think. They are simple. There’s a finite time when they are in “season” (End of July through early October). And they taste so damned good.

With the BLT, there are, of course, a few choices. You can toast or not toast the bread. What kind of lettuce? What kind of tomato? Thick or thin cut bacon? Those are just the basics. Add some basil? Add a sliced avocado? Maybe a slice of cheese? I suppose there are infinite things you could add. Me? I’m a purist (or boring, depending on your point of view). Bacon, romaine or iceberg, and whatever tomatoes ripen first. Given a choice, I’d take a beefsteak, or some kind of heirloom, but I’m not picky. And, I like the mayo a bit thick, but that’s just me.

My friend Tim says it much better than I ever could: .”Yep, fry up a pound of bacon, get a loaf of bread, keep slicing tomatoes and eat till the bacon is gone. It is not pretty, so do not watch if you are squeamish“.

Summertime is a sandwich. What’s not to like? It’s perfect.

233 years ago, on July 24th, 1797, my friend Mary’s great great great great great Grandfather signed his will. In it, he freed two of his slaves, Sancho and Peter. Sort of. It turns out he added a couple of conditions complicating both of their lives. Let’s be honest and blunt – there never was such a thing as a good slave master. Never. Forget Gone with the Wind, forget revisionist history, forget the teacher or high school friend posting on Facebook about how good the slaves actually had it.

George Nixon owned the Woodburn Estate on Harmony Church Road, just north of us in Loudoun County, Virginia. Parts of the estate still exist and you can view some of the remaining buildings. As you look at the Mill, it’s good to remember it was built by slaves in 1777.

In 1797, George wrote his new will. It was six pages long. In a short paragraph, on the third page, he freed two of his slaves, Sancho and Peter. When George passed away three years later, it was presented for probate on December 8th, 1800. His descendants continued to argue for another 19 years about the will.

It’s worth looking at the stories of Sancho and Peter individually.

For Sancho, the words in the will are quite simple: “I do hereby emancipate and free my slave Sancho: at the expiration of forty days after my death…”.

Sancho was set free after George’s death and settled in Waterford, Virginia. What’s not mentioned in the will is George didn’t set Sancho’s wife free. The census of 1810 shows Sancho in a “household” of four people: himself, along with his enslaved wife and two enslaved children. In the 1820 census, he and his wife, now both over 45, are shown as emancipated, and his two children still enslaved. He had evidently saved enough money to buy his wife and go through the legal process of emancipating her*, but not yet his children. He had a son under 14 years of age, and a daughter between 14 and 25 years old – both were still slaves.

My friend Mary shared with me that a previously enslaved person could buy their spouse and children, but then obtaining their freedom (emancipation) was a time-consuming and costly process that went through the court system. And, of course, the children born to Sancho and his wife were born enslaved because the status of the child was dependent on the status of the mother.

In 1830, according to the census, Sancho, now over 55, and his family had moved to Leesburg. By then, thirty years after he was set free, we can confirm Sancho’s wife and both children are also emancipated, along with two younger children, also free. It’s unclear if they are his children, or grandchildren.

Think about that. Sancho is set free in 1800, but his wife and children aren’t emancipated until twenty to thirty years later. This is the price of freedom from a “good” slave master.

Peter wasn’t quite as lucky as Sancho. Here’s what George’s will said:

“I do also emancipate and set free my slave, Peter, when he arrives at the age of 30 years provided, nevertheless, of the said slave should he estimate the blessings of liberty and freedom at so low a rate as to entail slavery on his own children by taking a wife that is a slave, he shall remain a slave himself until he is 35 years of age and then be free. If within that time he shall be so ungrateful as to depart from that good behavior and faithful conduct he has hereto observed, he shall remain a slave until he is 40 years of age.”

Imagine you are Peter. You are in love with a woman. Your choice? Marry her and add five years of slavery to your life, knowing when you are eventually free, she will still be a slave; or become a free man, perhaps never to see the woman you love again. Oh, and by the way, don’t do anything to upset the master along the way, or you add ten years to your time as a slave.

After George died in 1800, the fate of Peter is unknown. We don’t know if he received his freedom, if he married and remained a slave those five extra years, or if he died while a slave. He simply vanished from history, with no record found anywhere.

Black lives didn’t matter much in Virginia in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. They mattered to the extent a white man decided they mattered. If you were lucky, maybe you were given your freedom. If you were more lucky, maybe you could eventually buy the lives of your wife and children. Of course Virginia found a way to complicate things even more. In 1806, a law was passed mandating all former slave people leave the state upon obtaining their freedom. Black lives just didn’t matter.

Today, we of course have the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement. First established in 2013, BLM has gained broad support, particularly following the killing of George Floyd. As this is America, where imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, we now also have All Lives Matter, Blue Lives Matter, and White Lives Matter. I should point out the “White Lives Matter” slogan was chanted by torch-wielding alt-right protesters during the 2017 Unite the Right rally in Charlottesville, Va that resulted in three deaths. I believe Sancho and Peter would have no problem recognizing that crowd.

If you think BLM in all caps is a socialist inspired/Soros funded/violence propelling organization (it’s not), then try and rethink the issue without the capital letters. This isn’t Virginia, or America of the 1800s. In today’s world, we should all agree black lives matter.

We are making progress. Here in my corner of Virginia, a diverse coalition of The League of Women Voters, the NAACP, and the Virginia Interfaith Center for Public Policy are holding a weekly Vigil for Action in support of Black Lives Matter. These aren’t communist, or violence prone organizations or people. They are part of the fabric of our community. Every Saturday morning at the Courthouse Square in Warrenton, 65 to 100 people meet and hold a prayer vigil with one or two speakers. The mayor and some of the town council members have shown up in support. These vigils will continue every week through Labor Day. As with the vast majority of protests across the country, no stores have been ransacked, no property destroyed, and no people injured. In fact the only disturbance to the area is the honking horns of passing cars in support of the protest.

I think about Sancho and Peter, and wonder what they would make of America in 2020. They would certainly be happy at the elimination of slavery, and show astonishment and then celebrate the country having elected an African American president. They would no doubt take pride in the success of blacks in all walks of life. For all of those successes, I doubt they would show surprise at the racism still existing in America. They would know restricted voting access for the discrimination it is. I’m betting they would recognize the dog whistles from some politicians and shudder. And, despite my personal revulsion with many of the comments I hear, or read online, the fact that a segment of our population still thinks black lives don’t matter much would not shock them, even after the passing of 233 years.

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ADDENDUM:

• * When a slave was purchased, he/she was purchased as a slave–even if they happened to be your spouse or child. As an example, if a husband purchased his wife, she was still a slave until emancipated. Emancipation is the legal process of changing an enslaved person to a free person. In Virginia, prior to 1782, it required a special act by the General Assembly which meant very few people were emancipated. A 1782 law allowed slaveholders to free their slaves by their last wills and testaments or other writings which were to be proved in a county court by two witnesses.

• Many thanks to my friend Mary Haak for sharing this story of her distant relations. She has told this and other stories of slave holding relatives here in Virginia and in Maryland. She works constantly to dispel revisionist histories of ‘the old south’. Here’s some additional information from Mary: “In 1860, on the eve of the Civil War, there were 1.2 million people living in Virginia. Of those, over 490,000, more than 40%, were enslaved men, women and children. Culpeper County had an enslaved population of 55.7%; Fauquier 48%; Rappahannock 39.8%; and Loudoun, (where Quakers made up a large portion of the white community), 25%. Various branches of my ancestral family enslaved at least 187 men, women and children in Loudoun county. Although I have relatives that would disagree, I am under no illusion that my ancestors were “good slaveholders.” Such creatures, as with the tooth fairy and unicorns, are myths. To pretend those enslavers were “a product of their time” is to ignore the environment in which they lived. The local Quaker community had objected vigorously to the immorality of slavery for years and abolitionists were outspoken regarding the harshness and inhumanity of the institution”.

• Here’s some additional information about the Warrenton, Va. Vigil for Action: “The vigil for Black Lives Matter will be held every Saturday until Labor Day, 10-10:45 AM at Courthouse Square Plaza, Old Town Warrenton. Wearing a mask and keeping physical distance, come stand in solidarity with your neighbors and advocate for understanding and political action to end systemic racism. Homemade signs are encouraged.” The vigil is sponsored by the League of Women Voters, the NAACP and the Virginia Interfaith Center for Public Policy (VICPP). For more information, you can visit: https://www.virginiainterfaithcenter.org/vigil-for-action-black-lives-matter/
• I’ve written four other blogs about race relations. You can find them here:
  • September 2016: Diversity, Really? A blog about education and racism. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/09/20/diversity-really/
  • August 2017: This is not my America. A blog about my niece and the KKK and Nazi incidents in Charlottesville, Virginia in August, 2017. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/08/14/this-is-not-my-america/
  • April, 2020: “Letter from Birmingham Jail”, Revisited. A blog about Martin Luther King Jr, his jailing in Birmingham on Good Friday 1963, and his subsequent publishing of “Letter from Birmingham Jail”. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/04/07/letter-from-birmingham-jail-revisited/
  • June 2020: I am Number 35,591. A blog about my graduation from West Point, and white privilege. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/06/06/i-am-number-35591/

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.

Cathy and I adopted Top at a dog pound in Würzburg, Germany in 1980. We went to the pound on a Sunday, and knocked on the door. We are both fairly fluent in German, and when the door opened had a conversation that went something like this (in German):

“We want to adopt a dog please”.

“Sorry, we have no dogs”. (We can plainly hear many dogs barking in the background).

“Perhaps I spoke incorrectly. We would like to adopt a dog”.

“We have no dogs”.

We’d previously heard the Germans didn’t always let Americans adopt dogs, because they often left the dogs behind when they returned to the US. We explained to the man we were good people, wanted a dog forever, and it would return to the States with us.

“We have no dogs”.

We saw this was going no where, and dejectedly walked away. We must have looked sad, because the man suddenly said: “Just a minute, I may have one dog”, and told us to stand by an outside cage, which we did. A couple of minutes later, a door to the cage opened and out came the ugliest dog I have ever seen. It didn’t matter, we wanted a dog, and were planning to take it, when the door to the next cage opened and out bounded ‘Topsy’ (Top’s name at the pound). We knew immediately Topsy was our dog. After paying the fees, we took him home, and promptly shortened his name to Top.

Over the next month, we worked with Top and tried to train him. To be honest, he was our first dog, and we didn’t exactly know what we were doing. He knew his name, and he finally responded to “sit”, but that was about it. His face looked inquisitive, as if he wanted to learn, there just wasn’t any follow through. We thought perhaps he was just one of those dogs who didn’t learn as fast.

One Saturday morning, I took Top to the Bäckerei (Bakery) near our home in Helmstadt, and tied him to a post outside, while I went inside to buy bread and some pastries. When I came out, a little old German lady was standing by Top, petting him. I came up and said “Guten Morgen” (good morning), and we had a conversation in German. She said what a pretty dog Top was, and wanted to know if he knew any tricks. I explained we’d only had him about a month, and so far all we’d taught him was how to sit. I then said “sit” and Top sat down. I looked proudly at the lady.

The woman bent down, looked at Top and said “Gib mir deine Pfote” (Give me your paw). As she extended her hand, Top promptly shook hands with the lady. She gave the command a couple of more times, and each time, Top responded. The lady then looked at Top and said “Platz”. Top lay down instantly! She then bent over further and had a small love fest with Top – “Ach, du liebe! Du bist so schön … Du bist en braver hund… ach, so schön…”. (Oh you dear, you are so cute/handsome. You are a good dog, oh, so cute…) Top just lay there, wagging his tail for all he was worth.

It turned out Top wasn’t slow. We were. We’d been speaking with him in the wrong language! We soon found Top understood many commands – they just happened to be in German. He knew, among other phrases:

• Setz dich – sit

• Platz – lay down

• Bleib – stay

• Kommst du – come

• Nein – no

• Braver Hund – good dog

• Gib mir deine Pfote – Give me your paw (shake)

After that, we continued to train Top using both German and English. He began to respond to the English commands as well, although if truth be told, for the rest of his life when we needed to get his attention quickly, we spoke in German.

We had many adventures with Top over the next sixteen years. Our German friends, Res and Jim, always said Top was ‘einmalig’, which translates to unique, or one of kind, and I have to agree. In addition to being bilingual, he was incredibly friendly. Living in Europe, he had his own passport. He crossed the Atlantic three times, and also visited France, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, Belgium, Holland and Luxembourg with us. Yes, he was bilingual, but his good nature and personality were understood everywhere. We were lucky to have him in our life.

Addendum:

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. It captures something of his life. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/01/09/top/ .

Thanks to my Uncle, Don Grubaugh, for suggesting this Top story would make a good blog – he was oh so right!

I first heard Patti Smith in the Summer of ‘77. Guzman and I were driving south from West Point on the Jersey Turnpike. We were going to his girlfriend’s house and he may, or may not have been setting me up on a blind date. He put Patty Smith’s “Horses” on the cassette deck and I was blown away at the very first song, GLORIA. Redondo Beach, and Birdland followed. By the time Land/Horses came on, I was hooked, for life as it turned out.

I don’t remember anything eles about the day, except hearing Patti for the first time. I didn’t know what Punk was, but I knew I liked Patti Smith. Forty three years later, I’m still a fan. I find her words, and her music, make me think. Considered one of the founders of the New York Punk scene, over the course of her career she has done much more than that. She has never stayed confined to one definition of who she is and I think that is why I continue enjoying her.

She’s had an interesting life. After having affairs in the early seventies with Robert Mapplethorpe and Sam Shepard, both iconic artists in their own right, she married Fred “Sonic” Smith in 1980 and semi retired. She and her husband raised two children until his unexpected death in 1994. In 1995 she started reentering public life.

Part of what makes her so compelling, is the diversity of her music and her career. In addition to writing her own music and poetry, her covers of some of the classic songs of others are amazing. She makes Buddy Holly’s “Words of Love”, Neil Young’s “After the Gold Rush”, Prince’s “When Doves Cry” and Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” her own. If you haven’t heard her renditions of any of those, I suggest you give them a try.

Anyone who listens to her songs knows she’s an accomplished wordsmith, but it’s more than with just her own music. When Springsteen was stuck while writing the lyrics to “Because the Night“, who completed the job? Patti.

She proved her writing abilities to the rest of the world in 2010 when she published her book “Just Kids” about her time with Maplethorpe. The book later won the National Book Award for Nonfiction and she has since published several other books of poetry and stories.

Due to her Punk background, and her opening line in Gloria, “Jesus Died for Somebody’s Sins, but not Mine…” some people formed an anti religious view about her. She dispelled that as well. Pope Francis invited her to sing at the 2014 Vatican Christmas concert. When she accepted, she angered both Catholics and many of her old Punk fans. Her response? “It’s a Christmas concert for the people, and it’s being televised. I like Pope Francis and I’m happy to sing for him. Anyone who would confine me to a line from 40 years ago is a fool!” She sang “O Holy Night” during the concert, and at the Pope’s request, her anthem “People have the Power”. She met with Pope Francis twice, and also sang for the Dalai Lama.

In 2016, who accepted the Nobel Prize for Literature on Bob Dylan’s behalf? Patti Smith, of course. After accepting the prize, she sang “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall”. She momentarily lost her place in the second verse and stopped singing. Regaining her composure, she asked the orchestra to start over which they did. She received a standing ovation at the end of the song.

I’ve had a few other artists who stopped me dead when I first heard their music – most notably, Nina Simone and Miles Davis. The difference? The careers of Simone and Davis were already well established when I first heard them, and I played catch up going through their old catalogs. With Patti, she was brand new in ‘77 and you didn’t know what was coming next. That has never changed over the course of her career.

I’m not sure why I’ve written this blog about her. It’s a bit outside of my usual musings. I suppose there has been greater use of her song “People have the Power” lately and maybe that made me think more overtly about her. They now call her the “Godmother of Punk”, but that doesn’t seem quite enough. “Godmother of Punk” locks her into one period of her life in the early seventies, and she has done so much more since then.

Patti Smith is 73 now. We are both a little older than we were in the seventies. I still enjoy listening to “Horses“, and particularly the song “Gloria” – for me, they have stood the test of time. Even more, I enjoy new surprises from her, whether through her music, or her writings, including most recently, her books “M Train” and “Year of the Monkey”. I look forward to her continuing evolution as an artist. We should all be so spry at 73.

Addendum:

⁃ In 1989, Cathy and I caught Robert Mapplethorpe’s, The Perfect Moment Exhibition at the Washington Project for the Arts, after the Corcoran Gallery backed out of showing the exhibition. There was a huge uproar about the show, due to several controversial pieces. Mapplethorpe had died of AIDS just a few months before. At the time, I wasn’t yet aware of the connection between him and Patti Smith.

⁃ Everyone knows Sam Shepard from his Academy Award nomination for playing Chuck Yeager in “The Right Stuff”. You should take a look at the rest of his career as a playwright and director – he received 10 Obie Awards (most ever for a writer or a director) and also won the Pulitzer Prize for Drama in 1979.