In 1971, the Ottawa High School (OHS) football team finished undefeated, with a record of 9-0-0. Our coach, the legendary Bill “Boom Boom” Novak, was tough and appeared to get every ounce of effort from the team. I was thinking about Coach Novak with the recent news about the death of a University of Maryland football player and accusations that the coach ran an abusive program. Coach Novak was hard on us, but abusive?

Our practices were tough, especially at the beginning of the season when we did two-a-days in August. It was hot. It was humid. The coaching staff quickly saw who was in shape and who wasn’t. I won’t speak for others, but I remember sucking pretty badly at the start of that year.

There are two things I particularly recall about those practices. First, there was no water. Now, everyone knows the importance of hydration, but then it was a part of the toughness routine to go without water. Nobody thought or said anything about it. The second thing I remember was running wind sprints at the end of practice. We called them “weeds”. As practice ended, the team moved to the head-high weeds near the Illinois River. There, we would run a series of sprints, first running forward, then back peddling to the start line and getting down in a stance for the next whistle. Back and forth, back and forth we went. It often seemed weeds continued forever. Coach Novak kept us going, until we showed as a group we were going at 100%. For the last 4 or 5 days of preseason practice, Coach added a novelty to the sprints by requiring each of us to carry a car tire over our heads. One trick we learned from the seniors was to hide a slice of lemon in our hemet and chew on it when heading to the weeds. It helped our thirst.

Our coaches were teachers, both in the school system and on the playing field. They taught us technique, but they also taught us about life. There was yelling at practices and in games, but I don’t recall any cursing or name calling. The focus was on discipline and improvement. You were constantly measured against yourself and against others.

As the regular season started, practice eased up a bit, but was still rough. There were one-on-one drills and two-on-one drills. We practiced a lot of contained violence. Those drills measured your physical toughness, but in retrospect, I see how much of it was also about mental toughness. Running weeds continued at the end of every practice, but we were in shape now and there wasn’t as much pain.

At our Friday night games, the last thing we did before the start of the game was a massed “Root, Hog, or Die” chant around coach Novak. I didn’t know it at the time, but “Root, Hog, or Die” is an American phrase dating from the early 1800s. Historically, it became an expression of American self reliance. When we yelled the phrase, we were psyched and ready to play. Our team’s “self reliance” was at a maximum. Kevin Galley, our quarterback, recently said to me – “Novak’s approach, consciously or otherwise, fostered a very tight bond among all of our teammates. With only 32 players, everyone mattered”. Mike Stone, one of our captains and the team’s only all-state selection simply said “we had each other’s back”.

At game halftimes, you always wore your helmet in the locker room. This was to show you were ready to play, and also in case Coach Novak “tapped” you on the head for special instructions. I recall more than a few “taps”, particularly in close games.

The season progressed and the temperature dropped as September became October. Our hard work was paying off, with two, three, four and then five wins in a row. Finally, it was time for a showdown with our conference rivals, Sterling. Both teams were 6-0. Down 14-6 at halftime, the locker room was loud. Among my memories is Coach Novak grabbing Tom Gross by the face mask and explaining explicitly what he wanted Tom to do to the Sterling player opposite him. When the second half started, we pushed hard, eventually coming back in the fourth quarter to win 20-14. Normally, the local newspaper recognized one back and one lineman for their play, but the paper commended the entire team for their outstanding performance in the Sterling game.

We ended that year 9-0-0. I lettered as a backup, an award normally reserved for players with high playing time, or doing special feats on the field. I had done neither. At the start of the year Coach Novak told us it took the effort of the whole team to go undefeated, and if we went undefeated, everyone would letter. He honored his word.

1971 was Coach Novak’s 25th and final year as coach and he retired at the end of the season. Ralph Bednar, a local sportswriter, said in his column the week of the retirement, “Novak is a hard man in football practice. He may make it tough on you, but as you look back, you probably see where all his hardness conditioned you for life today. Life isn’t easy and nothing should be handed out on a silver platter. Hard work is the answer”.

Times have changed and as my friend and teammate Phil Godfrey says “that style of coaching wouldn’t pass muster today, but it worked then”. We’ve all gotten a bit smarter over the years. Did Coach Novak abuse us? For my part, the answer is an emphatic no. He was tough on us and didn’t coddle us. He would yell and get in your face. He never pretended to be your friend in practice, but there was no doubt he was our coach and leader. In addition to football, we learned about teamwork, discipline, toughness, never giving up, and striving for a goal that was by no means certain. I like to think it was good preparation for my time at West Point, and throughout life.

Kevin Galley commented to me “Our team was certainly not the most talented Novak had during his coaching tenure, but we clearly had an abundance of tenacity that served us well on the field, and afterwards”. I think Kevin was right. As I’ve looked at my teammates and their lives, I see a group with good fortune. There are successful lawyers, judges, business owners, executives, engineers, managers, farmers, teachers, and yes, coaches. I think Coach Novak helped make and mold us. I feel pretty lucky to have known him, and to have played football for him. Talking with teammates, I believe most feel the same way. It may have taken some of us more than a few years after that season to gain a full appreciation for what he gave us.

Root, Hog, or Die….

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Coach Novak was the Pirate’s head football coach from 1947-71. He compiled a record of 168-45-11, with 14 conference champions in those 25 seasons. Ten of those teams went undefeated and seven were perfect. In all of those years, I doubt anyone called him “Boom Boom” to his face. As a side note, the 1971 football team was elected to the OHS Hall of Fame in 2016.

** Special thanks to Kevin Galley and Phil Godfrey for their additions to this blog. Their review and input was very helpful.

For the record, Howard and I were not among those arrested for illegal drugs, weapons charges, aggravated assault, or trying to illegally bring stage equipment in to a rock concert. We did, however, score some mighty fine Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.

It was July 3rd, 1972, the summer before our senior year in high school. I don’t remember whether it was Howard or I who first heard the news about the displaced Rock Festival. Promoters scheduled an outdoor rock concert called the “Spirit of ‘76 Rock Festival” at the Bailey farm near Peoria, Illinois. The headliners were the New Riders of the Purple Sage and REO Speedwagon, and they were expecting over 30,000 attendees. The New Riders had played the Hollywood Bowl just two weeks before with The Grateful Dead, and people were excited.

Unfortunately, the local government was not excited. Or perhaps they were overexcited. In either case, an injunction was filed and the concert promoters were told they could not hold the festival anywhere in Peoria County. Not to be outdone, the promoters found a new location on a farm near Streator Illinois, which was about 10 or 15 miles from where Howard and I lived in Ottawa. The festival was to start either July 3rd or 4th. On Sunday, July 2nd, the promoters told those already gathering for the festival in Peoria to head north to the new location near Streator.

This is when fortune smiled on us. My folks were out of town on vacation and left me at home in charge of my two sisters, Roberta and Tanya. I also had my dad’s work car, a three-on-the-column ‘65 Dodge Dart. We immediately decided to go to the festival the next day, party and listen to music for a while, and then drive home with no one the wiser.

What Howard and I didn’t know was that another injunction was filed that day in LaSalle County and a judge had already banned the festival from taking place at the alternate location near Streator. As people were arriving from Peoria, the police weren’t allowing them to go to the farmer’s field for the concert, but were instead channeling them to the Sandy Ford Conservation Area, halfway between Streator and Grand Ridge. In fact, they arrested several people attempting to bring stage equipment into the Conservation Area, a violation of the injunction. In the meantime, more and more people were arriving for the festival.

Oblivious to all of this, Howard and I met on the morning of the 4th and started driving towards Streator, looking for the rock festival. We knew about where it was, and figured we could follow the traffic when we got close. Sure enough, we were a couple of miles south of Grand Ridge and saw lots of traffic turning off of Route 23 onto a small road. We turned onto the road, and joined the throng. I think the road turned to gravel, but in any case we eventually pulled off on the side of the road and parked, just as everyone else was doing. I seem to remember seeing police, but they weren’t a big presence.

From the car, we walked a mile or so down the road. No one was taking money or tickets for entry. We eventually arrived at an open field, where a band was playing on a makeshift stage. There was a big crowd, along with tents, cars and vans scattered about. People were drinking, smoking, laughing and generally having a good time. Howard and I wandered around and finally asked a guy where we could buy something to drink. He told us he had some extra Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine if we were interested. We quickly bought a bottle and settled in to listen to the music.

We watched a couple of bands play, drank our wine and generally felt very cool. We met and talked with several in the crowd, although at 17 and 16, we were younger than just about everyone there. As a side note, the girls/women ALL seemed older than us, which was somewhat intimidating ;-). I don’t remember any fights or problems, just that the music was pretty good, and there were lots of people. The news at the time saw it a bit differently and said that “hippies” were gathering at the festival and people needed to be careful. News reports in Streator and Ottawa advised local stores to close down.

As evening approached, neither the New Riders nor REO had played yet, but we had to leave. Either Howard had to check in with his folks, or I had to take my sisters to the fireworks that night. We paid for a couple more bottles of Boone’s Farm and walked to the car. By now there were vehicles everywhere and it was hard to turn around and get out, but we eventually made it home in one piece. Unfortunately, one of the bottles of wine leaked on the back seat of my dad’s car, and caused me to have a mild panic attack. Luckily, dad never noticed the wine stain and our trip stayed secret.

Adults around Ottawa were pretty worried about the “hippies” causing trouble, or being a bad influence on our town’s youth. After our day at the festival, Howard and I suffered no apparent ill effects and seemed to turn out OK. Heck, after a few years, we even outgrew our taste for Strawberry Hill wine.

*****

I flashed on this fest recently when Howard was meeting with an old friend of his from the Ozark Mountain Daredevils. For some reason, seeing them together in a photo made me think of the festival. I decided to do some research and see what really happened there. You can read the article included here and it’s pretty funny. It turns out the festival wasn’t authorized and in fact neither the promoter, nor most of the scheduled bands made it to Streator. According to news reports on the 5th of July, neither REO Speedwagon, nor the New Riders of the Purple Sage showed at the fest in Streator. Instead, local bands arrived, along with a couple of the smaller original bands, and they crafted a stage and held the festival. There were only around 20 arrests. Somewhere between 6-15,000 were there and it sounds like the police shut the whole thing down late on the evening of the 4th, sometime after Howard and I departed.

As Howard and I were recently discussing that day, I found out that he returned to the fest the next day on his bicycle. There was still someone there selling Boone’s Farm out of the back of a truck. Howard snagged two bottles and returned home a bit later. I think we drank the wine with friends the next weekend at the Butler House in Varland Park. Ahhh, youth.

**** Special thanks to Howard Johnson for verifying or correcting my memory about some of this blog.

As many of you know, my sister-in-law Cindy passed away three months ago on April 30th, 2018. It was not unexpected, but was nonetheless too soon. In February of this year she was diagnosed with cancer and given six to nine months to live. She passed away just over two months later in April.

I first met Cindy when she was thirteen, way back in the summer of ‘72. In all of the time that has passed since then, the one thing I’ve known consistently about Cindy is, as Cathy says, she has always marched to her own drum. She lived most of her life outside the box.

With my military and corporate background, I suppose I’ve lived much of my life inside the box. In spite of our different approaches to life, or maybe because of them, we loved each other in our own way, as you often do with members of your family, or extended family. I can’t say that I always liked what Cindy was doing at a particular time in her life, but I always loved her.

Her remembrance was held in Alabama on June 10th. We gathered together to celebrate her life. Friends and family were there, including cousins and three of Cindy’s four surviving uncles. Bonnie and Cathy both spoke eloquently about Cindy, her life, and their relationships with her. There was much story telling, some funny, some sad, and more than a few margaritas were drank that day in her honor. At Cindy’s request, Norman Greenbaum’s “Spirit in the Sky” was played, allowing us to reminisce about our youth and leaving us with feelings of hope and redemption.

I think there is always an extra bit of sadness when someone dies young, as Cindy did. Having said that, at the remembrance enough time had passed since her death, and we were able to celebrate her life among us and our memories of her.

And now she has been gone for three months. For my part, I will remember the good times we did share over the years. And I will think of Ecclesiastes 5:18, both for Cindy, and for myself –

“Even so, I have noticed one thing, at least, that is good. It is good for people to eat well, drink a good glass of wine, and enjoy their work – whatever they do under the sun – for however long God lets them live.”

Peace be with you Cindy. Thanks for helping me remember to celebrate the good things in life.

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** This version of Ecclesiastes 5:18 came from the New Living Translation of the Bible.

Our dog, Carmen, and I have a morning routine that hasn’t changed in the past three years.  It’s pretty much the same, no matter the season, or the weather. It can be a regular day, Christmas Day, or raining cats and dogs, it doesn’t matter. This is what happens.

Everyday we wake up between 6:30 and 7:00AM.  Somedays I’m up first, somedays she wakes me, but always in that same timeframe.  (If I’m not home, she never wakes Cathy, but instead waits for her to get up). As I dress, she stretches a time or two and then sits and waits by the bedroom door.  I open the door and we head downstairs, Carmen leading the way.  I proceed to the back door, where she’s waiting for me.  I slip on my shoes, open the door, and out we go.  Interestingly, if I let her out, but then go back inside to do something for a minute, I’ll find her sitting just outside the back door waiting for me (“Let’s go dad, what’s up?”).

As we proceed to the barn, Carmen will do her business along the way.  Typically our barn cats, Stan and Ollie, will say hello and the four of us make our way to the barn for feeding time.  In the summertime, the horses have been out for the night and are waiting to come in (in winter, the horses have been in the stable all night and are ready to go out).  

At the barn, I fill each horse’s bucket with water and throw some hay in their stalls.  Carmen wanders the barn and checks things out to make sure nothing has changed from the day before, and also to see if the cats have left any food around their bowls.  We then walk to the feed room to get grain for the horses and the dry food for the cats.  As I am about to return to the barn, I look at Carmen and she sits down in the feed room. I close the door.  She knows that she’s not allowed out while I bring the horses in.

I put the feed in each stall’s bucket, give the cats their food, and then go for the horses.  Noggin’ and ‘Shendo come in first from the nearby paddock, and then it’s Sailor and Katie’s turn from the backfield.  Once all of the horses are in, I let Carmen out of the feed room and we head back up the drive.  

Instead of going straight to the house, I walk the 100 yards or so up the driveway to the mailbox and retrieve the Washington Post.  Carmen doesn’t follow me, but instead lays down in the driveway about two feet inside the invisible fence.  When  I come back from getting the paper, she is invariably waiting for me there.  I come over the hill, she stays put.  I walk down the hill, she stays put.  Finally, when I cross the invisible fence line myself, she jumps up and trots to the back door of the house.

We go inside, and I fill her bowl with food.  As she is munching down, I go to the kitchen, make my coffee, check email, and proceed to read the Post.

Our days diverge after that and we both get on with our lives.  Sometimes we are doing things together, but other than our afternoon walk, often times not.  I like to think that we are comfortable with each other in our friendship.  I know both of us enjoy our morning ritual together.  It’s something we can count on and look forward to, come what may.

It’s a pretty good start to the day. What’s yours look like?

The vast majority of my blogs aren’t political. They are about my life, or the lives of my friends and extended family. After the recent events in Belgium, England, and Finland, I felt compelled to write this piece.

We can argue about the environment, abortion, trade, the economy, health care and any number of other issues, but as a veteran and a patriot, I’m embarrassed by the events of the past week. I don’t understand our current president and his views about Russia and our European allies. When did it become patriotic to denigrate our allies and embrace our enemies?

If you have studied history at all, you know that NATO is a major reason that we have had peace in Europe for the last 70 years. Is NATO perfect? No. Are there issues? Sure. But to belittle the organization is ridiculous. And then to specifically go after Great Britain (May) and Germany (Merkel), two allies that have stood with us not only in Europe, but also in Iraq and Afghanistan is nothing short of foolish.

Fast forward to Helsinki. The president’s comments at the press conference were distressing. First, he supports Putin, a man that wishes nothing but ill will not only for our country, but for all nations in the West. He has poisoned people, interfered with elections (not only ours, but others as well), caused issues in Crimea and the Ukraine, imprisoned internal opposition candidates and murdered Russian citizens. Then, our President takes it a step further and talks badly about our own intelligence agencies, blames the US for the poor relations between our countries, and again supports Putin in his allegations. The press conference could not have been more favorable to Putin, if Putin had scripted it himself. And this is our great deal maker?

I am glad to see politicians of both parties have called our president to task for his poor performance in Europe, but that’s not enough. We as citizens all need to express our concerns and ensure our voice is heard. Write your elected officials, write the White House, talk to your neighbors, protest peacefully if you are so moved, but above all, vote.

As an American and a veteran, I’m embarrassed by our president’s performance in Europe, When I was in the Army, I spent almost nine years in Europe as a part of NATO defending this country. I understand that times change and the “Cold War” ended many years ago. For our president to not understand that these times are equally treacherous and that history repeats itself is not only unfortunate, but could prove tragic for us.

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I’m not sure why, but the burial of our horse Arthur has stayed with me in greater detail than many human funerals. This came to mind recently as I was bush hogging our back field and hit a rock I forgot was there. It was the stone we had put in place to mark where we buried Arthur many years ago.

Arthur made the transition with us when we moved from the suburbs to the country. I suppose you could make the argument it was because of Arthur that we moved to the country. He had a good life at the stable in the ‘burbs, but I like to think he enjoyed it a bit more here at Rohan Farm. Cathy still competed with him, but he and his pal Red had plenty of green pasture to roam when not working.

Cathy rode Arthur for a few more years, but he finally got older and was having some problems. Cathy bought Tucker to compete with, and we retired Arthur. He spent his days grazing with Red. Eventually, his problems worsened and the arthritis in his spine was causing significant pain. Another vet visit, and we decided it was time.

The day we put Arthur down was a pretty fall day with a vivid blue sky. The gravedigger, Larry, arrived and I showed him where we wanted Arthur buried in the back pasture. He offloaded his backhoe and started to work.

Maybe half an hour later, our vet, Tena, arrived. Cathy put a halter on Arthur and we started for the back field. There was no talking. We crossed the dike by the pond, and for some strange reason our trek reminded me of the Beatles’ Abbey Road album cover. We were in single file at that point with Tena in front. Cathy came behind leading Arthur, and I brought up the rear. I know it’s weird, but whenever I see that album cover now, I think about Arthur. It’s strange how the brain works.

In any case, we kept going and crossed the little creek that marked the entrance to the back pasture. At that point, you could hear the backhoe operating. As we crested a small hill, Larry and the grave came into view. Larry saw us and pulled the backhoe off to one side and shut it down. As we approached, he stood and took off his hat.

Larry made the hole in such a way that there was a ramp going down about eight feet to the bottom of the grave. When we arrived, Cathy led Arthur to the bottom and stood there stroking his mane. She gave him a last carrot, which he slowly munched, and then it was time. Tena gave him the shot and after a few seconds, Arthur slid to the ground. Cathy was holding his head and I was petting his side. A bit later, the life left his eyes and Tena checked his heart. It had stopped beating. We stayed with him a while longer, tears in all of our eyes.

We trudged back out of the hole and made our way across the field. Larry put his hat back on and sat down on the backhoe . As we crossed the stream at the edge of the field, I heard him start the backhoe again.

Arthur was 25 when we put him down. When Red died a few years later, he was 31. We put him in the back field next to his buddy Arthur. Both graves have turned green with new grass over the years. The stone markers have sunk into the earth and don’t protrude much anymore. When the grass gets higher, I can’t see the stones and occasionally hit one with the bush hog.

Over time, we buried other horses, dogs and cats here on the property. While I remember the others, it’s Arthur’s burial on that pretty fall day that has stayed with me. Larry’s sensitivity and Tena’s compassion were a part of it, as was Cathy’s and my sadness. And Arthur himself? I suppose it’s strange to say it, but his dignity was with him to the end. He was a good horse.

It was dusk turning to dark on July 4th, 1976 and Washington DC’s Bicentennial fireworks would start at any moment. Cathy and I were stuck in traffic on the 14th Street Bridge over the Potomac. It looked like we were not going to make it in time.

I’d travelled to DC from West Point a couple of days earlier to visit Cathy for the big Bicentennial weekend. Events were going on all across the country, and our nation’s Capitol was having one of the biggest firework celebrations. We didn’t plan to miss it.

July Fourth dawned, and it was a beautiful day. We hung around Cathy’s, as we did not want to arrive downtown too early. There was a protest that morning, and a parade later in the day, and we planned to avoid both. Instead, we had a picnic at Cath’s with grilled steaks, and some of her world famous potato salad. Finally, we decided to drive to DC from her place in Alexandria.

Being young (and maybe foolish), I hadn’t realized how heavy the traffic was going to be in a pre-metro DC. The traffic was at a crawl as soon as we left Cathy’s apartment complex. We joined the throng, and slowly made our way towards DC. Time passed. More time passed. Finally we approached the Potomac River and everything came to a standstill. We were stuck in traffic on the 14th Street Bridge, and dusk was turning to dark. Suddenly, the first fireworks went off. What should we do? We obviously weren’t going to make it.

A car ahead of us made the first move, but soon there were several of us doing the same thing. We pulled out of the traffic and onto the median of the bridge and parked. We’d watch the fireworks from the bridge itself. It turned out to be a great vantage point to watch the unbelievable show taking place in DC. The Jefferson Memorial was in the foreground, with the Washington Monument behind it. I’ve since read that DC set off over 30 tons of fireworks that night and there were a million people in attendance. The display lasted a long time and was worth the drive to get there.

As great as they were, the fireworks weren’t the highlight of the night for me, or for Cathy. That was still to come.

The fireworks ended. We jumped in the car, did a quick u-turn and drove back towards Cathy’s apartment ahead of the traffic exiting DC. On the way, we decided to stop in Old-Town Alexandria and party some more. We tried to get into one of our favorite places, The Fish Market, but it was wall-to-wall people. As we were standing on King Street, we heard music coming from an upstairs bar across the cobblestone street and made our way to the entrance. We climbed the stair, and literally as we were opening the door to the bar, we heard –

“Good morning, America How are you?

Say don’t you know me? I’m your native son.

I’m the train they call the city of New Orleans

And I’ll be gone five hundred miles when the day is done”

Arlo Guthrie had recorded the song “City of New Orleans” in ‘72 and everyone knew the words. Or at least everyone in the bar did, and we all joined right in. There were probably 70 or 80 people, all singing along. We may not have been in perfect harmony, but we made up for it with volume and enthusiasm. When the song ended, there was a huge amount of cheering, clapping and hugging, and people calling out Happy Birthday to America. Cathy and I both remember the utter joy in the bar that night more than anything else about the Fourth of July that year. Everybody truly was celebrating the 200th birthday of our country. It was amazing.

I’ve been thinking about that evening in 1976 as our Independence Day celebration approaches this year. The country went through a rough patch in the early 1970s leading up to our 200th birthday. Vietnam, anti war protests, Kent State, Nixon and Watergate, race issues, the assassination attempts on Ford, and multiple drug overdoses, including Hendrix, Joplin and Morrison, to name just a few of the issues of the day. And yet, to me on that Fourth of July, it felt like we were all in one boat pulling together. We weren’t Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, young or old, black or white. We were just Americans, and it seemed our differences were set aside, at least for that night.

Which brings me back to this year’s Fourth of July. It appears we are less united now and I sometimes wonder if we can bridge our differences any more. We have a seventeen year war, a drug crisis, race issues, and politicians, some more than others, who divides us. Hatred grows. I know we have gone through similar periods in our nation’s history, but online media accelerates and exasperates the situation. I try and think what the future might hold for this great country of ours, and the answer isn’t always clear.

Good morning, America how are you?

We had the good fortune of being invited to our neighbors for a dinner of steamed crabs last night. Not just any crabs, but Maryland Blue Crabs that were in our cove yesterday morning.

I love crab and Maryland is a great place to get it. There’s wonderful crab all across the country, whether the North Carolina coast, Gulf crab in Louisiana, or Dungeness crab out in California. But there’s something special about crab that comes out of the Chesapeake. It’s a little sweeter, I think.

We’ve been on the Eastern Shore for the past week celebrating our anniversary. During this time, I’ve made crab cakes at home twice, and had a soft shell sandwich at lunch one day. I suppose I may be a little obsessive about it, but when the crab is so fresh and local, it’s hard not to be.

Our neighbor had a trot line out in the cove yesterday morning and he and another friend gathered a bushel of crabs in about three hours. Later that day, they invited Cathy and I over for steamed crabs last night.

Steamed crabs, are wonderful in a restaurant, but having them in your neighbors backyard with friends is something else. I think the best part is the communal nature of picking and eating fresh crabs. It’s a time commitment. You don’t work your way through a bushel very quickly. I think most people get a little tired of the work involved, before they actually get full of crab.

Last night, we gathered at our friend’s home and had a couple of beers while the crabs were steaming. The butcher paper was already on the picnic table. As he finished cooking the crabs, Jim dumped the first load from the pot straight onto the table. While he reloaded the steamer with the back half of the bushel, the rest of us started eating. They were oh so good. The conversation fell off a bit, but it didn’t stop as we were picking. A while later, the second load was also dumped on the table and we soldiered on, although perhaps slowing a bit. Finally, as it neared dusk, we finished up. The tables were cleaned and we adjourned to the porch for another drink or two and more conversation.

Cath and I finally left and walked home in the dark. It was a great evening of food and friendship. Jim gave me a small going away present as we left – six or seven leftover crabs. I’ll pick them later today, and with a bit of luck we will have enough crab meat for a couple more cakes. Life on the Chesapeake is pretty good.

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** The title of this blog was borrowed from Mary Chapin Carpenter’s song “Down in Mary’s Land” .  Give it a listen if you haven’t heard it before – I think you will like it.

Forty years… it sounds more like a prison sentence than it does a wedding anniversary. “That’s right Max and Cathy, your sentence is 40 years to life”. Forty Years… That’s how long Cathy and I will be married on Saturday, June 16th.

It’s not so hard to look at Cathy’s face now and see the sixteen year old girl I started dating in 1972. We were so young. It didn’t feel like we were young at the time, but looking back, my God. All of that future together, and we didn’t yet realize it. Maybe we started to sense it when I left for West Point. I still have the letter she handed me that day, making me promise not to open it until I was in the car and on my way east –

“……Next year is going to be hard on us, but I have a strong feeling that we’ll make it….when it starts getting hard or you feel down, or something goes wrong just remember that I love you….”

She was talking abut my first year at West Point, but the words turned out to be a covenant for our next four plus decades together.

We’ve had mostly good times over the past forty years, but we’ve also had our share of challenges and hard times. There has been “better and worse, richer and poorer, and sickness and health”. In times of trouble, Cathy has been my rock and my strength. We’ve dealt with illnesses, separations due to military deployments, family deaths, tough times at work, people telling us what a marriage should look like, and any number of other challenges both big and small. We needed to learn how to make our marriage work through all of that and we did.

Over the past few years, as we’ve achieved “senior marriage status”, folks have asked me “What’s the secret? How do you make marriage a success?” I’m usually a bit dumbstruck by the question, because I don’t know the answer. Having said that, there are two things I do know. First, marriage takes constant work. Second, you have to figure out what will make your marriage a success. Not what makes generic marriage a success, or what will make someone else’s marriage a success, or your friend’s marriage a success, but what will make your marriage a success. It may be something quite different from what works for other couples. You have to decide what is best for you two, and I don’t think anyone else can tell you that.

When anniversaries happen, it’s easy to look to the past and remember the good times you’ve had. On this anniversary, what I’m really excited about is our future together, and what new promises, joys and challenges await us. I know there will be family, old and new friends, adventures, challenges, and yes, heartache and sadness. Our future together starts tomorrow, and I can’t wait to continue this wonderful partnership.

I love you honey…..

Our fortieth wedding anniversary is coming up, and that started my thinking about the taxi that interrupted our very first anniversary. It was June of 1979. Cathy and I were stationed in Germany and living in the small town of Helmstadt. The night of our anniversary, we were sitting outside on the patio drinking Sekt (German champagne) and celebrating the one year mark. I planned to put some steaks on the grill, and we had a fun night planned.

While talking, we saw a cream colored taxi coming up the hill. Hmmm we thought, one of our neighbors must have some rich visitors arriving – the nearest city with taxi service was Würzburg, and that was fifteen miles away. The taxi kept coming and turned onto our street. Wow – a local neighbor. And then it stopped in front of our house. What!?! The back door of the taxi opened and out stepped my sister Roberta and her friend Debbie.

Roberta and Debbie had stayed with us earlier in the month, but now, they were suppose to be on a Eurail pass (a train pass for all of Europe), somewhere in Austria, or France, or Italy. Yet, here they were. Hugs all around and what the hell is going on?

Well, their travels had started out great. Eventually, they made it to Rome, where besides getting pinched, they met the mysterious Giorgio who was quite nice and showed them some of the sites. After spending a few days in Rome, they left town on the train, and were promptly robbed. In fact everyone in their train car was robbed. Roberta and Debbie lost all of their cash AND their passports. What to do?! They left the train at the next station, and then boarded a train back to Rome, where they planned to go to the embassy for new passports.

Arriving in Rome, they realized they had no money. Interestingly, they still had Giorgio’s business card and a few lire in change. They called Giorgio and miraculously, he picked up the phone. No problemo….he would be happy to help. He arrived at the train station, picked them up, and checked them into a hotel not far from his home. For the next couple of days, he squired them around to the embassy for passports, American Express to pick up money being wired in by parents, and several other local sites. One day they were sitting at a small cafe and he bought them cappuccinos. In the America of 1979, pre-Starbucks, nobody knew what a cappuccino was. As they sipped their coffees, Roberta asked him “Who are those guys that are always with you? Can’t you get rid of them?” His answer – “Those are my bodyguards. They go with me everywhere.”

Eventually, they received their new passports and the additional money. Rather than travel around anymore, they decided to return to our house. They said farewell to Giorgio, and took the train north. In Wurzburg, they obtained a taxi at the train station, and make their way to our home.

Now this was an incredibly interesting story, but IT WAS our one year anniversary. We had Sekt for two, steaks for two, dessert for two, and….well you get the idea. So, after chatting a bit more, we mentioned to them that a bier fest had started in town that day, and perhaps they would like to walk to it. They happily agreed and departed a few minutes later, while we went back to celebrating our anniversary.

The next morning over coffee and breakfast, we asked them how the bier fest was. It turned out the fest hadn’t started yet. As a matter of fact, the huge tent was empty, except for about 20 guys. The local soccer team had helped get things ready for the fest and they were now relaxing with a few biers. They saw Roberta and Debbie enter the tent and called them over. Roberta and Debbie spoke no German, and the majority of the team spoke no English. This small impediment caused no issues and they spent the next several hours together becoming the best of friends, drinking biers and eating bratwursts.

At some point in time, Debbie disappeared to take a motorbike ride with one of the soccer players. He was going to “show her the route of the next day’s Volksmarch”. While in the woods, the bike got stuck in the mud, and in order to get it unstuck, Debbie had to follow the cycle on foot until they were out of the muck. As Deb told me later “It was a little eerie to be stuck in a forest in Germany at midnight with a complete stranger. For a moment I questioned my sanity and if it would end well. Fortunately it did.” Eventually she returned, and Berta and Deb made the walk back to our home, arriving some time well after we were in bed.

Debbie and Roberta left for the States a few days later. Time passed and they both became wives, mothers, and eventually grandmothers. I laugh to myself when I think about the story and the passage of time. I know my sister and Deb are around my age, but I can still see them as the young women who met Giorgio in Italy and the soccer team in Helmstadt. We should all know how to have such fun.