Mom is mostly laying quietly now. She occasionally makes a movement, or waves a hand, or mouths something. She’s making her final journey. We are here in the room, but she’s making this journey alone.

At 86, she’s lived a full life, and a great life at that. But it doesn’t change the sadness we are feeling right now.  The last two months have been hard on her. The leg injury and weakness; the blood infection; the moves between hospitals, acute care, skilled nursing, and back to the hospital have been tough. Mom’s a fighter, and until five days ago, we were hopeful that she would make a transition to assisted living. Then, she took a turn for the worse and went back to the hospital.  After meeting with the doctor, we had a conversation with her yesterday about where things stood. She was lucid and understood that without heroic measures, her time was very limited. She, and we, all agreed on the course of action.  

At one point in time yesterday, she awoke from a nap. My sisters and I were standing at the end of the bed. She looked at us and said “Well, am I dead yet?”. Then she smiled a small smile to let us in on the joke.

Around 5PM, we had another conversation with mom and said “Mom, later after you finish dinner, and are back in bed, we are going to have dinner and then head to Roberta’s to get some rest ourselves. We’ll plan on seeing you in the morning”. She looked at us and said “Well, I won’t see you. I’ll be gone.” And smiled again…

Today, we arrive back at the hospital this morning and checked in with the nurse. After we left last night, mom went to sleep. She didn’t wake up all night, and hasn’t woken yet today. Like her mother before her, our Grandma Grubaugh, mom seems to be calling her own shots all the way to the end. Just as she predicted, she hasn’t seen us in person today.

She is mostly laying quietly now. She occasionally makes a movement, or waves a hand, or mouths something. She’s making her final journey. We are here in the room with her, comforting each other and letting her know she is not alone………..

………Later that evening, we said our goodbyes to mom. As I kissed her forehead, I whispered to her that we were all doing well, and it was OK to go and join dad. As we left the hospital, Tanya headed to Ottawa, while Cathy and I went with Roberta to her home. We reached her house, had a small dinner, and went to bed.

Just after 3:30AM, my phone rang. I answered it, and went into the kitchen. It was the hospital. Mom passed away peacefully at 3:19. Roberta and Jack came in to the kitchen, as did Cathy and I told all of them, but of course, they already knew. We then called Tanya to let her know. We hugged each other, and we were glad that mom was at peace.

Our dog Carmen also got up with us and was antsy, so I took her out for a brief walk. We were wandering around outside in the dark, and all of a sudden I heard a train whistle in the distance. For those who aren’t aware, dad was a railroad man most of his adult life. The Burlington, Rock Island, Chessie – he worked them all. The whistle sounded again, and I knew things were alright.   Dad had come to pick up mom for the rest of her journey.

********

Mom passed away early on the 28th of April. I wrote the first half of this piece in the hospital room on the last day, when we were sitting with her. The rest was written about a week later. I’ve thought about that train whistle a lot since that night. If I had gone out 5 minutes earlier, or 5 minutes later, I might have missed it. But then again, maybe not.

Please, no sad posts here. Don’t feel sad for her, or for us. She had a wonderful life. If you want to honor her, dance, have a drink, or listen to some jazz. Enjoy life. That’s what she did, and what she would want you to do. It’s later than you think.

My friend Howard was the first Ottawa Glutton.  I’m not sure that he started the Ottawa Gluttons, so much as that he willed them into existence.  As he told me later, “it didn’t require a great deal of proselytizing…”  It was late 1972, or early ’73, and as was often the case, Howard and I were talking about food.

The week before, after church, Howard had gone with his Dad to The Ramada Inn north of town for breakfast.  It turned out the Ramada had an all-you-can-eat breakfast on Sunday mornings for $2.  All-you-can-eat….$2…    is what I heard, and a plan was hatched.   The next Sunday, after church, Howard and I went to the Ramada, and ate all we could.  It was great!

That week at school we mentioned it to some friends, and on Sunday, after church, there were four of us at the buffet, with Tim Stouffer and Danny Munson joining us.   (Due to the church connection, there were a lot of Methodists among the early Gluttons).  We were now on a mission.  The following week, six of us went to the Ramada, and the next week it was eight.  It was probably about then we named ourselves The Ottawa Gluttons.   Much like Arlo Guthrie and Alice’s Restaurant, it became a movement.

Sunday came again, and we were back with 10 or 12 of us.  We started tracking specific food records (125 slices of bacon, as an example) and made a rule that you couldn’t go for a record, until after you had a full plate of food.  We started some awards as well – Most Valuable Glutton, Rookie of the Week, and Most Improved.  Howard bought three small trophies and these were handed out at the end of the meal to the winners.  You had to bring the trophy back the next week, so it could be awarded to the new winner.

We ended up with over 16 of us at a meal one week.  After that, we printed up Ottawa Glutton T-shirts and all of us promptly wore them to high school.  That got more guys wanting to join, and also led to the development of a rival group – The Fat Alberts.  The Fat Alberts challenged us to an eat off at the new Pizza Hut, which had foolishly just announced an all-you-could-eat special.  The big day came, and we met there.  I have no idea how much pizza was eaten in total, but we finally called a draw when there were two guys left – Curt Cechowicz for us, and Wally Jenson for the Fat Alberts.  Both had eaten 23 pieces of pizza.

We crested with over 20 members at the Ramada in March of ’73.  At about the same time, Dale Boisso, one of our members, wrote about us in the High School paper. The title of the article was “Ottawa Gluttons Go Hog Wild”. In the article, he shared some of our records:

 – 125 Slices of Bacon – Curt Cechowicz

 – 77 Silver Dollar Pancakes – Danny Munson 

 – 37 Sausages – Larry Sexton

 – 14 Bowls of Grapefruit – tie between Jack Spicer and Greg Balke

 – 14 Cups of Coffee – Tim Stouffer

 – 2 Bowls of Prunes – Bob Poggi

Back at the Ramada, the waitresses loved us.  On a $2 breakfast, most of us would tip $1 each.  They thought of us as “growing boys”.  The hotel management apparently wasn’t so happy, and called the High School to complain about us.  Here, fate intervened.  It turned out that my mom, Gen Hall, who worked in the front office of OHS, took the call.  The Ramada thought we were an officially sanctioned OHS group.  Mom informed them that we weren’t.   They then complained about how much we were eating.  My mom asked them “Well, aren’t you advertising ‘all you can eat'”?  Well, yes, but they hadn’t expected this.  Mom, God Bless her, basically said she couldn’t help them. They then asked her if she could get a message to the group, and she said she would try.  “Please let them know that the next time they come, we will be seating them in a separate room, and will need to charge them a surcharge for the room”.  Mom said she would try to pass the message on.  She let me know that night.

The message was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.  We called and reserved the room.  I think we had something like 25 guys that week and it was a mad house.  The restaurant could barely keep up with how much food we were eating.  At one point, the chef came out, cleaver in hand, and threatened  “IF YOU DON’T EAT EVERYTHING ON YOUR PLATE, I’M GOING TO CHARGE YOU DOUBLE”!   Staring at the chef, and at each other, we just kept eating.  Needless to say, there was no food left on any plate.  We viewed it, as perhaps, our finest hour….

And then fate intervened again.  A few days later there was a fire at the restaurant.   No one was hurt, but they closed.   Indefinitely.   In fact, they didn’t reopen, at least not that year.   We were always a bit suspicious about the timing of the fire, but nothing ever came of it.

For the Gluttons, It marked our end as well.  With the Ramada gone, we lost our unifying factor.  It was almost the end of the school year, and several of us were graduating and moving on.  Over the years, we did a couple of reunion “dinners”, but by then the calories didn’t burn off so quickly, and Bruce was right – you can’t relive your high school glory days…..

signed//

Max Hall….two time Most Valuable Glutton…

                                                     ***

***Special thanks to Howard Johnson for filling in a couple of holes in the story***

It’s not easy to eat pizza 100 times in one year. I know this because my good friend Howard and I did it 45 years ago in 1972….

We both obtained our driver’s licenses in 1971, and suddenly, there was freedom. That summer, we discovered Sam’s Pizza on the north side of town, and were hooked. Others might go to Bianchi’s in the center of town, or God forbid, the new Pizza Hut, but for us it was always Sam’s. Sam’s opened a place on the south side, nearer our homes, within walking distance, and we’d go there as well.

We were spending a lot of time there, and eating lots of pizza. One night in December of ’71 the idea came up of trying to eat pizza 100 times in 1972, and we both quickly agreed to the challenge. Then, of course, we put a few rules around it. We had to keep track of our eating (date, type of pizza and who with); having only a slice didn’t count – you had to have a good amount of the pizza; and…the pizza only counted if it came from Sam’s. We could eat pizza at other places, but it only counted if it came from Sam’s. So as an example, when the big eat-off took place between The Ottawa Gluttons and The Fat Alberts at Pizza Hut (another story), that pizza didn’t count. 

1972 dawned, and we met at Sam’s on January 1st and split a medium shrimp pizza to start the year, and the competition. At the end of January, I’d had pizza 9 times, which was a just good enough monthly average to get to 100. It probably didn’t help much that I was wrestling at the time, and often cutting weight. February passed, as did March, and I recorded my 25th pizza on March 30th – on track! Pizza with Howard, pizza with other friends, pizza after our church youth group met – there was a lot of eating going on.

April led to May, and May turned into June. Halfway through the year, and my count was 46. I apparently had slacked off a bit by not getting to 50. In July, there were a couple of notable events. On July 2nd, I split a pizza with Cathy Snow, my new girlfriend (and later, my wife) for the first time. We’d started dating on June 15th, and evidently I felt confident enough two weeks later to take her to Sam’s. The other event was that I hit 50 pizzas on July 12th. A good number, but off the pace needed. Even worse, our family went on vacation at the end of the month, so by the end of July, my number was only 55. 

And then came August. Apparently, I decided to get serious, and started eating. In the 14 days between August 3rd and the 16th, I had pizza 10 times. Amazingly, in the course of one week from August 13th to the 19th, I had pizza 8 times in 7 days. I remember that period because I was working at the pool, and rode my bike to Sam’s for dinner every night during my break. I’d call ahead, order the pizza, ride there, wolf it down, and ride back to the pool. The month progressed, and on the 30th of August, the day school started, I had pizza number 73, as Howard and I split a small cheese.

September came and our pace continued. I had pizza 20 times that month, several of them after football games. Something must have worked, as our football team ended 9-0-0 that year, and we were later inducted into our High School’s Hall of Fame. Cathy’s father turned 39 on September 23d. To commemorate the occasion, I had Sam’s make him a pizza with the number 39 spelled out in sausages. I’m not sure her dad was particularly impressed. On September 28th, Howard bought the pizza that night, after he beat me in the election for Class Treasurer. We had a side bet that the winner of the election would have to buy the pizza for the loser. At the end of the month, I had 93 pizzas. The prize was within sight.

On October 1st, Howard reached the goal first – he had his 100th pizza. It was also the last pizza we had at the south side location, as it permanently closed that night, probably not long after Howard’s 100th. Three weeks later, on October 25th, I had my 100th at the north side. Howard was there with me and Joe Evola (the owner’s son) bought the pizza. Somewhere, there’s a picture commemorating the evening, but I can’t find it.

After that, we slowed down a bit, but didn’t stop. On Thanksgiving night, after our family meals, we had a pizza. Our parents were so disgusted, they wouldn’t give us a car to use. We walked the three miles to the Sam’s north location to have our pizza. On Christmas Day, we did the same thing. My final pizza of the year was on New Year’s Eve. I had it for supper before picking Cathy up for a date and it was number 116. I think Howard finished the year at 125 or 126.

You may wonder how I know all of these dates. The fact is, my mom saved everything. Going through one of the boxes of stuff she gave me a few years back, I found the pizza calendar, along with the pizza plate from my 100th. The plate was signed by Joe, Sam, and Howard. It was fun remembering that year, and in looking at the calendar, also remembering all the friends that I had a pizza with. Howard, June, Cathy, Dunny, Spider, Fred, Dale, Ike, Don, Jim, Pam, Lori, Bob, Clayton, Hick, my sisters, and many others. Some have passed on, most are still here, one is my wife, and three of those guys are still among my best friends. 45 years have passed, but I still remember that year, and how good the pizza was. 

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.