Mykonos was in the news last year when Lindsay Lohan opened a beach club on the Island. I read there’s now an International Airport, along with “nightclubs open well past dawn”.

In April 1980, when we vacationed on Mykonos, it was a sleepier place. We’d been stationed in Germany for a little over a year, a year of non-stop rain that was dreary, cold and damp. We were ready to visit somewhere sunny.

We caught a military hop out of Frankfurt bound for Athens. It was the first time I’d flown on a C-130 since Jump (Airborne) School a few years before. Cath and I strapped ourselves into the webbed seats, just in front of the tied-down cargo. I hoped the load master had done his job, and none of the cargo would shift. Someone on the crew gave us earplugs, and we were off.

When we landed in Athens, I actually kissed the tarmac, it was so warm and sunny. We found a place to stay, and spent the next couple of days doing the usual tourist stuff – the Acropolis, the Parthenon, the Plaka and other temples and ruins. Looking for less of a crowd, we moved on, and took a ferry to the Island of Mykonos.

As the ferry landed, we walked onto the dock, along with the other arriving passengers. At the end of the dock, there were a number of people advertising for places to eat or sleep. We saw a kid holding a sign for “Mike’s Pension” and through hand signals and a few words, found out Mike’s was in a quiet location about a half mile outside of town. We decided to stay there, and hopped into the back of his truck for the short ride to the Pension.

It was a beautiful white stone house right on the water. We were on the second floor, with a view of the Aegean Sea from our balcony. I think it cost us about $25/day, and was our home for the next few days. No one spoke English at the Pension, so we made due with hand signals and smiles. The one other guest was a German who spoke some Greek. When there was a difficult translation needed, we spoke with him in German and he’d translate to Greek for Mike.

We spent our time walking around the beautiful little town with the windmills and whitewashed buildings. We ate wonderfully, including Greek salad, octopus salad, lamb kabobs, seafood, and grilled lobster. We drank some wonderful white wines, some Retsina (an acquired taste, that worked well on Mykonos) and also had an occasional ouzo after dinner. We even bought a Flocati rug that we still own today.

Sunday, April 6th, was Greek Orthodox Easter. Mike invited us to share the feast his family was preparing. We quickly said yes and looked forward to the meal. As we left for a minibike ride around the Island, Mike and one of his brothers had started cooking a lamb on a spit over an open fire. With a laugh, and pointing to his watch, he cautioned us to be on time. We smiled and went for our ride (yes, you can ask Cathy. I was the one who crashed his minibike into some sticker bushes, after cautioning her not to go too fast).

A couple of hours later, we returned, just as the lamb was taken off the fire. The smell was heavenly. We quickly washed up and returned to the large room where family and friends were coming together. Tumblers were filled with wine. Amid the smiles and laughter, we seemed to have no trouble communicating. Finally, we all gathered around the table – maybe 15 or 20 of us. A huge Greek Salad was brought to the table and then two large platters of lamb. I’m sure there were other dishes, although I don’t remember them. Once everyone was seated, a prayer was said, and then Mike made a short speech and looked at the German and I, as did the rest of the table. I looked over to the German for a translation. It seems he and I were the honored guests and before the feast commenced, Mike was offering us the grilled eyes of the lamb.

At this point, several thoughts flashed through my brain. Lamb eyes? Honored Guest? Is this a joke? Is he making fun of me? What the hell do I do?… and finally, Go For It….

I took one of the eyes and the German took the other. I popped it into my mouth, chewed a bit, and swallowed it down. The flavor was good, and the texture was similar to a chicken gizzard. Toasts of “Yamas!” (To your health) were called out and the feast began.

We spent the next couple of hours eating and drinking with Mike and his extended family. We found ways to talk and laugh together. The lamb was delicious and we ate it using our fingers. We went through untold bottles of wine and water over the course of the afternoon. I think there was a dessert, coffee and ouzo at the end, but I have no memory of what kind of dessert. The day stretching out, seemingly forever.

Looking back, I think the day was closer to an American Christmas, rather than any Easter meal I’ve attended. The conversational volume level was loud, the sense of gratefulness and community were everywhere, and the table was overflowing with food and drink. It was perfect.

We left two days later and made our way back to the mainland. A couple more days there, and we then returned to Germany and work. It was a great vacation. I think back to the fun we had and recall many details of the trip, including visiting the ruins in Athens; hitchhiking to Sounio and the Temple of Poseidon; first hearing Alan Parsons’ “Lucifer” in a nightclub and being blown away; and even the young Israelis we talked with on the ferry ride back to the mainland from Mykonos. But what sticks in my mind most, is Mykonos and the Easter feast with Mike and his family. I’ve never forgotten their generosity in including us. It’s what made the vacation a memory, and not just a trip.

___

Addendum –

– I’ve since done some research and in many Mediterranean and Middle Eastern countries, there is a tradition of offering the “honored guest” the lamb’s eyes. Not that I ever doubted…

– Mykonos has always had a bit of a reputation as a “playground”, but in the ‘80s, it was much more remote than it is today. There were several Nightclubs, and an “unofficial” nude beach a few miles out of town. I don’t believe there was an airport on the island at the time.

– Lucifer (From the Alan Parson Project album “Eve”) was a huge hit in Europe, and made it to “Number 1” in Germany. It never had the same play in the US. I still remember sitting at the bar in Mykonos when it came on and asking the bartender “who the hell is this?!!”. I bought the album at the Frankfort Px right after we landed at the airport on our return.

– I’ve retained one word of Greek: S’ efharistó (pronounced eff-ha-reece-toe), which means thank you. It was a good word to know.

In 1989, Cathy and I returned from Germany and were stationed in the Washington DC area, at a small post called Arlington Hall Station. I was talking on the phone with Dad one day and mentioned Arlington Hall to him. There was silence for a second and then he said “Arlington Hall? Hmmmm….I think I’ve been there”. I answered back “I dunno Dad, it’s pretty podunk, I doubt that you were here. You’re probably thinking of Ft Meyer or maybe Ft Belvoir.” He didn’t say anything more at the time.

A few months later, Mom and Dad were visiting and we were driving around town. I took them past Arlington Hall, so they could see where I worked. As we stopped at the gate, Dad looked around and then said “Yep, I was here. It must have been 1944…. No, I think it was late winter or early spring of ‘45. I was here with two WACs (two members of the Women’s Army Corps).” What?!? Dad started telling the story…

After being shot three times in Sicily in 1943, he rehabbed in North Africa for several months. Due to the severity of his wounds, he wasn’t returned to combat and eventually shipped back to the States in 1944. There, he was stationed at Camp Butner, North Carolina. Dad was able to secure weekend passes pretty easily, and made his way to Washington DC at least a couple of times.

Sometime in March or April of ‘45, he had a pass, and again caught the bus to DC with a buddy. In DC, they became separated, and Dad made his way to a bar near the Capitol. As he was having a drink, he met two young women who were members of the Women’s Army Corps (WACs) and they started talking. Dad danced with each of them a couple of times. After a while, he suggested to one of them that they go for a walk, and she agreed, telling her friend she’d be back in awhile.

Now what both of them were really looking for, was a bit of privacy. Something you may not have noticed if you are just a tourist to DC, is that there is a lot of greenery surrounding our nation’s Capitol. Dad escorted the young lady to the Capitol, where they found some privacy among the bushes and became “more intimate”. I’ll leave the rest to your imagination, just as Dad did for me.

Eventually, they returned to the bar, and rejoined the other young woman. The night wore on, and after more dancing, the WACs had to return to their barracks. Leaving the bar, Dad flagged a cab and the three of them hopped in. The driver asked “where to?” and one of the WACs answered “Arlington Hall”. They eventually arrived at the Gate, and due to security, the cab wasn’t allowed to go any further.

Dad got out of the cab, and the girl that had stayed at the bar got out first, while the other stayed in the cab. Dad and she talked for a bit, and then they kissed goodnight. After girl #1 walked through the gate, girl #2 got out of the cab. She and dad had a somewhat more extended goodby, before she too walked through the gate, and gave him a wave goodby. The next day he caught the bus back to North Carolina and as with most WWII liaisons, they never saw each other again…

At the time, I dug around a bit, but couldn’t find out much about WACs at Arlington Hall. I found a reference to the “28 Acres of Girls” at Arlington Farms, but nothing about Arlington Hall. It’s only recently that I learned more about the women stationed there.

It turns out there were around 1,000 WACs stationed at Arlington Hall during the war, and they were there for one purpose. They were part of a classified, Top Secret effort, focused on codebreaking of the German and Japanese codes. Most of the women were cryptanalysts focused on the Japanese Imperial/Diplomatic Code known as “Purple”. The women were sworn to secrecy, on pain of death if they revealed anything. If anyone asked what they did, they were told to say that they were secretaries and doing menial work. As one lady said later, “If we went out in public and were asked what we did, we were to say we emptied trash cans and sharpened pencils.” One group agreed that “if anybody ordered a Vodka Collins when they were out at a bar together in Washington, that would be their signal that a stranger was showing too much curiosity about their work, and they were all to disperse to the ladies’ room and then flee.”

During the war, women made up well over half of all codebreakers in the US. When the war ended, the number of WACs stationed at Arlington Hall was severely reduced, but they didn’t disappear altogether. The work they did at Arlington Hall Station eventually morphed into our current National Security Agency (NSA).

The reason that I couldn’t find anything about this back in 1989, is that much of their work was still classified. It wasn’t until almost 60 years after the war ended that details of the Arlington Hall “Code Girls” were declassified and became public. Not surprisingly, the involvement of the women was minimized in previous accounts of WWII codebreaking efforts.

So, that’s the rest of the story about Dad and the two WACs. As most of you know, I love it when family history intersects with big history. I laugh a bit thinking of dad looking for a private spot in the bushes surrounding the Capitol, and then kissing both ladies goodnight back at Arlington Hall. He passed away before most of the information on the “Code Girls” became public, or before I found out anything about them. I wish I could have a conversation with him now to get his retake on that night. I’m sure Dad’s interest was purely in the women themselves, and I doubt that anyone felt the need to order a Vodka Collins. If he only knew….

______

Addendum:

* Note: WACs – the Women’s Army Corp – prior to integrating women into the Army in 1948, WACs were an auxiliary active duty unit. The WACs were first formed in 1942.

If you want more info on the Code Girls, or Arlington Hall Station, try the following books and websites:

⁃ The book, “Code Girls”, published in 2017, by Liza Mandy is excellent and I can’t recommend it enough. The quote in the text about the Vodka Collins signal was from this book. Special thanks to my cousin, Janice Connel, for introducing me to the book.

⁃ http://lcweb2.loc.gov/master/pnp/habshaer/va/va1500/va1560/data/va1560data.pdf provides more info on Arlington Hall in general, including the time both before and after WWII.

⁃ https://www.politico.com/magazine/story/2017/10/10/the-secret-history-of-the-women-code-breakers-who-helped-defeat-the-nazis-215694 is a Politico article with info on Women Codebreakers during WWII in general. It also quotes from Mandy’s book.

Cathy went to pick up her prescription at the pharmacy in our local grocery store. The prescription wasn’t quite ready, so she sat down on the small bench to the side of the pharmacy area. As she was sitting there, an older woman walked up slowly and sat next to her.

As is often the case while waiting, a conversation started up between the two. After a bit of small talk, the woman said “Ever since yesterday, I’ve been praying and thinking. And thinking and praying. And praying. And thinking”.

Cathy looked at her, and waited for her to continue.

“I’m 81. I’m a 37 year breast cancer survivor and now it’s back.”

She’d just found out the day before that cancer was now in her other breast. She hadn’t yet told her family. She hadn’t yet confided in her husband. She didn’t know what she was going to do.

37 years ago, when breast cancer struck the first time, she had a mastectomy and one breast was removed. After the mastectomy, she went through chemo. She remembered both the mastectomy and the chemo vividly and didn’t want to do either a second time.

They talked for awhile. There were discussions of alternate treatments, and the progress that has been made. They talked about the difficult recovery from her first mastectomy. They talked about doing an easier pill to keep it at bay, knowing it would not be curative.

I wasn’t there, but I think in addition to thinking and praying, she just wanted someone to talk with, and maybe to think out loud.

About then, her husband shuffled up and sat down. He looked frail, and timid, and suddenly Cathy understood. The woman has been the strong one, at least in recent years, and she would have to take charge of this situation as well.

They changed the subject and talked for a few more minutes until Cathy’s name was called. Cathy paid for her prescription, and then she and the lady said goodby to each other.

Cath recounted the story to me that evening, and since then, the woman has stuck in my head. I’ve been thinking of her, and praying that she finds the solution that is right for her and her family.

Cancer can be so debilitating, mentally, physically, and emotionally. I think that’s what is so troubling about this story – cancer is relentless, and sometimes, it’s hard for us to be as relentless. “Be strong”, we say. Sometimes strength takes on different forms.

******

As I finished writing this blog, I was feeling a bit low thinking about the woman and what she was going through. Then, a post came across my FB feed from a friend, Miggy (Margaret), that raised my spirits a bit. She is doing the Fauquier County Relay for Life in June of this year. If you have some spare dollars, please consider donating to her campaign at: http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLCY19NER?px=48889759&pg=personal&fr_id=92477

–Peace–

My wife, Cathy, recently had this story published in the March 2019, Mid-Atlantic Hanoverian Breeder’s (MAHB) Association Newsletter. I’m reblogging it here. Please enjoy her story of life on the farm.

***

It is a normal day in late April 2011.  I go to the barn, like I have every day for the past 12 years, both dogs following me.  Holly a Black and Tan Coonhound, and Miles, a Jack Russell, are my constant companions and helpers.

 After arriving at the barn, I put the horses out for a short while, although it is raining.  I have two pregnant mares, one of whom is due any day.  I have been closely monitoring Adancer for over two weeks, making drawings of her teats, looking for changes.  Had she bagged up and I didn’t know?  What about waxing?  I never saw wax (everything but….)  Paranoid, I Inspected her udder daily for changes in size (it ALWAYS looked the same… sigh).

 After cleaning the stalls, I bring Adancer in, as she is the mare closest to her due date.  Uh oh, what’s this?  Milk is shooting from both teats as she walks. Although I haven’t seen a birth up to this point, I know this is it.   Our first two foals were born at another barn. So I didn’t get to see those births.  For our third foal, after weeks of sleeping in the barn, I left to get a cup of coffee.  When I returned, the foal was laying on the ground in the stall.  I was determined that I was going to see this, the fourth birth, first hand.  I put the mare in her stall and watchfully began the rest of my chores. 

 Shortly after this, the repair guy for our Invisible Fence shows up to repair the fence.  “Be quiet,” I say, “my mare is going to have a foal and she must have quiet!”  While he is repairing the fence, I hear scratching noises.  After investigating I find that Miles, the Jack Russell, has fallen between the hay and the barn wall.  I climb up in the hay loft to help.  I can see the mare’s stall from my vantage point and see that the mare is going down.  Quickly, I leave Miles stuck where he is, and come down out of the hay and run to her stall.  Of course, she saw me and stood up. 

 Here comes the Invisible Fence guy, “Ma’am, the fence is repaired.  Do you want me to test it?”  “No,” I say, “my mare is having a baby!”  “OK, how are you going to pay me?” he asks.  “Whaaat, can’t you just send me the bill?” I say.  He comes back with “No ma’am, I have to have payment.”  Thinking fast I tell him to go up to the house, go in the back door through the garage, find a black purse and bring it to me.  Surprisingly, he does this without complaining.  I give him a credit card number and he leaves.  Huge sigh of relief on my part.

 By now the jack Russell has found a way out of the hay and is happily running around, chasing one of our barn cats. 

Back to the mare.  

I look in on her and find her standing but she almost immediately goes down.   I watch quietly praying for an easy birth. Slowly two little hooves come out of the birth canal, followed by the front legs.  The mare is laboring but progress is happening, and the head appears, followed by the neck and shoulders.  The rest of the foal comes out uneventfully.  It lays in the straw, both parties exhausted from their efforts.  Me?  I’m worried.  The foal is still covered with the birth sac.  Should I intervene and pull it away from the foal’s head, so it can breathe?  I hesitate.  The foal sits up inquisitively and looks around, causing the sac to fall to the side.  Whew, no need for me to do anything.   I go into the stall to quickly assess the foal and discover it is a filly.  The first and only filly our breeding program produced.  She is by Royal Prince and is quickly named Rohannah as a play on the name of our farm, Rohan Farm.  She is perfect!  In textbook fashion, Adancer, expels the placenta.  After several attempts, Rohannah gets up to nurse.

 I guess the moral of this story is that yes, mare’s do need quiet but can, and will, have a baby in utter pandemonium if necessary.

I never served in Vietnam. When the last combat troops departed on March 29, 1973, I was still in high school. I can tell you that I felt the aftermath of that war for years to come, including being spit at as a West Point cadet visiting New York City in 1975. I’m glad to see that the country did the right thing with the Vietnam War Veterans Recognition Act in 2017. This Friday, March 29th, marks National Vietnam Veterans Memorial Day.

As a country, we did not do a good job in the ’60s and ’70s of separating our opposition to the war, from our treatment of those who served there, whether as a volunteer, or a draftee. Not only did we not thank those who served, vilification often greeted them upon their return. Even worse, the Veterans Administration did a poor job of helping those who needed it most. Whether drug issues, exposure to Agent Orange, or dealing with PTSD, we failed these men and women.

As an active duty officer in the late 70’s and early 80’s, I saw the effects of Vietnam, and the transition to the then new, volunteer Army. Morale was low. Drug and alcohol abuse were a problem. Our aging equipment was in less than great condition, and maintenance dollars were restricted. Due to these, and other issues, our combat readiness was not what it needed to be.

In the mid to late 80s, our military turned around. Later, following the First Gulf War, our citizens did as well, and we remembered the right way to treat our soldiers and returning veterans. There are any number of issues still effecting our veterans, particularly those who have had multiple deployments to Afghanistan or Iraq. At least now, we are trying to do the right thing by them. The VA and other organizations still have issues with supporting our troops and vets, but we as a nation are much more supportive of them, and their sacrifice.

Having said all of that, I’m not sure we ever really circled back as a country to thank those who served in Vietnam, probably our most unpopular war. Most of these veterans are now in their late 60s or 70s. Every year, more of them pass away, sometimes from “normal” health issues, sometimes from war related problems. I hope you will join me on March 29th, and every day, to say a special thanks to this under appreciated group. As time passes, there will be less and less opportunities to do so.

My cousin “Pooch” recently passed away. I loved this man, who was the last living connection to my own father’s younger years. Dad, along with my Uncle Mick, were more like older brothers to Pooch, rather than uncles. There were many stories of their times together over the years. As a young boy, he idolized my dad and Uncle Mick when they were both serving overseas during WWII.

These comments are based on my conversations with George (I always called him “Pooch”), past memories from my father, and some written information that Pooch gave me. Any inaccuracies here are strictly my own, and shouldn’t be attributed to anyone else.

George Francis Connell Jr passed away on Sunday, March 10th, 2019. He was 84 years old.

George, also known as “Pooch”, was born on July 27th, 1934 in Orient, Illinois. It was the middle of the depression, and his parents, George and Ellen Connell were poor by today’s standards, but at the time, it was the plight that many people faced. In George’s words “ I was born next door in a duplex. The doctor was late in coming. Dad was up town drinking and someone was sent to tell him I was born.”

As a child, times were tough. In his early years, he grew up in a three room “shack” that was owned by the coal company his father worked for. There was a stove in the kitchen for both cooking and heating the house. Out back, there was a well and an outhouse. The house had no running water or electricity.

Even at an early age, Pooch was an observer of life and always trying to learn more. In 1939, at the age of 5, he watched men in the WPA improve the road in front of their house. He got to know many of the men by name and he would talk with them during their lunch hour. At the end of summer, as the men were finishing up their work, they approached the house and gave him a present – a Bull Durham tobacco bag filled with about 20 pennies. Later, George tried to plant the pennies, figuring when they grew, he’d have 40 or 50 pennies….

In 1940, the coal company drilled for oil near their home. Pooch spent the summer watching the drilling, smelling the oil in the tanks, and talking with the workmen. He got to know them well enough that they often gave him their extra dessert or a few pennies from their pockets.

The war years came and George was attending school. His inquisitiveness grew and by the end of 1942, although only in 3rd grade, he had read every book in the school library. One of the high points of those years was moving to a new school, with a new library. He had a whole new set of books to read.

If you ever had the chance to sit with George, he’d tell you wonderful stories of those days. Stories about shooting marbles, or playing stickball, or swimming in “shit creek”. Stories about both his granddad’s and his dad’s drinking, or the exploits of his young uncles, Bill and Mick, during WWII. While home recovering from a wound, Bill (my dad) taught Pooch how to swim in ’44, and after the war, Uncle Mick taught him how to throw a perfect curve ball. There were a lifetime of stories, all well told.

I’ve spent a lot of time talking about his youth, but I think it was key to the man he became. Growing up poor and dealing with hardship, his ability to observe the world, his hunger for knowledge, along with his capacity to remember things, all served him well. He had learned the values of duty and hardwork and applied these throughout his adult life.

After high school, he did a stint in the Navy during the Korean War. Following Korea, he went to college using the GI Bill and graduated from Southern Illinois University. He started working there at SIU, while he was also raising a family. Eventually, his job took him to Western Illinois University, where over the years his role grew, until he was managing all of the physical plant and support infrastructure for the University. In addition to his work, and raising his 7 children, he also met the love of his life, Dorothy during this time. They married and stayed in love for the remaining 41 years of his life.

George leveraged his work and management experience to increase his capabilities and land other jobs managing the physical plants and facilities at Hayward State and San Jose State in California. Throughout his career, he always worked for the little guy, and never forgot where he came from.

Eventually he retired, and Dorothy and he moved to Arizona. Even in retirement, George stayed active in his community and worked part time at the local golf course. He continued to find ways to enjoy life. The last we saw of Pooch and Dorothy was in October of ’17. We had a wonderful stay with them in Arizona and listened to many stories of his youth and his times with my dad.

And now, he’s gone. 84 is young, or old, I guess depending on who you are. I like to think that even as he grew older and developed health issues, he remained young. He stayed inquisitive, loved to share stories from his past, and never met a stranger that didn’t become a friend. I will miss him, cherish the memories, and promise to keep him alive in my heart. What I wouldn’t give for one more night of listening to his stories.

Rest In Peace Pooch. Rest In Peace.

Addendum: You can read two previous blogs I wrote about Pooch at the following links:

1. June 1944. Dad and Pooch on D-Day. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/08/19/dad-and-pooch/

2. Stickball. https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/03/27/stickball%EF%BB%BF/

Uncle Don and I were talking a while back, and the subject of my Grandpa Grubaugh, (Don’s Father) came up. Don said to me “did I ever tell you about Grandpa beating me in a race across the park?” “What?!” I answered. “No, I’ve never heard the story.”

It was 1956 and Don was a freshman at Ottawa High School. In addition to playing in the high school band, he also tried out for, and made the track team. In fact he was pretty good at track, and ran both the 100 and 220 yard dash. He was running regularly for the team and winning. He also was aware his dad never came to any of the track meets, so one day he approached his father and said “Dad, I know you come to my band concerts at school, and when I was younger, you came to my Little League games, but you never make any of my track meets. How about coming out for one?”

Grandpa looked at him for a bit and finally said “I’ll tell you what. When you can beat me in a race, I’ll come watch you run.” Don thought this was great and said “OK. When will we race?” and Grandpa answered “Tomorrow. I’ll meet you across the street at the park. We’ll race diagonally across the park and If you win, I’ll come. If you don’t, I won’t.”

The next day, Don was waiting for Grandpa across the street in Shabbona Square (now Rigden Park). Don was in his high school track clothes and wearing his spikes. Grandpa eventually arrived from his job with the Burlington Railroad. He was in his work boots, bib overalls, and a work shirt. Don looked at him and asked if he wanted to change, and Grandpa answered he was fine.

Now, I’ve measured the diagonal across Shabbona Square. It’s 135 yards between Chestnut and Sycamore Streets. I also know the year my uncle was born, Grandpa was 46, making him 60 years old in 1956. Don was feeling pretty damned confident.

Don called “ready, get set, go!” and they were off. It wasn’t even close. Grandpa blew him away and finished well ahead. He wouldn’t be attending any of Don’s races that year.

The next year, his sophomore year at OHS, Don would receive his varsity letter in track. He ran a 10.1 100 yard dash. He ran 23.2 in the 220. He won the conference championship in the 220. He anchored the 880 relay team that qualified for the state meet. When he raced Grandpa? “Grandpa whomped me again.”

Junior year? Don lettered again. He went to state again in the relay. The race with Grandpa? “Grandpa beat me again.”

Finally, it was 1959, my uncle’s senior year. They met in the park one final time, Don was again in his track uniform, with Grandpa still in boots and bib overalls. They lined up, go was called and they were off. Don pushed the hardest he ever had, and….he beat Grandpa to the other side. Barely, but yes, he beat him.

Grandpa came to a few races Don’s senior year. He watched his son win the conference championship again, and also win at districts. The relay team qualified for the state meet for the third year in a row…..

Don and I were both laughing about the story, and were amazed at how fast Grandpa was. I told my own story about challenging my dad to a wrestling match in high school (I was on the wrestling team and had lettered) and getting my ass kicked in about 20 seconds. We both chuckled at the hubris of youth.

Don looked at me then and said, “you know, I’ve thought about that final race over the years, and the more I think about it, the more convinced I am Grandpa let me win senior year. When I, “won”, I think he ran just fast enough to make it a contest”.

My memories of Grandpa are from the ‘60s. By then, he’d become older, but I still remember him playing and running around with us kids. He had a youthfulness to him that I hadn’t understood when I was young. I know I would pay a good amount now to go back in time and see him and my uncle racing across Shabonna Square.

Addendum:

1. Uncle Don is the last of my aunts and uncles on either side of the family. He’s still youthful as well, and although I don’t get to see him as often as I’d like, I love and admire him very much. If you want to read a blog about his time during the 1968 Tet Offensive in Vietnam, you can find it at this link: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/04/uncle-don-and-the-1968-tet-offe%EF%BB%BFnsive/

2. My sisters and I noticed something else of interest in the photo of Grandpa and Uncle Don at the bottom of this blog. My folks moved into this house when I was 1 year old in 1956. The phone behind my Grandpa’s head in the photo was still in the house and being used when our mom died 60 years later in 2017!

The four of us gathered about 5PM at Magoo’s house a few nights ago. It was finally THE NIGHT. The spreadsheet went to all of us about two weeks before, and individually, we had mulled our choices. Now, it was time – we were completing the first distribution of our 2019 Nats season ticket package.

Bill is the actual owner. The tickets are for four great seats on the club level, in section 219, directly in line with 1st base. They are on the aisle, underneath an overhang (which is handy in case of rain) and have full access to club level amenities. I love these seats.

Bill has a long list of people who buy some of the tickets. About 5 years ago he was looking for a few folk to help with the upfront costs, so Magoo, Willie and I became “partners”. The tickets are still in Bill’s name, and he is the sole owner, but as partners, we get first crack at the games. Each of us also “rep” some other folk who are heavy buyers.

If you have ever seen the Farrelly brothers’ 2005 baseball movie, “Fever Pitch”, (Note: some claim this is a “chick flick” disguised as a baseball movie, but I disagree) with Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore, you might have a sense of a draft night. Early in the movie, Jimmy Fallon gets together with his buddies to divide up his newly arrived Red Sox season tickets package. They smell and feel the new tickets. They have a white board on which they are tracking the tickets. They argue, they trade dates, they talk about which games are must haves. The meeting goes on for a long time.

We are now 14 years after that movie, and all of our partners are a bit older than Fallon and crew, so things are a bit different. There are no more physical tickets delivered – it’s all electronic, so we do everything online in excel. There’s no shouting or fighting – I think with us being older, we’ve all calmed down a bit. We have a few “rules” – the four of us go to opening day, and the final game of the season together. Willie always gets the 4th of July tickets, because it’s his anniversary and both he, and his wife, are diehard baseball fans. When my young niece was traveling here on a yearly basis from San Francisco, I always got the day Giant game, so she wouldn’t be up to late. And, everyone is honest about whether the tickets are for themselves, or for someone they are repping. Tickets for partners almost ALWAYS take precedent.

On this year’s draft night, everyone grabbed something to drink, and we started. We work through the season, a series at a time. Philly is the second series of the year, normally, a tough sell. With Harper’s return for the first time, the games go quickly. There’s the occasional snarky comment about a team or series (Will the fish be the worst team in baseball this year? How many Marlin tickets will we have to try and trade in, when all is said and done?). There are the teams that are always big draws, like the Cubs, Cards, Dodgers and Giants, but this year, a few games sneak through and aren’t taken. Also this year, both the Indians and White Sox are coming to DC, and those tickets disappear pretty quickly. No one can remember the last time the Sox were here in DC (side note to Morgan – I scored two of those Sox tickets!).

After about an hour and twenty minutes, we make it through all of the games in the season, and take a break. Magoo pulls some dinner out of the oven, we all pour another round and have a great meal. Over dinner, there’s some discussion about the Nats, and on baseball in general. In the division, everyone agrees that Atlanta will be tough, and Philly will probably be a contender. The consensus is the Mets aren’t there yet but could be a sleeper. And the Fish? They will occupy their usual place in the cellar. Eventually, we finish the meal, clear the table and pull the spreadsheet back out. We go through it one more time, find a few errors that we correct, and also compile a list of games that people want additional tickets for. The Dodgers are particularly popular this year.

A little over three hours after starting, the evening is over. 213 out of a possible 324 tickets are gone, with 111 remaining. Handshakes all around, and we go our separate ways. We’ll all review the spreadsheet privately one more time, and ensure it’s correct for all of the tickets we repped. In a few days, the remaining games will go out to the rest of the folk on Bill’s list and they will pick the tickets they are interested in as well. With luck, over 80% of all the tickets will be gone before the start of the season. Over the summer, people will buy the remaining available tickets, or we will try and trade them for other games.

Opening day is about three weeks away on Thursday, March 28th. Game time is 1:05PM. If I don’t see them before, I know I’ll see these guys at our usual beer stand about 1130AM on the 28th. Hope springs eternal in baseball, and I have the feeling it’s gonna be a great year….

While stationed in Germany in the 1980s, Cathy and I went to many Fasching* parties and parades. Here in the States, we call it Mardi Gras; but there, it’s known as Fasching. New Orleans has nothing on Germany when it comes to partying, and I can safely say I’ve had more than one hangover after a Fasching party. Of all of the parties and parades we attended, two particularly stand out in my memory, and both occurred in Rheindurkheim, a town we lived in from ‘85-‘89.

It was our second tour and we were stationed in Worms, the city of Martin Luther fame in the year 1521 (“Here I stand, I can do no other…God help me...”) We arrived a few years later than Martin Luther. It was 1985, and we ended up living in the small town of Rheindurkheim, about 10 kilometers outside of Worms. The town had a population of about 1,000 people. There were four Gasthaus’s (restaurants), a few small stores, a couple of butcher shops and three bakeries. As time passed, we were regulars at a couple of the Gasthaus’s, but particularly Wolfgang and Vroni’s place, Sportheim. We bought our bread and baked goods from Frau Kneckt’s Bakerei, and our sausage and meat from Adolf’s Metzgerei (butcher shop). We became regulars around town and were known as much for our black and white dog, Top, as for ourselves. After some time passed, I was asked to join the local over-30 soccer team and we were even more imbedded in the community.

In January of ‘88, Wolfgang and Adolf approached me one evening at Sportheim. They had an idea for the town’s Fasching parade that year, and wanted to see if I could help. They planned to enter a joint float in the parade, with Wolfgang and Vroni handing out beers, while Adolf would hand out small wursts (sausages). I thought they were going to ask me to help hand out beers, but they had something else in mind – would I drive my Ford F-150 Pickup in the parade, while they handed out the goodies from the back of the truck? Are you kidding!?!?? This was a no-brainer, and I immediately said yes.

Plans were made, and the big day finally arrived. We “decorated” the truck during the morning and the parade started in the afternoon. Wolfgang handed me a beer through the window, and we were off.

We were an immediate hit. People were clamoring for both the beers and the sausages. The pace was slow and people could walk up to the truck to get one of each. Now, as the driver of the truck, there was also a side benefit. My window was about the same height as the first-floor windows of the houses along the side of the narrow streets we were driving through. Periodically, some one would hand a shot of German Schnapps to me through their window, we’d toast, and shoot the shots. Thank heavens the parade route was only a few blocks long, and I survived reasonably intact. We eventually made it back to Sportheim, celebrated the successful parade run, and had a last beer….That evening, we went to the local event hall (The Turnhalle) for that year’s Fasching Party. Several folk approached me and we had good laughs over the truck and the parade (German’s at that time, did not have the equivalent of a full size pickup). Cath and I eventually made it home to a good night’s slumber.

A year later, Wolfgang and Adolf rented a mobile “Gasthaus” for the parade, so they didn’t need our truck. Cathy and I were both asked to work on the Gasthaus float and hand out beers. Along the parade route, we knew many in the crowd that we were serving. We’d become a part of the community, something that became particularly evident in the evening.

That night, we walked through town to the Turnhalle. We paid our entrance fee and went inside. It was crowded already, and after getting our beer, we located some of our neighbors and joined them.

Fasching parties are interesting, and they ALL follow a similar format. The party is always on Rosenmontag (the Monday before Ash Wednesday). The party always starts at 8:11 PM. And for the first couple of hours, there are a couple of local “celebrities” (think mayor, fire chief, business owner, etc) who tell jokes, introduce speakers, tell bawdy stories about local town’s people, conduct roasts, and then finally, introduce the band, which starts playing around 10:00PM or so. The music and dancing continue into the wee hours of the morning, and finally, everyone staggers home.

On this particular evening, we were listening to the monologues, jokes and stories, when we suddenly felt several hundred pairs of eyes fixed on us. The speaker was telling a joke/story about me, and our landlord, Herman. The story involved Herman and I arguing about gummis (rubbers). In Germany, the slang for condoms is the same as in America, and gummis can mean rubber, erasers, or condoms. In the story, we were arguing about who had the bigger and better gummis – Germany, or America. The story went on for a couple of minutes, with double entendres throughout. Finally, the speaker got to the punchline and Cathy and I burst out laughing, as did Herman, and then the entire crowd. I think they were waiting to see if we understood the joke, and to see if we were offended. Several people got up from nearby tables, came over and slapped us on the back, or shook our hands. The laughter continued for a while longer, before subsiding. The speaker finally went on to poke fun at the next victim. For me, I’d never felt so much a part of a community.

Eventually the jokes and stories ended and the music started. Cath and I danced with each other, danced with neighbors, or slid off to the bar for a drink with someone. People continued to greet us, and ask me whether I preferred Ami or Deutche gummis (American or German rubbers). Finally, the music ended and it was time to go home.

Four months later, we rotated back to the States and said our tearful goodbyes to our friends and neighbors. We made it back to Rheindurkheim for a visit a time or two, but of course, it’s never quite the same. I’ve thought about those two Fasching parties over the years and what a wonderful time we had in Rheindurkheim. The friendships, the community, the sense of belonging….we are all lucky when it happens, and we should always remember and treasure it.

******

Addendum:

*What is Fasching? The following is from: http://www.deutscheshaus.cc/html/newsletters/fasching_germany.html

Fasching is Germany’s carnival or Mardi Gras season. It starts on the 11th day of November at exactly 11 minutes after 11am and ends at the stroke of midnight on Shroud Tuesday – often referred to as Fat Tuesday (the Tuesday before Ash Wednesday).

Fasching (also known as Karneval) is a time of festivity and merry making – a time to break the rules, poke fun at those who make them and then to make your own new rules. In Germany, particularly in the Rhineland area, the tradition can be traced to medieval times where many countries existed under harsh rules.

During Karneval time, the common people took a chance at ‘living it up” and “talking back to their rulers”. They would make a mock government of eleven people, as well as other officials. Political authorities, high placed persons and sovereigns were the target of ridicule, and featured in humorous and satirical speeches. To avoid persecution and punishment, these antics were played out from behind masks and costumes. Parades, dancing in the streets, masquerade balls and comical skits filled the days and nights.

Although the festivities and parties start as early as the beginning of January, the actual carnival week starts on the Fat Thursday (Weiberfastnacht) before Ash Wednesday. The big German carnival parades and parties are held on the weekend before and especially on Rosenmontag, the day before Shrove Tuesday….