50 years ago in June of 1969, I was awarded the Boy Scout’s highest rank, Eagle Scout. I was thinking about this recently when Cath and I were attending the Eagle Court of Honor for Mark, the son of good friends of ours. At the presentation, I thought about Scouting, both now, and when I was a boy. I also thought about two important mentors from my youth.

On one level, time hasn’t been kind to the Boy Scouts. They were recently again in the news for cases of possible sexual child abuse. A couple of years ago, after probably taking too long to decide, they opened Scouting to gay youth and leaders, and a year later, transgender youth. Recently, they allowed girls to join. All of these activities have raised passions both supporting and disparaging the Boy Scouts and I sometimes wonder if scouting will survive. I for one, hope it does.

The Boy Scouts of my youth with Troop 45 were great fun, and taught me skills I continue to use. The camping trips, hikes and summer camps provided memories my friends and I still talk and laugh about. We learned about camping, cooking, knots, nature, first aid, and lifesaving among other “hard” skills. Perhaps more importantly, the Scout Oath and Scout Law taught us (or reinforced in us) softer skills. Learning about doing your duty, helping others, and respecting yourself are not bad things to absorb at a young age. Gaining those hard skills and internalizing the softer skills led to my Eagle award in 1969, at the age of 14.

One of the greatest gifts Scouting gave me was two of my first mentors, Farrell Brooks and Don Willy. They were our Scoutmaster and Assistant Scoutmaster. There were other adults involved in our troop, although looking back, it’s easy to see that many were involved either to watch out for their own son, or to fulfill some leadership longing in their personal life. The kind of adult who liked to be in charge of a bunch of kids. We never paid much attention to those guys. As a matter of fact, we tried to figure out ways of outsmarting them, or doing things behind their backs.

Farrell and Don were different. They practiced what today I would call “quiet leadership”. They let us boys run things as much as possible, with the occasional course correction. They set good examples of how to act as a man and we noticed. They didn’t berate us, chastise us, belittle us, or make us feel like kids. Instead, they encouraged, challenged, and listened to us.

In my youth, I don’t think I knew what a mentor was, but I know I respected Farrell and Don and listened to them. As I became an adult, their example formed a part of the bedrock of my own leadership skills that served me in the Army and later in business. Both Don and Farrell passed away several years ago. I wish I had just one more evening as an adult sitting around a campfire with them. I’d enjoy picking their brains about a thing or two. I’d give a lot for that night….

We congratulated Mark after his Eagle ceremony. He’s a fine young man and I believe he will do well in life. Listening to his current and former Scoutmasters speak at the ceremony gives me faith there are still leaders in the Scouts helping boys become good adults. I hope as Mark gets older he reflects back on the mentoring he received and find it a source of strength. I know I have.

Addendum:

1. In the included photo of the four of us receiving our Eagle Scout awards, I’m the only one still alive. Ken, Randy, and Larry all passed away too soon, at relatively young ages. When I look at the picture, I smile remembering the evening, but I’m also sad as I reflect on each of their deaths. The possibilities, and the promises of life seemed endless in 1969, and yet, here I am the last one alive.

2. Since the 1920s, the Boy Scouts have compiled “ineligible files,” listing adult volunteers considered to pose a risk of child molestation. About 5,000 of these files were made public as a result of court action; another 2,000 or so remain confidential. The Scouts say when a BSA volunteer is added to the database for suspected abuse, “they are reported to law enforcement, removed entirely from any Scouting program and prohibited from re-joining anywhere.”

Boy Scout Oath

On my honor, I will do my best

To do my duty to God and my country and to obey the Scout Law;

To help other people at all times;

To keep myself physically strong, mentally awake and morally straight.

About a year before mom died, she and I were sitting in her front room and talking about this and that. Suddenly she said to me “when you left for West Point, I didn’t realize then that you would never return to Ottawa.” The words hit home, and made me a bit sad. Later, I thought back to that departure…

I’d received my appointment to West Point in March of my senior year at OHS. After the initial giddiness of getting accepted passed, the reality of what I signed up for started to sink in. While most of my friends would be partying all summer before going to college in the fall, I would be reporting to West Point at the start of July for Beast Barracks. “Beast” was the Academy’s intense two month introduction to West Point, the Army and the Fourth Class System (Freshmen at West Point are known as Fourth Classmen or Plebes).

After graduation from OHS, my days and nights were spent in a combination of dates with Cathy, partying with Tim and Howard, and the occasional family get together. The time passed quickly. Three weeks till I reported; two weeks; one week; three nights, two nights, and then just one night left. Cathy and I were going on our final date that night.

I’m not sure how we came up with the idea, but that last date was a dinner at her house. Her parents and sisters were going out for the evening, leaving the house to us. Cathy would fix dinner and we were going to just hang out. Interestingly, her parents called mine to see if it was OK for Cathy to serve a bottle of wine at the dinner. My folks agreed. I was 18 and she was 17. The drinking age for beer and wine in Illinois at the time was 19. I try to imagine this happening today, and maybe it would, but I think a lot of parents would be vilified for allowing the wine to be served.

The night of the dinner came and I rode my bike to her house. She greeted me at the door and then opened the wine. It was an Italian straw basket Chianti and we had a glass. For dinner, she made spaghetti with homemade meat sauce and a salad. I’m sure there was a dessert as well, but neither of us can remember what it was. It was a bittersweet night, as farewells often are. In some ways, it was almost like we were play acting as adults. I suppose our excuse was that we were young, and in love in that high school way. We promised to write, and said we’d see each other soon. The date finally ended, we said our goodbyes and had our farewell kiss.

The next day, mom, dad and I were leaving mid morning for the drive to New York. Howard stopped by for a final farewell. We joked about resuming the party times when I came back at Christmas. When Howard was about to leave, Cathy surprised me and rode up on her bike. We went off to the side and talked a bit more. As we hugged goodbye, she pressed a letter in my hand, and made me promise not to read it until after I left.

And then it was time. Mom, dad and I got in the car and left Ottawa. I think I waited about an hour before opening the letter from Cathy. I probably read it about 50 times on the drive to West Point.

I started Beast two days later and my West Point and Army journey began.

I made it home for Christmas break that year and saw family, friends and Cathy. Mom was right though. I’d left Ottawa for good, although I didn’t know it yet. For the next 45 plus years, Cathy and I would make it back for vacations, or different family milestones. To this day, we still return to Ottawa on trips, but never did return to live there. We both love Ottawa and it was a great place to grow up, but you can’t go back.

In the book Shadows in Paradise, the author Erich Maria Remarque (All Quiet on the Western Front) said it much more eloquently than I ever could:

“But I also knew that there was no going back. One can never go back; nothing and no one is ever the same. All that remains is an occasional evening of sadness. The sadness that we all feel because everything passes and man is the only animal who knows it.”

Addendum:

⁃ I carried the letter from Cathy with me when I checked in to the Academy, and it was in my desk for the entire time at West Point. Today, all these years later, I still have it in a drawer next to our bed. I won’t tell you the contents, but the letter is special to me and I still read it occasionally.

⁃ In the, “it doesn’t really matter, but something else I still remember category”, besides reading Cathy’s letter on the drive to West Point, I also read the book, The Boys of Summer. The book, by Roger Kahn, was written in 1972 and tells the history of the Brooklyn Dodgers up to their victory in the 1955 World Series. I got in trouble from mom for reading the whole way out, instead of looking at the beautiful scenery we were going through when we hit the Appalachian Mountains. I should point out that I still have my copy of that book as well. ;-).

In June of 1977, I was on a break from West Point, and would return for my Firstie (Senior) year in July. I decided to spend some time on my own, and hiked the 105 miles of the Appalachian Trail (AT) in the Shenandoah National Park. You can always hike or camp with friends, but I distinctly remember wanting to do this sojourn alone.

I would graduate as a Second Lieutenant in a year. Cathy and I were already engaged and would marry after graduation. I don’t know I consciously thought it in ‘77, but looking back, I think I wanted a bit of time for reflection.

I’d studied the AT for a while. Most people take six months to hike the 2,190 miles from Georgia to Maine, and that wasn’t going to happen for me anytime soon. Instead, I realized I could do a small chunk of the trail and finally settled on the 105 miles running through Shenandoah National Park in Virginia. I decided to start at Rockfish Gap near Charlottesville and hike north, finishing just outside of Front Royal. I allocated one week to complete the hike, meaning I needed to average about 15 miles a day.

Departure day arrived, and Cathy drove me to Rockfish Gap. We went over where and when we’d meet in seven days. The agreed meeting point was mile marker xx on route 55 at 1PM, or something like that. It’s a bit funny to think back on doing the meet-up planning in the pre-internet/cell phone days. I kind of chuckle at the thought process now.

I kissed Cathy goodby, put my pack on, and started hiking north on the trail. I carried 30-35 pounds, and among my supplies were a sleeping bag, tube tent, small Svea 123 stove (I still own it), first aid kit and change of clothes. For food, I had freeze dried dinners, oatmeal for breakfast, and gorp. The four canteens I carried contained a gallon of water, both for drinking and cooking. At eight pounds to the gallon, the water was the heaviest thing in my pack. It was critical to have enough, as the only water along the way would be in creeks or springs I passed. I had marked all of the known water sources on my map and there were a couple streams each day, although I’d hoped for more. Iodine tablets were a must, to ensure the water was safe to drink.

I kept a small journal on the trail, and as I look at it now I find it interesting not so much for what’s there, but for what’s not. There are no big thoughts or revelations, no self defining statements, and no insightful reflections. Instead, it’s a collection of what I saw or passed along the way, or what I did on a particular day. And so, there were journal entries recounting the animals encountered; the two hawks I watched circling and hunting, while I ate my lunch; almost running out of water one day, before getting to my camp location; the light rain falling one evening; passing, or being passed by a few through hikers who had started in Georgia the previous March; hanging my pack from a rope in the trees so bear couldn’t reach it at night; and several other anecdotal stories or comments. I saw a few other hikers over the course of the week, but not many.

At about the half way point, I hiked into Big Meadows Campground. There were showers, along with a concession stand. After cleaning up, I ordered a cheeseburger and a Michelob beer. The cheeseburger tasted incredibly good. And the Michelob? It tasted pretty damned good too. You need to remember in the pre microbrew beer time frame, Mich was the best beer in America in ‘77, unless you had a friend who was visiting out west and could bring back a case of Coors from Colorado, or Olympia from Washington State.

On the last full day, I hiked up a strenuous section of trail to arrive at the top of Hogback Mountain. To my amazement, there were people running off a cliff, launching themselves into space. They were hang gliding, and it was the first time I’d ever witnessed it. I pulled out my lunch and watched them take off and fly over the Shenandoah Valley. As with the hawks I’d observed earlier, they circled the valley for seemingly hours, before finally landing miles away. I remember thinking at the time this must be what freedom feels like.

The next day, I woke early, and started my final day’s hike at dawn. I eventually arrived at route 55, an hour or two before the appointed time and hung out on the side of the road. A couple of cars stopped and the drivers asked if I needed a ride to town. After thanking them, I explained I was waiting for my girlfriend. Cath eventually arrived, and we went to Shenandoah Park for a couple more days of camping, before returning to her house.

A few days later, I reported back to West Point for my final year. I don’t know that I gained any great clarity from the hike. I do remember a sense of peace and confidence after the adventure. In retrospect, I think reflection can be more a feeling, rather than a big decisive moment. At least it was for me.

Since the hike in ‘77, Cathy and I have backpacked a fair amount including in Alaska, the Grand Canyon, the Trinity Alps, Yosemite, and yes, the Shenandoah National Park. It’s a few years since our last trip, and we’ve gotten a bit softer now. Doing day hikes and staying at a B&B seems a pretty good compromise.

I still think about the AT and maybe one day doing the whole thing. I know it’s mostly a pipe dream, and yet….

First, you need to understand this is a true story. I couldn’t make this up if I tried. How many times have you had a bird poop on you not once, not twice, but three times? At a ball game? Within five innings? It happened to me at a Nats – White Sox day game on June 5th, 2019. Seriously.

The day starts innocently enough at the Bluejacket Brewery where four of us had lunch and a beer. Morgan and I arrive first, and then Magoo and Evan join us. After lunch, we walk to the park and arrive at our seats in section 219.

As the first inning starts, something hits my head, or actually, my hat on my head. It feels like somebody threw crushed ice from a drink on me. I look up, but no one is there, so I take my hat off to see what hit me. No, it isn’t ice. It’s bird poop. What? I look up again and don’t see anything, and then show my hat to the guys. Everyone is in shock, including the people around us. I mean, what are the odds of getting hit by bird poop at a ball game? As the inning ends, I go to the restroom to wash off my hat. I pass Michael, the usher in our section, and mention jokingly, about the bird and my hat. We both have a bit of a laugh, and I move on.

The game progresses. In the bottom of the third, something hits my shirt and my hat. I look at my shirt. Bird poop. I take off my hat. More bird poop. How is this even possible?! Now people around me, including my so called friends, are laughing. Getting hit once with bird poop is cause for shock. It turns out getting hit twice is cause for laughter. What are the odds of getting hit with bird poop twice? I look up, and this time I see the culprit. There it is, sitting on the ledge directly above me. I call out a couple of times, but the bird doesn’t move, and nobody on the 300 level can hear me. So, I go to the washroom and clean my hat, and my shirt, and then return to my seat. I look up, and the bird is still there. It hasn’t moved.

As the game goes on, I scrunch a bit to the right, but I don’t leave my seat. No bird is going to force me to move. I look up a couple times. The bird hasn’t moved either. We seem to be in a war of wills. And then, in the top of the 5th, something hits the top of my hat. Again. I take off the hat and look, and you guessed it, more bird poop. I look up. Yep, the bird is still there. It hasn’t moved in 5 innings. Now I yell at the bird. It still doesn’t move. My friend Morgan laughingly asks if I’d like him to go up to the third level and see if the staff can do something. Morgan takes off, and goes upstairs. People around me are laughing and saying that I definitely need to play Lotto tonight, as I will win for sure. I go back to the restroom to wash my hat. I pass Michael again and point out my hat. “Michael!” I say. “What the heck is going on? The park is going to hell!”

I wash my hat for the third time. It’s pretty well wet all over now. As I return to my seat, I look up. The bird….is gone! At that exact moment, Morgan shows up and I ask him if he talked with anyone. He answers “Yea. I went up to the 3rd level and found an usher and told him there was a bird crapping on my friend from a lodge directly about section 219. He went in the lodge, saw the bird, and shooed it away.”

We watch a lone pigeon circling endlessly above us, but we don’t know if it’s my bird. The game continues. In the 7th, Michael shows up at our seats with a smile on his face (or maybe a snicker) and a Nats courtesy rep. The courtesy rep gives me a giveaway bag, which included a shirt and a Bobblehead. I thank the rep and put the bag under my seat.

The Nats are up 4-1 until the 8th inning when, of course, their bullpen again collapses and it’s now tied 4-4. Bottom of the 9th…Dozier walks, and who comes up? Trea Turner. Now Turner has struck out three times today, and grounded out once to the shortstop. This time? A walk off dinger!

We all high five each other and head for the exit and our separate ways. As I’m riding home on metro, I open the bag the courtesy rep gave me and look inside. I take a look at the Bobblehead, and who is it? Wait for it…yep, Trea Turner. Karma? Luck? The fates having a fun afternoon? Who knows, but on the drive home, I decide that maybe I should buy those lotto tickets people were mentioning earlier. It can’t hurt.

Addendum:

I did buy three Powerball tickets on the way home and checked the numbers this morning. Nadda….Nothing….Bupkis…. I guess the fates think that Trea hitting the walk off was compensation enough. With the way the Nats have played until recently, maybe they’re right. Still, if as a loyal fan, I can contribute to the team by having a pigeon poop on me three times, I’m in. But, just this once.

As we gathered at the bar, we were older, heavier and grayer than in June of 1978 when we graduated from West Point. We’d come together to honor our classmate, General (4 stars) Curtis Michael “Scap” Scaparrotti, who was retiring after 41 years of service. Scap was the last member of our class to serve on active duty in the Army.

Scap had recently relinquished his job as the The Supreme Allied Commander Europe (SACEUR), and commander of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization (NATO). Since the start of NATO in the 1950s, there have been 18 commanders, including Eisenhower and Ridgeway. Not bad company.

There were 30 or 40 of us at the get-together and it was great to catch up. There were war stories (literally), news about kids and grandkids, jokes about old times, cancer updates, discussions of business possibilities, and any number of other topics. In addition to local DC folk, guys arrived from Georgia, Tennessee, Texas, New York and Colorado among other places. One classmate was departing for Afghanistan the next day (as a civilian). At one point, Scap shared a few thoughts with us, and spoke about the importance of our class to him over the course of his career. As I looked around the room, I thought about the story of our class since graduation.

981 of us graduated from the Academy in 1978. Some stayed in the military 5 or 10 years, while others retired at 20 or 30 years. We were Cold Warriors at the start, but then, among other places, fought in Somalia, Granada, Panama, the First Gulf War, Iraq, Afghanistan and the Global War on Terror. There were Peacekeeping operations in Bosnia and Kosovo. We held assignments taking us to at least 6 of the 7 continents in this world. Some of us worked missions we still aren’t allowed to talk about.

Our class produced 33 General Officers, 21 Civilian equivalents (SES level), and 1 General Officer in a foreign army (the Philippines). We count a Secretary of the Army and President’s Physician in our class. We have politicians, judges, lawyers, scientists, engineers, doctors, dentists, government employees, school teachers, and school superintendents among us. There are any number of captains of industry, including CEOs and Board Members of Fortune 500 firms, along with owners, managers, and CXOs of many, many other companies.

54 of us have passed away.

We are now in our 60s. With Scap’s military retirement, one phase of our class’s contribution to society is officially over. Some of us have retired and are playing with our grandchildren. Some are still actively working, in government, or in the business world. Others are starting totally new business ventures, or personal adventures, seeking the next big thing, or new ways to have an impact on our country and the world.

Many of you have watched the Army Navy Football game over the years, and observed the tradition that whoever wins the game, gets to sing their Alma Mater second. The third verse of the West Point Alma Mater is:

And when our work is done,
Our course on earth is run,
May it be said, ‘Well Done;
Be Thou At Peace.’
E’er may that line of gray
Increase from day to day,
Live, serve, and die, we pray,
West Point, for thee.

I’d like to think our class has earned a “well done” to date, but I also know we will continue to have influences, large and small, on this great country of ours. I can’t say enough about how thankful I am to be a member of the Proud and Great West Point class of 1978.

Go Army! Beat Navy!

____________

Addendum:

1. Scap truly served a soldiers life. I won’t go through his whole career; however, in addition to serving as SACEUR, he held several other notable command positions, including:

• Commandant of the United States Military Academy

• Commander, 82d Airborne Division

• Commander, I Corps

• Commander, US Forces Korea

During his time on active duty, troops under his command served in the United States, Europe, Korea, Afghanistan, Iraq, Somalia, Zaire, Rwanda, Bosnia, and Liberia among other locations.

2. Thanks to classmate Rob Grubbs for providing the photo. In the group photo, attendees were, left to right:

Blair Ross, Mark ONeill, Steve Anderson, Jim Yuengert, Vinnie Schultz, Tim Hope, Bob Walcott, Bob Olds, Bob Hendricks, Bob Rush, Matt Saitta, Monte Warner, Eric Hughes, Pete Henry, Kevin Sheehan, Andy Soldo, Rick DeFatta, Max Hall, Scap, Dale Hamby, Mike Silva, Hank Gillen, Rob Grubbs, Curtis McCoy, Tom McWhorter, Jim Nagy, and Marion Seaton (some folk had already left, or not arrived yet when the photo was taken, including George Tronsrue, Earl Rasmussen, and Rusty Roberts as a minimum).

The literal translation of Schlachtfest is “Slaughter Festival”. A better translation might be “a country feast to eat the meat of a freshly slaughtered pig.” When we were stationed in Germany in the late 80s, our friend Wolfgang held a Schlachtfest about four times a year at his Gasthaus, Sportheim, in the village of Rheindurkheim.

Wolfgang would order a whole pig from Adolf, our local butcher, and then prepare it 3 or 4 different ways. There were cutlets, different sausages, including bratwurst, currywurst and blutwurst (blood sausage), and the German equivalent of a roasted pig. He spent a couple of days butchering the meat and preparing it for the festival. The night before the fest, he and his wife, Vroni, rearranged the tables in the Gasthaus so they were connected together in long rows, like in a fest tent.

The big day arrived and Wolfgang and Vroni opened Sportheim around 10:30AM. Some of the regulars would gather at the bar for a Fruhshoppen (Early drink) and to harass Wolfgang as he was finishing up with the pig. Diners started arriving around 11:00 or 11:30 and the Gasthaus was filled wall to wall with people until early evening, or when Wolfgang ran out of meat, whichever came first.

The food was good. Actually, it was more than good – pardon the pun, but I was in hog heaven at his Schlachtfests. In addition to the meat, there was sauerkraut, spatzle (little noodles), roast potatoes, or potato dumplings (always made by Wolfgang’s father – I have his recipe…;-)…) depending on what you ordered. Of course, you washed it all down with bier or wein. Sportheim was packed, and you sat wherever you could find an open place at a table. You might sit next to a friend, a neighbor, or a complete stranger. If they were strangers, you’d be friends by the end of the meal. The clinking of glasses, along with “Prosit!” (toast!) or “Zum Wohl!” (to your heath!) were heard throughout the day.

Inevitably, Cath and I overate (as did many of the people there) and at the end of the meal you needed something to relieve the heaviness you were feeling. No problem. Vroni had the perfect cure, and a bottle of Malteser Kreuz Aquavit appeared at your table . A shot of the aquavit, and immediately you felt better. Cathy and I still say we drank a “bores a hole” for the magical way it seemed to relieve your stomach and clear the way for more food and drink.

One year at the fest, we were seated next to our neighbor, Wolfgang (not to be confused with Wolfgang, the owner of Sportheim) and his wife Karen. As we ordered our food and drinks, their food arrived. I happened to glance at Wolfgang’s plate and there was a perfectly round cut of meat with two small holes in the meat at the bottom of the circle. I hadn’t seen this cut before and asked Wolfgang what it was, and he answered “Die Schnute”. “Was?” (what?) was my reply. “Die Schnute… Die Schnute!” he repeated, while pointing at his nose. Oh – The snout! He explained how it was the very best cut of the whole pig, and how lucky he was they hadn’t run out. He offered a bite, which I took and agreed it was tasty (think pork belly), but I would stick with the meal I already ordered. Later, I was speaking with Wolfgang (Sportheim’s owner) and asked him about Die Schnute and using the whole pig. He laughed a bit, and then explained the dish was so popular, in addition to the pigs he ordered, he always needed to buy 4 or 5 extra snouts.

We attended our last Schlachtfest in May of ‘89, about a month before returning to the States. I always figured we’d make another one sometime along the way, but of course we never did. I get hungry and thirsty just thinking about those Fests, and the sounds of friends talking and laughing echo faintly in my head. I can almost see Vroni walking towards me with a smile on her face and the Aquavit in her hands.

Zum Wohl……

I think the odds are stacked against this baby bird, but maybe not. His mom picked a poor location for the nest. It’s in our garage, in the center of a tool belt hanging on the wall. I think it just hatched today, maybe in the last couple of hours. Mom flew off when I went into the garage, and that’s how I found the nest.

Every year birds try and build nests in the garage. Most years, I get them out before they start building. Somehow, I missed this one. I’m not against birds. It’s just not healthy for them to build a nest in the garage. If the door is down, they are either trapped in the garage and can’t get out, or trapped outside and can’t get in. They also don’t understand a partially closed door. They keep looking to fly out at the top, not knowing there’s an exit just two or three feet lower. They circle, and circle, and circle, never seeing the exit below.

We could leave the door open all of the time, although this year there is another challenge. There is a bear in the area, who already tried to haul off our trash once. Our dog Carmen alerted, and the bear ran off, leaving the trash bag in the drive. From past experience, we know it will return. Because of this, I keep the garage door closed at night.

Our barn cats, Stan and Ollie, don’t help the situation. Stan has discovered the bird nest. He hangs out at the garage these days, often on the table below the nest. He can’t climb to the nest, but I know in the future when the bird starts to fly, Stan may well be there waiting for a mistake. Several years ago, we came home to find our old dog, Holly, insanely jumping up and down in the garage. When we walked into the garage, and saw the three dead baby birds on the floor and one in Holly’s mouth, we realized what had happened. Another nest built in the wrong location.

I hope this little bird makes it. The odds seem stacked against it.

No married couple is perfect, but mom and dad sure made a run at it during their heyday. This coming Tuesday would have been their 69th anniversary. They married on May 14, 1950 and were together for 60 years, until dad passed away in 2010.

Rather than thinking of specific memories, today I am seeing them through a more diffused light, almost as if through a mist. They had a balance of life together that I think all married couples strive for. They were unified by their love of each other, their love for us kids, and their mutual interests. They also had the ability to laugh, whether at life, each other, or one of dad’s many jokes. As our cousin Janice said “they laughed through life together. I will always remember their laughing. So sweet”.

Although life wasn’t simple for them, they always found ways to enjoy it during their journey together. Whether going out to dinner when dad got off work on a Saturday, or taking their grandkids for a walk in a local park, they made their time together count. Jazz, music, and dancing also played a big part in their lives. They had the ability to dance effortlessly together, no matter the music. They did the “Gen and Bill” step and moved easily, as they glided across the dance floor.

More than anything, they had a balance between them. After dad’s stroke, the equilibrium changed, but before that, it was about perfect. I think our cousin Dawn captured it best:

“Your mom was like home. Comfortable and warm. Your dad was like a spark that gets a flame going, then keeps the fire dancing. They were special people. I’m smiling now thinking about it.”

Happy Anniversary mom and dad. I’m sure you’re dancing across heaven, even as I type this.

Sometimes it’s handy to have a pond. For instance, say you want to give a Viking Funeral to a stuffed pelican with a history. A pond is very handy.

Howard first obtained the Pelican sometime in the early 80s. As he said to me “It was in the back yard of one of my parents’ neighbors. Incredibly, they were going to throw it out! I asked, and they gave it to me”. Eventually, it migrated to Chicago with Howard and took up residence in the apartment on Racine Avenue he shared with Tim.

People either loved or hated the Pelican. There was a certain beauty and repulsiveness to it at the same time. It was a bit creaky, dusty, and maybe just a little creepy to some. And, always the question – why would someone stuff a Pelican to begin with?

The Pelican was in it’s glory days. Sitting on the fridge, watching over the apartment and all of the goings on. It drew many comments (not all flattering), and also had the chance to see, and be seen with Bill Murray, Del Close, Graham Chapman, Eric Idle, Joel Murray, Bob Odenkirk and Dave Pasquesi, among others.

In 1994, Howard finally moved out of the Racine Avenue apartment to marry Laurie. The Pelican remained behind with Tim. It was still perched on the refrigerator, gathering dust, greeting all who entered, and surveying it’s domain. A few more years passed, Tim (and his then girlfriend, now wife, Renee) moved on and the Pelican went with them to a new home. Eventually, they bought their own house and the Pelican moved with them yet again. No longer prominently displayed, it also wasn’t hauled off to the junk yard. It was almost like a ring of power, just quietly biding it’s time, waiting for the right opportunity.

Time passed. Howard and Laurie had a son, Morgan.

More time passed. Morgan graduated from college, and moved to the DC area to seek fame and fortune. Cath and I would see him every few months at our place or his apartment. One of life’s great pleasures is becoming friends with your friend’s or sibling’s children. Friendship in its own right, not just, “oh, he’s the son of….”

Then one day about a year and a half ago, Tim and Renee came for a visit, along with our old friend Peggy. It turned out Peggy wasn’t the only guest in the car. There it was, boxed up for protection on the 740 mile ride …. The Pelican. Morgan came out to dinner one night while they were visiting, and a surprise gift was given to him. The Pelican was now his and could grace Morgan’s stylish digs in Alexandria, which it did for the next year and a half. The only condition of the gift was, if he ever grew tired of it, it should receive a Viking Funeral (think Beau Geste), and not be unceremoniously hauled off to the dump.

It turned out the Pelican didn’t quite fit in modern times. It didn’t get the chuckles it had in the past, and it’s effect on women was, shall we say, less than desirable. Morgan and I discussed when the appropriate time might be to hold a funeral, and decided we needed to wait for a sign. Last week the sign came, and coincided with a visit from Laurie.

When Morgan and Laurie arrived at the farm yesterday, the Pelican was in tow. We talked about the best way to give a proper send off and when to do it. Should we wait for a better time? Wait for more folk to be in attendance? The quick answer to both of those questions was no. That would have required storing the Pelican in the barn, which was unseemly. The service would be then and there, at the pond.

We found a suitable platform for a boat and secured the Pelican to it. A combustible liquid was poured on the Pelican. In Beau Geste, a dog goes up in flames with the hero, although other films are less definitive. The ashes of one of our previous dogs, Ellie, were already scattered in the pond, and we decided that was close enough.

The funeral cortege moved slowly to the pond. Cathy in front, Morgan and I in the gator providing an escort to the Pelican, with Laurie walking solemnly (or skipping lightly, depending on your perspective) behind. We arrived on the embankment and slowly lowered the float with the Pelican into the pond. After our brief farewells, Morgan said “It’s time”, struck a match and lit the Pelican as we pushed it into the pond. We watched as the flames grew higher and the Pelican was consumed. Each of us was lost in our own thoughts.

As we returned to the house, the skies were black and it started thundering. Shortly after we were inside, the skies opened, and the rain poured. Our lives would go on, but without the Pelican.

We let others know of the Pelican’s passing, and there was much mourning (and perhaps a bit of rejoicing by some). Of all the comments we received, I think our friend Dave did the bird real justice, when he provided the following prayer:

Viking Funeral Prayer (Dated between 4 B.C. and 3 A.D.)

Lo, There do I see my Father

Lo, There do I see my Mother and

My Brothers and my Sisters

Lo, There do I see the line of my people back to the beginning

Lo, They do call to me

They bid me take my place among them in the halls of Valhalla

Where thine enemies have been vanquished

Where the brave shall live Forever

Nor shall we mourn but rejoice for those that have died the glorious death.

…..finis…..

Addendum:

Some other post funeral quotes:

“Oh, the pelicanamity! 😨 ”

“Well, it’s the end of an era. A very fitting demise to a proud, regal bird. Morgan – the next Sand Hill Crane I shoot, I’ll spring for a full body mount and gift it to you for a replacement for the departed pelican.”

“I am speechless ”

“ Mark sent the pic to me this morning. I just finished crying.”

And as Howard himself said “Heartbreaking. But if it had to go, this looks like a good way to do it”.

I recently came across Dad’s dog tags from WWII. They were dented and gray, but still readable. William I Hall on the front, with his serial number, 16016203, on the back. I looked at the tags, and the grime of three continents on them. I kept thinking they are too much a part of history to leave in an envelope in a drawer, which is where they spent the last 70 years.

He received these dog tags at the age of 16, when he joined the Army in September of 1940. He had them on during the Atlantic Crossing in late October of 1942. When they invaded North Africa and he came ashore in November of that year, they were there clinking together (or maybe taped together) under his shirt.

They would have been around his neck in January of ‘43 in Algeria, during the parade for President Roosevelt, just after the Casablanca conference with FDR, Stalin, and Churchill. Later, when the 9th Infantry Division fought across Tunisia, ultimately defeating Rommel’s Africa Corps at Bizerte in May of ‘43, they were still there.

In August of 1943, when he was severely wounded in Sicily and handcarried by stretcher out of the mountains, the tags were used to identify him when he arrived at the aid station. When they couldn’t operate on him there and evacuated him to a full hospital, the tags were again used to identify him.

The war was over for Dad, although he was in the Army for another two years in both North Africa and the United States. Only after August of 1945, with the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, was he mustered out of the service. At the age of 22, he would have finally taken these dog tags off, five years after he first put them on.

I was thinking about his history as I looked at the dog tags, and an idea came to me. When I was a youngster, I was always a bit jealous of the Catholic kids with their Patron Saint medallions – their Saint Christophers, Saint Michaels, Saint Frances, and the like. I suppose I was privately thinking it gave them some kind of leg up on the rest of us. I decided to take one of the dog tags and put it on a necklace for myself – something of a Saint Bill, I suppose. My thinking was if the tags were with him throughout the war, even with his wounding maybe there was still a little magic left in them. A little protection, if you will.

I’ve worn the dog tag for a few days now. I feel it on my chest and smile. Dad was no saint in real life, but he took care of me when I was young, was a mentor to me when I was older, and a friend to me always. I’ll take my chances with this Saint Bill Medallion.