Mom, Dad, and the Ottawa High School prom of 1948…..

In April of 1948, my mom (Gen Hall) asked dad to the Ottawa High School (OHS) Prom.  They had been dating since the summer of ’47.  When I heard this story from the two of them a few years back, I realized how much proms, and the times, have changed.

In August of ’45, At the ripe old age of 21, Dad was discharged from the Army after five years of service. He and mom met two years later in July of ’47. She was all of 16, and soon to be a junior in high school, although he didn’t know it at the time. When he discovered her age later, he was shocked, but didn’t stop dating her. And, it wasn’t that unusual at the time. There were lots of GIs returning from overseas, and they were dating many of the younger girls and women, as many of the women their age were already married (side note: my grandma [mom’s mom] married my grandpa when she was 16 and he was 26, so maybe this was a move forward….;-)…).

In any case, mom asked him to the prom in April of ’48, and he accepted. The night of the prom came, and of course, no limos were involved. Dad didn’t have a car, nor did his family, so he walked to mom’s house to pick her up. My Grandfather then gave the two of them a ride to OHS for the Prom.

As the night went on, they danced several dances. At some point in time, mom went to “freshen up”. Dad was standing in the gym off to the side. He was talking to some of the other ex-GIs that were there, when George Willy, the shop teacher, walked up to them. He asked if anyone wanted to see the wood shop, and several of the guys, including dad, took him up on the invitation. With smiles on their faces, they headed to the wood shop.



Once in the shop, “Mr.” Willy said “if you got ’em, smoke ’em”, and everyone pulled out their cigarettes and lit up. After a few minutes, someone reached into a back pocket and pulled out a pint bottle which made it’s way around the room. After a couple sips each, they finished their cigarettes and headed back up to the dance and located their girl friends.

When the dance ended, mom and dad caught a ride with another couple to the restaurant where they were having dinner. From there, dad called a taxi and took mom home. After dropping her off, he walked back to his folks house by himself.  

I’ve thought of that evening and the changes over the years. Their differences in age, dad not having a car to use (he wouldn’t own a car until 1950 when he and my Uncle Mick bought one together), the smoking and drinking on school property with a teacher. Mom and dad seemed to weather it all pretty well. Mom graduated in 1949 and they married in 1950. They were married for over 55 years, until dad passed away. George Willy ended up becoming the Principal, and then later, the Superintendent of OHS and served in that position for several years. When mom started working at the High School in the mid sixties, she worked for George until he retired.  

I look at George Willy’s picture from the 1948 yearbook, and see a teacher that was a bit older than the young ex-GIs he took to the woodshop. I can’t imagine what would happen to a teacher who did such a thing today. For that matter, I can’t imagine what the school would say if a 17 year old showed up with a 24 year old. Of course times have changed and we all know that. To me, looking back, it seems like the late 40s in Ottawa were a pretty good time to be alive.

We are somewhere in Western Pennsylvania , and this post is coming from the road. Cathy and I have been making a version of this drive, off and on, for over 40 years. Cathy hates it, and always has. I enjoy it, and almost always have. We are making our way from The DC area back home to Ottawa, Illinois for a visit.  We brought Carmen with us this time, hence driving and not flying.

The drive is typically somewhere between 11 1/2 and 14 hours, depending on your skill, luck, bladder, the weather, and traffic. Once, in December of ’75 or ’76, it took us over 18 hours as we returned to DC in the middle of a raging snow storm.

Cathy hates this trip because “it sucks”. It’s long, it’s boring, and often ugly. She says it’s not like driving to Alabama, which is shorter, plus you have woods and mountains. Also, we often make the trip at Christmas time, which means it can be treacherous.

I guess I love the trip for a variety of different reasons. It’s long, so I get time to think. I love seeing the changes in the farms along the way, and the gradual flattening of the terrain. At Christmas time, you see lights in the farmers fields. In the summer, endless rows of corn, or beans, or some other grain. I see America as we are driving along.  

Plus, I occasionally get to play mind games, or challenges. Once, on a return trip, I drove across half of Illinois, all of Indiana, and 40 miles of Ohio without using my brakes. I did have a manual transmission, which particularly helped while passing through Indianapolis.

We’re only going home for about a week. We are looking forward to seeing family, and my mom who’s having a few issues. Only about eight or nine more hours to go. Along the way, I’ll gaze out the window, looking for America….. Maybe more so this year. 

My 40th reunion at West Point is just over a year away and I’m looking forward to it. It will be great to reconnect with people that I don’t get to see nearly enough. That time at the Academy was ages ago, but I remember my first couple of hours like it was yesterday. Even now it all comes back – the pride, the fear, the doubt, the racing of my mind…

Mom and dad drove me from Illinois to West Point that summer, and we arrived the day before I was to inprocess. We’d arranged to meet Colin Willis, a guy that graduated from Ottawa High School three years before I did, and then went to West Point. Colin was about to become a First Classman (a Senior) at West Point. We had both played football and wrestled while at Ottawa, so we knew each other some. We met Colin at Grant Hall.

West Point is a beautiful place. Granite buildings, monuments, green fields, and the majestic Hudson River flowing around Trophy Point. Colin showed all of it to us, and we were impressed. Dad said something about how beautiful it was and Colin answered “It’s OK if you like Grey”.

At some point, Colin got me a bit away from my parents and said “Are you ready for this”? I told him that I thought I was, but was a bit nervous. He then said, and I’ll never forget this, “Just remember, it’s all a mental game”. And I said “What”? And he answered back “It’s all a mental game. As long as you remember that, you’ll do fine”. Mom and dad rejoined us about then, and he didn’t say anything more. We eventually said goodbye, and went back to our hotel.

The next morning, we ate a quick breakfast and my folks drove to the inprocessing point. We said our goodbyes, dad looking proud, mom crying, and me just wanting to get going. Inside I went.  

There were some preliminary things for checking in, and we changed from our civilian clothes into West Point gym clothes and black dress shoes. I think there was a tag attached to my shorts saying what company I was assigned to (6th New Cadet Company). So far, it was pretty easy…

We were driven in a bus to the central cadet area, and there, reported to “the man in the red sash”. After multiple corrections about my salute, my stance, foot angle and every other conceivable thing that I was doing wrong, I was told that “as a New Cadet, you have four answers, and four answers only. Yes sir.  No sir.  No excuse sir, and Sir, I do not understand”.  “Do you understand your answers”? After multiple practices, I finally got it, and he told me to report to the First Sergeant for the 6th New Cadet Company.  

I saluted, and left and then double-timed to the barracks, and then up the stairs to our floor (Plebes always double timed up and down stairs). I finally reached the First Sergeant’s office and reported: “Sir, New Cadet Hall reporting as ordered!”

The First Sergeant proceeded to ask me a question, which I attempted to answer, when he shouted “SMACKHEAD! DID I ASK FOR AN EXPLANATION?! WHAT ARE YOUR FOUR ANSWERS?!” At which point I promptly froze.

I racked my brain for my four answers, but couldn’t get past Yes Sir!and No Sir!. The First Sergeant spat out “OK BEANHEAD! GET OUT OF MY OFFICE, GO OVER TO THE WALL AND STARE AT THE WALL UNTIL YOU CAN REMEMBER YOUR FOUR ANSWERS! AND GET YOUR CHIN IN!”

I did an about face, went out of his office to the opposite wall, and stopped at attention about two inches from the wall. The First Sergeant came out of his office and again corrected me for my chin hanging out and several other faults that I had. After he left and went back in his office, I stood there sweating. All around me, I could hear shouting, but for the life of me, I couldn’t remember my answers. I remember thinking “this is it. It’s over. I’ve been here two hours, and I’m about to fail”.

And then something happened. With my peripheral vision, I looked to my left and to my right, and for as far as I could see in either direction, were other “Beanheads”, standing at attention and staring at the wall. I thought to myself “I’m not alone”.  Then, Colin’s voice popped into my head , “Just remember, it’s all a mental game”….  And just as suddenly, I remembered my four answers. I reported back to the First Sergeant, got my answers right, and he sent me off to my room. At that moment, I knew I was going to be alright.

There were lots of other trials and tribulations over the course of that summer. Plebe duties, knowledge memorization, eating at attention, cutting my peas in half because I took bites that were too big; the rifle range, learning the spirit of the bayonet, attending etiquette classes (yes, we were to be Officers AND Gentlemen); and many other classes that I no longer remember. But I do remember that meeting with the First Sergeant, and the words “it’s all a mental game”. It turns out that was good advice for my time at West Point, and for most of my life since. Thanks Colin.

There’s a place in this world for a cinder block bar. Our current warm weather reminded me of one we visited in West Virginia 25 years ago.

It was late February, 1992, and I was getting out of the Army in another month.  Cathy and I decided to have a weekend getaway, and along with our friend Renee, rented a cabin in the middle of nowhere, West Virginia.  We arrived Friday evening and our cabin was basic, but clean.  After a dinner, some wine and conversations well into the night, we finally went to bed.

The next day, we drove several miles to hike a trail we had heard about.   The day turned into one of those better-than-perfect days we occasionally have here in winter – crystal clear blue skies, and temperatures that soared into the 70s. The hike was wonderful, the picnic lunch we had at the top of the mountain even better.   After hanging out, dozing a bit, and relaxing in general, we reluctantly hiked back to the trail head.

We finally reached the car and started driving to the cabin.   And then we saw it. The square, cinder block building with the beer sign out front, and one car in the parking lot. The three of us looked at each other, and without saying a word, all agreed to pull in. As we parked, we promised ourselves that we would only have one beer; two at the most.   We left our dog Top in the car, and went inside.

The bar was a bit dark. There was a pool table, a tabletop “bowling alley”, a few scattered formica tables, and a wood planked bar.   No one was there but us and the bartender.  She was behind the bar cleaning buckshot out of a dead rabbit.   We walked up to the bar, said hello, and asked “What do you have on draft?”.  


The bartender answered “Nothing on draft.” OK.  

“What do you have in a bottle?”.  

“We don’t have any bottled beer”…….hmmmmm….

“Uhh, what do you have in a can?”.  

“We have Bud, and Miller Lite”. Well alright then. “We’ll take three Buds”.

She served our beers, and we start making small talk with her.  We ordered a second round, and about that time, some local boys came in.   One of them had a classic ball cap on –  the cap had  a bullseye with a buck in the center of the bullseye, and the caption “The Buck Stops Here”.   As they bellied up to the bar, the guy with the hat allowed “I sure do love to hear those dogs bay”.

We started talking with the locals and it turned out they had been rabbit hunting that day and were giving the bartender a couple more rabbits.   As we continued to talk and trade jokes back and forth, someone bought a round for everyone, and we started playing two-on-two pool, losers buying the next round of beer.   We lost more than we won, but it was close enough to make it interesting.

By now, it was dark out, and we were starting to learn some of the intricacies of rabbit hunting.  The guy with the had said again “I sure do love to hear those dogs bay”.   And we’re like “What”?   It turned out that their hunting dogs were in a mobile kennel on the back of one of the trucks outside.   Cathy mentioned that our dog was outside as well.   The man who liked to hear the dogs bay says to Cathy, “well, I’ll show you our dogs, and you can show me yours”.  So, Cathy and the guy go out

They don’t come back inside for a bit, and Renee, while snickering, says to me in a bit of a whisper “You know what’s going on out there don’t you?   His dogs have Top bent over the kennel, and he’s trying to do the same with Cathy”.  Renee and I both laughed about this, but then I’m thinking “hmmmmmmm”.  Not to worry though, as Cath and the guy come back a few minutes later.

At some point after this, and perhaps after a few more beers, things get a bit strange.  The sequence of events isn’t exactly clear, but after more conversations about dogs baying, pool playing, hunting, the Army and life in general, I somehow get poked in the eye by Renee with a pool cue.   Everyone is concerned, or at least Cathy and Renee are concerned, and we decide that this might be a good time to leave.  We pay our bill, which is amazingly reasonable, say our goodbyes, and depart.  The drive to our cabin is a bit winding, but short, and we arrive safely.

Back at the cabin, we are all ravenous.  We eat everything we can find in the fridge, wash it down with some wine, and promptly go to bed.

The next day we are slightly hungover.   I can’t really open my eye, but other than that, we aren’t too much the worse for wear.  We pack up and make the trip back to DC.  My eye is killing me, so I tie a bandana around my head and over my eye like a pirate.  We talk and laugh about the night before, and all agree it was a pretty good evening, and we probably won’t forget about it for awhile.   We finally return to DC, and before getting home, stop at the mall to pick up some suits I bought and had tailored for my new civilian life.   I have to say, when I came in hungover, disheveled, with a bandana tied over my eye, the staff seemed a bit less friendly and more wary than when I originally bought the suits.

It’s 25 years later, and we still haven’t forgotten the story.  A cinder block bar in the middle of nowhere – it was a good time.  Occasionally, when I hear a dog howling in the distance, I think to myself “I sure do love to hear those dogs bay”…..

                       **Special thanks to our friend Renee for corroborating some of the facts in the story that may have been a bit foggy in my own mind.**

How paranoid have we become about immigration? I ask this because of the recent Super Bowl Budweiser ad, and the many calls from people to now boycott Budweiser beer. Really?

I can think of many reasons not to buy or drink Budweiser. It’s a bland mass produced beer. They use rice, in addition to barley for their grain. Bud is now owned by InBev – a global conglomerate based in Belgium. But none of these are the reasons people are calling for a boycott.

People are calling for a boycott of Bud, because their Super Bowl ad tells the tale of Adolphus Busch and how he LEGALLY came from Germany to the United States in the 1850s. The ad shows a rough transatlantic ship voyage, Mr Busch processing through immigration, how he is not treated very well by those already here (something the Germans, the Italians, the Irish, and every other group that has moved to the United States has faced – go check your history), and finally he settles in. With another gentleman, they create Anheuser-Busch.  

This is a classic telling of the American success story and achieving the American Dream. Unfortunately, because it talks about an immigrant, never mind that he arrived legally, we have the call for a boycott. I guess now, not only are we against illegal immigrants, we are also against legal immigration. I’m feeling pretty sorry for us as a country, if this is what we’ve come to.

I’ve never been a big Bud fan. After serving in the Army in Germany, my tastes changed, and I moved on, beer-wise. I drink IPAs, Stouts, Pils, Porters, Sours, Session beers, and many others. Starting today, you may find a six pack of Bud somewhere in my fridge as well.

It was two years ago this February that our horse, Queue, broke through the ice and fell into the pond. Cathy and I were so lucky about many things that day.

We have had horses on our property for 17 years, and never has a horse gone onto the frozen pond. I suppose they know the pond is there from summertime, and know not to go onto it if it freezes. Until two winters ago….

The weather was very cold that year, and the pond froze over in late January and stayed that way. In early February, one of our three year olds, Queue, who we foaled and raised here, was returning from six months of training at another farm. We were in a hurry to get him home, as there was a minor snowstorm coming.

Sure enough, it snowed about six inches the night of Queue’s return. Enough to make it pretty, but not enough to cause any problems. The next morning, after feeding the horses, we put them out in their pasture and returned to the house.  

A few hours passed, and we decided to go for a walk and enjoy the snow. Up the driveway we went, turned right onto the road, and then turned right again onto Swains Road, which borders our property. As we were walking along, Cathy said “Huh, what’s that out on the pond?” I looked, and at the same time we both realized it wasn’t something on the pond, but a horse’s head appearing above the ice. Oh my God….

We both raced down the road, into the field, and crossed the dike by the pond. Queue had wandered fifteen or twenty feet onto the pond and broke through the ice. Only his head and neck were above the water. He was alert, and wasn’t panicking, but he was frothing.

I tossed my cell phone to Cath and told her to call for help. She called a neighbor and the vet. In the meantime, I ran to the barn where I found a halter and long lead line. Next, I went into the tool shed, and amazingly, the sledge hammer was exactly where it was suppose to be. I grabbed it and ran back to the pond.

At the pond, I worked my way onto the ice. I got out to Queue, put the halter on, and walked the lead back to Cathy. Then, I went back on the ice with the sledge, and started pounding on the ice to break it up. The ice was two inches thick but adrenalin does amazing things. WHACK! Crack…..WHACK! Crack….WHACK! Ice breaking…. Slowly I made progress and worked back to shore. Unfortunately, the closer I got to shore, the thicker the ice became.

Suddenly, either I slipped, or the ice broke under me, and I plunged into the water. I remember thinking, as the water closed over my head, “whatever you do, don’t let go of the damned sledge hammer…”. A bit of a counterintuitive thought, but I knew without the sledge, we were in serious trouble. I was able to stand up and the water wasn’t quite chest high. I pulled myself out, and continued to pound on the ice with the sledge.

About this time, our neighbor, Kevin arrived (Thanks Kevin!). After another five or ten minutes of breaking the ice, we were able to get Queue to walk out of the pond. He was shivering violently and frothing. We went back to the barn, where we put him in a stall and took his horse blankets off. My fingers were starting to not work so well at this point. As we got the blankets off, Cathy and Kevin started drying him with towels, and I ran to the house to get more towels and blankets, and to change into dry clothes. At the house, I couldn’t get my fingers to untie my boots, so I grabbed a knife, and sliced the laces. I got the boots off and finally was able to change into dry clothes. I found more towels and blankets, and ran back to the barn.

Cathy and Kevin had Queue mostly dried off. We finished that up, and then put dry horse blankets on him, and started walking him around. We were concerned about shock setting in, or that he would colic, and wanted to get him moving. We also started giving him some hay to eat. About this time the vet showed up (Thank you Old Waterloo – You folks are great!). Queue had quit shivering and seemed to be doing OK. The vet said give him more hay, as that would also warm him. The vet took his temperature, and it was several degrees below normal, but not bad.

It turned out that Cathy and I had done everything about as well as we could, under the circumstances, except we should have given him more hay earlier. Queue appeared to be out of danger. The vet told us what to do as we continued to monitor him, and then left. Kevin left as well.

We watched him that afternoon and evening. He was drinking water, and eating, and his temperature was almost back to normal. That night, as we sat in the family room by a fire, Cathy turned to me and said “Well, I guess we’re real horse people now”.

                                                                                

                                                                         Addendum 

One of the things we learned from our vet that day is that The Little Fork, Va Volunteer Fire Department also has a Large Animal Rescue Team that is equipped to do all sorts of large animal rescue. In fact, they are are currently the only volunteer unit in Virginia that specializes in technical rescues of horses and cows. If we’d known that at the time, we would have called them, but they are about a half hour away. If we had waited, I’m not sure Queue would have made it, but it’s certainly good to know for the future. Their numbers are: 540.937.7717 and 540.727.7900.

This coming Saturday a new brewery, Wort Hog, will open here in downtown Warrenton. I’m looking forward to it. What amazes me though, is that this is the seventh brewery within a half hour of our home – and we live in the middle of no where! There’s Old Bust Head in Vint Hill, and Backroom Brewery near Front Royal. Sperryville (population 342) has two – Hopkins Ordinary, and Pen Druid. Culpeper also has two – Beer Hound and Far Gohn.  

This doesn’t count the others located just a bit further away in Gainesville, Manassas, Fredericksburg, Stafford, or the several that are up in Loudon County. In fact, if I do a Google search for breweries within an hour of us, there are over 25, and that doesn’t include the ones in DC, or the near DC  ‘burbs. How is this even possible?!

Back to our local breweries… What I particularly like, is that every one is a bit different from the others and they aren’t in direct competition. Hopkins Ordinary is a nano brewery in the basement of a B&B. Pen Druid is capturing local wild yeasts to use in the brewing process and is doing some amazing sours and barrel aged beers. Backroom is located on a herb farm, and incorporates herbs into some of their brews. Beer Hound and Far Gohn are located within walking distance of each other, and you can drift back and forth between the two. Old Bust Head is large, and typically has the largest number of beers on tap – it also has food trucks on weekends.

And Wort Hog? It’s more than just a brewery. It’s a brewpub, with a full menu. The reviews from the “soft opening” this past weekend were pretty good. Will they hold up? I sure hope so.

The next time you come for a visit, as always, we will visit some of the local wineries. We still have our favorites, including Linden, Delaplane and Glen Manor, and there are more good ones every year. But don’t be surprised if on day two, our tours include visits to some local brewers – there are a number to choose from, and ALL are good.

           Top was our first dog.  Last week was the 20th anniversary of his death in 1997.  Some of you knew him, back in the day.  This was what we read, when we spread his ashes on one of our favorite hikes.

________________ 

           Top was a little over 17 years old when he died on January 2nd, 1997. He spent a little over 16 years traveling around the world with us, and lived in Germany, Georgia, Ohio, and Virginia. He visited, among other places, Austria, Switzerland, France, and Italy in Europe, and had multiple trips to Alabama, Illinois, and West Virginia here in the States. He understood two languages (German and English) and we used German throughout his life if we really wanted to make a point with him. 

            He loved the outdoors and liked to go on hikes. A year before he died, he was in good enough shape to do an eight mile hike with us, and in October of ‘96, he was still able to go two miles on a hike in West Virginia.

            He also loved to chase other animals. Deer, rabbits, birds, chickens, bees and flies (yes flies – he use to be able to catch German flies!) – it didn’t matter – if they were within his field of vision, he was after them. At one time or another, he brought to ground all of the above, and to this day he is still known as “Deerslayer” in some circles. He also liked to keep our neighborhood free of cats, although later in life he became friends with Vincent, our neighbor’s cat.

            He could be mischievous and gave us plenty of tales to tell later – stealing half a ham; eating a jar of jelly beans; opening the front door to let himself out; breaking through a screen window to wander the neighborhood; killing one of Uncle Eugene’s chickens; rolling in horse manure at the stable; eating the topping off of a cherry danish – after these or other similar incidents, no matter how much you tried, you couldn’t stay mad at him for long. How could you stay mad at your little buddy?

           Top was a good dog and a good friend. We will miss him, but already we are less sad when we think of him, and that is how he would have liked it. He was a dog that touched many lives around the world and brought joy to many people. His antics and actions have given us enough stories to fill a book and we will remember these and think of the good times we had together. He protected us over the years (or thought he was protecting us!) and tried to keep us safe from harm in many ways. He was our companion and was with us for most of our journeys through life, both literally and figuratively. 

            One of Top’s favorite hikes was to Tibbet’s Knob and that is why we brought him here. He liked this place and we hope that in the future he will once again chase the deer and the rabbits here, will bark at the hawks, and get into other dog-type mischief. We also hope that when we or our friends come here, we will take a short pause, remember the good times with him, and raise a toast to Top, The Deerslayer, our best friend.
 
 

 It was 2:42AM when I heard the noise. The bump; the boom; the whatever. I got out of bed and looked out the window. Nothing. As I tried to go back to sleep, I heard the sound of an engine whining, which stopped.

Then I distinctly hear a voice:

      “Ahhhhh! I’m hurt! Help Me!…….Help me”!

 What!? And again:

     “I’m hurt! Help me”!

I jump out of bed and look out the window. Holy shit! There’s a fire at the neighbor’s house. I throw on my clothes and run downstairs. Quickly, I dial 911.

      “Yes sir, what is the address of your emergency?” I give them my address, but then say, “but it’s not my house. It’s across the street on Swains Road”.  “Thank you sir. That’s already been called in. And what is your name?” I give them my name and hang up.

I throw on my coat, grab a flashlight and shovel and run out the door. I race through the woods on that side of the house, and I can see the fire quite plainly now. I get to Swains Road and there’s a car engulfed in flames at the bottom of the driveway across the street. 

 I call out: “Hello? Anyone there”? And then I see him moaning, sitting in the middle of the road. “Are you OK”?

      “I think I broke my fucking arm. You try and help someone, and this is what it gets you. Aaarrggggh, I think I broke my fucking arm”.

He’s near the burning car, and something is exploding in the car. “Buddy – can you walk? We need to get you moved away from the car. Is anyone else in the car”?

     “Aaargggh…I think I broke my fucking arm. No, I’m alone. Can you help me up? I can’t use this side”.

 I help him up, and we walk down the road about 20 yards. Suddenly, a police car arrives. The officer gets out, quickly assesses what’s going on, and comes over to us.

    “Hey. What’s going on”?

    “I think I broke my fucking arm”.

    “Lean against my car, an ambulance is on the way. What happened here”?

    “You try and help someone, and this is what happens. After I dropped him off, I was backing down the drive and hit those rocks. See them over there? The guy is homeless, and I was just giving him a ride home. I don’t really even know him. I think I broke my fucking arm”. 

About this time, the fire department shows up. I ask the officer if I can leave.  He needs to do something with the fire department, so he asks if I’ll stay and watch the guy for a minute. Sure.

 The fire department is dousing the flames, and gets it under control pretty quickly.  

 The guy with the fucking broken arm says to me: “is there anything left”?

     “What”?

    “Is there anything left of the car”?

    “Uh, not much. The frame, and it looks like one of the tires”.

    This gets a laugh. “One of the tires!? No kidding. That’s pretty good”!

We establish that his phone, along with all of his insurance information has burned up in the car.

The cop and a paramedic show up. The paramedic asks how the guy is doing.

     “I think I broke my fucking arm. Maybe in two places”.

I ask the cop if he still needs me. He says no, asks me where I live, and thanks me for the help.

I get home, and go up to bed. Carmen has left her bed, and is hiding under ours. Cathy hasn’t moved a muscle. I coax Carmen out, and put her back in bed. I take my clothes off and get back in bed myself. I look at the clock – it’s 3:27AM. Slowly, I drift off to sleep.

I’ve been thinking of Uncle Mick, who passed away last week. He was 90, and led a full life. He developed issues when he was 85, but until then, he was amazing. The Germans have a word for it – einmalig – One of a kind….

He was the youngest of the Hall family, and born in Southern Illinois. 3 older sisters, and 3 older brothers, plus a younger brother that died as a child; all are gone now. Gone, but not forgotten. The life they lived, particularly when younger, was much different from today. They were dirt poor, and grew up in the 20s, and then the depression of the 30s. It made them who they became as adults.

It’s impossible for me to think of Uncle Mick, without thinking of my dad at the same time. Dad was two years older, and basically, except for 4 years during WWII, they were together their whole lives. They complemented each other and fed off of each other. Laurel and Hardy, Simon and Garfunkel, Abbott and Costello, Mick and Keith….. They had nothing on Uncle Mick and Dad, or the stories they told.

We use to hear the stories at the kitchen table on Saturday mornings. The coffee pot was endless, as were the stories. You didn’t necessarily have to listen, but you had to be able to talk to be a Hall. Aunts and Uncles gathered around the table, telling stories of their youth, or the war, or later in life….Uncle Mick and Dad as kids discovering that Santa Claus was really Grandma…..Dad losing his jacket on a railroad car…..Dad joining the Army, and Uncle Mick joining the Navy….Dad wounded in Sicily…Uncle Mick on the beach at Normandy….parties in North Carolina….parties in New York….seeing their nephew Pooch during furloughs….getting hungover together after the war ended…..Mick and Dad buying a car together after the war….dad giving Mick advise about the bed springs at Aunt Ellen’s house (they were married two weeks apart and both went to Southern Illinois for their honeymoons)….the two buying a houseboat together…..

Eventually, both had kids, and we became a part of some of the stories. I remember them sitting together at our High School Football games, but they always sat in the visitor section, where they’d cheer for OHS….Uncle Mick cutting my hair for years (he learned it in the Navy)…..dinners out….drinks out….going to Naplate for chicken….Uncle Mick with some get rich quick scheme…..

I moved away to West Point, and then the Army. We’d get back on breaks, or later, on leave, and Saturday Mornings were always there at home, drinking coffee. Uncle Mick and Aunt Marge stopping by – What was new in the Army? What was happening in Germany? Had I taught those Russians a lesson yet?……Later, I was out of the army and working in industry. One of my projects was the Pentagon Renovation Program. When I was home, Uncle Mick inevitably asked me “Have you straightened things out at the Pentagon yet?” Always with a laugh, always with a smile…

After dad had his stroke, he recovered, but not all the way. I asked Uncle Mick to make sure he checked in on mom and dad, and that they were OK. He did so religiously, and continuously. He probably already was going to, but it was nice to know….

And now, he’s gone. The last of that generation for our family. Uncle Mick and I had a special relationship, one that I can’t quite explain to others, but I will never forget it. He was an amazing man, the best friend and brother to my own father. I will mourn him, but more than that, I will remember him, and honor him for the rest of my life.