In the summer of ‘87, my folks visited us in Germany. We had a grand time touring Germany, Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland. One of the highlights was Glacier Skiing at Sölden, Austria and then afterwards, hanging at the Lodge drinking bier, while Cathy worked on her tan.
On our first tour in Germany from ‘79-83, Mom and Dad visited once for a vacation in the summer of 1982. I was a Company Commander in the 34th Signal Battalion at the time and the day we were to leave on vacation with them, the phone rang about 4AM. Cath said, “Don’t Answer it”. I said, “I have to.” She answered back, “Don’t answer it.” I answered the phone.
The call came from Battalion Headquarters and we deployed on an alert for the next three days. While I was in the field, Cath showed Mom and Dad around Southern Germany and the Black Forest. When I returned from the alert, we travelled the next ten days together. Dad understood what happened with the alert and why I had to go, but I’m not sure Mom did.
When we moved back to Germany in ‘85, we didn’t think Mom and Dad could afford another visit. Airline travel was expensive, as was the trip itself. Then, fate intervened. Dad hit 5 out of 6 numbers on a lottery ticket and won several thousand dollars. Never ones to let extra money go to waste, they scheduled a visit with us in Worms in the summer of 1987.
When they arrived, we spent the first few days near Worms and the village of Rheindurkheim, where we lived. In addition to introducing them to local friends, we spent an evening at one of our favorite Weinfests. Everyone enjoyed themselves, or at least that’s what the photos seemed to indicate.
Prost!
Eventually, we left Rheindurkheim and headed South for the main part of the vacation. I’m not sure why, but Cath and I decided to take our skis along and get some Glacier skiing in, something we’d never done before. Looking back now, it seems an odd decision. Mom and Dad wouldn’t ski, but I’m sure we talked with them about it. In any case, off we went down the Autobahn with the skis strapped on the roof rack of our Saab.
After visiting good friends Jim and Res in Stuttgart for a night, we made our way to the Alps. We planned a drive through Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland, but started with Sölden, Austria where we would ski. In the 1980s, you could still ski Sölden virtually all year long*.
Glacier skiing is a bit different from regular skiing. You have to hit the slopes early, and most people only ski in the AM. By late morning, the sun has warmed the slope and the glacier starts turning to slush. Also, as the morning wears on, the snow/ice on the glacier tends to become gravelly, not quite ice and not quite snow.
That first night at Sölden, we ate dinner in the little Gasthaus where we were staying. We discussed skiing the following morning. Cathy was thinking about skiing in her bikini and I was up for wearing a pair of shorts. Ultimately, we decided to ski in sweats and jeans. If we fell, the gravelly snow would scrape us up pretty good.
The next day, after an early breakfast of Kaffee, Brotchen, Wurst und Käse (Coffee, rolls, sausage and cheese) we made our way to the slope and were skiing by 7:30AM. We’d told Mom and Dad they could hang at the Gasthaus, but they insisted on coming with us to the ski lodge. Dad took a photo as we headed to the lift.
Cath and I spent the next three hours skiing the glacier and it was wonderful. The piste (ski trail) wasn’t crowded, the snow was in great shape and we were skiing well. Occasionally, we’d check on Mom and Dad who were drinking Kaffee on a picnic table outside the lodge. Dad snapped some pics of us skiing, but for the life of me, I can’t find them. Around 10:30 the snow started getting slushy. By 11, we were through. We started getting wet from the knees down and were tired from the morning’s activities. In the additional good news department, we hadn’t fallen all morning.
We stacked our skis in a rack, joined Mom and Dad and ordered some biers. Cathy stripped off her sweater and jeans, revealing the bikini she wore underneath. In the photo I took of Cath with Mom and Dad, I love the bored/sullen Euro look she adopted. Just another ho-hum day skiing the Alps and catching rays.
Cathy Working on Her Tan after Skiing in the Morning.
We spent one more night in Sölden, before heading for Nauders, Austria right on the Italian border. We’d previously skied a couple of winters there. After a couple of days seeing friends, we eventually crossed into Italy and then Switzerland, having an occasional roadside lunch of bread, cheese and wine. One day we forgot glasses, but that didn’t stop us. ;-).
No Glass? No Problem!
We worked our way to Davos, where we enjoyed a multi-course 5-Star meal at a restaurant just outside of town. At our hotel that night, we saw fireworks going off in the mountains across the valley. It was the celebration of the Swiss National Day, their equivalent to our 4th of July and pretty amazing. At the time, we had no clue about the importance of Davos or the World Economic Forum. All we knew was that we ate a great meal that evening and then saw a cool light show in the Alps.
Eventually, we returned to Rheindurkheim and other adventures, before Mom and Dad flew home.
It’s funny, I remember many parts of that vacation**, but for some reason skiing the glacier at Sölden stands out. It was only a small part of the trip, but remains firmly in my mind. Maybe it was the fun of the day. Maybe it was the skiing. Maybe it was just the remembrance of my wife soaking up sunshine in a bikini at the ski lodge after a morning of good play. All our days should be so happy.
Addendum:
I should point out that there were MANY women sunbathing in bikinis, not just Cathy. She’s the only one I took a picture of ;-).
* These days at Sölden, due to Global Warming the glacier is receding. Skiing stops sometime in May, and picks back up in September.
**When people visited us in Germany, we gave them atypical tours of Germany and Europe. We weren’t big on Churches and Museums, and instead, focused on local activities off the beaten path. On this particular vacation with Mom and Dad, we really wanted to show them parts of the Alps we’d grown to love in both the winter and summer months. I doubt we saw another American the entire time.
We started gathering around 0130 at Buffalo Soldier Field. Soon, buses would drive us to Lake Frederick. There we would link up with the West Point Class of 2028 and join them for their 14-mile March Back to West Point, which culminates with the end of New Cadet Summer Training, aka Beast Barracks. The Class of ‘28 will graduate exactly 50 years after we graduated in ‘78.
Just about everyone is aware that West Point Graduates are known for being a part of “The Long Gray Line.” The phrase “The Long Gray Line” in its simplest definition is the continuum of all graduates and cadets of the United States Military Academy at West Point, from 1802 to the present. In an effort to strengthen the concept of “The Long Gray Line”, the West Point Association of Graduates (AOG) started a 50 Year Affiliation Program (YAP). It’s an absolutely brilliant idea. The 50 YAP started 25 years ago in 1999, with the class of ’49 supporting ’99.
To bring some perspective, IF the program had existed when I was at West Point, our Affiliation Class would have been the Class of 1928. Classmate Frank Arduni pulled together some facts about that class:
The class graduated 261 new Lieutenants on June 9, 1928. By the time the last member of their class passed away in October 2010 at the age of 104, the class produced 78 General officers. They became pioneers of Army Aviation, and within four years of graduation at least 6 members of the class died as 2LTs in air accidents. Eventually 73 served in the Army Air Corps, two long enough to see it become the Air Force.
28 lost their lives in the Second World War, and at least eight of those as prisoners of war. Six members of the class were “participants” in the Bataan Death March, of whom only one would survive the ordeal.
One member of the class, Robert Albert Howard, was the grandfather of our 1978 classmate, Eric Franks (RIP).
Over the course of the next four years, various members of our class will attend significant events during the Class of 2028’s time at West Point. Some of those events include: their First Day at West Point and the Start of Beast Barracks; Affirmation Day at the start of Cow (Junior) year when they have officially committed to serving in the military; Ring Weekend; Branch Night Firstie (Senior) year, when they select their military branch; and of course, Graduation.
The event that caught my eye was “March Back”. At the end of Beast Barracks, the New Cadets do a forced march of 14 miles from Lake Frederick where they have been for some of their training, back to West Point. A few days later, they transition from “New Cadets” to full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets. Each year a number of graduates (Old Grads) participate in the March Back and interact with the cadets. The 50-year affiliation class is guaranteed 50 of those slots.
Last winter, our class announced the upcoming events. 118 of us said we wanted to do the March Back. In February, we held an online lottery via Zoom for the guaranteed 50 slots. I was number 76. D@mn. I now needed to rely on some luck and try and sign up for one of the additional slots available to all graduates later in the spring.
The Lottery
In the meantime, I increased the mileage of my daily walks and started going both farther and faster. The March Back itself is 14 miles long, with the first three miles entirely uphill. The pace was to be at 20 minutes/mile, but we were warned the first three uphill miles could go faster.
Route Elevation. The First 5 km Are All Uphill.
In June, I lucked out, signed up early enough online and was selected to participate in the March Back. Ultimately 73 members of the class of ‘78 would make the 14 mile March Back, with another 42 joining us for the final two miles.
Over the next month and a half, I increased my workouts again. I didn’t want to let myself, my classmates or the Class of 2028 down. In addition to daily 5-6 mile walks, I added several 8, 10 and 12 mile hikes over the hills here in Virginia. The longer hikes were at an 18 to 18:40 min pace. I was as ready as I was going to be.
On Saturday, the 10th of August, I made the six-hour drive to West Point. As always when returning to the Academy, my mind filled with a mishmash of thoughts – the March Back of course, but also my own time at West Point, and its impact on my life. It’s 46 years since I graduated, but I still remember reporting to The Man in the Red Sash on my first day as if it was yesterday.
That first night was great and I had the chance to see a number of classmates who were also staying at the Thayer Hotel. We had drinks and dinner while telling stories and catching up on the activities in our lives. Our hair was grayer and we were, perhaps, heavier, but our love for life remained.
The next day, the AOG bused us ‘78ers out to Lake Frederick to interact with the class of ‘28 prior to the march later that night. At lunch we talked with the New Cadets over hotdogs and hamburgers. It was the start of an amazing 24-hour period. I probably spoke with 7 or 8 different groups during the next three hours and came away universally impressed. You hear stories about kids being unmotivated these days – nothing was further from the truth for these young men and women. They were sharp, motivated, inquisitive and fired up. They had marched 9 miles to Lake Frederick three or four days before in the remnants of Hurricane Debby. It rained during the march and for the next two nights when they slept outside without tents. You’d have thought they would be depressed or unmotivated, but the exact opposite was true. They were charged up and attentive. I was inspired by all of those I met and spoke with.
Classmate Bob Rush with Members of the Class of ‘28Some of the Class of ‘28 with a Couple of us Old Grads
We eventually boarded our buses for the trip back to West Point. My mind kept playing and replaying the time with the New Cadets. Yes, we were there to help them understand the concept of The Long Gray Line, and hopefully we were doing that. What I hadn’t understood earlier was how motivating these young people would be for me. Their enthusiasm had increased my own. They also brought home the fact that The Long Gray Line extends both into the past AND into the future.
I went to bed around 2100 that night, but didn’t sleep much. Three hours and forty-five minutes later, my alarm went off at 0045. I hopped out of bed and got ready. I left the Thayer and walked the quarter mile to our Assembly Point at Buffalo Soldier Field. When I arrived around 0130, many Grads were already there, milling around.
“Hurry up and Wait”
The crowd grew and in the dark we started linking up with friends and classmates. Six of us ‘78ers were marching with Gulf Company and we snapped a pic.
Proud and Great ‘78
Soon, the buses arrived. We left a little after 0200 and drove to Lake Frederick. After a quick breakfast, they started linking us Old Grads with the companies and platoons we would each march with. I and several others would walk with G-4, the 4th platoon of Gulf Company and they linked us with them around 0415. We grads were only carrying small Camelbak packs with water and maybe a snack, bandaids and a pair of dry socks. The New Cadets? Full uniforms, helmets, 30-40 pound ruck sacks and their M4 rifles. Yep, men and women alike, they were doing a full combat march back to the Academy to start the academic phase of their Plebe year.
Gulf Company, Ready to Roll.
At 0430, right on time, Gulf Company started its return to West Point.
We did the first three miles uphill in the dark. The trail was gravelly and rock strewn but honestly, I didn’t really notice the dark, the climb or the rocks. I was having too much fun talking with the New Cadets and a couple of the Cadet Cadre. The New Cadets were supposed to march in silence, unless they were talking with one of us Old Grads and that’s what they did. But when you started talking with them – man did they open up. They asked me as many questions as I asked them and the time passed quickly. We arrived at the three-mile mark around 0525. True to what they’d warned us about ahead of time, we went out at a spirited 18 Minute/mile pace, but I hadn’t noticed.
After a short break, we continued marching as daylight approached. The New Cadets were in two columns, one on each side of the road, with the cadre and us Old Grads marching in the center between the columns. For the next three hours, I spoke with perhaps 15 or 20 New Cadets. We talked about West Point, Beast Barracks, Plebe Year, the Army, how long I stayed in and where I was stationed, Women at West Point, Women in the Army, Airborne School, the rain from Hurricane Debby, wet boots, what drew them to West Point, why they chose West Point, why I chose West Point, the best part of Beast, the worst part of Beast, square meals, and a whole host of other topics, including the Green Bay Packers and their chances this year. The conversations were full grown adult conversations, not the monosyllabic answers you sometimes receive from youth these days. The next nine miles passed in a blur.
The Class of 2028 on the March
At the 12-mile mark, we arrived at the West Point Ski Slope. We Old Grads said our goodbyes and left the New Cadets. We joined our classmates who were only marching the last two miles into West Point proper. After a break the Class of ‘78 formed up. The Class of 2028 passed in front of us in company formation and unfurled their new motto, “No Calling Too Great – 2028” for the first time. We members of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78 saluted them as they passed.
After the Class of ‘28 marched by, the class of ’78 fell in behind them, leading the Old Grad contingent of nearly 400 marchers. We picked up the cadence of the drum, and as one of my classmates mentioned, even at our age we were still marching better than the Naval Academy does. ;-).
José Morales and the Class of ‘78 on the Parade Route
Much of the route for the final two miles was lined with people watching the parade. They too were inspiring with their claps and cheers. I think the last time I marched in a parade was around 1982 in Germany. Eventually we reached main campus and Passed in Review at the Superintendent’s house. We (‘78) chanted “Beat. Navy! Beat. Navy! Beat. Navy!” in time with the drum for the Supe and he laughed.
And then the March Back was over. The Class of ‘28 went to clean their weapons. We ‘78ers walked across The Plain for the rededication of a Statue of Civil War General, John Sedgwick, that the Class of ‘78 had funded a restoration of (stay tuned for a future blog about Sedgwick’s Spurs.) We followed that with a short Memorial Service for our 93 classmates who have passed away and ended with classmate Harry Johnson leading us in singing The Corps. The words to The Corps always ring true, particularly with its references to The Long Gray Line. On this day, it was perhaps a double punch with both the Memorial Service for our departed Classmates and the March Back with the future of the Corps.
The Class gathered one last time a couple hours later for a cookout and a few drinks. We all remarked about what a great time we’d had over the last 24 hours and how impressed we were with the Class of ‘28. We were still enthused, but a bit quieter by now. As evening approached, with hugs and handshakes, we went our separate ways
On my drive home Tuesday morning, my legs were only a little sore. As I drove,I thought about the Class of ‘28 and my interactions with them. My friend and classmate Tony Matos called the weekend magical and I agree. I spoke with young men and women of all colors and ethnicities. I’d spent time with New Cadets from California, Washington, Oregon and Idaho; Oklahoma, Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin and Minnesota; Georgia, North Carolina, Virginia, New Jersey, New York, and Connecticut. It was as if the melting pot of America was on display for those two days. I’d made the trip to West Point to show and give them a view of the continuity of The Long Gray Line. They gave me so much more – a demonstration of grit and fortitude; a view of encouraging teamwork; a promise of both mental and physical strength; and a look at the future. From my time with the Class of 2028, I felt encouraged. I believe that both now and in the future, West Point, our Army and our Country will be in good hands as the Class of ‘28 answers the call of Duty, Honor, Country.
No Calling Too Great, 2028
Addendum:
Thanks to classmate Frank Arduni for his ongoing research about the class of 1928.
Thanks to classmates Bill Moeller and Tony Matos for their editing support on this blog. Both had great ideas to add.
Thanks to classmates Bill, Tony and Billy Harner, along with the AOG for organizing the March Back activities and making it such a wonderful event for all of us.
The pictures in this blog are from a number of sources, including classmates, the AOG, and my own photos.
Thanks to my wife, Cathy, and friend, Colleen, for their continuing editorial support. I’d be lost without them.
We arrived at the ranger Station in Wrangell-St Elias National Park, Alaska. As we checked in for our backpacking trip to Dixie Pass, an older looking ranger eyed me. After a brief conversation, he asked, “Do you know what grizzly bear scat looks like?” I shook my head no.
Six months before meeting that ranger, Cathy turned 40 years old. We decided to celebrate her milestone birthday in Alaska the next summer and do some backpacking while there. Coincidentally, Cath’s sister Bonnie was marrying Don that June and they asked about coming with us for their honeymoon. We quickly said yes and started outlining the trip.
While we planned to visit several places, the highlight would be a four-day backpacking trip in Wrangell-St Elias National Park (WSNP). It is a vast national park that is the same size as Yellowstone National Park, Yosemite National Park, and Switzerland combined. Only Denali, also in Alaska, is a larger Park.
We specifically chose WSNP because of its remoteness. Unlike Denali, which has buses circling the park and regulates when and how people can enter the park, WSNP is a wilderness area with one 60-mile gravel road dead-ending at the town of McCarthy. I should mention that while McCarthy’s summertime population was 200, its winter population was just 13.
In the WSNP there were no trails, only suggested routes requiring map and compass skills. We eventually settled on a hike to Dixie Pass – a four-day, 28-mile round trip hike with 5,400 feet of elevation gain. The country was remote and about half the hike was above the tree line. It was also mosquito infested until you were above the tree line. Guidebooks suggested checking in and out with the Ranger Station at the entrance of the park for safety reasons.
Part of Our Map for the Hike to Dixie Pass
After Bonnie and Don’s wedding in June of ‘96, the four of us flew to Anchorage. We spent a few days seeing some sites and getting acclimated to the near continuous sunlight. Eventually we made our way to WSNP and checked in at the Ranger Station.
We signed in and spoke with one of the two rangers working that day and told him of our planned hike to Dixie Pass. He gave us a few safety tips and talked about the fact there were both black bears and brown bears (also known as grizzly bears) in the park. While black bears are usually more timid and less confrontational, the grizzly bear was totally different. They could attack even when unprovoked.
The ranger pointedly looked at us and then asked, “Have you bought any jingle-bells for attaching to your pack to make noise, so the bear know you are coming?” I answered, “No, we planned to attach our drinking cups to the outside of our packs so they would make noise.”
“Ahhhhhh. Did you bring any pepper spray with you?” – “Ummm, no. Should we have?”
“Hmmmmmmm. Do you know the difference between black bear skat (poo) and grizzly bear skat?” – “No, we don’t. Could you fill us in?”
He kind of smiled, and then said, “Sure. Black bear scat is sort of brownish and fibrous. You’ll often see berries in it as well. And grizzly bear scat? Well, it’s similar to black bear scat, but it also has jingle bells in it and smells like pepper!”
A half second passed and then all of us, including the ranger, burst out laughing. He’d reeled me in like a bluegill in a pond.
After the laughter ended, he did share that in WSNP, unlike Denali, there generally were no bear problems. There were so few people in the park that when the bear smelled or saw humans, they generally turned around or went in a different direction. They didn’t really know what we were and would probably avoid us. If we did come across a bear, stay still or slowly back away, don’t run, and things would probably turn out fine.
We thanked him for his help and then drove down the gravel road awhile before turning onto a dirt trail for a bit. Eventually, we arrived at a small, cleared area. We saw a small sign pointing towards Dixie Pass. There were no other cars.
Cathy and Bonnie at the Start of the Hike.
The hike itself was wonderful and everything we hoped for – beauty, silence, wilderness – Mother Nature at her best.
We definitely needed a map and compass to guide us, so both Boy Scout and Army skills came in handy. Mountains, valleys, creeks, draws, outcroppings … they all became important in identifying our route.
The mosquitos were horrible until we climbed above the tree line. A half mile into the hike, we needed our head nets and sprayed ourselves with 90% Deet. We used so much Deet, Cath’s running tights basically disintegrated when we returned home and she washed them.
Cathy and Bonnie in Their Mosquito Netting, While Holding a Moose Antler.
The route challenged us. There were multiple creek crossings, some two feet deep, and places where we hiked over snowpack. We switched to Tevas or sandles several times each day to keep our boots dry. There was also plenty of rock hopping where you were using both legs and arms to scramble over the boulders. While not really dangerous, the trail wasn’t for the faint of heart.
Creeks and Snow and Boulders, Oh My!
We finally arrived at Dixie Pass where there were gorgeous views in all directions. We lounged around, ate lunch and took some photos. Although it was June 30th, we were snowed on while hiking back down from the pass.
View From Dixie Pass Looking Back at our Approach Route.
On the 3rd morning around breakfast time, we did have a distant encounter with a brown bear, but the ranger was right. When the grizzly smelled us, he turned in another direction and gave us a wide berth. We were probably 75 yards or so away and watched him from a hillside. Still, I have to say it elevated my pulse.
Eventually, we finished the hike and our grand adventure ended. It was both a beautiful and challenging hike – one of those life events you never forget. For me, the story is never complete without also talking about the ranger, the jingle bells and the pepper spray. I laugh to this day when I tell the tale, and it always gets a chuckle.
A while back, a friend talked about her son, who was either prepubescent or a new teen. In the screed, she spoke about “stinky boy stuff” or something similar. It reminded me of a lecture I received from my mom upon returning home from a week at Boy Scout camp in the summer of ‘66.
I was all of 11 years old. I’d joined Boy Scout Troop 45 that spring and was going to my first ever summer camp at Camp Kishauwau. To say I was excited was a huge understatement – a week away from home, sleeping in tents, having fun with your buddies – what could possibly be better?!
Mom of course helped me pack. In addition to scout uniforms, a swimsuit, a windbreaker, jeans and shorts, she dutifully packed six pairs of underwear, six white T-shirts and six pairs of sox. Of course, also a towel, wash cloth, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, bandaids, mosquito repellent, and who knows what else.
Mom and Dad dropped me off at Kishauwau on Sunday morning and I had a great week. We went swimming everyday, took canoes out on the Vermillion River, ate great meals at the mess hall, cooked our own food a couple of times, and learned all kinds of new skills. The week passed by in a flash.
I Attended Camp Kishauwau from ‘66 to ‘70
Mom and dad picked me up on Saturday and we returned home. That day or the next, mom was doing my laundry from camp and I heard my name called/yelled. I dutifully came to the washing machine.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” and held up my underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear I hadn’t touched or changed all week long. I proceeded to receive a lecture from mom about cleanliness, hygiene, what the hell did I think I was doing, how could I go a whole week without changing my underwear and on and on and on… I had no defense and took it as best I could. I probably looked like a young puppy just caught peeing on the floor. Finally, she wound down and let me go. – whew! –
Fast forward a year. It’s time for summer camp again and I’m looking forward to going just as much as the previous year. Mom helps pack again and in go the six pairs of underwear, the six white T-shirts and the six pairs of sox. Of course along with the packing, I also receive another lecture about health and good hygiene. “Yes mom! I get it!”
Camp was a great time once again – water sports, learning how to track animals, bonfires, learning knots and lashings, building a bridge. It was awesome.
Random Bad Photos (With my Then New Camera) From Kishauwau in ‘67.
Friday night came and I was getting my stuff ready to go back home the next day. To my horror, I came across my six pairs of underwear, again unused. OH NO! What to do?! I was sure to be in real trouble this year. I thought about it and then had an idea. I would make the underwear look dirty! I quickly threw them on the ground and then proceeded to move them around in the dirt and walk on them in my hiking boots. They looked dirty for sure and I slept peacefully that night.
The next day Mom and Dad brought me home. I went out to play and then heard my name called loudly by Mom. Uh-Oh.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” And proceeded to hold up my underwear. My six pairs of underwear with boot prints on them. “Ummm, my dirty underwear.” “WITH BOOTPRINTS?! WHAT IS GOING ON??”
As I looked at her, my brain feverishly worked, trying to find an answer. What could I say!? What possible excuse could I give!? I had nothing.
“Ummm, I forgot to change my underwear again and thought I could make them look dirty.”
Mom stared at me. Finally with a look only a mom could give, she said “Go to your room.”
Now I’d done it. I sat in the bedroom thinking. She was sure to tell Dad, and then what? How much trouble was I actually in? Why the heck hadn’t I remembered to change my underwear? Why hadn’t I been smarter about how to make them dirty?
Time passed. Finally, I was called to dinner. Evidently it was going to be a public execution.
Except it wasn’t. Mom didn’t say anything. Dad didn’t say anything. In my memory, I seem to remember a small smile from him, but that may just be a trick of my mind 57 years later. And that was it. I didn’t hear anything more about it. By the next year, I actually did remember to change my underwear, although probably not as often as mom would have wished.
I’ve thought about the conversation I’m guessing took place between Mom and Dad. Mom laying out the case. Dad maybe hesitating a bit – remembering his own childhood during the depression. Or maybe thinking about being in North Africa during WWII, when he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to change his clothes for several weeks. And who knows, maybe Mom never said anything to Dad – maybe she had her own chuckle over the whole thing after sending me to my room.
Addendum:
– Fun Camp Kishauwau Fact: Ryan Gosling wore a Camp Kishauwau T-Shirt in the 2007 movie, Fracture, which also starred Anthony Hopkins.
Fun Camp Kishauwau Fact: Ryan Gosling Wore a Kishauwau T-Shirt in the 2007 Movie “Fracture”.
– Here are two previous blogs about my time in the Boy Scouts:
50 years ago in June of 1969, I was awarded the Boy Scout’s highest rank, Eagle Scout. I was thinking about this recently when Cath and I were attending the Eagle Court of Honor for Mark, the son of good friends of ours. I also thought about Farrell and Don, who were great Scoutmasters and mentors: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/07/11/farrell-and-don/
On Mother’s Day, May 12th, 1968, Howard and Tim, my two best friends, and I were awarded the Boy Scout God and Country award. I recently came across a photo and newspaper article about the award. That minor event took place during one of the most tumultuous years in United States history: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/09/12/god-and-country
Is July 4th, our Independence Day, a holiday we all still celebrate together as Americans? Or is it now just a fairy tale with fireworks as entertainment for the young, and no longer any unifying meaning? Some days, I’m not sure I want to know the answer.
I remember the celebrations of my youth in Ottawa, Illinois. On the evening of the 4th, Mom and dad loaded my sisters and me into the car and drove us to the high school parking lot. We kids ran around looking for friends until it grew dark and we rejoined Mom and Dad for the fireworks. They would launch out over the river and put on quite a show. Ottawa, Illinois had only 18,000 people then, but the show was always first class. We’d “Oooohhh!” And “Ahhhh!” with each launch. The grand finale was always amazing, at least to us little kids.
Ottawa Still has Great Fireworks, as Seen in These Photos from 2023.
Overseas in the Army in the ‘80s, there was usually a cookout at someone’s house. A bit of America in Germany – no fireworks, but a gathering of fellowship and celebration. We shared the common cause of defending America and that seemed enough.
In the ensuing decades, Cathy and I celebrated the 4th with cookouts, visits with friends, and the occasional firework display. It was always a good time.
Over the past decade, things have devolved.
Six years ago, in 2018 I published a blog about celebrating the 4th of July in 1976, our country’s 200th anniversary (you can find a link to the blog in the Addendum). Here’s a partial extraction from the end of the blog:
“I’ve been thinking about that evening in 1976 as our Independence Day celebration approaches this year (2018). The country went through a rough patch in the early 1970s leading up to our 200th birthday. Vietnam, anti war protests, Kent State, Nixon and Watergate, race issues, the assassination attempts on Ford, and multiple drug overdoses, to name just a few of the issues of the day. And yet, to me on that Fourth of July, it felt like we were all in one boat pulling together. We weren’t Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, young or old, black or white. We were just Americans, and it seemed our differences were set aside, at least for that night.
Which brings me back to this year’s Fourth of July. It appears we are less united now and I sometimes wonder if we can bridge our differences any more. We have a seventeen-year war, a drug crisis, race issues, and politicians, some more than others, who divide us. Hatred grows. I know we have gone through similar periods in our nation’s history, but online media accelerates and exasperates the situation. I try and think what the future might hold for this great country of ours, and the answer isn’t always clear.”
If anything, our divisions are worse now than they were only six years ago. 1976 itself seems positively quaint. We have divided into our camps with the extremists pulling us further apart. Democrats are evidently communists, while Republicans are fascists. It appears we have little or no room for compromise.
I texted back and forth with my old friends Howard and Mark about this. We are all at various places on the political spectrum and often argue/discuss politics. The conversation was wide-ranging and we talked about many things, including our imperfect union:
The fact that if you were a black slave at the founding of the country you were worth only 3/5 of a person with no rights at all. Given that, why wouldn’t Juneteenth be an important holiday?
Our Constitution doesn’t mention God at all and yet many Christian Nationalists are trying to make this country a “Christian Nation”.
Is there any holiday this diverse country can universally celebrate? More than a small number of citizens have adopted a mindset of victimhood and embrace presentism.
We came to no conclusions. Howard made the comment “I think July 4th is, on the surface, a very uncontroversial holiday, because everyone looks at it through the filter of their own politics. If you want to barbecue, it’s a great holiday. If you want to look at the deeper meaning of the day, I think we have a lot of work ahead of us.” Mark had a great suggestion – “I think we should adopt an entirely new holiday on a specific date not associated with anything, where we gather with people of opposite political persuasions to discuss potential areas of compromise and agreement.” A brilliant idea, but of course it will never happen.
At times, I do see small signs of hope. My buddy Dave has a condo just above the Iwo Jima memorial. Every year he hosts a 4th of July party. The view from his balcony is one of the very best in the entire Metro DC area to watch the fireworks. At the party are Republicans and Democrats, political true-believers and agnostics. It’s a great party and a helluva view of the fireworks. People have a good time, enjoy the food, libation and of course the fireworks. Politics aren’t discussed. The view of the fireworks over the monuments is so beautiful, it could almost convince you by itself that all is well with America.
4th of July View From Dave’s.
I think both Republicans and Democrats love America, or think they do. They also often believe the other side must hate America, otherwise, why would they adopt the positions they have?
I have no answers for these questions.
I was originally going to end the blog with the following paragraph:
If we can’t figure it out, I believe we will soon see the Grand Finale of America. Like the end of our fireworks display on the 4th, there will be a brilliant final scene, followed by darkness. Only in our case, the darkness won’t lift with the coming of dawn.
But, it felt too dark to me and I sat on it for a couple of days. I also talked with other friends.
We’ve had other tumultuous times in our history – the Civil War, the depression, McCarthyism, the 60s with Vietnam and racial strife to name a few. America has always managed to make it through. There have also been great moments of unity – World War II after Pearl Harbor, landing on the moon, our 200th birthday as a country, and the immediate aftermath of the 9-11 attack are a few examples in the last 100 years.
Those of you who know me, know I’m an optimist. I tend to see the good in situations and in people. In my heart, I think that optimism is also true for my view of our country. Whether Kennedy’s “City on a Hill”*, or George Bush’s “1,000 points of light”, America has largely been a beacon of hope for the world. Even today, with all of our issues people want to come to America, the land of opportunity.
Will we get through our current struggles? I hope and pray so. Maybe my “Grand Finale” mentioned previously is just one of a multitude of paths this country could take, and a low probability one at that. Still, I think it behooves all of us to do our part to ensure a better America, now and in the future.
I hope you enjoy your hotdogs and hamburgers this year, or whatever you are having to eat. If you can, take in the fireworks. Spend a few minutes thinking of our history and how we came to where we are as a country. Maybe also spend a few minutes thinking what you could do to elevate America for all of us. As Woodie Guthrie so aptly sang, “This land was made for you and me.”
Addendum:
Here’s the blog from six years ago: Good Morning America, How Are You?It was dusk turning to dark on July 4th, 1976 and Washington DC’s Bicentennial fireworks would start at any moment. Cathy and I were stuck in traffic on the 14th Street Bridge over the Potomac. It looked like we weren’t going […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/06/30/good-morning-america-how-are-you/
Thanks as always to my old friends Mark and Howard for their friendship and thoughts. Maybe because we are all thinking people and have been friends since grade school, we can have more free-wheeling political conversations.
Thanks to our niece, Ann McCambridge for supplying the photos of the 4th of July celebration in Ottawa from 2023.
Thanks to my friends Janis Johnson and Jim Overdahl for the photos from Dave’s balcony at a previous 4th of July. Thanks also to Jim for his thoughts and input to this blog.
* In JFK’s use of a shining city on a hill, he was talking about the new government he was forming in 1961 and said, “We must always consider that we shall be as a city upon a hill – the eyes of all people are upon us.” He reworked the phrase from John Winthrop, who In a famous 1630 sermon, used “shining city on a hill” in a reference to Boston
On a beautiful sunny day, sixteen of us attended the funeral of our brother, Eric Franks. The service was perhaps, more poignant, as it was the Friday before Memorial Day. It’s always bittersweet when members of the West Point Proud and Great class of ‘78 gather and say goodbye to a classmate.
At our 45th class reunion last fall, we held a memorial service for the 82 classmates who have passed away. This year, since January, at least ten additional classmates have died. The rate of our passing seems to have increased, but I suppose we are at that age. The youngest of us is 67. The oldest, maybe 71.
For those who pass away, a contingent of classmates typically attends the funeral services. Depending on when and where it is, there might be only one or two of us able to make it, or as at Eric’s, as many as 16 or more. It’s not only a last chance to honor a brother, but also an opportunity to spend time with each other and catch up in person. The sands drop through the hourglass more quickly these days and I think we all know it. Bittersweet indeed.
And so it was with Eric. Over the years, Cath and I saw Eric and his wife Robin at various reunions, or mini-reunions. The past few years, we also met them, along with our classmate Gus Hellzen and his wife Janice for an occasional beer or lunch on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. All three couples were married over 45 years ago in the weeks after our June, 1978 graduation. Our wives also made the journey through West Point and the Army.
B-3 Company-Mates and Wives at a Class Mini Reunion in 2022: Hellzens, Wells, Franks, Halls and Powells.
At the service, most classmates in attendance were from the MidAtlantic region, but some flew in from Alabama and Florida among other places. Classmate Brad Andrews, a close friend of Eric’s was one of two speakers giving a eulogy. He told stories of Eric from our cadet days and his time in the Army, including Panama. He talked about Eric becoming a renowned and pioneering Orthopedic Surgeon and the impact he had both on his patients and on other doctors. He also spoke of Eric having cancer and how it didn’t slow him down, even at the end of his life. At the end of his talk, he called the attending West Point graduates to attention and we rendered a final hand salute to Eric.
After the service, we gathered outside the church and a group photo was taken, something that has become a tradition at funerals, but also other times when some of us gather together to celebrate life and each other. The photos are usually posted to our class Facebook Page, or our email server. “Yes,” we seem to say, “we are still alive, celebrating our brother, each other and The Long Grey Line. Grip Hands.” At funerals in particular, the phrase “Grip Hands”, from the song The Corps* is more real and more important.
Class of 1978 at Dr. Eric Franks funeral in Salisbury, MD. L-R: Charlie Bartolotta, Max Hall, Bond Wells, Bob Rush, Craig College, Kevin MacCaffery, Kevin Beam, Bob Maszarose, Charlie Dixon, Adolf Ernst, Brad Andrews, Jack Paul, Hank Gillen, Chris Maxfield, Gus Hellzen & Jim Galloway.
Most of us eventually made our way to Robin and Eric’s home for lunch and libation. It was a lively time, with more laughter than tears as far as I could tell. We met with family and friends of Eric from throughout his life. At one point, Gus poured small glasses of WhistlePig** for all who wished to join us in a toast – “To Eric – Grip hands and be thou at peace. Proud & Great ‘78! Here’s to Eric.” And then, echoing from our formal events in the military (in an Army that was still mostly male in our early days), his second toast, “To the ladies!”
Eventually Cath and I said our goodbyes and left for the drive home. Along the way, we talked of the day and what a fine tribute to Eric it was.
During the drive, I also thought of some of the words Brad used in his eulogy for Eric. He quoted Samual Johnson, saying “To my question, as to whether we might fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered in a passion, ‘No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.’ “
Our hearts are with Robin, their children Erica and Ricky, and with their families. Here’s to you Eric – You led a life worth living. Be Thou at Peace.
Eric and Robin
Addendum:
Here are the words to “The Corps”:
WhistlePig Rye Whiskey holds a special place with our class. If you want to learn why, you can read more here – We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/
Thanks to Gus Hellzen for the photo of Eric and Robin at the start of this blog. Thanks to Cathy for the photo of classmates at Eric’s service.
On May 1st of this year, The United Methodist Church voted overwhelmingly to accept LGBTQ clergy and allow ministers to perform LGBTQ weddings. It was a good day for my church and for all of us. Raised as a Methodist, I’m happy to see the church finally take this next step, although it hasn’t been an easy path getting to this point.
I grew up a Methodist. I was baptized in the church as a baby, confirmed in my youth, and received my Boy Scout God and Country award after working with our minister, Reverened Hearn, for nearly a year. I belonged to the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) both in Junior High and High School. When mom passed away in 2017, her service was held at the same church I grew up in and where she and my dad were married in 1951. I believe our church was a part of my foundation, helping me grow into the person I’ve become.
Photo of my Methodist Church Confirmation Class in the ‘60s
John Wesley founded the Methodist Church in the mid 1700s and over time, it grew to become the second largest Protestant denomination in the United States. The church has focused on social issues from the beginning, including the abolition of slavery. The Methodist Church also promoted the idea of women pastors, who were officially recognized in 1956, earlier than most other churches.
Although the Methodist Church had openly gay members and ministers for quite some time, in 2019, delegates from around the world voted 438 to 384 passing what was called the “Traditional Plan”, which tightened the church’s existing ban on same-sex marriage and gay and lesbian clergy. Many of those that voted to tighten the ban were from overseas churches, particularly in Africa, and from conservative churches here in the southern United States. However, the writing was on the wall, and it was inevitable that change would come. As a result, in 2019 churches were also given a four-year window to choose to leave over “reasons of conscience” if they desired, and still keep their church property.
In the intervening four years, nearly a quarter of the nation’s roughly 30,000 United Methodist churches departed by the December ‘23 deadline. In Texas, more than forty percent of the churches left.
I prefer looking at the statistics another way. Three-quarters of the churches elected to stay and embrace love, and the future. The tally Wednesday to remove the 40-year-old ban on the ordination of “self-avowed practicing homosexuals” was 692 to 51. Embrace the future, indeed.
Sign Outside my Old Church Back Home. **
“We’ve always been a big-tent church where all of God’s beloved were fully welcome,” said Bishop Tracy Smith Malone, the new president of the Council of Bishops. She called the vote “a celebration of God breaking down walls.” *
After the votes, some attendees gathered in a circle to sing a Methodist song that has become a refrain for many LGBTQ Christians. “Draw the circle wide, draw it wider still. Let this be our song: No one stands alone.” *
I spoke with a friend, Bob, who I grew up with. Bob still lives back home and goes to our old church there. He told me that at last week’s service, as communion was offered, the minister made an extra point of saying everyone is welcome to take communion. Everyone.
Yes, I grew up a Methodist. I’m proud of what the Church did this month. God’s love is alive and with all of us. Let this be our song – no one stands alone.
++Feel free to share this blog.++
Addendum:
Thanks to my friend Bob, back in Ottawa for reviewing this blog and providing some input. We had some texts back and forth on what was going on in the Methodist Church in general, and more specifically in my old church there. Bob is a true person of faith and I respect him, and his opinions.
* These two paragraphs were modified from a New York Times article on the recent vote.
** Photo is from 1st United Methodist Church of Ottawa, Il Facebook page.
Dear God, I ask that you guide me, so I do not become a bitter old man. There are so many of them these days. Angry at women, angry at youth, angry at our country, angry at you. Their’s is a seemingly endless list. Often, they appear angry at everything except themselves. Do not let me become that person.
God, I know in our youth, we laughed at angry old men. We didn’t see us becoming them, and yet so many have. They look back with fondness to the “good old days”. I look back, and I’m not sure I see the good times they long for. Which years are they talking about? The depression in the ‘30s? The 400,000 American Soldiers or 75 million who died during WWII? The Korean War, threat of nuclear escalation and racial segregation of the ‘50s? Vietnam along with the racial and civil strife during the ‘60s and ‘70s? The market crashes in ‘87, 2000, ‘07 and 2020? September 11th, 2001? Our recent decades of war in Iraq and Afghanistan?
Lord, I know the world isn’t perfect. We all have problems in our lives. I have problems in my life. Still, I try to see the passing beauty and goodness of each and every day. Why do others choose not to see this? A sunrise or sunset … Flowers … A flock of birds passing overhead … A playful pet … The sounds of nature … The crack of a bat at a baseball game …. There are so many things to be thankful for.
Instead, their hatred, frustration and self-censorship consume their minds, allowing no other sights or sounds to enter. Indeed, my own voice must sound like a clanging bell or siren to them, not penetrating their consciousness, only infuriating them all the more.
God, why do we now have a nation of Howard Beales*, old men who are mad as hell, and aren’t going to take it anymore? Are they not aware Howard was not only “mad as hell”, but also just plain mad? It was network TV for Howard. For the madmen of today, we see it not only on TV, but in their Facebook posts, tweets, messages and email exchanges with those of us who were their friends.
Thank you for listening Lord. I know you are busy. Please help and guide me. Allow me to keep balance in my life. Maybe you could also shine a little light for others as well. Help them also regain some balance. As I learned from the Cadet Prayer years ago, “Kindle our hearts in fellowship with those of a cheerful countenance, and soften our hearts with sympathy for those who sorrow and suffer.”
I ask this in your name,
Amen.
Addendum:
* For those of you who don’t recall Howard Beale, here’ a link to the key scene in the movie, “Network”, which was released in 1976 (according to at least some people, part of the good old days). Mad Mr Beale takes to the air waves and, well you can see for yourself here if you’ve forgotten the scene https://youtu.be/GFzlm9wQ4MI
The photo at the top of the blog is from “Praying Hands”, a pen-and-ink drawing by the German painter and theorist Albrecht Dürer. Completed in 1508, Wikipedia says it is “the most widely reproduced depiction of prayer in the Western World”.
My walking companion for the past nine years is sidelined. Carmen needed surgery last week to repair a ruptured ligament in her left rear leg. We went down this road with a previous dog, Holly, and are familiar with the journey. It doesn’t make it any less distressing for the three of us.
Carmen in Happier Times.
Yep, nine years of walking together came to an end about ten days ago. Our neighbors haven’t done a good job of managing their dog Kylie and keeping him under control*. I actually like Kylie. He’s a Golden Retriever and friendly enough. The problem is, after two years they still don’t keep Kylie at home. They “think” they do; the reality is something else and Kylie wanders. Ten days ago, we found him in our yard again playing roughly with Carmen and jumping on her. It wasn’t done meanly, but he outweighs her by 25 pounds. I sent him home, and then noticed Carmen limping. That night the limp worsened and the next morning, she wouldn’t put weight on the leg. That’s when we went to the vet.
Evaluations, tests, X-rays … the results came back. She needed surgery for a torn ligament in her leg. We were lucky there was a cancellation for another patient and scheduled her surgery for the following Wednesday.
X-ray of Camen’s Knee, and an Explanation of the Surgery.
The first morning after the doctor’s initial evaluation was a challenge. I took her outside on a leash to do her business. She gave me a look as I put on the leash – “Well, this is strange.” As she did a three-legged hop down the driveway, she became visibly upset and stopped in her tracks when I diverted her onto the grass to potty. “What?! What are you doing?! We ALWAYS walk to the barn in the morning!” I had no way of explaining this was for her own good and I was just looking out for her. After she finished, I carried her back towards the house, before putting her on the ground. She dutifully hopped into the house on her three good legs.
She’s a good dog, and a brave dog. I hated seeing her hop around as a tripod before the surgery. There were no complaints. Just the sad look in her eyes when I left the house without her to go for a walk, or to clean the horse stalls. I knew she’d happily try to three-leg-hop for two miles with me if I let her. She doesn’t understand, of course.
Wednesday came and the surgery went well. She had a procedure called a TPLO**. Our surgeon, DR Nicholson let us know, “Carmen did great!” Bringing her home, the first day was tough for all three of us. Carmen was out of it and mostly slept. We were able to get her to drink a little water and take her pain pills with a little peanut butter, but that was it. She didn’t want to stir and we didn’t force it. Finally, it was time for bed. She was sleeping so soundly, we didn’t take her out.
Knocked Out the First Night.
I slept on the couch that night, and her bed was nearby. Around 3AM I woke and sensed something. I looked to my right and Carmen was sitting up, looking at me. After putting her leash on, I carried her outside and gently put her down. She tripodded a bit and then urinated. She hopped a dozen steps or so, and then poo’d as well. I carried her back inside, gave her a treat and some more water and we shared a look. That’s when I knew she was going to be OK.
We both slept in the next morning. After feeding the horses, I returned and a while later, Carmen stirred. Cath and I both greeted her and she gave us a small tail wag. A brief walk outside to do her business, then some water, a little food, and more pills.
Later, we looked at each other again. It was time to start rehab and so we did. She tripodded out for another pee, and then we did our first Physical Therapy (PT) session – a five minute walk. Two more PT sessions followed that day. Also, we now had to occasionally use an Elizabethan Collar*** to keep her from licking her stitches.
Carmen in Her Elizabethan Collar.
She slept through the next night and in the morning, we walked to the barn. Well, I walked and she hopped. She was happy back at the barn and sniffed around. We fed the horses and returned to the house. Our first PT session of the 2nd day was complete.
Doing PT.
Time passed and by day three post-surgery, she was more normal and more alert. PT continued and she put more weight on her leg. It was a warm February day, and what she really wanted was a chance to lay in the sun like the old days, pre-injury. We both spent some time soaking up rays.
Sometimes, a Little Warm Sunshine Helps as Much as PT
Over the next several days, Cath and I both spent time exercising Carmen. We do our three sessions a day religiously and you can see her improving. She is using the injured leg more as she walks. As a patient, her attitude is great. We should all be so enthusiastic when we need to do PT after injuries or surgery.
And so it begins. The first week is in the books. We have goals and checkpoints along the way – the three-week mark; the 6-8 week time period; three months… With hard work, good luck and God’s grace, Carmen will be “normal” in five to six months.
Right now, we’re taking it one day at a time.
Addendum:
* After the first vet visit, I had a not particularly pleasant conversation with Kylie’s owner. He was “surprised” Kylie was still coming to our place and was sorry (I called bullshit – Kylie is at our place at least once a week and visits other neighbors as well). I told him he needed to control Kylie – A fence, an underground fence, or only letting Kylie out when he was with him. If I saw Kylie on our property again, we would have an issue. He agreed. Of course, Kylie was on our property again two days later. I let the owner know if I saw Kylie again, I would call animal control. He assured me they are putting in a fence and for now, Kylie wouldn’t be outside unless tied up. We’ll see. I don’t hate Kylie or hold him responsible. I do put blame on his owners. It’s never good when your dog needs to go through surgery. It’s a bit sad when it was avoidable. Too little too late, as they say. Maybe I should have been an ass about Kylie earlier.
** TPLO Surgery – You can’t really repair a dog’s ligaments. Instead, they now do something called Tibial Plateau Leveling Osteotomy (TPLO) surgery, a major advancement in the treatment of ligament rupture. “This surgery changes the angle and relationship between the thigh bone (femur) and the shin bone (tibia). The overall intent of the surgery is to reduce the amount the tibia shifts forward during a stride. This is accomplished by making a semicircular cut through the top of the tibia, rotating the top of the tibia, and using a bone plate to allow the tibia to heal. This realignment of the surfaces within the knee (stifle) helps to provide stability during a stride and helps to reduce future joint inflammation and osteoarthritis. By carefully adjusting the angle or slope of the top of the tibia, surgeons can create a more normal configuration of the knee joint and reduce mechanical stress.” You can learn more here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tibial-plateau-leveling_osteotomy
*** I like “Elizabethan Collar” or E-Collar so much better than “Cone of Shame”. No need to make fun of them when they are vulnerable.
The last time I saw Tim, I was back in Ottawa for my Brother-in-Law Jack’s funeral. I didn’t know it would be the last time, although I suspected it might. Mark, Howard and I were invited to Tim and Renee’s home for a lunch of Mooseburgers, with Tim serving as grill master.
Cath and I had visited Tim and Renee a few weeks before, while in Ottawa for my 50th high school reunion. After flying into Chicago, we stopped by and spent a few hours at their place in St Charles. It was good to catch up. They were supposed to make the reunion as well, but couldn’t. At the time, Tim was a 4+ year pancreatic cancer survivor, but things were going downhill the last couple of months prior to the reunion.
When Jack died of brain cancer a couple of weeks later, I returned for his services and to see my sister Roberta. I called Tim and Renee to see if we might get together, and I think Tim came up with the idea of the group lunch. Old buddies, Mark and Howard were invited and both quickly said yes. The five of us met on the 14th of October.
Tim, Howard and I have known each other since before kindergarten. Mark came on the scene around 5th grade and we have all been buddies ever since. As to Renee, Tim and Renee met through Cath and I in the early ‘90s. What started as friendship turned into love, and they married.
Tim and Renee’s Wedding.
The lunch was a good time. Renee made some wonderful appetizers and our conversations were wide-ranging. Yes, we talked about Tim’s cancer, but we also talked about the Bears and the White Sox, and as is inevitable when together, retold stories from our youth and good times together over the years.
After a while, Tim shuffled out to the grill and cooked the Mooseburgers. They’d brought the ground moose back last summer from their annual vacation to their place in Maine. I believe a cousin shot the moose and gave them some of the burger. Renee let us know that although he was weaker, Tim insisted on cooking. The burgers were great, and cooked perfectly. There was more talk and Tim, his voice somewhat raspy, eventually grew tired. It was time to go. We hugged Renee, fist-bumped Tim and said our goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mark drove north to Wisconsin, while Howard and I headed south. It was the last time all of us were together.
Mooseburgers
Tim and I continued to text almost daily after that. The last one from him was on November 8th, when he congratulated me on the Virginia election results. After that, the link went silent. Cath and I stayed in contact with Renee and others, and knew Tim’s condition was worsening. Late on the night of December 4th, Renee called and let us know Tim passed away. After talking a while longer, I sent our love her way and hung up the phone. I silently cried dry tears.
I’ve known Tim for about 65 of my 68 years. Tim…June…Junebug… There are so many stories. Although I know there are groans in some quarters when we re-tell them for the 1,000th time, they still bring a smile to my face. In my mind, rather than a film, I see thousands of snapshots of our times together. The number of actual photos is more limited. Unlike now, back in the day we didn’t have the technology, or the desire, to capture everything going on. I think our lives are a little richer for that.
The “snapshots” of those times blur together. Some of the memories are blurry as well, while others are crystal clear. They span two continents, several states and seven decades.
I can turn the kaleidoscope of those decades in my mind and several pictures emerge – earning my God And Country Scout award in ‘68 with Tim and Howard; Tim, Howard and Mark serving as groomsmen for Cathy’s and my wedding in ‘78; multiple visits by Tim and Howard to our home in Germany in the ‘80s; introducing Tim and Renee in the ‘90s and then they married; ski trips to West Virginia in the ‘90s and 2000s with Tim never leaving the cabin; wonderful Bordeaux Dinners at Tim and Renee’s home near Chicago in the 201Xs; all four couples together at Camp Kishauwa in ‘22.
Tim, Howard and I Receiving our God and Country Awards.
I turn the kaleidoscope a second time and different pictures emerge – in the 60s, Tim and I in Boy Scouts sharing a tent at Camp Kishauwa; the Ottawa Gluttons eating team at OHS in ‘73; shipping a keg of bier from Germany to Tim in Chicago in ‘86; visiting Tim and Howard at their iconic Chicago apartment on numerous occasions in the ‘90s; New Year’s Eve dinners at the farm with Tim and Renee in ‘99 and the 2000s; Cath and I visiting Tim and Renee’s beloved Maine for a vacation; endlessly talking and texting about politics and history during Covid.
At Howard and Tim’s Apartment in Chicago in the Early ‘90s.
I rotate the kaleidoscope again and more memories race through my mind – Mrs Finkeldye’s first grade class; drinking biers at the Butler’s House in our high school years; church youth fellowship; Tim saving me from the MPs in Germany; Tim sleeping on the couch with our dog, Top; Tim and Renee with Cath and I skinny dipping in Lost River; Tim and Renee at the Hash; Tim, Howard, Mark and I decades ago on a New Year’s Eve at 3AM in a picture forever frozen in time – all of us young, with our whole lives in front of us…
New Year’s Eve 1978.
There were no photos taken of us at the Mooseburger lunch. We didn’t need or want any. What I’ll remember is the fellowship and love of old friends spending a few hours together. I’ll always remember that lunch. Always. The memory of it will spark a kaleidoscope of images – an endless stream of snapshots in an infinite number of combinations.
In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987 […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/09/12/tim-and-bobbys-visit/
The night wasn’t supposed to happen. As a matter of fact, in today’s post 9-11 world, it couldn’t happen. They never would have made it through security. But in 1991? Yea, my buddies Howard and June sprung me from O’Hare Airport during a layover, and we had an unexpected night in Chicago. It was July 2nd, 1991 and I’d been in Omaha, Nebraska running tests on the President’s “other plane” for […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/30/an-accidental-night-in-chicago/
This slightly blurry photo from New Years Eve, 1978 captures Mark, Howard, Tim and me. We are, perhaps, slightly inebriated. Our youth has passed, and our adult lives stretch in front of us. Looking at the picture now, 42 years later, I think about our friendship and the transience of […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/12/27/old-friends-dunny-howard-june-and-ben/
Live Life Exuberantly 