Tag: #drinking

Davie

Davie

Davie was the gentlest soul I have ever known. He also had a memorable lust for life. When he died last week, the world became colder, less kind, and a little less forgiving. I mourn his passing, and there is a weight on me.

Davie and I first met through our running group, The Mount Vernon Hash House Harriers* (MVH3), in ‘90 or ‘91. Back then, we were all in decent shape, and could both run for miles and drink copious amounts of beer, sometimes at the same time. There were lots of good times running around different parts of Northern Virginia. We’d run, eat and drink, and then maybe party some more. At the time, Cath and I only lived about 1/2 mile from Davie, and frequently found ourselves in his hot tub on Saturday afternoons, some time after The Hash finished.

Random Hash Photos from DC, Orlando and Trinidad

Later, when The Hash started hosting it’s annual Red Dress Run (yes, all members were required to wear red dresses on the run), some of Davie’s outfits were legendary. Wearing his Carmen Miranda fruit plate hat still draws chuckles from those who were there.

At the Red Dress Run – Davie with his Carmen Miranda Hat, and the two of us a Different Year

Our friendship grew to be much more than just The Hash. We started doing other activities together, including dinners out, hikes in the woods or up Old Rag, and visits to our then cabin in West Virginia. Sometime in the mid ‘90s Davie organized an annual ski trip for 8 or 10 of us to the wilds of West Virginia. He’d rent a big group house, where we’d ski during the day, and take turns cooking dinners at night. There was more hottubbing, beer drinking and partying in general, but what I remember most was the fellowship we all had with each other. It was the best of times and something we looked forward to every year.

Hikes, Ski Trips, and Parties – Alway a Fun Time

In the late ‘90s, Davie came out to us. We always suspected, although we weren’t sure. It was very different then, than it is today, and coming out was a real act of bravery. It took him over half an hour and some tears before he finally came to the point he was gay. Cathy and I told him we loved him, and it didn’t matter, we still loved him. We shared hugs and tears all around at that point. It’s also what made me realize no one chooses to be gay – no one would want to willingly go through the pain and fear of potentially being an outcast of society. God, or genetics, or some combination of the two made Davie gay, and also made him the wonderful person he was.

We eventually moved to the country, a little over an hour from our old home. We saw Davie less frequently, but still had great times.

For his part, Davie, who always loved to travel, was traveling even more. He was a recognized expert on waterways for the Army Corps of Engineers and frequently flew around the country and the world for conferences, and to speak at some of those conferences. He also travelled on his personal time and loved to bicycle. I remember one trip when he went to Vietnam and rode by bike from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). He told great stories of that trip and one he biked in South Africa.

When covid hit, we didn’t see each other for a couple of years. We texted and had a few random phone calls, but that was it. One of the unfortunate realities of covid was the year or two it robbed from all of us. It’s easier to recover from the loss of a year or two when you are in your twenties. When you are in your sixties, you may still think death isn’t imminent, but you notice it hanging around out there on the horizon.

We saw Davie three times this year, including twice at Nats’ games. The final time we shared together was at our home during our annual Oktoberfest Hash, just two weeks before his death. Davie arrived early and we hugged as always. He didn’t do the trail that day, instead, hanging around the house drinking beer and eating brats. It was a fine autumn day and we spent time talking about nothing. They were the kind of conversations you have when you don’t yet know one of you is going to die in two weeks. It was wonderful.

Davie at the Oktoberfest Hash this Year

The day we found out Davie died was a grey, misty day. His death was sudden and unexpected. Calls followed to others. When you call someone in the middle of the day that you normally never call in the middle of the day, they know something is up. Still, there is the shock of the specific news.

It stayed grey, misty and rainy for two days before the sun finally re-emerged. It certainly fit our mood. The depression felt like a weighted blanket on my forehead and temples. It was a visceral, oppressive feeling. The opening stanza of W.H. Auden’s melancholy poem, “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” came to mind –

“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”

Yes, the sun is out now, and certainly life goes on. I always think we who are living have a duty to keep the memories of those who have died alive. For my part, I will remember Davie’s smile and the twinkle in his eyes. I will recall his gentleness, and his lust for life. And I will chuckle at his fruit-plated hat, and the many other stories I haven’t shared here.

When I think of Davie, his personality, and how he enjoyed life, I often think of the opening lines of the great Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy” –

“Well I’ve never met anyone
With your courage,
And the way your enjoy life
Puts me to shame.
Just an hour with you,
And I understand
Why we had to meet…”

Davie was our friend, whom we loved. We will miss him always.

Addendum:

  • * MVH3 is a part of a world wide group known as the Hash House Harriers, which started in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in 1938. Hash, in this case refers to bad food, not pot. The runs are hare and hound in nature, with a marked trail. Typically, beer and food are served after the run. Hashers have the playful motto of “we are a drinking club with a running problem”. You can find out more about The Hash here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers
  • If you haven’t heard the Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy”, give it a listen. It’s worth it. Ditto on the WH Auden poem “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” – find it online and give it a read.
  • Special thanks to my wife Cathy, and our friend Tia Perry who both contributed thoughts and ideas to this blog.
  • Thanks to Sharon Gustafson Schoen for the pic of Davie with the Carmen Miranda hat. The hat was actually made by our old friend Renee Ayer, who wore it at a previous Red Dress Run. Thanks also go out to Ann Simon for the last photo of Davie at Oktoberfest.

An Old Man Rant – Martinis

An Old Man Rant – Martinis

Things that belong in martinis: Gin (or vodka), vermouth, maybe a dash of orange bitters or splash of olive juice, and either a lemon peel or olives. Things that don’t belong in martinis: MSG, pasta water, garlic powder, fish sauce or “Filipino sugar cane vinegar.” Yes, this blog is an Old Man Rant.

Dave, a friend of mine, recently gave me the October ‘22 issue of Food & Wine magazine. I was flipping pages when I came upon an article on the “Drink of the Year”. The lead in was pretty good – “The martini is America’s most iconic cocktail, and it’s undeniably the “it” drink of 2022.” This looked interesting at first; however, the article went downhill from there. They gave recipes for seven “signature martinis” from around the country. A couple were twists on a standard martini. The others? While they may be good or interesting drinks, they are definitely not martinis, or at least not in my book.

Some Interesting Drinks, but Most Aren’t Really Martinis.

Among the highlights, there’s the Salmon Martini, with “smoked salmon-infused gin” with a caper berry garnish. Next is a Datu Datu Martini with “Filipino sugar cane vinegar”, garlic powder and fish sauce. Then we have the MSG Martini with MSG and Shaoxing wine. And finally, (and I’m not making this up), the Dirty Pasta Water Martini which uses starchy pasta water in the mix.

A Dirty Pasta Water Martini … Really

Now these may be fine drinks, but do we really need to call them martinis? Doesn’t it show just a little lack of imagination on the originator’s part? It takes me back to the bad old days of the Chocotini and Appletini… ughhhhhh.

Ian Fleming and James Bond stirred up quite the controversy decades ago with his shaken, not stirred, Vodka Martini. I’ll grant you the Vodka Martini is OK, but not really my cup of tea, thank you very much. By the way, it’s called a Vodka Martini, not a Martini. And yes, a martini should be stirred, but I won’t throw it away if it’s shaken.

Baltimore-born satirist H.L. Mencken famously said the martini is “The only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.” I always thought ol’ HL was a pretty smart and witty guy. And of course when he said “martini”, he really meant a gin martini.

My Martini? Beefeater gin, a little vermouth, and a small splash of olive juice, stirred or shaken depending on the day, and served up with a couple of olives. Simple, smooth and straightforward. Pretty tasty as well.

Rant over. 😉

Simple, Smooth, Straightforward and … Tasty,

Addendum:

  • This blog was half tongue-in-cheek and half rant. But a Dirty Pasta Water Martini? Really? It sounds like someone cleaned out a pot and used it to dilute a martini. 😉
  • Thanks to my buddies Tim and Mark for their commentary and suggestions for this blog. Mark is a vodka guy, and Tim views martinis as olive injection systems.

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida

I was in Warrenton between stops at the dry cleaners and the UPS store when Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” came on the radio. Talk about flashbacks. I don’t think I’d heard it in decades. When I came out of the UPS store several minutes later, it was still playing and my mind drifted back to Plebe year at West Point.

As Plebes (Freshmen), we weren’t allowed to have stereo equipment in our rooms during the first semester. I suppose some sort of depravation challenge for us. Second semester, the restriction was lifted, and many of us went to the Cadet Store to dutifully buy audio equipment of varying quality.

Me, as a Plebe at West Point

Of course I started buying albums of various types as well. Sometime in the middle of the semester, a friend dropped by and said something like “Have you listened to Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?” Now the album was actually released in 1968. Not only had I never heard it, I’d never heard of it. I looked at the album and said “Hey, there’s only one song on this side.” My friend looked at me like I was stupid, and put the album on the turntable.

Full On 1968…

I was blown away. Seventeen minutes for one song. It went on and on and on. The lyrics were simple and repeated. And then somewhere in the middle is that incredible drum solo. I was hooked and bought a copy. For the next month, I hardly played anything else.

The Lyrics were … Simple … and Repeated Over and Over

Eventually, my infatuation faded a bit and it moved into a normal musical rotation. By Firstie (Senior) year, it moved to the back of the albums and was rarely played.

….

Back in my car, the drum solo was pounding and I cranked the volume. I was lost somewhere between nostalgia and thinking to myself “Hmmm, this is still pretty good.”

The drum solo eventually finished, and so too did the song about half way home. When I arrived at our house, I looked through my old albums for Iron Butterfly. It wasn’t there. Somewhere along the way, it evidently didn’t make the cut for our next move. Or maybe someone borrowed it and it never came home.

I know in today’s world, I can call it up online and listen to it anytime I want, and now that I’ve remembered it, maybe I will. Or I could pay Apple and downline the single. I don’t know that I’ll do either, but yesterday was a pretty cool drive home and I enjoyed the trip back in time.

Addendum:

⁃ In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida actually started as “In the Garden of Eden” and a reference to Adam and Eve. When one of the band members first wrote down the words from a band mate’s recording that was slurred (due to alcohol consumption), In a gadda da vida is what he heard, and what was written down. The rest is rock history.

Here are two YouTube videos of the song. First one contains a video of the band (very blurry and very ‘60s). Second one is just the album cover, but I think the audio is better.

The Chili Dump

The Chili Dump

I hate missing a good party. Unfortunately, we will miss Chili Dump 2022. We made the 2016 version, which featured great chili, a band, Elvis, a bonfire tended by a front-end loader, and 200, or so, of my sister and brother-in-law’s closest friends. What’s a Chili Dump? I’m glad you asked.

My Brother-in-law Jack started his legendary Chili Dump party around 2002 with his then wife, Meg. The first party was a thank you for friends who helped clear the land they were building their home on, and then subsequently helping them build their home. It became an annual event, and as their kids grew older, their friends started attending the party as well. Sadly, Meg passed away in 2013. When my sister Roberta met Jack later, she too was introduced to The Chili Dump. In 2016, we timed our visit home to Illinois so we could attend the party.

On that October ‘16 afternoon, Jack started a fire in the back yard and put a huge pot over it. The pot actually looked more like a cauldron than any pot I’d ever seen. They added the usual chili ingredients – cooked ground beef, tomatoes, tomato juice, hot peppers, beans and spices (and please, I don’t want to hear from any Texans about how beans don’t belong in chili). Soon, the chili started to cook and bubble away. By then, we may have had a beer or two.

A Cauldron of Chili….

The first friends arrived by ATV, and brought more ingredients to add to the Chili – venison and jalapeños if I recall correctly. Others continued to arrive. Smoked brisket, hotdogs, sausage, bratwurst – they all went into the pot. Wood was added to the fire, to keep the chili cooking. Our friends Tim and Renee arrived from the Chicago ‘burbs with a blend of spices they specifically put together for the chili. Into the pot it went.

Tim and Renee’s Special Chili Spice for the Chili Dump!

Other folk brought toppings, including sour cream, grated cheddar cheese, sliced jalapeños and fried bacon. Someone made cornbread. There were bags of chips and Doritos added to the serving table. My sister Tanya and her husband Shawn arrived, and added more beef in the pot. Nieces and nephews arrived, and all dutifully put something in the pot. The volume of chili in the pot was definitely increasing.

The Pot was Getting Full!

Pickup trucks and cars were now lined up near the cow pasture. It started getting crowded and started getting dark. Around then, Jack lit the bonfire. It was a biiiiiig bonfire…

The Bonfire WAS Big…

Somewhere during all of this, people began sampling the chili. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but then I took my first bite. Wow! This was surprisingly tasty. People kept arriving and adding to the chili. There was now also a steady stream of bowls being filled, so the volume stayed about the same, or maybe started to go down. There were probably 200 people at the farm by then.

Eventually, the Joel Limberg Band started playing. Some folks were dancing, and as at weddings, lots of little kids were hopping around on the dance floor. At some point, the band brought out a surprise guest singer – Elvis. Actually, a Philippine Elvis. Let me tell ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Elvis sing Sweet Caroline, with the crowd joining in on the response – “Sweet Caroline, oh oh oh, Good times never seemed so good – So Good! So Good! So Good!” The party was going strong now!

Yes, Elvis is a bit Blurry, Much Like Parts of the Evening….

More dancing. Talking with family and old friends. Making new friends. More beer. More chili. The chili level in the pot was definitely receding. The bonfire was also going down, but Jack wasn’t ready to let that happen just yet. You know you have a big fire when you need to tend it with a tractor’s front-end loader.

Nothing Says Party, Like Fire in the Front-End Loader…

Although it was getting later, no one was leaving. Suddenly fireworks went off and exploded in the sky. We all watched, and oohed and ahhhed. The neighbors didn’t complain, because most of them were at the party.

Oooohhh! Aaaahhhh!

The band played another set, and it was time for more beer and more chili. The volume in the pot was definitively lower, but the chili was still hot, and still tasty. I noticed the crowd was starting to thin some, although I don’t think the sound volume was any lower.

Well after midnight, Cathy and I finally went to bed. It was a great party, but sometimes it’s good to know your limits.

The next morning, we woke, not feeling overly fuzzy. Jack and Berta were already up and had fed their calves and chickens. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to much worse for wear. I asked Berta how late the party went, and all she said was “Late”.

Our friends Tim and Renee also spent the night and they too woke up and joined the living. Eventually, we all went outside and started cleaning up. We may have partaken of a little “hair of the dog” during the cleanup. A couple of the youngsters also stopped by and with all of us involved, it wasn’t tooooo much work and we finished up after a couple of hours.

That was the 2016 party, and so far, the first and last one we attended. Since then, we’ve been out of the country for a couple of them, and of course covid slowed things down. I should mention they burned a Covid Snowman at the 2020 Chili Dump.

SnowMore Covid ‘19, was Added to the Bonfire in 2020…

I’ve both attended and hosted a number of good parties over the years, here in the States, and overseas in Germany, Austria, France, Belgium and the UK. I have to say the 2016 Chili Dump was one of the best. Anytime you combine chili, beer, Elvis, a bonfire, fireworks and fun people, it has to be pretty good, doesn’t it?

Addendum:

Thanks to my sister, Roberta, for help with this blog.

Going Home

Going Home

We are driving home to Illinois this week. The last time we drove to Ottawa was in 2017, and mom was dying. This time, we are going to see living family and friends, and stay at one of the touchstones of my youth.

We never get back to see folk as often as we would like. Life gets in the way, and time keeps on ticking, or depending on your perspective, racing along. We have visited a couple of times since 2017, but always flew. Our last trip was a short one a little over a year ago, and my sister Berta and her husband Jack had a great family reunion while we were there.

The Last Visit Home

This time, Cath and I are bringing our dog, Carmen, and driving. It typically takes 12 to 14 hours to cover the 750 miles, but you don’t measure progress by time or by miles. You track the States you cross. We’ll go from Virginia to West Virginia, then Maryland, back to West Virginia, then Pennsylvania, West Virginia a third time, Ohio, Indiana, and finally, Illinois. You get to see a bit of ‘Murica along the way.

The Northern Route is Shorter, but the Southern Route is an Easier Drive

Cathy is never crazy about the drive. For her, it’s a bit like Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road” (if you haven’t read the book, you may have seen the movie with Viggo Mortensen.) Me? I always enjoy it. I watch the land transform from the Piedmont here in Virginia, to the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, the rolling hills of Ohio, and eventually the flatlands of Indiana and Illinois. None of it is dramatic landscape, but if you have the time, it’s a beautiful way to see and reach the heartland.

It’s funny. I started this blog with “We are driving home…”. Neither Cathy or I have lived in Ottawa since we were 18, nearly 50 years ago. We have lived in our current home here if Virginia for over 23 years. “Going home” of course isn’t always about going to a place. It can be about a time in your life as well. Some may think it’s corny, but there’s something gratifying about occasionally returning to your roots, however short the visit is.

This visit is actually starting at Kishauwau Cabins, a resort we knew in our younger days as Camp Kishauwau, our local Boy Scout Camp. During our youth, my friends, Tim, Howard, Mark and I spent many a night there, either camping in tents or sleeping in one of the few run down cabins it had at the time. The Boy Scouts sold the camp decades ago, and it was turned into a getaway that attracts people from Chicago and the suburbs now. On this trip, we’ll be with our wives and girlfriends and staying in their new and remodeled cabins. My guess is our food and adult beverages will be better than the camp fare we ate and bug juice we drank during our previous stays in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

High Above Vermillion’s Waters…Camp Kishauwau

I’m sure we will tell an old story or two, but we’ll try and keep it in check. Still, I would be surprised if WrongWay LeBeau isn’t mentioned a time or two. Other subjects might come up as well – marshmallow fights, the time we started to run a fellow scout up the flagpole, or the time our troop failed to keep a proper fire-watch during summer camp, or … We’ve only told and heard these stories a few hundred times before, so there’s no reason to repeat them. And yet we probably will, at least a few times.

Like These Old Photos From Camp, our Memories may be a bit Blurry.

Later, we’ll spend a few nights at Berta and Jack’s beautiful home and see them, along with my other sister, Tanya and husband Shawn. The trip is short enough that it’s doubtful we’ll have time to see all of the nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews. Sadly, that’s just how life is sometimes, especially when you live six states away.

Over the course of the week, we will probably have a pizza from Sam’s or Bianchi’s, and maybe a pork tenderloin sandwich somewhere. I’m sure we will visit Allen Park as well. There are some things you just “have to do” when back in Ottawa, no matter the length of the trip.

Eventually, the visit will end and we will return to our home in Virginia. The departure, not money, is always the real price of a trip back home. Knowing time is fleeting and we are growing older, departing is always a little bittersweet for me. The hugs, the handshakes, the I love you’s … the thought of “When will we gather together again?”

Memories are nice. Keeping friendships and family love alive are even better. The best trips make new memories, and I know it will happen this time as well. Still, there is always a question in the back of my mind – “Where does the time go, and when will we gather together again?”

Addendum:

My friend Tim is always more poetic than I am, and suggested adding the 1969 song “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by Fairport Convention in the Addendum. It’s a nice listen and adds perspective as well – https://youtu.be/OkOB57UcYk8

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Sometimes, it’s the little things we remember. With a small assist from Burt Lancaster, I once surprised Dad with a present of WWII mess hall coffee mugs he’d been trying to find in antique shops for years. The gift brought joy to both of us at the time, and continues giving me comfort to this day.

Dad always liked his coffee. From the time we were kids, I remember the role it played in his life. On early weekday mornings, he packed the big thermos with him as he left for work on the railroad. On weekends, there was a pot available all day long on Saturdays, and half the day on Sunday. On Saturday mornings, various uncles or aunts stopped by. They all sat around the kitchen table drinking endless cups of coffee, while telling, or retelling, the stories of their youth, and the war years. We kids often listened in, laughing at the stories we came to know by heart.

I started understanding a bit more about his love for coffee when I was applying to West Point. On a couple of occasions, dad drove me to Fort Sheridan (an Army Post in Illinois that no longer exists) for a physical and a fitness test. As we were walking on the Post, he surprised me by becoming a bit nostalgic for the “good old days” in the Army, and talked about how good the coffee was. I think he may have even joked with one of the folk we interfaced with about reenlisting, if he could have a cup of coffee from the Mess Hall. It’s strange, the things you remember, but I distinctly recall the conversations about Army coffee on those trips. It was about 27 years after World War II and he was 48 at the time.

Dad in the “Good Old Days” in 1941, Sometime Before Pearl Harbor

I eventually graduated from West Point and Cath and I were deployed to Germany for most of the ‘80s. We didn’t see Mom and Dad much during our time overseas.

In ‘85, Dad retired from the railroad, and he and mom started traveling more, particularly to jazz concerts around the country. They also managed to visit us in Germany in ‘88. While there, dad talked about their travels. In a side conversation, he mentioned they also typically visited “antique” stores during their trips. He was looking for mess hall coffee mugs from WWII, but hadn’t found any. I was intrigued. What the hell do WWII mess hall coffee mugs look like, and why did he want them?

In Dad’s words, they were thick, heavy white mugs with no handle. You could put both hands around the mug when you took your first sip in the morning, and the mug warmed your hands. He’d used them throughout his time in the Army during the war. I mean, he was waxing poetic about these mugs. I still didn’t quite know what they looked like, but that was OK. During their visit, we stopped in a couple of shops with older items, and Dad would poke around. His thinking was maybe during the occupation of Germany after the war, some mugs made it into the local economy. The looking was to no avail, and no mugs were found.

Dad, Cathy and I at a Winefest on the ‘88 Trip to Germany.

We eventually returned to the States in ‘89, and on a visit at Mom and Dad’s over Christmas, Dad and I were watching TV. The classic WWII movie, From Here to Eternity, was on. You know the movie… Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Donna Reed, Debora Kerr and Ernest Borgnine. It has the great scene with Lancaster and Kerr kissing on the beach as the waves crash over them.

As we were watching, Dad suddenly shouted out “There’s the coffee mug! Look in Burt’s hand!” What!? I look up, and I’ll be damned. Just as the Japanese are about to attack Pearl Harbor, there’s Burt with a white, thick, handleless coffee mug… which he immediately throws on the ground to go out and confront the attacking Japanese.

Everyone Knows the Scene of Burt and Deborah Kerr on the Beach, but Dad and I Were More Interested in Burt and the Coffee Mug.

I’d completely forgotten about the mugs until Dad’s outburst. Of course I immediately asked him how the hunt was going. He’d visited a lot of shops, but never seen any, or really even met anyone who knew what he was looking for.

At the time, I was involved in a couple of classified Black programs for the military and traveling a fair amount. Cathy couldn’t know where I was going, only the approximate day of my return. On the trips, we could only use cash, and no credit cards were allowed. We often had some spare time, and now that I knew how the mugs looked, I too started poking around in the occasional store.

A couple of years went by, and I wasn’t having much luck either. That changed in the spring of ‘93. I was looking around a junk shop in the middle of no where, and there they were – Six of them! Holy hell. Were these really them? I asked the owner what he knew about them, which wasn’t much, only that they were old coffee mugs. It was enough for me. I counted out some cash, bought all six mugs, and returned home with them a week later.

Six Handleless Coffee Mugs, Bought with Cash at an Unnamed Location

Cathy and I thought about giving them to Dad for a Christmas or Birthday present, however those were still a while away. Mom and Dad were coming for a visit in July, and we decided we would give them to him then, with a twist. Rather than just hand them over, we would not say anything, serve soup in them, and see if Dad noticed.

They finally made it to Virginia and the big night arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and we ate dinner in the backyard on the picnic table. Cathy made Gazpacho for a first course, and we served it in the mugs. As she and I brought the soup out, we set a mug in front of each of us.

I could hardly contain myself, I was so excited. We started eating and both Mom and Dad complemented Cath on the soup. There was no word from Dad on the mugs. Were these not the right ones? We continued eating, and all of a sudden Dad paused, and started looking at his mug. He looked more intently, and then, “Say! I … I … I think these are the mess hall coffee mugs!”, at which point I burst out laughing.

Dad verified these were INDEED the mugs. By then, we were all laughing, and I told him the story of how I found them.

We used those mugs for coffee in the morning for the rest of their visit. Dad would use both hands, and bring it up to his mouth and nose to inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, probably the same way he did back in 1940-‘45. When they left, I sent four of the mugs home with them, and kept two for us.

Nostalgia and Coffee. What’s Not to Like?

Eventually, Dad passed away in 2010. At some point in time, mom gave the four mugs back to us. Occasionally, I use one of them for my own Cuppa Joe in the morning. I feel the warmth of the mug in my hands, inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, and think back to Dad – It’s a wonderful way to start the day.

Addendum:

If you want to see the scene of Burt Lancaster with the coffee mug as the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, you can view it here: https://youtu.be/2UxTGH7cR5Y

I Don’t Do Funerals

I Don’t Do Funerals

It had been raining for a while when Gary pulled two more beers from the fridge. As he handed me one, he said “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.” I popped my beer and looked up. “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

Gary lived two townhouses down from us. His girlfriend Cindy had moved out a couple weeks before, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer a reason. We were casual friends – the kind of guy you saw in the neighborhood often enough. We’d drank beers together a couple of times and I think Cathy and I had Cindy and him over for dinner once.

Gary’s Townhouse was Two Doors Down From our Own

When I came home from my running group that day, he was vacuuming out his Limo in the parking lot. He was pretty religious about keeping it clean. I stopped to talk with him and he offered me a beer from the cooler next to the Limo. I readily accepted.

We talked about this and that, and then it started raining. “Damn. Let me go park this and I’ll be right back. The house door is open.”

I waited on his stoop for the couple minutes it took him to return, and then we went in his kitchen, where he popped two more beers and we sat down.

As we were drinking our beers, he talked about his history as a Limo driver. It may not have exactly been sex, drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll, but it wasn’t far off. There were a couple of B level rock singers who regularly booked him when playing in DC. He did the usual “big dates”, weddings, and business meetings. A few local corporate types used him consistently. He was strict with the kids that rented the limo for prom or graduation. After that? Who was he to judge?

It was then, as he grabbed two more beers from the fridge he uttered “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.”, and I spoke my quick rejoinder “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

“I Don’t do Funerals”

He looked at me and smiled, and then the smile faded away. “I used to do funerals. Quite a few of them. But I learned something about the limo, or I guess more about myself. Afterwards, no matter how hard I cleaned the inside of the car, I couldn’t get the smell out.”

I looked at him inquisitively. “The smell?”

He took a swig of beer. “Yea, the smell. The smell of loss, of sadness, of blackness, of death itself. No matter how much I cleaned the inside of the limo, to me, the smell was still there for the next trip or two. I finally gave up and quit doing funerals. It was better for me, or at least better for my soul.”

After sitting quietly for a couple of minutes, I raised my beer, and as we clinked cans, said “Your Good Health” and he answered “and yours”.

We finished the beers and I said goodbye. It was still raining as I walked home, thinking about Gary, and death, and how something can linger in the air, even when there is no smell.

Turtle Lake and Fishing for Beers

Turtle Lake and Fishing for Beers

It was Memorial Day Weekend, 1973. High School graduation was a couple of weeks away, when Howard, Funny, Hick, Bull, and I drove north to Wisconsin in search of Beer, Bass and Northern Pike. We would be more successful in finding one of those items than the other two.

I’m not sure who came up with the original thought, but with graduation from Ottawa High School (OHS) looming, the idea of a fishing trip to Wisconsin came up among a number of my friends. Sure we were interested in fishing, but we were also interested in drinking beer. At the time, the drinking age for beer and wine in Illinois was 19, while a mere two hours away in Wisconsin, it was 18. We decided to do it. Amazingly, our parents all agreed with the idea, (the fishing part, that is), and we were just about set. One of our number, my old friend June, actually had to work the whole weekend, and couldn’t make the trip. Another buddy, Jack, had to work on Friday, but would drive up on Saturday and meet us in The Promised Land.

A Photo of me, from the 1973 OHS Yearbook – Yea, we were Young

On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, after skipping a half day of school, five of us set off for Wisconsin. The fishing party included Howard (Kim), Hick (Tim), Funny (Mark), Bull (Ed) and me. We piled into two cars, and drove north. The goal was to head to Lake Geneva, find a campground, find beer, and settle in for the weekend. When we reached the Lake Geneva area, a small bug crept into our plan – It was Memorial Day weekend and everybody and their brother was going camping and fishing in Wisconsin. As teenage boys, it didn’t occur to us to make reservations. There was nothing, and I mean nothing, available.

They say necessity is the mother of invention, and we decided to head west looking for a place to camp. Suddenly, near Delevan, Wisconsin our luck changed. On the side of the road, as if bathed in heavenly light, we came across Don’s Liquor Store. A sign in the window proclaimed “2 cases of Red, White and Blue for $5.85.” We had hit the mother lode! Now, for those who may not be aware, Red, White and Blue was Pabst Blue Ribbon’s lower level beer. You may be thinking to yourself right now “Hmmm, PBR is pretty low level itself. I didn’t know they had an even lower level beer.” Fortunately for us, they did. We didn’t care so much about the taste at the time, this was a matter of economics. Going into Don’s, we made our purchase, and loaded up the trunk of one of the cars with an enviable amount of beer. We then continued west, and that’s where the second bit of good luck hit.

We came across Turtle Lake, and as importantly, Schroeder’s Snug Harbor Inn. The Pabst sign out front drew us in like moths to a flame. It wasn’t fancy, and the lake wasn’t big, but camping sites were available right on the lake. Schroeder, the owner, registered us for three nights. We left the lodge, popped some beers and set up camp. This was going to be good.

The PBR Sign Drew us in, Like Moths to a Flame

Later, we explored the campground and their Lodge. Lodge is really toooooo grand of a title, but I don’t know what else to call it. There was a bar, a pool table, and they sold bait and snacks. A guy named Hank helped Schroeder at the Lodge and bar. The Inn was also affiliated somehow with the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club, but the relationship was murky. All in all, we were pretty happy.

A Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club Patch from 1973

Back at our camp we made a fire and continued to drink beer. Suddenly one of our members came running up – “Guys! Guys! You aren’t going to believe this! Mr Murphy is here with his family and camping about a hundred yards a way!” What!!?!? Now, all of us knew Mr Murphy. He was a teacher at OHS. He’d coached Howard and I in wrestling, and I’d given his sons swimming lessons. More concerning was the fact that he was currently Howard’s homeroom teacher. Rut Roh…

Mr Murphy from the 1973 OHS Yearbook

What to do!? What to do!? We finally decided to take the bull by the horns and go say hello. We left our beers on the picnic table and wandered through the campground till we finally came to his tent. I believe he was as shocked to see us, as we were to see him. What are the odds we would both pick a minor campground in the middle of no-where for the weekend? Everyone shook hands and he introduced his wife and kids. I’m sure we reeked of beer, but he didn’t say anything. And to his credit, after that, we pretty much stayed in our part of the campground, and he stayed in his, preventing chance encounters. Still, we weren’t sure how to interpret this new omen…

Dinner that night was burgers and chips, and of course more beers. We drank around the fire well into the night, before eventually retiring.

The next morning arrived, and at least some of us went out early to fish in our canoe and rowboat. My recollection is that after a couple of hours, we came back in, skunked. No bass, no pike, no fish in general. Making our way to camp, we cooked up some breakfast and discussed the situation, but mostly just put it down to bad first day luck.

A couple of us went up to the lodge bar to have a beer, and Hank was working there. My buddy Hick recently recollected “I can see Hank behind the bar. I still smell his Lucky Strikes, and see the Brylcreem in his hair…” That’s as good of a description of Hank as any. We ordered our beers and were lamenting our poor morning showing to Hank when he suddenly said “You want fun? I’ll tell you what you do. Buy some of these wax worms we have for bait, and you’ll have more fun than a barrel full of assholes!” What? “Yep! More fun than a barrel full of assholes! You’ll catch plenty of brim and bluegill with them!”

Now I don’t know how much fun a “barrel full of assholes” would actually have, but we were hooked and bought some wax worms.

After we finished our beers, we headed back to camp. In the late afternoon, it was back in the boats to try our luck once again.

Someone caught a pike, but in general we were again having no luck and decided to switch to the wax worms – amazingly, we caught a number of brim, but most were too small to keep or cook. I don’t know if we met Hank’s definition of fun, but it made the late afternoon of fishing more enjoyable. The pike and a few brim become a part of dinner that night.

At Least a Few Fish Became Part of a Meal…

Eventually, we made it back to shore. Some of us worked our way to the lodge to shoot pool and have a beer or two. Jack, who had arrived too late to fish, joined us at the bar, where he impressively slapped a handful of bills on the bar like he’d been doing it his whole life. Never mind that we were still in high school.

While we were at the bar, Mr Murphy walked in to buy something in the store. We pretended our beers didn’t exist, and were making small talk with him, when Howard invited him to shoot a game of pool with us. He hesitated for a second, and then readily agreed. We decided to play two on two, with Howard and I against Mr Murphy and one of the other guys. As the game was about to start, Mr Murphy said “What do you say we make it interesting, and put a bet on the game?” We all readily agreed and were trying to decide what would make a good bet when Mr Murphy said “How about losers by the winners a beer?” Dead silence, and then an immediate and resounding “YES!” From all of us.

We played the game, and eventually Howard and I lost. And so it was, that Howard bought his high school homeroom teacher a beer, while still in high school. I don’t see that happening in today’s world.

After awhile, we went back to the campsite and started a fire. Unfortunately, later that night it started to rain, and rain, and rain some more. We moved to our tents when it turned to a deluge. At some point in time, we went to sleep, but the rain didn’t stop and continued all night long. By the early morning hours, our tents and everything in our tents, including us, was soaked through. It was almost as if Turtle Lake itself expanded, there was so much water.

The next morning we woke and went about making breakfast. Jack was already out in a boat by himself a bit off shore, and using the wax worms. Since he’d arrived so late the day before, he hadn’t yet been able to fish and went out early. He was getting a lot of bites, but the fish were so small, he wasn’t pulling any in.

The weather forecast was for rain all day long. As we ate a wet breakfast, a mutual decision was reached – it was time to head home after only two nights in Wisconsin. We packed our soggy belongings, along with our remaining beer and made the drive back to Ottawa. The great fishing expedition was over.

I did have one small problem. My mom worked at OHS as a secretary. What if Mr Murphy told her about seeing us, and our beer drinking? I decided to come clean and after unpacking, casually mentioned to mom and dad – “Did you know the drinking age in Wisconsin is only 18? We drank a couple of beers while fishing.” They didn’t really say much, and a few minutes later I added – “and it was amazing – we ran into Mr Murphy at the campground!” Mom shot me a look, but didn’t say anything. I never asked later whether he told her about seeing us and the game of pool.

The story didn’t quite end there…

Graduation came a couple of weeks later, and four weeks after that, I headed to West Point for summer training. The rest of the guys returned to Turtle Lake for another weekend of beer and fishing later that summer. When they arrived, they bought a beer at the bar and said hello to Schroeder. After a bit, someone inquired about Hank and rather irate, Schroeder immediately answered ““Hank?! You know Hank?! We don’t talk about Hank! Leaves a brown taste in your mouth!”

That was the last any of us ventured up north to Turtle Lake until 2021. 48 years after our fishing adventure, Mark, who now lives in Wisconsin, made a trip to see what, if anything still existed of the Snug Harbor Inn and the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club. The Snug Harbor Inn itself was still there with the PBR sign out front. He reported the lake was lower and smaller than we remembered and the lodge a bit bigger. Unfortunately, it was closed, either due to covid, or being off season and Mark couldn’t obtain any updated information on it, or the Sportsman’s Club.

Mark, and the Return to Turtle Lake in 2021

It’s almost fifty years since we made that trip to the wilds of Wisconsin and none of us live in Ottawa any longer. One of us has passed away, and the rest are scattered between Illinois, Wisconsin, Texas, Georgia and Virginia. In my mind, I can still see us drinking Red White and Blues by Turtle Lake on that first night, with not only the weekend, but our entire lives stretching out in front of us. It’s a pretty good memory, as memories go.

Addendum:

  • The Snug Harbor Inn is still at Turtle Lake. Looking online, it looks like they expanded some, and it’s nicer than I remember. They also opened a pub inside the lodge area and still have a pool table. I recently had a phone conversation with the current owner, and asked if he knew Schroeder or the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club. He said Schroeder was the owner of Snug Harbor about three owners before him. As to the Sportsman’s Club, he remembered hearing of it, but it no longer existed. He didn’t know what happened to it. You can link to Snug Harbor’s website here: https://snuglakeharbor.com/
  • Tom Murphy was always one of the good teachers at OHS and you could tell he cared about his students. In addition to serving as a teacher and coach, he later became Principal. My mom was a secretary in the front office, and they worked together there for several years.
  • Thanks as always to my friend Colleen for her editorial assistance. In a strange twist, Colleen knew about Turtle Lake from her youth, while living in Illinois. Her father was also at the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club! What are the odds?!
  • Thanks to Mark, Howard, Jack and Tim for contributing memories to this blog. Like the great 1950s Japanese movie, “Rashamon”, all of us have various “subjective, alternative and contradictory versions” of the trip to Turtle Lake. I’ve tied together my best recollection of the trip, along with information from the others as much as possible. I left out a couple of items to protect the innocent.
  • My good friend Mark Dunavan published a book “Almost an Eagle – The Roots and Escapades of a Midwestern Baby Boomer” in 2020 that tells the story of his life. The story of our trip to Turtle Lake is also recounted there, with some variations. This limited edition book is hard to find, but if you can get your hands on a copy, I highly recommend you do so.

Patsy, Duke, and Buchanan Hall

Patsy, Duke, and Buchanan Hall

How could you not possibly like a local place, where both Patsy Cline and Duke Ellington have performed in the past? Buchanan Hall, a small venue just down the road in Upperville, VA, hosted both of those greats during it’s storied past. The best part? The Hall continues as a focus for music and good times today with their weekly Farmers Market.

Buchanan Hall has existed since the late 1920s, when General James A. Buchanan allegedly decided to build the Hall for his daughter’s wedding. Construction was completed in ‘33, in the middle of the depression. Eventually, the Hall belonged to the community, and a Board of Trustees was set up. The problem was, the Trustees may not have always had the best judgement on who could use the Hall. Some of their clients were “questionable”.

A few years ago, an undated note to the Trustees was found – “I had little problem last [night] with some guys fighting [over] girls, so the security guards put him out [he shot] in the air two or three times and I call the sheriff [but] I take care of the problem for now on… no drinks is allowed and no ins and outs. Thank you Romeo Ferguson.” … Another note from Ferguson read, in part: “To the hustlers, leave the guns at home or in your cars . . . this is a nice place to have fun at – think about it!”

As you can see, Buchanan Hall has a varied history…;-)

But oh, did it draw the crowds. On the local level, there was the likes of Chauncy Brown and his band for dances that drew folk from Middleburg, Warrenton, and even DC. It turns out Brown was often the drummer for Duke Ellington’s band from 1930-37.

An undated photo of Chauncy Brown

They also drew major talent over the years. Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, who was friends with Woody Guthrie, influenced Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Band and others, performed a couple of times. And then of course, you have Patsy Cline and Duke Ellington – both appeared at Buchanan Hall. Patsy was originally from nearby Winchester, Virginia, so perhaps her appearing was not such a huge surprise. She played many local venues in the early 50s before making it big and moving to Nashville. Duke on the other hand held a national reputation from the 1930s – I’ve wondered if his work with Chauncy Brown is what drew him to Upperville, however, I can find no confirmation.

Can you imagine sitting in a 200 seat theater and hearing Patsy sing “Crazy”, “I Fall to Pieces” and “Walkin’ After Midnight”, or Duke playing “In a Sentimental Mood”, “Satin Doll” and “Take the A Train”? It would have to be both sublime and amazing….

In addition to having the piano in common, Patsy and Duke both appeared at Buchanan Hall

Time passed and by 2000, Buchanan Hall was in disrepair, and locals decided it was time to renovate the structure and grounds. Through donations, the Hall was eventually restored.

Since then?

Buchanan Hall has served in a number of roles. Community Center, wedding venue and event location to name a few. As examples, it continues to host parties and happenings in conjunction with the Upperville Colt and Horse Show, the oldest such show in America. In 2018, it hosted an American Roots Music Revival that sold out over the course of several evenings. And last year, the inaugural Piedmont Pride event, including a drag cabaret brunch, was held there.

I was excited to recently learn the Buchanan Hall Farmers Market is returning again this year. The market is every Wednesday from 4-8 pm from May 18, 2022 through October 26. This isn’t just any farmer’s market. You can of course purchase farm fresh meats, produce, and artisan goods. Even better is grabbing something from one of the food trucks, buying a glass of beer or bottle of wine from one of the local producers, and then pulling up a big piece of lawn and watching a band playing outside the entrance to the Hall. They always have a live band. It’s a pretty good way to spend a Wednesday evening.

Wonderful live music can still be heard at Buchanan Hall on Wednesday evenings during the summer.

I recommend you give the Farmers Market a try this summer on a Wednesday evening or two. While there, wander inside and take a look at the pictures of Patsy, Duke, and Chauncey. Remember those days gone by, while having a wonderful evening in the present.

Addendum:

– Buchanan Hall is located at 8549 John S Mosby Hwy, Upperville, VA 20184. You can learn more about it here: https://www.buchananhall.org/ .

– If you want a taste of the past, Buchanan Hall sells CDs of a performance by Chauncy Brown. You can learn more about him and his performances at Buchanan Hall here: https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/local/2006/07/02/chauncey-browns-dance-party-lives-on/65f0b146-1698-4efc-b0fd-625a62e4a3ee/?utm_term=.2232396ebaab

– Much of the history I’ve discussed in this blog came from the Buchanan Hall website itself, and a Washington Post article from a few years ago – Chauncy Brown’s Dance Party Lives On (link is above).

Planes, Buses and Automobiles

Planes, Buses and Automobiles

A Day in the Life. (Or, How I spent Fourteen Hours I Will Never Get Back.)

Ever think about the things you do, in order to do the things you want to do? After a wonderful vacation in California over New Years, payback, in the form of a long as hell travel day, happened on the return trip to DC. I freely admit this might be a boring blog, but something compelled me to write it.

The day started around 5:30AM with a wake up alarm. I didn’t fall out of bed, or drag a comb across my head, but I did find my way downstairs and drink a cup (of coffee). I finished packing and then loaded the luggage into Bonnie’s car. I grabbed my day bag and jacket, and climbed in the backseat, leaving the front seat for Cath. By 6:15AM, we were on the road.

Anderson Valley looks a bit different when it’s still pitch black. You don’t see the vineyards, wineries or scenic hills. Instead, all of our eyes were glued to the road ahead, following the twists and turns. There was also a slight fog reducing visibility. The hilly, winding trip out of the Valley to Highway 101 usually takes 45 minutes, but with the darkness and fog, it was 7:15 before we made the highway.

Bonnie had a 9:00AM appointment in Marin County that morning, so she was happy we were along, allowing her to take the HOV lane. In any case, she was a good driver, or we were lucky and traffic was light, or both. We made the Larkspur bus terminal for the Marin AirPorter about 8:35. Hugs and “I love you”s all around, and then Bonnie departed for her appointment. We had the joy of sitting, masked, in a small terminal by ourselves for 40 minutes. In fact, we would be masked for most of the next ten hours.

Masks, masks, everywhere a mask

The AirPorter bus runs directly from Marin County to the San Francisco Airport (SFO). At 9:15AM the bus arrived right on time, and at 9:20 we pulled out. The bus was about 1/3 full, and everyone was masked (required). Traffic remained relatively light, and I’ll be d@mned, we pulled into the United Terminal at SFO right on schedule at 10:30AM. Outside the bus, we took our masks off briefly while collecting our luggage. Then, masks back on, we entered the terminal.

The Marin AirPorter is actually a good way to travel

With Covid going on, United recommends people arrive three hours early at the airport, due to security concerns, longer check in times, and general complications with masking and so on. I figured two hours was enough time, but you never know. Arriving at 10:30, there were two hours and forty five minutes till our flight. Plenty of time. Almost tooooo much time.

Although we already had our electronic boarding passes, we still needed to check one bag. Baggage “self check” was something of a cluster, but 15 minutes later, the bag was gone and we were walking to security.

At security, no one was in line! The checking of tickets and IDs went quickly, but there was a back-up at the final Security screening point. Only one line was open, and it appeared either the gear was malfunctioning, or a new crew was working the line. We just stood in place for several minutes, with no one advancing. Eventually, there was some movement, we were X-rayed, and finally on our way to the gate around 11:15AM. We hadn’t eaten anything yet, and stopped at the first restaurant we came to.

Miraculously, two seats were open at the bar and we grabbed them. A plexiglass divider separated us from the kitchen crew and waitstaff, along with little plexiglass dividers for every couple of barstools. The waitress slid us menus under the plexiglass, we removed our masks and took a look. It was the airport after all, so nothing was cheap, and you knew it wasn’t going to be great. Still, at $17.25 the Yankee Breakfast (bacon and eggs, hash browns, and toast) was a better deal than the bagel and lox at $19.50, so we both became Yankees for the morning. And since it was the last day of vacation, what the hell, we ordered Bloody Marys as well. At $12.50 each, they were practically a bargain. The Bloodies tasted pretty good, and the breakfast itself wasn’t half bad – for an airport, it was actually pretty good. We contemplated a second Bloody Mary, vetoed the idea, and asked for the check. $66, plus $15 tip later, we remasked, and resumed our walk to the gate.

A brief (and expensive) stop at the airport restaurant

It was now about 12:30PM. Fifteen minutes later, they started boarding the plane. For some unknown reason, we had a small bit of luck and had been moved from boarding group 4 to boarding group 2. We boarded early, and settled in for the flight to DC.

Waiting for takeoff…

The plane took off only about fifteen minutes late and the pilot was pretty confident we would make the time up somewhere over the Midwest. I stayed masked for the entire flight, except when sipping on a club soda. Everyone else on the plane stayed masked as well, and no crazies were yelling at the flight attendants about their rights. I did some reading, some writing, but no ‘rithmetic, and then watched Matt Damon in “Stillwater” (which I recommend, if you haven’t seen it). A bit more writing, and we were finally descending. It turns out the pilot was right, and we landed about 8:45PM, 15 minutes early. Amazing!

Let’s all crowd together to get off the plane!

We walked to baggage claim, where a large, crowded mob was waiting for their luggage. All were masked, but there was zero distancing. One guy actually knocked me out of the way, with no “excuse me” or any other words, to retrieve his bag. Then it turned out it wasn’t his bag, and he knocked a couple more people out of the way putting the bag back on the conveyer belt. The serenity prayer* briefly flashed through my brain. Eventually, our bags arrived. We gathered them up, and proceeded to Section A of Parking Garage 1 and our Subaru. Once outside, and in the garage, masks came off.

The drive home was pretty easy, even though a raging snow storm occurred the day before. Major highways were clear, but the local roads, although plowed, still had some snow and slickness to them. We arrived at the Farm at about 10:40PM, approximately fourteen hours after we woke up in Philo that morning. Carmen, our dog, greeted us with a wagging tail, and little yelps of pleasure. We stayed up another hour to relax a bit, and finally went to bed around midnight.

Here’s the thing. It was a looooong day, but it wasn’t a bad day. That is, no bad things happened. The bus arrived on time and didn’t break down on the way to the airport. Our flight wasn’t one of the 20,000 flights that have been cancelled since Christmas Eve. Since we were on a direct flight, we didn’t miss some connection at O’Hare airport in Chicago due to weather. Our flight arrived arrived on Tuesday, January 4th, the day after some people were trapped in their cars for over 26 hours in the DC area, due to a snowstorm. Despite Omicron racing around America, we didn’t catch Covid.

No, it wasn’t a bad day. Still, it was fourteen hours, approximately ten of them masked, we’ll never get back. The trip to California at the start of vacation was of similar duration. It too happened flawlessly. So the price of a wonderful ten day vacation in California? In addition to the dollar cost for the plane and bus tickets, two of those ten days were consumed entirely by travel. In the big scheme of things, a pretty cheap price to see loved ones.

Addendum:

– Yes, Planes, Buses and Automobiles is a play on the John Candy/Steve Martin movie “Planes, Trains and Automobiles”.

– And yes, the opening title, “A Day in the Life” and the line “I didn’t fall out of bed, or drag a comb across my head, but I did find my way downstairs and drink a cup” were inspired by the Beatles song, “A Day in the Life”.

* The Serenity Prayer is a prayer written by theologian Reinhold Niebuhr. It is usually quoted as: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference.”