When I first tasted Snooks’ Lasagna as a kid, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. After marrying Cathy, and finding out she had Snooks’ recipe, I knew I’d gone to heaven. It’s the best lasagna in the world.

Snooks and Isabelle Grobe were friends of my parents. His real name was Dallard Anthony Grobe, but no one called him that. As a matter of fact, I think he was only rarely called Tony – usually it was just Snooks, a nickname from his early days. We kids all thought he looked a bit like Jimmy Durante. He and Isabelle lived on the south side of Ottawa, on Allen Street. Although my folks knew them from church, I think the real friendship grew from the four of them getting together with other couples and playing Pinochle or Euchre in the evenings. Both were big card games in Ottawa, and I suppose Illinois in general.

As a child, while I remember going to their house with mom and dad for the card games, what I really remember was the smell of the lasagna cooking when you entered their home. It was wonderful. Eventually, it was taken out of the oven, and you were given a piping hot piece with a caution to be careful, or “you’ll burn the roof of your mouth!” I don’t recall ever being cautious, or burning my mouth. I do remember how delicious it was, and inevitably, I’d have two or three pieces, until mom would say “quit acting like you’re starving and never fed at home!”

Over the years, I saw less of Snooks and Isabelle, but I always remembered his lasagna. At the time, the recipe was “a secret” and supposedly never shared. Somehow though, mom ended up with a copy. She made Snooks’ Lasagna once or twice growing up, but not often. It was a bit labor intensive, and so mom usually made her all-day-simmer spaghetti sauce if we were eating “Italian”.

Time passed. Cathy and I married and the Army sent us overseas to Germany. One night I came home from work, and as I entered the house, there was a wonderful smell. I asked Cathy what was for dinner and she said “lasagna.” I laughed a bit and told her the story of Snooks and his lasagna. Cathy looked at me like I was stupid, and finally said “this is Snooks’ Lasagna – your mother gave me the recipe…” Sometimes, things don’t measure up to your memories – this was NOT one of those times. The lasagna was delicious, and just as good as I remembered. I think the cheese mixture in the recipe is what really made it special. I’m sure I ate two or three pieces, and washed it down with wine instead of the milk of my childhood. Thankfully, Cathy didn’t tell me to quit acting like I was starving.

For the past 40 years, it’s been a go-to recipe for Cathy. It’s still delicious, and I still get excited when she makes it. As I was recently searching around for my next blog idea, I thought Snooks’ Lasagna might make a good topic. I mentioned this to Cathy, and she immediately said “I’M NOT SHARING THE RECIPE! DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT….”.

Now the story gets a bit more interesting. In doing some research, I reached out to Charlean Grobe, who was my Kindergarten teacher and Snooks daughter-in-law, and is also a current Facebook friend (yes, Ottawa was a fairly small town, and almost everyone knew everyone else). The following is information she provided.

The recipe actually came from the mother of a girl Snooks’ son, Bob, dated in high school. Bob was at the girl’s home for dinner, loved the lasagna and asked the mother for the recipe. The mother gave him the recipe, and he then gave it to Snooks to see if he could recreate it at home. In another twist to the story, Bob eventually stopped dating the girl, and later met and married Charlean. Charlean told me “Now I don’t know if dad Grobe tweaked it or not, but it became Tony Grobe’s recipe.”

Charlean also told me the lasagna was served at an annual Antique Auction the Epworth United Methodist Church held as a church fund raiser every year. It was a two day event and people came from Iowa, Wisconsin and Illinois. The Friday night dinner was lasagna, salad and dessert. The dinner was a big deal and brought customers in for the show. Snooks made the lasagna in the beginning, and used large pans, not the 9″x13” dish called for in the recipe. Originally, he was making 6 pans, with 12 huge pieces in each. As the auction grew larger, there was a crew under Snooks’ direction making the lasagna, and they were up to 14 pans.

Snooks passed away in 1977. He had given the recipe to others, so his lasagna was still made at the church for several years after he died. With Snooks no longer there to supervise, the church replaced him with an entire committee, and in the ‘80s, they were up to 18 large pans of lasagna with 18 pieces in every pan. Eventually, the recipe was included in an Epworth Church Cookbook. You know the type of book – a collection of recipes from the congregation, gathered into a soft cover cookbook and sold to raise money for the church.

I mentioned all of this to Cathy, in the hope she would reconsider including the recipe in this blog. Her answer was an emphatic no. “I’m not letting you publish the recipe. If you do, don’t bother coming to bed. If someone wants it so bad, they can go look for the cookbook.”

So there you have it. You can certainly enjoy the lasagna at our home. And I’m sure there are copies of the recipe still floating around Ottawa, and among the Grobes. I think your best bet is to look for an old copy of the Epworth United Methodist Church Cookbook. It may be a difficult find, but trust me, it’s well worth the effort.

Addendum:

It was great fun exchanging texts with Charlean about Snooks and his lasagna. She obviously loved him very much, and was quite generous in sharing information about him, their family and the lasagna. The last thing she shared was “He was a great guy, loved by many, and always enjoyed dressing up. He handed out gum to all the kids at church…. He taught me how to build steps, recover furniture, and sure knew how to catch mice. He was someone who could do just about anything.” Charlean’s husband Bob passed away several years ago and she now lives in Texas with her daughter, Brenda.

What a tumultuous season. Back in May, at 19-31, 12 games back, the Nats were already written off by many. Now? A one day pause between the end of the regular season, and the Wild Card winner take all, one game playoff. Will they win Tuesday night? I haven’t a clue, but I’m sure glad we have the opportunity, and I’ll be there tomorrow night.

The Nats, our Nats, gave us the ride of a life to get to this point. Yes, we’ve won four Division titles in the past. This season was something else. After that opening disaster, they played some of the best baseball in the League, and slowly clawed their way back.

I have to admit, I felt like a kid from the end of August, through the end of the season. I was following the Nats, but also watching the other teams in the hunt. Although Atlanta had a lock on first place in the division come September, what was everyone else doing? In the morning, I’d check online to see what Philly, the Mets, Cards, Cubs and Brewers did the night before. The tension of a mini losing streak in September only added to the angst. Finally, taking five from Philly and then sweeping Cleveland put us over the top.

There were lots of injuries along the way, and it feels we are now mostly past that. The bullpen is still a semi-disaster and my stomach grumbles every time I watch a game and it gets to the seventh inning. This is different. It’s the playoffs and we’ve got three solid starting pitchers, a team that’s hitting well, and home field for the one and done wild card game. I like our chances for Tuesday.

Will we win? I haven’t a clue. I do know I’ll be there, in the same seats we always have, section 219, Row D, seats 1-4. If we make it past Tuesday, the Dodgers better be ready to play. If we lose? I’ve never thought much of “moral victories”, but I’ll always remember the feelings I had in late August and September of this year.

Specialist Waters approached me and said “Hey L.T., Jones has a knife and he’s going after Willie.” — “What?” — “Sir, Jones is here in the Club and has a knife. He’s looking for Willie Kimbrough.” I looked where Waters was pointing, and sure enough, there was Jones walking through the Club with a partially hidden knife in the hand by his side. “Shit.”

It was 1980 and Cath and I were stationed in Würzburg, Germany. My unit, the 123d Signal Battalion, 3rd Infantry Division, occupied Hindenburg Kaserne (barracks) across town from the Division Headquarters. We were the only unit on the Kaserne, which had both advantages and disadvantages. One of the disadvantages was as a Lieutenant, or Captain who wasn’t a Company Commander, you pulled Duty Officer about every three weeks.

As Duty Officer, after everyone else left at the end of the day, you would do another 12 hour shift, along with a Duty NCO. Your main jobs were to make sure everything stayed peaceful, address any issues that came up, and if an alert happened, start the telephone chain recalling officers and soldiers living off post. Two hours after an alert was called, we would start rolling our units towards the East German or Czech border.

The post Vietnam Army in Europe was a bit of a wild west show. We were migrating from a draft Army to the all volunteer force. There were still drug and alcohol problems among several of the troops, sometime morale issues, and certainly maintenance and training issues. The result of all of this was you never knew for sure what kind of night you were going to have as Duty Officer. Weekends and paydays were typically worse, as everyone was letting off pent up energy from the week. While most tours as Duty Officer were calm, I’d previously dealt with a soldier who slashed an artery in his arm from punching out a window. That was certainly a fun night, watching the blood spurt out with each heartbeat. We stopped the wound with pressure and he survived after going to the hospital. I’d also broken up a couple of fights, but there was nothing too serious.

On this particular Saturday evening, things started out calmly enough. I’d made a couple of tours of the Kaserne and things were fine. Around midnight, I walked around again, and went into the All Ranks club. That’s when Specialist Waters approached me and said “Hey L.T. (Pronounced ELL TEE), Jones has a knife and he’s going after Willie.”

“What?”

“Sir – Jones is here in the Club and has a knife. He’s looking for Willie Kimbrough.” I looked where Waters was pointing, and sure enough, there was Jones walking through the Club with a partially hidden knife in the hand by his side. “Shit.”

Waters and I watched as Jones completed circling the room. No one else seemed aware he was holding a knife. He left by the exit and I followed about 15 feet behind. It was dark out and no one else appeared to be around. After crossing the motor park area he entered one of the barracks. I told Waters (he was still with me) to get the Duty NCO and tell him to get his ass here ASAP.

In the barracks, Jones walked down the hall and entered one of the rooms. I followed him in and there was no one else in the room. Jones circled and I called his name, but he either didn’t hear me, or didn’t care. On his way back to the door, he passed by me and I could see his eyes were glazed and unfocused.

“JONES!”. No answer. “JONES!” No answer.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

As he reached the door, I launched myself at his back and we both slammed into the closed door. I wrapped and locked my arms around his arms and chest and as we struggled, I could still see the knife in his right hand.

We tumbled onto a nearby bed, and he fell on top of me, with his back to my front. I wrapped my legs around his waist in a figure four and was squeezing for all I was worth. At the same time, I pressed one of my arms across his face and throat, keeping him from moving. At some point he passed out, and the knife fell from his hand to the floor.

I relaxed my grip, and the figure four. As I got up, I looked around the room and saw several soldiers, including the CQ (soldier in Charge of Quarters for that company) and told him to call the MPs. He ran to his station to do so. The MPs would come from across town, and were at least 10 minutes away.

I was looking for the knife when Jones came to and started struggling towards me. I slammed my arm across his face and neck again, put a choke hold on him, and rewrapped my legs around his waist in another figure four. This time, I was on top of him. He eventually passed out again and I relaxed my grip. I looked on the ground for the knife, but it was no where in sight. I looked at the 7 or 8 soldiers now in the room and called out “who has the damned knife?!” Several people looked at the ground, but no one said anything. “Get the hell out of here. NOW.”, and they slowly left the room. About then, the duty NCO showed up and I explained what happened. Jones was still passed out. As we were talking, the MPs arrived, and of course there was now a crowd in the hallway of the barracks.

Jones was starting to wake up again. This time he was disoriented and not struggling. The MPs put cuffs on him and led him away through the crowd in the hallway. His eyes were still glazed. The Duty NCO then dispersed the gathered crowd.

The NCO and I went back to Battalion Headquarters and I filled out the incident report. We still had 6 hours until our shift ended, but the rest of the time passed quietly.

I don’t know if I was smart or stupid, but at the time, I thought lunging at him was the right thing to do. When it was over, I didn’t really give it anymore thought. Of course word of the incident spread around the Battalion. Several of the troops mentioned it to me in the coming days, and I think they thought what I did was a bit crazy. I also heard guys from my platoon talking with others in the Battalion about “Our L.T.”.

As I thought about the incident over the years, I decided a little crazy wasn’t always a bad thing. If all of life is a learning experience, I learned a few things about myself that night.

Addendum:

⁃ I remember the knife was a 3 inch folding Buck knife. Switch blades were totally outlawed. If you owned one and got caught, you were in big trouble – you’d typically get busted and lose pay. We just never saw them. For other knives, no blades longer than 3 inches were allowed. If the blade was over 3 inches, it would get confiscated. The Buck Knife Company happened to make a knife with a locking blade exactly 3 inches long. Everyone carried one, particularly when you deployed to the field. They were incredibly useful for any number of things. The knife in the photo is my own Buck knife from that time frame.

⁃ High School wrestling served me well – the figure four I used when we fell to the bed was from my wrestling training.

⁃ My language at the time of the incident was probably a bit rougher than reflected in this retelling. There’s a good chance anytime I used a shit, damn, or hell in this story, I was probably using some conjugation of the F-bomb at the time. Back in the day, Cathy said when I returned from a field exercise, it would take me three days to clean Up my language.

This year is the 18th anniversary of September 11th, and everyone of a certain age remembers when they heard the news that day. If you lived in New York City, or the Metro DC area you probably have a story of what you experienced. This is the story of my experience.

The original construction of the Pentagon started on September 11th, 1941 (yes, that is true) and was completed in January, 1943. It is the largest low-rise office building in the world and 25,000 military and civilian employees work there on any given day. In the 1990s at 50 years of age, the building had several problems and a determination was made to renovate it, one Wedge at a time. In 1993, I became a part of the team assigned to upgrade the computer and communications systems, as a part of the Renovation. I eventually became the lead civilian engineer for the National Military Command Center (NMCC), and a couple of years later the lead civilian systems integration engineer for all of the networks and systems going into the renovated Pentagon. It was a great job, and I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. In 2000, I had the opportunity to become the Technical Director (think CTO) for a division of the company I worked for, SRA, and I moved back to our corporate headquarters. It was a promotion, but I was sad about leaving the Renovation Program.

On the morning of September 11th, 2001, I was sitting in a meeting with a few people in our company offices. A little after 9:00AM, the door to the conference room burst open and someone shouted a plane hit one of the twin towers. Pat, my boss, said he knew about it, and it was only a small off-course plane. The other person said, no, two large planes crashed into the Towers. We all jumped up and out of the room to find a TV and see what was going on.

A few minutes later, we received word a plane also crashed into the Pentagon. My stomach tightened in a knot. Oh shit. We had over 40 people working in the Pentagon on the Renovation and other programs. In fact, my old team had just finished renovating the Navy Command Center three weeks before. It was in the Wedge of the Pentagon hit by the plane.

Pat asked me to track down all of our Pentagon related personnel. As I started making calls, it was something of a madhouse in the hallways outside my door.

I called our office a couple of miles from the Pentagon and was able to get the status on a few of our people. The others were still unknown. Many worked full time in the Pentagon, or were there for meetings that day. We had a call tree for disaster situations. Unfortunately, when the Pentagon was hit, cell service was so overloaded it was almost impossible to get through to people. Landlines only seemed marginally better.

Around 10:00AM, the first tower fell. A bit later the second tower also went. Near 11:00AM, the outside portion of the Pentagon Wedge where the plane crashed, collapsed and the fire intensified. At our office, people were departing work and trying to get to their families around the beltway. They were expecting another plane and wanting to reach their loved ones.

Time went by blindingly fast and morning turned to afternoon. Slowly we were finding people. One person was chased down a hallway by a fireball before he ducked into an open door and the fireball whooshed by. The smell of smoke and jet fuel was overpowering. Someone else jumped out of an interior second floor window and hurt his leg, but was otherwise OK. My friend Tom was suppose to attend a meeting in the Navy Command Center, and missed the start because his metro train was delayed. He was walking across the Pentagon when the plane hit and the Command Center was destroyed. Of the 189 people who died at the Pentagon September 11th, 42 were in the Navy Command Center.

Sometime in the afternoon Cathy called. She had tried to reach me for a while, but couldn’t get through. I confirmed I was OK. My job carried me around the DC metro area, including the Pentagon, so she wasn’t sure where I was that day. It was good to hear her voice. I told her I wasn’t sure when I’d be home.

The afternoon turned late. More reports came in and I learned a number of our folk were evacuated from the Pentagon into nearby Crystal City. We added their name to the growing list of people confirmed alive from our company. Since metro was now out of service near the Pentagon, they had to walk several miles to return to our corporate offices where their cars were parked. One of our engineers, Bobby, was in the Wedge where the plane crashed, but only suffered a broken shoulder when he was slammed into a wall from the explosion. He walked out of the building with his arm hanging at his side.

Finally, around 6:30PM, we tracked down the last missing person. Everyone in our company had survived and only Bobby had to go to the hospital. It was a bit of relief on a grim day.

A while later, near dusk, I drove home. Route 66, normally jammed with the evening rush hour, was amazingly empty. Most folk had evidently left work much earlier in the day to be with their families. There was literally no traffic and I reached home in record time. I called my folks and returned a couple of calls from concerned friends. Cathy and I had a quiet dinner as we watched TV cycle and recycle through footage of the towers, news about the plane crash in Pennsylvania, and video of the still burning Pentagon. It was the first time I actually saw the footage of the Pentagon’s destruction, as I was glued to the phone all day. We eventually went to bed, and a sleepless night.

The story doesn’t end there.

The next couple of days were a blur of both activity and inactivity. The world had changed, although most of us weren’t yet aware of exactly how. The Pentagon was still functioning, and over 10,000 people reported for work on September 12th. The vast majority of the communications and computer systems outside the destroyed Wedge survived, however, there were some interconnectivity and redundancy issues.

A day later I received a call and was asked to attend a meeting at the Pentagon Renovation headquarters, just outside the Pentagon in a Modular Office Complex (we called it the MOC). I arrived, and I believe there was still smoke coming out of the Wedge hit by the plane. The meeting was to discuss measures to address the issues with the networks in the Pentagon, provide work-arounds for the destroyed Wedge, and address fitting out a temporary Navy Command Center. The meeting went on a few hours and general plans were established and work started.

At the start of October, a decision was made and a goal established to fix and reopen the destroyed part of the Pentagon by September 11th, 2002. The Phoenix Project was born, and the crews involved worked like fiends. While I wasn’t a part of the team directly working on the Phoenix Project, I was indirectly involved through corporate and project oversight of our parts of the effort. I had many friends and coworkers involved, and their story is a great one.

The phrase “Let’s Roll”, borrowed from Todd Beamer who died on UA Flight 93 in Pennsylvania, became the project’s slogan. The team removed the debris and wreckage, tested the infrastructure and facilities, rebuilt the building itself, and ultimately, put the computer and communications systems back into the destroyed Wedge. On August 15th, 2002, nearly one month ahead of schedule, the first tenants moved back into the newly renovated Wedge.

At the ceremony marking the one-year anniversary of the tragedy, General Richard B. Meyers, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, thanked the Phoenix Project Team by saying, “You’ve restored this great building ahead of schedule, with muscle, determination, marble, cement and Indiana limestone. You did more than repair our windows and walls, you repaired ours souls. In the process, you turned this building into another symbol, one of American resilience.”

For me, the events of 9-11 weren’t isolated to just the one day. I can never think of the planes hitting the Towers and the Pentagon, without also thinking of the massive effort over the next year to rebuild the Pentagon. It showed us at our best, and what we are capable of as a country and a people. When we put our minds, and our backs to it, nothing is beyond our reach.

Addendum:

– If you want a good book about the history of the Pentagon, including the renovation and the events surrounding 9-11, I recommend: The Pentagon, by Steve Vogel.

– When I started writing this post, I planned to name all of the folk I knew involved in the Renovation effort and particularly Project Phoenix. There are many and rather than name a few, I decided to name no one. You know who you are. My hat is off to you and your efforts, now and forever.

My wife, Cathy, has a new love in her life. After 41 years of marriage, I guess this doesn’t surprise me. I think I’m mostly a good husband, but I’m also aware of my shortcomings. There are some ways I’ve just never kept up. After all these years, the love of her life is Katy, another female.

For those not aware, Katy is a German Sport Pony. In height, she’s 14.2 hands, and a horse technically needs to be 14.3 hands. Katy’s a beautiful animal, and Cathy and she are a great match in size, temperament and demeanor.

As I think about Cath’s passion for horses and riding, I’m always a bit amazed. This sport is her lifelong joy and devotion and is entwined with almost all of our time together.

Cathy first received dressage lessons in Germany in 1980. The weekly lessons were in a neighboring town, Klein Ochsenfurt, and lasted almost 3 years. The instructions were in German, and the instructor treated her the same as his German students (you haven’t lived until you’re called a “Dumme Ei” (dumb egg) during a riding lesson).

When we returned to the States in ‘83, she bought her first horse, Tonja. Tonja travelled from Georgia to Ohio with us and Cathy spent the next two years competing with her. In ‘85, we returned to Germany and had to sell Tonja. There were more lessons in Germany, and we finally returned home in ‘89 and settled in Virginia.

In 1990, Cathy bought Arthur, and she resumed competing here in the States. Over the years other horses came in and out of our lives. Tucker, Crescendo, Gwen, Todd, and Sailor all proceeded Katy. Of course, this doesn’t include Red, Arthur’s companion horse, or our two brood mares, Longstocking and Adancer, and their six foals – Larry, Archie, Jazz, Hanny, Queue and Andy. In case you are counting, that’s 17 horses in all.

During the past 39 years of riding, Cathy has broken bones, suffered a concussion, and had multiple cuts and contusions. In 1985, she delivered water to a barn in Ohio when the pipes in the barn were frozen (-25 degrees straight temperature). Here at the farm, she was once locked in a shed by a horse for over an hour until I realized she was missing and went looking for her (don’t ask). Two years ago, she walked through waist high snow to feed the horses (I was unfortunately detained at a business meeting in Key West.) We’ve rescued a horse who busted through the ice on our pond and was in neck-high water, and the police once helped round up horses who escaped our pasture and were wandering on a nearby road.

Nothing is too good for our horses. They get new shoes, or hoof trims every five weeks, and Imelda Marcos has nothing on them. We are on good terms with several different vets in the area, including a chiropractor and an acupuncturist. Our hay is imported twice a year from Pennsylvania, and we are sworn to secrecy on the source. Katy has a custom saddle and new equipment, while Cathy’s boots and breeches are over a decade old.

…..which brings us back to Katy. The thing about competing in horse related events is it truly takes teamwork between horse and rider to do well. Katy may be the best partner ever. Cath’s had her two years now, and this year, they’ve done three shows, with two more scheduled before the end of the season. I’m only a layman when it comes to horses, but even I can see how well they are matched.

The truth is, I’m not jealous of Cathy and Katy. I both envy and love Cathy’s passion for riding and horses and am a bit in awe of her dedication and focus. I’ve never had this level of passion for anything, or anyone, except Cathy herself. I’ve enjoyed many activities over the years, including running, hiking, cooking, bread making, reading, travel, baseball, and collecting wine, but this level of passion? Never. We should all be so lucky.

Addendum:

We currently have four horses at the farm. In addition to Cathy’s pal Katy, both Sailor and Crescendo are retired here. We also have one guest – our neighbor keeps her retired horse, Noggin’, here.

I’m also proud to say that after 20 years of farm life, I am now the morning feeder and waterer for our horses. Unfortunately, I still haven’t learned the art of mucking out stalls and Cathy only employs me in that role in an emergency.

In 1956, when I was one year old, mom and dad bought their first home, at 1517 Cherokee Lane in Ottawa. It was in a brand new subdivision called Tomahawk Terrace on the south side of town next to the cornfields. The house was a modest brick ranch with two bedrooms and one bathroom on a corner lot.

A couple weeks after moving in, mom’s folks came for dinner. Dad and grandpa were standing outside admiring the property, when my grandpa said “Well Bill, if you don’t mind my asking, how much did you pay for this house?” Dad answered “Nah, George, I don’t mind telling you. It was $12,000.”

“HOOOLEEEY JEEEEEZ!” Grandpa shouted. “Where’d you get that kind of money!?”

Dad told me the story years later, probably about the time Cathy and I were buying our own first home in ‘89 (it was a bit more than $12,000). We had a pretty good chuckle over the price, and grandpa’s reaction.

Mom and dad raised me, along with my sisters Roberta and Tanya, in that two bedroom ranch. They refinanced a couple of times along the way and added a garage, and eventually a family room, which served as my room for several years. Around 1970, they closed the garage in, and turned the front half into a bedroom for me.

Eventually the three of us kids married, and moved on, while mom and dad remained on Cherokee Lane. There were wonderful family get togethers over the years. Somehow they’d fit 30 or more people in for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Immediate family, relatives, friends, and neighbors would gather and it was always a great mix of people, love and laughter.

In 1996, dad had a stroke and was in the hospital for a week. Before we could bring him home, we had to make some modifications to the house, including adding a shower to the bathroom.

I’d never really thought about it before. All those years growing up, the five of us shared the one bathroom with a bathtub and no shower. I kept thinking about it, and finally said to mom “Why didn’t you have a shower put in when you built the house? It would have been an easy thing to do.”

She looked at me straight faced and answered “Your father and I talked about it at the time, but putting in a shower was going to add $34 dollars to the price, and we were just afraid it was going to make the mortgage too high.”

….silence…..

And then we both burst out laughing. Between the laughs mom said, “I know it seems silly now, but it’s true. Money was tight and we just didn’t see how we could afford anything more.” It gave us some comic relief during a stressful time.

$34 dollars….. It’s hard to go out to dinner for $34 these days.

Dad passed away nine years ago, and mom died in 2017. Since then, my sister Tanya and our brother-in-law Shawn moved into 1517 Cherokee Lane. They’ve updated the house and made it their own. When I saw it last, I marveled at the changes and upgrades they made. The good news is, they didn’t have to add a shower. That 63 year old house is still going strong.

Addendum: Thanks to Roberta and Tanya for reviewing and adding to this blog. I have the best sisters in the world.

Next week is the 74th anniversary of the end of WWII. When the fighting ended in 1945, the GIs all wanted to go home, but it wasn’t quite that simple. You needed “points” to muster out of the service at the end of the war.

….Points…. If you ever watched the “Band of Brothers” HBO series, the last episode focused on “points” and who could get discharged from the army first. Most GIs were more than ready to get out of the Army and go home. Some were overseas for years. Others had only recently deployed. There were combat veterans who saw horrific killing. There were also REMFs (rear echelon MFers) who were never near the front line. ALL wanted to go home.

The Army, while reducing it’s size, needed to balance the needs of the service with the needs of the soldier. They wanted to find a way to balance length of service, combat service, and what sacrifice was made back home. The end result was the development of a point system used to rank soldiers according to four criteria:

1. Months in service since September 1940 = One point for each month

2. Month in service overseas = One point each, in addition to months in service

3. Combat awards (Medal of Honor, Distinguished Service Cross, Distinguished Service Medal, Legion of Merit, Silver Star Medal, Distinguished Flying Cross, Soldier’s Medal, Bronze Star Medal, Air Medal, Purple Heart), or combat campaign participation star = Five points each

4. Dependent child under eighteen years old = Twelve points each

These four criteria were the only ones from which points were calculated. In August of 1945, an enlisted man needed a score of 85 points to be considered for discharge. (This dropped to 75 after Japan’s formal surrender).

…..85 Points….. You can see from the criteria it wasn’t easy to get to that point total, and yet, in August of 1945, Dad’s total was 96 points. This photo of his awards tells the story of his 96 points.

The ribbon on the lower right (yellow ribbon) is the “American Defense Service Medal” established by Roosevelt to recognize those soldiers in the military PRIOR to Pearl Harbor. Dad joined the Army in September of 1940, meaning for the first criteria (total service), he served 59 months by July of ’45, and was awarded 59 points.

Of those 59 months, he was overseas from November 8th, 1942 (The invasion of North Africa) to March of 1944 (when he finished recovering from the wounds he received in Sicily). Those 17 months overseas resulted in an additional 17 points under criteria 2.

The ribbon on the lower left (brown and green) is The European–African–Middle Eastern Campaign Medal. Dad has three stars in the ribbon for the three campaigns he participated in (criteria 3) – Algeria/French Morocco, Tunisia, and Sicily. Those campaigns counted for 5 points each, or 15 points total.

Above the two ribbons is the Purple Heart he received for being shot three times in Sicily. Under criteria 3, he earned an additional 5 points for almost dying.

It’s also interesting to note where he didn’t receive points. At the top of his medals, you see the blue badge with a rifle. This is the Combat Infantryman Badge (CIB) and was awarded only to infantrymen who fought in active ground combat while assigned as members of an infantry unit. General Eisenhower once said “he would have traded all his medals for a Combat Infantryman Badge”, which he never obtained. Dad received 0 points for this.

After the war, he was awarded the Bronze Star. If you look at criteria 3, this should have added an additional 5 points, however, because he was already discharged when the paperwork finally went through, he received 0 points.

As to criteria 4, dad was only 16 when he joined the Army, and had no (known ;-)…) dependent children under 18 years of age. This resulted in 0 points.

Total up the points and you get to 96. Because of this, he was discharged after the Japanese announced they would surrender on August 14th, but before they officially surrendered on September 2nd, 1945.

Dad joined the army in 1940 when he was 16 years old. When he was discharged in August of ‘45, he’d spent 5 years in the Army. By the end of those 5 years, he invaded two continents, fought in four countries, was shot three times, and developed malaria. Oh, and he was just 21 years old. I think he paid his dues. It was time to return home.

Addendum:

Points: You can get more information on points at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adjusted_Service_Rating_Score

European campaigns: You can get more info on the European Campaigns counting towards points at: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/European–African–Middle_Eastern_Campaign_Medal

There are certain events that occur and even years later, we remember where we were when they happened. Kennedy’s assassination. The Challenger Disaster. 9/11. They are often catastrophic events, but not always. When man first landed on the moon 50 years ago, on July 20th, 1969, I know exactly where I was – The Boy Scout National Jamboree in Idaho.

The National Jamboree was held at Farragut State Park, Idaho, from July 16 to 22, and had over 34,000 attendees. I was lucky to be one of them, as my folks had originally said no to attending. Then Farrell Brooks, our Scoutmaster, had a private conversation with mom and dad, and they changed their minds – I could go, but had to pay for some of the trip myself.

On July 12th, we boarded a special train in Chicago for the trip west. The train was for Scouts only, and there were approximately 600 of us on it (it must have been a zoo….;-)….). The trip took a couple of days and included a one day stopover at Glacier National Park.

Arriving at Farragut State Part we built our camp. We put up our tents, lashed together an entrance and perimeter fence, built fire pits, and nailed together our picnic tables and cooking stations.

In addition to all of the activities going on at the Jamboree, I distinctly remember excitement building about the upcoming moon landing. Both Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, the two men who would walk on the moon, were former Boy Scouts and Armstrong had obtained Eagle, Scouting’s highest rank.

On July 18, while flying toward the moon, Armstrong greeted us Scouts via Radio: “I’d like to say hello to all my fellow Scouts and Scouters at Farragut State Park in Idaho having a National Jamboree there this week and Apollo’s 11 would like to send them best wishes.” We couldn’t believe it when we heard about the broadcast. Here he was, going to the moon, and he took time to reach out to us. The transcript of the broadcast made our Jamboree newspaper the next day.

Then came the big day, July 20th. We knew the landing was in the afternoon, however, weren’t exactly sure when. Of course we didn’t have any TV to follow Walter Cronkite and the coverage of the landing, but one of the older scouts had a radio. After lunch, several us stayed in camp and sat at the picnic table listening to the radio. We followed the conversations between Aldrin and Armstrong as they neared the moon, and Mission Control back on earth. I think with no visual for us, it was perhaps even scarier. At 2:17PM local time, Armstrong announced “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed.”

Six hours later, Armstrong and Aldrin both walked on the moon. Without TVs, we didn’t see any of the live footage shown on network television. However, on the following evening, July 21st, all of us Scouts marched to the amphitheater used for the opening and closing events during the Jamboree. That evening they had erected huge white screens. Tapes of the lunar landing, along with the footage of Armstrong and Aldrin walking on the moon were projected on the screens. There were 34,000 of us there, but I bet you could hear a pin drop as we watched history unfolding.

The Jamboree ended the next day and the following day we returned by train to Illinois. I don’t remember anything of the trip home. Three weeks later, Woodstock happened, and a few weeks after that, I started my freshman year in high school.

Over the years, I’ve forgotten most of what happened at the Jamboree, except for a few scattered memories. Sitting at the picnic table, listening to the landing on the moon? It’s clear as a bell in my mind.

Addendum:

1. Later in life, in addition to the Boy Scouts, I had another connection with Apollo 11. Both Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins were West Point graduates. Aldrin graduated in ‘51 and Collins in ‘52. Neil Armstrong was a civilian. One of the reasons Armstrong was the first to set foot on the moon (in addition to acting as the Commander), was NASA wanted to make sure the first person to set foot on the moon was a Civilian and not a member of the Armed Forces.

2. Mom saved almost everything from when I was a kid, and then returned things to me over the years. I still have my Jamboree patches, coffee mug, special badges and the daily newspapers they gave us while there. I also still have the Look Magazine Special Edition issued the week after the moon landing.