Holly and Eve

Detective Sam Sullivan looked at the woman’s body and raised an eyebrow. Something wasn’t quite right. The morgue’s Medical Examiner looked at him. “Did I miss something?” Sullivan shook his head and lowered his eye, which, by the way, was killing him from the punch he took two nights before.

“No, nothing immediately, but something’s not right. Thanks.”

Detective. Who was he kidding? He wasn’t a detective. He wasn’t even a cop anymore. A Private Investigator is what he was now. A PI. A dick. A shamus. Or that bullshit modern term he hated, an Inquiry Agent. Bogie as Sam Spade made it look romantic. In reality, the job was anything but romantic. In reality, all it did for him was pay the mortgage, and it didn’t do a particularly good job at that.

He left the hospital, climbed into his F250 and drove away. The F250, much like its owner, had seen better days. It was rusty and dented, but the engine still worked fine. Actually, better than fine. The truck was from 2002, the last full year Ford put the 7.3 liter V8 diesel engine in the 250 and people were constantly trying to buy it from him. At least no one had tried to steal it. As he left the parking lot, he drove the speed limit. There was lots to think about and he was in no particular hurry to get anywhere.

It was late afternoon by the time he reached home. He pulled out the Elijah Craig, poured himself a small glass and grabbed a Gispert. In the old days, he drank Blanton’s, but ever since bourbon had become a “thing” Blanton’s was impossible to find. Nowadays, all the idiot bourbon collectors bought it up as soon as it hit the shelves and drove the price to stupid levels. That’s OK, he thought. Me and Mr. Craig get along just fine. Eventually bourbon as a fad will fade, and we can all go back to normal. He took a sip and walked towards the door.

Out on the back porch, he took another sip and then lit the Gispert. He only smoked a cigar every couple of weeks, and like the Elijah Craig, the Gispert was decent. If you were going to smoke only an occasional cigar, why overpay for the privilege?

No, something wasn’t right, but he couldn’t figure it out. If he hadn’t taken the punch in the bar parking lot two nights ago, he would have agreed Eve’s death was indeed accidental, as the Medical Examiner had decreed. Still, the punch and something about Eve today made him think otherwise. What the hell was different about Eve?

His glass was empty, but half the cigar was still left, so he poured himself another inch and a half of bourbon. This was going to take some time.

He turned it over in his mind. Eve was laying there on the slab, looking pretty as always, but something was off. Her jewelry was missing, but that was to be expected. He started drifting off to sleep and as a dream began, the answer popped into his brain.

…

His phone rang and brought him out of the light sleep. With that, the answer to Eve’s appearance disappeared like morning mist on a hot day. He looked at the number and answered. “Hello?”

“Mr. Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Robert Samual Sullivan?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Sullivan, this is Amy with Doctor Frank’s office. I just wanted you to know your test results came in and are positive. I’m so sorry. We’ll definitely need to schedule the procedure soon.”

He didn’t say anything. Of course it came back positive. Only a fool, or someone with regular good luck would expect anything else.

“Mr. Sullivan. Mr Sullivan, are you there?”

“Yea. I’m here. Thanks.” He hung up the phone and went into the kitchen for a drink of water.

A voice called out from the bedroom. “Bob, who was on the phone? Is everything OK?” He shuffled into the bedroom and looked at Holly, his wife. She hadn’t been able to leave the bed under her own power since the accident. He couldn’t tell her. Or at least he couldn’t tell her right now. “Nobody. It was DirectTV trying to sell us expanded service.” Holly’s caregiver, Millie, looked at him with dead eyes but he just stared back until she looked away.

He turned around and walked to the couch where he lay down and tried to go back to sleep. No, he was no detective, and he wasn’t much of a PI. He was just one more semi-retired guy, running out of rope. He hadn’t really smoked in a decade, and under doctors orders, had mostly quit drinking the year before, but it didn’t make a difference. His condition had worsened. He’d have to deal with it at some point, just as he would have to tell Holly everything at some point. What a nightmare it had all become. Thirty years together and this is what it had all come to.

The place he mostly smoked or drank now was in his dreams. Maybe if he got back to sleep quick enough, the dream would start up again and Detective Sam Sullivan could help solve the problem of Eve’s death, while having a bourbon or two. Anything was better than dealing with the problems of real life in the real world. Anything.

Addendum:

This is the first time I’ve written any fiction for the blog (or at all for that matter). My old friend James Sullivan posted a closeup picture of his eyes and I was enthralled by it. I asked him if I could use it for the basis of a story. He readily agreed. At the time I had no idea what the story would be about, and then after a couple of days, this one popped into my brain. Weirdly, it was all inspired by the eyes.
James and I worked together years ago at a company called SRA. He’s an Army Veteran, a great chef, works in IT and is a smart and generous person. Other than his eyes, he has nothing in common with Robert Samual Sullivan (that I am currently aware of 🙂 ). Thanks so much for use of the photo James!

***James Sullivan – Owner of the Eyes***

This “short” short story may stop here, or I may continue it. If you have any thoughts either way, leave a comment here, or shoot me an email at: mnhall@gmail.com . If even mildly interested in learning more about Robert, Holly and Eve, let me know. If I were to continue the story, it might happen with an occasional blog, or I may try a different route.

June 14, A Big Day Every Year

As my friend and West Point Classmate Bill Moeller noted, it is perhaps no coincidence that the Birthday of the United States Army, Flag Day and National Bourbon Day are all celebrated each year on the same Date: June 14th. It turns out all three of their stories go back to the late 1700s.

I’ve always thought that understanding our nation’s history was important. When I learned June 14th was shared by the Army, our Flag, and Bourbon, it seemed worth doing some historical digging. Here’s what I learned.

Before there was an American Flag, before there was American Bourbon, the United States Army was around to protect both.

One year prior to declaring our independence from Great Britain, the Continental Congress approved the formation of the Army on 14 June 1775. On that date, they authorized the enlistment of ten companies of riflemen to serve the United Colonies for one year to form the “the American Continental Army.” The next day, Congress issued its first commission by appointing George Washington “General and Commander in chief of the Army of the United Colonies, and of all the forces now raised, or to be raised by them, and of all others who shall voluntarily offer their services, and join the Defense of American liberty, and for repelling every hostile invasion…”

***Washington Crossing the Delaware with the Continental Army in December 1776.***

While there are some questions about whether Betsy Ross actually sewed the first American flag, there is no doubt about when Congress recognized our first flag. On June 14, 1777, two years after the formation of the Army, Congress passed the Flag Resolution, which stated, “Resolved: that the flag of the United States be made of thirteen stripes, alternate red and white; that the union be thirteen stars, white in a blue field, representing a new Constellation.” In 1916, President Woodrow Wilson issued a proclamation that officially established June 14 as Flag Day and on August 3, 1949, National Flag Day was established by an Act of Congress.

The story of National Bourbon Day is, not surprisingly, a bit murkier. One legend has it that bourbon was first produced by Reverend Elijah Craig on June 14th, 1789. In the late 1780s, Craig was allegedly using old fish barrels to store his spirits. Of course, the fish-flavored wood did not help the taste at all, so Craig started conditioning the barrels by charring the inside. He then stamped the barrels with their county of origin (Bourbon County in what was then Virginia and is now Kentucky) and sent them on a 90-day trip to New Orleans. The charred oak and three-month travel time combined to mellow the whiskey some and folks in New Orleanians requested more of “that whiskey from Bourbon.” Yes, I agree the story, or at least the date of June 14th sounds a bit fishy (pun intended), but who am I to judge? There are enough other competing stories that all trace the origin of “bourbon” to the 1780s and make that time period a credible time of origination. As a side note, in 1964, the United States Congress recognized bourbon as a “distinctive product of the United States of America”.

So, there you have it, a bit of distinctly American history. As an Army Vet, I know what I’ll be doing on June 14th. I’ll raise a glass of bourbon in a salute to both our Flag, and all of the Army Veterans who have served our country over the years. I hope you will join me. It seems to me the least we can do.

***Cheers to All on June 14th From This Veteran…***

Addendum:

– For the record, the United States Army is the senior service. The Continental Navy was established on 13 October 1775, and The Continental Marines on 10 November 1775. The Coast Guard traces it’s beginnings to 4 August 1790. The Air Force was established as an independent service on 18 September 1947, and the Space Force (ughhh) was established on 20 December 2019.

– National Bourbon Day – I searched to find out when the first National Bourbon Day occurred, but could find nothing online.

– Here are a couple of other historical facts about bourbon itself:

The Elijah Craig story is a nice one, but there’s no historical proof of it. There were certainly others who were shipping whiskey in barrels in the 1780s.
The Marker’s Mark distillery, which opened in 1805, is the oldest distillery in the country, and has been declared a National Historic Landmark.
In 1834 Doctor James Crow perfected the sour mash process and made what was probably the first “modern” bourbon. He employed the “Sour Mash Method” on a daily basis to give his whiskey consistency.
In 1840, “Bourbon”, by name, was first advertised in a newspaper.
In 1840 bourbon whiskey officially became known as bourbon. Before then, the product carried the name Bourbon County Whiskey or Old Bourbon County Whiskey.
In 1870 Old Forester became “America’s First Bottled Bourbon” when founder George Brown was the first to put Bourbon in a glass bottle. Prior to that, it was only available in barrels.

Living Life in a War Zone

I recently received another email from my friend Bob in Ukraine: “Last night the air raid alarms went off about 2:30 am. We were hoping the attack was only another wave of the Iranian Shaheed drones, as the defenses are normally stopping 100% of those. But when the text of the warning came to my wife Vita’s phone, it was a major missile attack. The attack was targeting Kyiv directly.”

This is the second blog I’ve written about my friend Bob Pitts who lives near Kyiv, Ukraine. A link to the first blog is in the Addendum.

Bob’s email continued: “Six Kh-47M2 “Kinzhal” missiles were launched from six MiG-31K aircraft. The Kinzhal is Putin’s hypersonic missile that he has bragged about as being unstoppable. Making statements about it as some secret Russian technology America and the West can’t match.

BUT – Every one of them was shot down in the air, so I imagine there is some serious nervousness in the Kremlin right now. Someone has to go and tell Putin his magic hypersonic missiles are no longer effective – and also tell him he just wasted many millions on this attack. (They don’t have many of these left in stock to begin with). Before last night’s attack -> no one had been able to stop the Kinzhal missiles.

In addition to the Kinzhals, 9 Kalibr cruise missiles were launched from ships in the Black Sea, and three land-based missiles (S-400, “Iskander-M”). All of them were destroyed by the air defense forces of Ukraine.

The sound of the missile being hit was deafening- our windows and doors shook. The attack came from the South and so the defenses hit them near our town. Thankfully not directly over us, as there are reports of damage from falling debris.”

***Debris Falling During the Recent Missile Attack on Kyiv.***

I can’t quite imagine the heart-pounding you must feel going through an attack like that. And of course, some version of this has been happening for over a year now in Ukraine.

Throughout it all, we need to remember people also live their lives. In Bob and Vita’s case, that included celebrating their eighteenth wedding anniversary about a week after the big attack. They’ve lived in both America and Ukraine during those eighteen years and have been in Ukraine for the past two years.

***Bob and Vita on Their Wedding Day, Eighteen Years Ago in Florida.***

For their anniversary, they celebrated at Cafe’ Mimi in their hometown of Brovary, just outside of Kyiv. Katya, the chef/owner of Cafe’ Mimi made them an American carrot cake using Vita’s recipe – Bob says he has “had carrot cake all over the US and in many other countries and THIS one was the best I have EVER eaten -> better than my grandmother’s.” 😎

***Katya’s Carrot Cake – Maybe, Better than Grandma’s?***

We see stories of sharing life and love during the dangers of war over and over in both the real world and in fiction. The great novels “Doctor Zhivago” (Pasternak), “For Whom the Bell Tolls” (Hemingway), “A Time to Love and a Time to Die” (Remarque), or “From Here to Eternity” (Jones) showed us those love stories in fiction, but I like to think Bob and Vita’s story in real life gives them a good run for the money. Life goes on, even amid the struggles of wartime. Sometimes, all you really need is to be with the love of your life and enjoy a slice of carrot cake.

***Sometimes, All You Really Need is The Love of Your Life, and a Slice of Carrot Cake.***

We should all celebrate life as lovingly as Bob and Vita and remember to focus on what is truly important.

Addendum:

I received this email update from Bob yesterday after I’d already written this blog and just 12 hours before posting it: “The Russians have stepped up their missile attacks in the past few days. They appear to be in a panic that Ukraine successfully used the new British StormShadow missile to destroy a large troop and munitions hub just at the border (this had been out of range until now). Reports are that a trainload of 500+ new soldiers were destroyed along with all their armor and munitions … Last night was a massive missile attack – many of the missiles were the hypersonic ones we shot down 37 of 40 missiles and 29 of 35 drones. Then again today around noon another attack again with hypersonic / ballistic missiles. We shot down 11 of 11 … There was damage / injuries from falling debris and there were some deaths in rural areas – an elderly couple was killed when debris crushed the roof of their home … I think that the Russians know that they are in deep trouble. They know that we are about to hand them their butts on a platter very soon. That is why they are stepping up the frequency of attacks and making an all out worldwide propaganda and diplomacy push to push for the west to stop helping Ukraine.”
Thanks to my friend Bob for providing the material for this blog and for helping to edit. I’m so happy we have reconnected.
You can read my first blog about Bob from a couple of weeks ago here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/16/in-ukraine/
Bob has written a book about Ukraine called UKRAINE: THE AWAKENING: My 20 years of witnessing Ukrainians rediscover their nationhood. When the war began, he became concerned about how little westerners, especially Americans, understand about Ukraine, its people, its history and how the relationship with Russia is misinterpreted in Western media coverage. The book gives readers a view into Ukrainian culture and the beauty of the people. I’ve bought and read the book and recommend it – I’ll publish a short review in a future blog. Here’s a link to the book on Amazon: https://a.co/d/6qUppBU

In Ukraine

It was 6:20PM on May 8th DC time, or 1:20AM on May 9th in Kyiv, Ukraine when Bob called. He was in his study, expecting to have to go to their bomb shelter soon. May 9th is a big celebration in Russia for their victory over Nazi Germany in 1945 and there was sure to be an attack. We talked for perhaps twenty minutes, the first time in a couple of years. Things were OK, but it was still tough in Ukraine.

Bob and I worked together at a company called SRA for several years, got along well and were friends. Around twenty years ago, Bob met Vita, the woman who would eventually become his wife. She is Ukrainian by background and still has family there. Over the years, and particularly once Bob retired, they spent time both here in the US and also in Ukraine. They have currently lived in Ukraine for the past two years.

He recently sent a text updating me on what has been going on in his life:

“Last year, we decided that we simply couldn’t leave all our family and friends here in Ukraine. So we decided come hell or high water – this was what we needed to do.

We live in a bedroom community of the capital called Brovary. Brovary was in the news a few times at the beginning of the war because they tried to come through here on the major highways to get to Kyiv. We did have some scary times those first few weeks. I never thought I would see the day that I stood in my front yard and could hear (and even feel sometimes) tank and artillery battles. The front came to within about 5 miles of us before the good guys beat them back and they retreated.

These days the front is a couple hundred miles south of us. We continue to have regular missile and drone attacks. These were WAY bad early on, but now the best defense umbrella is over Kyiv and we are in that protected zone. Still, we have a lot of attacks and the air raid sirens go off at 2 and 3 in the morning and we all have to run to the basement/shelter in the barn. That hasn’t been fun and there is a lot of lost sleep that makes everything more difficult. My neighbors and I joke (only partially) that if there is a direct hit on any of our barns, the other neighbors will come and dig us out.

We do all we can to help the army. Donations – we’ve bought uniforms, boots, tents, food and chainsaws, you name it. I even helped my neighbor, Dima, who is a long range mortar specialist to replace the windows in his car that were shot out when he was coming home on leave. The war has gone on so long, they are rotating some of these guys out and giving them a break.

Things are still very bad in some of the smaller towns where the defenses are not as robust. The stories of what has happened to innocent civilians is more than I can say here. There have been real, no bullshit war crimes…”

***Bob and Dima, While Dima was on Leave***

Bob has written a book about Ukraine called UKRAINE: THE AWAKENING: My 20 years of witnessing Ukrainians rediscover their nationhood. He worked over this past winter in Brovary to capture the points he believes are important for westerners to know. When the war began, he became concerned about how little westerners, especially Americans, understand about Ukraine, its people, its history and how the relationship with Russia is badly misinterpreted in Western news media coverage.

The book is intended to give readers a view into Ukrainian culture and the beauty of the people. There is also a bit of the history of Russian relations that is helpful to understand the conflict and to dispel some of the propaganda narratives the Kremlin has been using.

I’ve posted a link to the book in the Addendum. In the meantime, I’ve purchased a copy myself, and promise to give an update on Bob, and the book after I finish reading it.

***Bob’s Book – Ukraine, The Awakening.***

I asked Bob about posting this info, and whether he was concerned about retaliation. Here was his comment back to me: “ Max, I would fully support your using the material in your blog. My reasoning on writing the book is to get the word out, so this would help a lot I think. As far as security goes – to hell with Putin and his goons. I think he has bigger fish to fry than me, but I am not running or hiding from that son of a bitch.”

On the morning of the 9th, I woke up, and after feeding the horses, made my coffee as usual. When I opened my iPad, this message was waiting for me from Bob: “It was really good speaking with you last night Max. We are all good here after the attacks – they started around 4am. We destroyed 23 out of 25 cruise missiles in the air”.

—I will continue to report on Bob’s story in a couple of future blogs. —

Addendum:

Here is a link to the book at Amazon if you are interested in purchasing it: https://a.co/d/6qUppBU
And, Here is a recent Zoom interview Bob did with Cortney Evans at WMBB 13 ABC in Panama City, Florida: https://youtu.be/GuJoxO8Qi8s
I’ve written one previous blog about Ukraine. You can read it here: Command and Control (C2), along with Command Centers, are phrases you hear concerning the Russians in Ukraine. In my military career, I worked all levels of C2 from Infantry Brigade to Presidential, and I can see the Russians are shockingly missing, or ignoring some C2 fundamentals. […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/06/14/russian-command-and-control/
Euromaidan Press (seen at the end of the blog) is a daily English language summation of Ukrainian news and information. If interested, look online and you can subscribe here: https://euromaidanpress.com

Operation WhistlePig

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 any of our classmates down.

I’ve recounted the history of our classmate Dave Pickerell in a blog before*, but will briefly summarize it here, as it is fundamental to this story. The Army, in its infinite wisdom, sent Dave to grad school for a master’s degree in chemical engineering. Later, after teaching at West Point, Dave left the Army and joined Makers Mark Distillery, where he was the master distiller for 14 years. He then struck out on his own and became known as the “Johnny Appleseed” of craft distilleries, and helped many, many distilleries start-up. Eventually, he also became a founder and the master distiller for WhistlePig Whiskey, which makes some of the best rye whiskeys in the world. Dave passed away a few years ago, but his legacy lives on at nearly 100 distilleries across the country.

***Dave Pickerell as a Cadet, and Then Later in Life.***

A little over a year ago, our West Point Class held a mini-reunion at the Biltmore in North Carolina. On one of the evenings there, we did a whiskey tasting of several whiskeys Dave had an impact on*. The tasting was to honor Dave, and our other departed classmates. Everyone had such a good time at that event, it became the genesis of Operation WhistlePig.

We originally talked about doing a class tasting for our 45th reunion in the Fall of ‘23, but the logistics at West Point became a bit difficult. Bill Moeller then came up with the idea of purchasing a barrel of WhistlePig for the reunion. Classmate Tony Matos, who lives in New Hampshire not far from the WhistlePig Farm Distillery, became point man and started working with Mark Kanya of WhistlePig to understand the dynamics of a barrel purchase. In the meantime initial funding was lined up through classmate Jeff Manley, and a survey of classmates was completed to gauge interest. 206 classmates responded saying they were interested. A barrel of whiskey holds 156 bottles. We were on.

Of course, you don’t just buy a barrel of whiskey. Each barrel is different depending on multiple factors. WhistlePig invited “around ten of us” to a barrel tasting at the farm. We were to select “our barrel” from three different barrels we would taste from. It would then be bottled in a special release, with a small label honoring our class, and our fallen classmates. The team grew from four to six, then eventually to ten of us. In addition to Tony, Bill, Rob Grubbs and I (Rob, Bill and I organized the Biltmore tasting), José Morales, Al Aycock, Gus Hellzen, Jim Steiner, Jack Cronin and Rusty Roberts were added. Our number was set, as was our date, the 3rd of May. Reservations were made at a nearby Airbnb for May 2-4, and then it was just a matter of waiting for the big day.

Tony, who did a great job coordinating the event overall, sent an email to the Class on May 1st announcing Operation WhistlePig was about to commence. He was flooded with responses from classmates with good wishes, others wanting to immediately order a bottle, and some wanting to join us and help select the barrel. Tony graciously explained to folk why it wasn’t possible, although after checking with WhistlePig, three folk who were relatively local at the time were added for the tasting itself – Bob Rush and his wife Erica, and Ron Hall. They joined us for the tasting, but not the entire three days.

***Tony’s Announcement to the Class About Operation WhistlePig.***

On the second of May, we gathered. Classmates flew in or drove from Texas, Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina and Georgia. Others arrived from Vermont, New Hampshire and Maine. We included a retired Two Star, guys who departed the military not long after our initial five-year obligation, and everything in between. There were handshakes and hugs all around. Not all of us knew each other, but we were all brothers and it didn’t matter. This was going to be good.

That first evening passed in a blur, aided by some liquid lubrication. I and a couple of other guys cooked dinner the first night – Steak Tips, a New England specialty. Preparing the meal in the main house, I have to admit I felt a bit like Clemenza in the Movie “The Godfather” cooking away, with guys standing around talking and drinking. Over dinner, we didn’t solve the world’s problems, but we took a stab at a couple of them. José asked a couple of questions for which there were of course no correct answers but made us all think.

We also discussed whether we should consider buying two barrels of whiskey instead of one, in anticipation of additional sales based on Tony’s email from the 1st. Rusty immediately volunteered to lead the financing of the second barrel, and Tony quickly notified WhistlePig we were now looking at purchasing two barrels.

As is always the case for me at these gatherings, I’m humbled when I listen to many of the stories told – from time in the Army, in government, or in business. Stories from hotspots around the world over the years, and as I’ve said before, war stories both figuratively and literally. Beer, a couple bottles of WhistlePig, several bottles of wine and a few cigars later, most of us made our way to bed.

The next morning, Jim and crew fixed breakfast – bacon, toast and eggs to order. People were feeling surprisingly good, considering the damage we had, perhaps, done the night before. I’m sure the anticipation of the trip to WhistlePig later that morning had something to do with it. We eventually climbed into two vehicles and arrived at the WhistlePig Farm just before 11AM.

At the farm, we were joined by Ron, Bob and Bob’s wife Erica and began a tour. Jesse Ray, accompanied by our contact Pam Spaulding, showed us key parts of the farm and distillery. Of course there were some tastings involved at various stops, including Maple Spirit (distilled maple syrup – a bit of a rum flavor), Piggyback (the 6 year old Rye that our barrel selections would also come from) and a wonderful WhistlePig 15 year old rye. I noticed that we, as a group, had become a bit louder. We grabbed a picture of us after trying the Maple Spirit – I think you can see we were off to a good start.

***Smiling Classmates After the Distilled Maple Syrup Tasting***

We returned to the tasting room and a wonderful lunch. The WhistlePig crew told us some great stories about Dave, some of his work, and some of his sayings. My favorite saying from Dave – “One of the great things about working at a distillery is you get to drink your mistakes.”

After lunch, we were ready to start the business at hand. First though, WhistlePig revealed a nice surprise. Since we were now considering two barrels instead of one, we would taste five samples instead of three. I believe that elicited a “Hooah!!” from the class. Mark Kanya walked us through the barrels, but didn’t reveal their proof numbers, as he didn’t want to prejudice us. Finally, it was time to taste.

What followed was a minor dose of reverence and a major dose of fun. We tasted, and tasted again. Conversations sprang up and died away. Comparisons were made by those sitting next to each other, sometimes with concurrence and sometimes with “What, are you crazy?!” Now remember there were five barrels. All were 6 years old. All came from the same rick-house. All were 100% rye. All were good. And yet, we had no problem finding differences.

***Whiskey Tasting – Maybe Serious Business, or Not…***

Finally, it was time to make our selections and Rob Grubbs took charge with a chalk board. Each of us came forward and wrote down our top two choices. We anticipated going a couple of rounds, but it turns out it wasn’t even close. Barrels 8516 and 8494 won, hands down.

***Barrels 8516 (2) and 8494 (4) Were the Easy Winners at the Tasting!***

After the official tasting, they opened the bar and we tried other WhistlePig products at our leisure. Some of us returned to the winning bottles for another taste and confirmation we’d made the right choices. A few went to the museum, while others of us stayed at the bar. There, Mark’s assistant, Amber Star, who also happens to be an opera singer, entertained us with stories and after some prodding, an amazing a cappella version of Ava Maria – it was beautiful and somehow fit the afternoon.

As we gathered together again shortly before departing, Pam read us a tribute to Dave another friend, Savannah Burnett, sent her. It was wonderful of her to share it with us. She also gave us a WhistlePig bottle signed by Dave and filled with a bit of each of the products Dave was associated with over the years. A whiskey, or spirit connoisseur, would call it an “Infinity Bottle” due to the blending of so many different whiskeys – we plan to auction it off at our 45th reunion. It should also be noted that a West Point Coin was presented by José to Mark for his excellent organization of the tasting. As a side note, should he ever be challenged by one of us in the future and he doesn’t have the coin with him, he will be required to buy a round ;-).

***Pam Presenting the Class with the Dave Pickerell Signed “Infinity Bottle”.***

We finally said our goodbyes to WhistlePig, and to Ron, Bob and Erica and drove back to our Airbnb. Bill cooked a salmon dinner for us and the ten of us again gathered at the table.

We were mellower than the night before but had great conversations. Yes, we told and laughed at old stories again, but we also talked about the present and the future. Over more wine, whiskey and cigars, we discussed our Class and the impact we may have had on the Army and on our country. Eventually we drifted off to our individual rooms and the night ended.

When I woke up the next morning, a couple of guys were already gone. Rob made breakfast for us and then Tony and Jim drove the rest of us to the airport. More hugs and handshakes at the airport and we parted ways. Operation WhistlePig was over … For this year.

I’ve thought about the wonderful times we had at this whiskey tasting, and at other reunions. The camaraderie, the brotherhood, the love for each other. Although we are not yet in our “twilight”, I think General Douglas McArthur summed it up pretty well at the end of his West Point Farewell Address in 1962:

“The shadows are lengthening for me. The twilight is here. My days of old have vanished — tone and tint. They have gone glimmering through the dreams of things that were. Their memory is one of wondrous beauty, watered by tears and coaxed and caressed by the smiles of yesterday. I listen then, but with thirsty ear, for the witching melody of faint bugles blowing reveille, of far drums beating the long roll. In my dreams I hear again the crash of guns, the rattle of musketry, the strange, mournful mutter of the battlefield. But in the evening of my memory always I come back to West Point. Always there echoes and re-echoes: Duty, Honor, Country…”

For this whiskey tasting get-together, maybe the echoes and re-echoes were: Duty, Honor, Country and WhistlePig as well. For my classmates who may be reading this blog, I’ll add this – Standby! A Warning Order is about to come out on how to purchase a bottle.

Addendum:

The staff at WhistlePig was wonderful. Pam Spaulding, Jesse Ray, Mark Kenya and Amber Star took amazing care of us.
* You can read the blog about Dave and the whiskey tasting our class did about a year ago here: When Rob asked if I would help host the whiskey tasting for the West Point Class of ‘78 mini-reunion at The Biltmore, I immediately said yes. We honored classmate Dave Pickerell, later known as The “Johnny Appleseed” of Craft Whiskey, and all of our departed classmates […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/04/19/pickerell-the-biltmore-and-the-whiskey-tasting/
“Arriving at WhistlePig” photo courtesy of Gus Hellzen.

Offal Cookery

It’s not like we were Kevin Costner in Dances With Wolves, eating the raw liver from a freshly killed buffalo with our hands. No, we used forks and knives to sample the beef heart tartar we’d just made in the Offal Cookery class at The Whole Ox Butcher Shop. It was delicious and opened me to new ideas.

The Whole Ox here in Marshall is one of our local treasures. It’s a wonderful butcher shop with a great selection. Their offerings are ethically sourced, organic, and generally local. One of their mantras is “Eat better. Eat less”. When they offered a series of cooking classes this spring, I was immediately interested. The one that particularly caught my eye was “Offal Cookery”.

Offal is “the inside organs of, and parts trimmed from, an animal killed and prepared for food”. Innards is another good descriptor, though perhaps less delicate. Most of us are familiar with beef liver and chicken liver, but there’s quite a bit more. Around the world, there are multiple dishes that use offal. As examples, English Steak and Kidney Pie, Scottish Haagis (offal and vegetables stuffed in a sheep or cow’s stomach) and Mexican Menudo (made with tripe [stomach]) are three dishes many of us have tried or heard of. Intestines are of course often used for sausage casings. Liver pâté is something most have tried. Sautéed sweetbreads (thymus gland or pancreas) make an occasional appearance on a restaurant menu, and if I see them, I almost always order the dish.

While I’ve eaten offal in restaurants, I’d never cooked anything other than liver, chicken liver or beef tongue at home. For this particular class, beef liver, tongue, heart and sweetbreads were all on the menu. I was excited.

Eight of us arrived at The Whole Ox on a Wednesday evening. Amanda and Derek, the owners, greeted us and poured glasses of wine as we gathered at the prep station. Derek, who was previously a vegetarian for ten years, talked with us about what was planned for the night, and gave us background on offal in general. We learned that historically, offal was usually eaten first by our ancestors – it is the most nutrient dense part of the animal and was prized above other cuts of meat. Organ meat is high in vitamins, and has shown the ability to help with some diseases such as MS. We also learned that like wine, terroir effects beef and how it tastes.

After the brief introduction, we were divided into pairs and assigned the courses we would assist on: a classic liver and onions dish, tongue tacos, beef heart tartar and deep fried sweetbreads.

***Clockwise from Upper Left: Liver, Tongue, Heart and Sweetbreads.***

My partner and I were assigned the sweetbreads, and we started peeling the thin membrane from the outside. As with many deep-fried foods, the pieces went into seasoned flour, then buttermilk, then more flour. We turned them over to Derek for the actual deep frying. As the evening progressed, we were all watching each other. A few things stood out: cutting the liver a bit thicker than you normally think of, so it stays more tender and doesn’t dry out; splitting open the cooked tongue and removing the external casing to get to the tender meat; and with the heart, doing a fine dice for the tartar – if not fine, it would be too chewy, and if ground, the consistency would be too soft (not unlike Goldilocks and the three bears – the first bed was too hard, and the second bed was too soft, while the third bed was just right).

The recipes were coming together and as our wine glasses were refilled, we started receiving samples of each dish. There were a few nice surprises along the way, including bacon added to the liver, and salsa verde and finely sliced radishes added to the tongue tacos. The deep-fried sweetbreads were simple and excellent, with a consistency similar to fried oysters. And the heart tartar? I enjoy beef tartar, so I was looking forward to it. Simply prepared, there was salt and pepper, a little seasoning, parsley and a little lemon juice. It was delicious.

***Liver and Onions with Bacon, Deep Fried Sweetbreads and a Tongue Taco, and Beef Heart Tartar – All were Excellent.***

The evening wasn’t over, as Derek started cooking a surprise fifth dish. “Big Macs” that were fifty percent ground heart and fifty percent ground beef. We had eaten a fair amount by then, but smelling the burgers on the grill got the juices flowing again. After adding cheese to the grilling burgers, he placed them on the buns, then added lettuce, a bit of onion, pickles and their own Whole Ox “special sauce”. Watching him assemble the Big Mac sliders just about drove me mad with anticipation. I’m not sure, but I may have started drooling. Finally they arrived on our plates. WOW! Among the best burgers I’ve ever eaten. I practically inhaled mine.

***Derek adding Special Sauce to our 50/50 “Big Macs”***

The class wound down and folks started leaving. A few of us stayed a bit longer talking – about the shop and cooking, about Marshall, about innards. Derek revealed that one of his secrets to get people to try food out of their comfort zone is to mix it in with a familiar dish, hence the 50/50 Big Macs. It’s a brilliant idea. Eventually we finished our drinks and I drove home, already planning future meals.

As a final note, the next time you are at the farm and we are serving burgers, you may, or may not want to ask what’s in them. 😉

Addendum:

If you live in the area, or even the near-in Virginia ‘burbs, I highly recommend their classes. Out of the eight people there for our class, four were local and four were from DC suburbs about half an hour or forty minutes away.

Marshall is a great little village with several good stores, diners and coffee shops. There are three local gems among the offerings. In addition to The Whole Ox, we also have the nationally renowned Red Truck Bakery, and the excellent Field and Main Restaurant. If you are in the area, all three are worth a visit.

The Indoor Mile

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I finished the Plebe indoor mile run in under 5:30! As I slowed, my stomach suddenly double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

During my time at West Point, the Academy frequently talked about developing the “whole man” (with the admission of women in 1976, this changed to the “whole person”). We cadets were always being tested and evaluated. It was true about leadership, about academics, and was certainly true about physical fitness. For most of us, somewhere in all that testing was an Achilles Heel. With some it was a particular academic course, for others, some physical education test or class.

As Plebes, there were four required gym classes: Swimming, Wrestling, Boxing, and Gymnastics. For me, I’d been a swimmer all my life and a lifeguard for a few years, so the swimming class was easy, and I earned the equivalent of an A. Wrestling? I made West Point’s intercollegiate wrestling team as a freshman walk on, so I validated wrestling and took handball as an elective instead. Boxing was a challenge at first, but once I learned the basics, AND learned getting punched in the nose wasn’t a showstopper, I did OK. Gymnastics was a different beast.

The pommel horse, the rings, the vault, parallel bars, the trampoline, mats for tumbling … I forget what other torture devices were there, but it was like I was in a cursed land. My two sisters would tell you I wasn’t particularly coordinated as a kid. As a matter of fact, they would say I was a bit of a klutz. It all came home to roost in Gymnastics class. I was passing, but just barely.

At some point during the class, I learned we would do a timed mile run as a part of the course. Running of course has nothing to do with gymnastics, but those things happened at West Point. Just another chance to excel. Now, I had never been a runner, but since it was wrestling season, I was in great shape. Probably the best shape of my brief life up to that point. I started thinking I might be able to earn a good score on the mile run and improve my overall Gymnastics grade.

Hayes Gym* is where we practiced Gymnastics. It was “a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.” Above the gym floor, an elevated track rings the room. It takes 11.7 laps to run a mile on that track and that’s where we would complete the mile run.

***Hayes Gym in 1910, the Year it was Built, and Again in 2009. Note the Elevated Track.***

My personal view at the time (and that of at least a few of my classmates) was that many of the instructors in the Department of Physical Education (DPE) had a bit of a sadistic streak in them. One of our instructors was Army’s gymnastic coach, Ned Crossley and some classmates recall his scoring as particularly brutal. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t true. Having said that, all of the DPE instructors had ways of questioning you, challenging you, or prodding you that often seemed to taunt you a bit as well.

The instructor who spoke with us about the mile run was a little like that. To receive a max score, you needed to run under 5:30. The instructor explained what we needed to do to run a 5:30 mile. At 11.7 laps per mile, “all” you needed was to run each lap at a 28 seconds per lap pace, and then run like hell for the last half lap. Simple. Easy Peasy. Any cadet could do it. And so on. Of course the vast majority of us could run no where near that fast.

At the time, I don’t believe I’d ever run a mile (or any other distance) for time. I’d certainly run laps in High School sports, run in formation at West Point for Company morning runs during Beast, and we ran our asses off in wrestling practice. But none of this was ever done for time. That was about to change.

My pea brain went to work. 28 seconds was two seconds less than 30 seconds for each lap. 28 seconds for the first lap… 56 seconds for two laps … 1:24 for three laps … 1:52 for four laps and so on. I’d do the math in my head on the run. As long as I could keep the pace going, I had a shot.

A couple days later, it was my turn to do the run. As I recall, there were a few of us running it at the same time, although I don’t recall exactly how many. What I do remember was taking off when “go” was called. The first lap – 27 seconds! The next couple of laps I was under the pace. After that, I was a bit erratic, with some over and some under, but the average was OK and at the half mile mark, I was on pace. The final few laps? I’m not sure I was really paying attention any longer. The air was stale. The air was acrid. 3/4 of a mile and still on pace. My lungs were burning. I was sucking in as much oxygen as I could. 11 laps done. My legs were lead. It was down to just over half a lap left. I didn’t see anything other than the track in front of me. I don’t know if the other Plebes were in front of me, or behind me. All I know is I ran as hard as could. I rounded the final curve.

“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I beat 5:30. I slowed down and suddenly my stomach double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.

Recovery took me a while. I may have heaved a second time, and certainly had the dry heaves. Eventually I made my way to the shower, and then to whatever my next class was that day.

A couple weeks later, I passed gymnastics with some room to spare.

In my remaining years at West Point, I never ran that fast again. Not even close. We had PT tests on an annual basis with a two mile run next to the Hudson River. I never approached anything close to that time, even when adjusted for a slower time due to the extra distance. The two miler was always a challenge for me and I was always nervous about failing it. The thought of maxing out my run score never entered my head.

Years later, I took up running on my own for fun and to stay in shape. I became a decent runner, and clocked several personal bests – an 11:44 two mile ( a sub six minute/mile pace); a 39:58 10K (a sub 6:30/mile pace) and a 68 minute and change 10 mile race (a sub 7 min/mile pace). I remember all of those. The one I still marvel at? The 5:28 mile on the indoor track at West Point. I had no business running that fast. How the hell did I ever do it?

Addendum:

* Some info on Hayes Gym from the Academy itself: Hayes Gym was built in 1910. The second level of Hayes is what most cadets and USMA graduates think of as “Hayes Gym”. It is a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling, hardwood floor, and elevated track (11.7 laps to a mile) that rings the room. The Department of Physical Education (DPE), teaches applied gymnastics (now called “Military Movement”) in Hayes, taking advantage of its historical and unusual support structures. The gym has eighteen 21′ vertical ropes and two 60′ horizontal ropes (suspended 12′ from the floor). There are also 10 pull-up bars that are each 5′ wide and are suspended from the ceiling with vertical supports in such a manner that they can be “run across” (with proper technique), as is done during the Indoor Obstacle Course. The gym’s floor space is filled with gymnastic’s apparatus and pads, such as vaults, bars, and rings as well as 1″ and 4″ tumbling mats. Nowadays, the military movement equipment remains in place year-round.
The Indoor Obstacle Course is another “fond” memory of Hayes Gym for most West Point Grads, as it was also known to induce retching at it’s completion. I may do a blog on it in the future, but it’s hard to describe to those who haven’t experienced it. To get a flavor for it, here’s a YouTube video of Cadet Elizabeth Bradley completing it just a couple of years ago and breaking the female record while doing so. For all my macho buddies out there, I would love to see you try to beat her time. Good luck on that unlikely event. GO ARMY! https://youtu.be/Dw5rR1yqyp8 .
Thanks to classmates Gus Hellzen and Jerome Butler for their contributions to this blog.

A Celebration of Life and Celebrating Life

A few weeks ago Cathy and I spent a Saturday seeing the full circle of life. The day started at a brewery, attending a Celebration of Life for a friend who passed away three months ago. It ended at a winery where another friend was celebrating her seventieth birthday. The two events were surprisingly similar.

Our old friend Davie passed away last October at the age of 67. His death was unexpected and hit many of us hard. We were a part of the same running group since the early ‘90s and became good friends over the years. Another friend, Tia, and I talked and decided to host a Celebration of Life for Davie, but after some time went by – time enough for the rawness of his death to pass. We eventually decided on a Saturday in mid-January.

On the appointed day, a wonderful and diverse crowd of seventy five or so came together and after a short run, gathered at a local brewery. Five of us brought in homemade food for a buffet lunch with BBQ, coleslaw, mac n’ cheese and other goodies. Beer and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. The decision Tia and I made to delay for three months was a good one. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories of Davie were told – some poignant, some bawdy. At the end of the “formal” part of the Celebration, we sang the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as a final send off (an off-color version of the song is usually sung at the end of our weekly runs).

***Friends at Davie’s Celebration of Life at the Brewery***

We left the brewery while the party was still roaring, to make our way to our friend Kathy’s 70th birthday party. We arrived at home, let Carmen out and changed clothes. From there, we drove the twenty minutes to the winery where Kathy’s birthday party was being held.

Upon arriving, we found the party and joined in with the other 20 or 25 guests. A friend of Kathy’s made delicious homemade appetizers. Wine and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories and jokes were told and Kathy’s husband mentioned a couple of times that he was lucky to have married an older woman (I should point out he is only 18 months younger than Kathy). At the end of the “formal” part of the celebration, we sang “Happy Birthday ” to Kathy as a final tribute.

***Friends at Kathy’s Birthday Party at the Winery.***

Speaking with Kathy later, she mentioned she wanted to celebrate her life while she was “still vertical”. The guests represented different aspects of her life and what held meaning for her — old friendships formed in her youth, friendships from her days in community theater, friendships formed in pursuit of change in our social and political systems and those she partnered with while strengthening her health and fitness levels. It was a diverse and wonderful group of people. After the party, she and Steve stayed up late into the night talking about how lucky they were. Her comment to me – “Why wait to gather together and celebrate life?”

I’ve spent the last month or so thinking about the juxtaposition of those two gatherings. They were sooooo similar to each other. Friends gathered. Good homemade food was served at both. Excellent local adult beverages were available for consumption. There was lots of laughter, with jokes and stories being told. Even a song was sung at both to end the formal part of the festivities. The only real difference between the two events was the guest of honor attended one in person, but not the other.

***Kathy being Roasted at her Birthday Celebration. I Like to Think Davie Attended his Celebration of Life in Spirit.***

Yes, there’s a fine edge between life and death, between living and dying, between celebrating a life, and a Celebration of Life. That Saturday and those two gatherings brought it home to me.

Celebrating life, and Celebrations of Life are both important. None of us knows how much time we, our family, or our friends have left and we should take advantage of celebrating not just birthdays, but every part of life we can, while we are alive.

I’m glad we were able to celebrate Davie’s life. He wasn’t physically with us, but I know he would have enjoyed the party. I like to think he was looking on us from somewhere on high with a glass of champagne or a mimosa in his hand.

I’m even happier we were able to celebrate Kathy’s 70th with her in the room, and I’m pretty sure she did enjoy the party. As Fitzgerald stated in The Great Gatsby, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.“

Celebrating life while living, seems an important part of having a good Celebration of Life later. At my Celebration of Life, I hope there will be jokes and stories and snorts of laughter. In a corner of the room, maybe loud guffaws and then someone will say, “What a great story! I didn’t know that about Max. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I…”

When I started thinking about this blog, I thought the song “The Circle of Life” from The Lion KIng might be nice for an ending with it’s lyrics about despair and hope, and faith and love. It’s a fine song, and I suppose makes people feel warm and fuzzy. Personally, I think Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is more relevant for me, and has a better take on all of it:

Well, I'm just a modern guy
Of course, I've had it in the ear before*
And I've a lust for life (lust for life)
'Cause I've a lust for life (lust for life)
Got a lust for life
Yeah, a lust for life…

I’m going to continue to honor and celebrate those around me, both alive and dead. I think about that Saturday and those two events. Like my friends Davie and Kathy, a lust for life is what I have. I’m taking Iggy’s advice, and plan to continue to live life exuberantly. I’m going to celebrate life and all it throws at me. If you happen to make my Celebration of Life down the road, eat some fine food, have a drink, laugh and tell a good story about the times we shared together. Hopefully, it starts out something like this, “There Max and I were. It was crazy, but…”

Addendum:

I encourage you to listen to Elton John’s “Circle of Life”, and then Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life”. Both of them are fine songs. One of them will get you up, moving, and ready to engage life to the utmost.
Circle of Life with Elton John can be found at: https://youtu.be/IwH9YvhPN7c
Lust for Life with Iggy Pop and David Bowie can be found at: https://youtu.be/HuBU3pzy7is ; or try this version to go with the Movie Trainspotting: https://youtu.be/jQvUBf5l7Vw
Thanks to our friend Tia Perry for leading the effort on Davie’s Celebration of Life – It was a great event. Special thanks to our friend Kathy Kadilak for allowing me to talk about her milestone birthday and the impact it had on me. Both Tia and Kathy were a part of writing this blog.
* The phrase “I’ve had it in the ear before” isn’t sexual and it’s not drug related. It means someone’s given you a hard time or screwed you over.

Tuna Salad with Julia and Grandma Grubaugh

It was strange. It was simple. It was visceral. One moment I was taking a bite of a tuna salad sandwich made with Julia Child’s recipe. The next instant I was a little boy sitting with Grandma Grubaugh at her kitchen table having lunch. It hit me like a bolt out of the blue.

A couple of my favorite benefits of our New York Times subscription are the food and cooking articles. The columns tell great stories, and the recipes are usually pretty manageable. A while back, chef, James Beard Award winning author and former New York Times food columnist Dorie Greenspan wrote a great column “This Tuna-Salad Sandwich Is Julia Child-Approved Lunch”. She was working with Julia at the time on an upcoming book and recounted a day spent in her kitchen. Here’s a partial extract:

“We were working around the kitchen table when Julia declared, “Dorie, let’s make lunch.” I saw Stephanie smile — clearly, she knew what was coming — and then I was at the counter with Julia, doing as I was told, which was cutting celery. While it might not seem like much of a job, I was cutting celery for Julia Child, and I was going to do it right: I trimmed the celery, I peeled it (because I learned to do that in Paris, I thought it was important to do it for the woman who wrote “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”) and I cut the celery into minuscule cubes that were all the same size. I’m only exaggerating a smidge when I say it took me so long that when I put down my knife, Julia had finished everything else, and we were ready to sit down to one of her favorite lunches: tuna salad on an English muffin.”

The article was about nothing and about everything. I love writing like that. I mean, how can you possibly write an entire article about a tuna salad sandwich? And yet Greenspan wrote a great one and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

The list of ingredients in the actual sandwich intrigued me. We’ve all made tuna salad – tuna, mayo, celery and maybe onion and a boiled egg, but this one was a bit different. Yea, there was tuna (packed in oil), mayo (always Hellman’s), celery and onion, but it also included capers, cornichons (small French pickles) and lemon juice. Hmmmm. I was going to have to try this. Some of you know of my aversion to pickles in potato salad, but with tuna salad, why not give it a shot?

I had everything on hand, with the exception of the Cornichons. After doing a little online research, I figured the baby dills in our fridge were a suitable substitute.

I dutifully chopped the celery (sorry, no peeling), onion, capers and pickles. After emptying the tuna in a bowl, I added all of the chopped ingredients. In went the mayo, and the parsley and I combined everything. Finally, I squeezed the lemon juice in, added salt and pepper, and combined it all again. I did a small taste, and of course because of who I am, added a bit more mayo. Another small taste, and then I put the bowl in the fridge to chill for a couple of hours.

At last it was lunch time and I made my sandwich. More mayo on the bread, the tuna salad itself, some lettuce, tomato and a small slice of onion. Another slice of bread, and then I cut the whole thing in half.

***Tuna Salad Sammich. It Doesn’t Get Any Better.***

I took the first bite, waiting to be transformed in my mind to Julia Child’s kitchen, and … wait! What!? Was that Grandma Grubaugh sitting next to me? Where in the hell did that come from?! It was a visceral reaction – I was a young boy back in Ottawa, sitting at the kitchen table at Grandma’s house having a tuna sandwich with her.

After rejoining the present, I sat there eating my sandwich trying to figure out what brought on those feelings. Grandma, to my knowledge, never cooked anything from Julia Child. Besides, my flashback would have been some time in the ‘60s, well before Julia became popular in America.

I thought through the ingredients. I don’t really remember grandma keeping fresh lemons, or capers around the house, although I suppose she might have. Grandma putting either in tuna salad seemed a pure fantasy. It had to be the pickles, although I didn’t remember mom putting pickles in tuna at our house.

At this point in time, mom had already passed away. Uncle Don, her younger brother was still alive, and I gave him a call. After catching up for a few minutes, I explained why I was calling, asked about grandma’s tuna salad, and whether she put pickles in it. He immediately answered “No, there were no pickles”, and my heart sank. Then he quickly added – “No, no pickles. She used a couple big spoonfuls of pickle relish.” And it all connected.

We talked a bit more and I eventually hung up. As I thought about Grandma and her pickle relish, it made sense. The relish certainly would account for the pickle flavor and maybe some of the brightness. In a subsequent conversation with my cousin Dawn, she reminded me that while Grandma didn’t really keep fresh lemons around the house (who did in midwest America in the ‘60s?), there was always a bottle of Real Lemon Juice in the fridge – for lemon cake, lemon pie, maybe a spoonful in cobblers. Who’s to say she didn’t add a spoonful to her tuna salad? While it doesn’t all add up perfectly, it made sense to me.

Since then, I’ve continued to make my tuna salad with pickles, capers and lemon juice. I have to admit Julia’s is better than what I’d made before. It’s also a nice lunchtime bonus – remembering Grandma Grubaugh on a day when you are “only” having tuna salad is pretty special.

Addendum:

• Thanks to my sister Roberta, and cousin Dawn (one of Uncle Don’s Daughters – also a flower girl at our wedding) for their contributions to this blog – both had distinct memories of Grandma’s tuna salad and some of grandma’s habits at the time. Dawn was also quite emphatic Grandma used sweet pickle relish in her Tuna salad. We also had a great conversation about foods triggering happy family memories – Thanksgiving at mom and dad’s house (Uncle Don, Aunt Diane and family were almost always in attendance as well), potato salad, Aunt Diane’s cherry pies and cobblers, watermelon outside on the picnic table, and Grandma Grubaugh expertly spitting her seeds across the yard, to the delight of her grandchildren.

• Here’s another blog about Grandma Grubaugh and her delicious date nut bread: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/12/04/grandmas-date-nut-bread/

• Here’s a link to the column that inspired me to try Julia Child’s Tuna salad. It’s a quick read – https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/21/magazine/this-tuna-salad-sandwich-is-julia-child-approved-lunch.html?unlocked_article_code=a2vDZUZ1eo1yVrKAfuZxMgmll7EsQe8k7K-jTFFMqtFBjYV_jUe1I577EkeqZQNBGpaScBbP2xFhlRgEXk0W3tuhHedthiZqjAOIlq7mFMVFRXTSWUW-mugkmUlR6AtNmjBpqnBC45Dacm7NKVcjag8DPq4nW_Mk-gleZC2NfUBimTJW8wqPnaCRsC9BXBDeHOI6FVeL60bLuggz3IU80r0Op815enYRuh9uZRbZwfNBd33TI6IJNJk_1qSRqnFXzpHmKs4RRpwBBMsGROoFMHGYZ-jWFgxYd51U2M-oYm9mLIFmxsE2twHD2-Qtkx8ZSmRV-W7eCe36dnvravfZOe3UkdJOwFAHYcitmVZSPDenybPsa9HK0r6y4Pgo9YUyIA&smid=share-url

• Here’s a link to the recipe from the NYT: https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1021561-tuna-salad-sandwich-julia-child-style?smid=ck-recipe-iOS-share

• And here’s the exact same recipe if the NYT won’t let you open their recipe without a subscription: https://bwtribble.com/recipe/1071

End of an Era

There’s a change coming to my Sundays. Starting this week and going forward, the paper copy of the Washington Post Sunday newspaper will arrive on … wait for it … Monday. Yep, it’s the end of an era for many of us here in rural Fauquier County.

I’ve always read newspapers. Growing up at home, it was the Ottawa Daily Times, and on Sundays, both the Chicago Tribune and Sun Times. At West Point, it was the New York Times (Plebes delivered hard copies to every cadet room). When we lived in Germany in the ‘80s, in addition to the Stars and Stripes, I would buy the International Herald Tribune, at the local book store or snack bar. At the time, The Tribune was a joint publishing effort between the New York Times and the Washington Post. It was a great paper and provided in depth coverage of events in the States and around the world. When Cathy and I returned to the DC area in ‘89, we began our subscription to the Washington Post and have read it ever since – thirty-four years of delivery.

At the time of course, the subscription was only hard copy and delivered daily. In 1999, when we moved to our farm in Fauquier County, our subscription moved with us. During the week, when I left for work around 5:30AM, the paper was already delivered to our home, and I’d pick it up and take it with me.

***Home Delivery of the Post for Thirty Four Years***

Ahhh, but Sundays were different. After getting up and starting a pot of coffee, I’d dutifully walk up the drive and retrieve the Post from the receptacle next to the mailbox. Big and fat, the Sunday edition was meant for leisurely exploration. I’d always start with the sports section, then move on to the front page. After that, Outlook (the opinion section), Art&Style, Business, Metro, Bookworld, the Comics and finally the Sunday magazine*. It was a great way to while away a couple of hours.

Times change of course. Digital subscriptions started and were included with our home subscription. I found digital great for looking at headlines, along with the updates and alerts that were posted throughout the day. Having said that, I still loved getting ink on my fingers and reading the hardcopy. Some of my younger friends laughed at me and basically told me I needed to get with the times. I’d always argue back about the corollary reading the hardcopy provided – you started reading a front page article which continued on page A15, and on page A15, you would see one or two other smaller articles that you never would have found if just reading digitally.

Then Covid hit, and as with so many things during that time, other changes happened. Remember early on, when folks still weren’t sure how it spread? Wiping down groceries before you brought them into the house? Everyone buying Clorox wipes, or other antiseptics? At the time, we’d let the hardcopy sit in the garage for a day or two before bringing it into the house. Yea, I know it all sounds foolish now, but everyone was concerned (or at least we were).

I started reading a lot more articles online, not just the headlines. “Corollary reading” was lost, but it didn’t seem so important during Covid. Eventually, we canceled our daily subscription – it wasn’t worth it anymore. We did decide to keep the Sunday hardcopy, along with the digital. I still enjoyed working my way through the Sunday paper – it was a form of leisure in it’s own right.

Two weeks ago, our friend Colleen who also lives in Fauquier, posted on FB that she received an email notice that on January 30th, the Post was going to start using the Postal Service to deliver the newspaper. Soooooo, your daily morning paper would now come sometime later in the day, and the Sunday paper would arrive on Mondays. What the heck?!

Shortly after, we received the same email and a post card via mail. We were on the hit list as well. And just like that, the world changed.

***Our Post Card From the Washington Post***

We are retired, so we have the time to read the Sunday edition on Monday, but it won’t be the same. For our working friends who subscribe, it actually becomes somewhat untenable. A few of their (printable) comments are here:

I MUCH prefer reading print over any form of electronic distrubtion, and this totaly blows my VERY long-standing Sunday routine out of the water.
My Sundays will never be the same… Walk the dog, make my coffee, and start reading. Now it will be walk the dog, get in the car and drive to the Exxon station, then…
I will miss my daily morning paper. Cut it back to digital. So sad. 😞
I emailed and spoke with them yesterday within minutes of having received my notice …

Of course it’s all about economics, and I understand. Home delivery is no longer feasible in rural counties such as ours. With people moving to digital, hardcopy deliveries have dropped in general and for places like Fauquier, there is too much driving for the carriers, increasing their time and cost. It’s an uncorrectable downward spiral.

I called the Post to cancel my Sunday hardcopy, although I planned on retaining the digital subscription. It turns out the cost for Sunday hard copy and digital is virtually the same as just receiving the digital subscription, and so for now, I’m keeping them both. We’ll see what happens in the near term, but my guess is on Mondays, the physical newspaper will go straight from delivery to recycling, and in a month or so, I’ll cancel the hard copy. In the meantime, the nice man I spoke to on the phone promised to convey my complaint and concern to “management”.

***Our Last Copy of the Sunday WaPo that Actually Arrived on a Sunday.***

Last week, I received a similar notice from the New York Times. We also receive their Sunday paper hardcopy and have a digital subscription. I’m probably going to cut their Sunday paper soon as well.

That will leave us with digital copies of The Post, the New York Times and the Wall Street Journal, good papers all. I appreciate the daily headlines, their alerts throughout the day and the links I have to any number of special features. Still, I know my world will grow just a little smaller and a little less broad without newspaper ink rubbing off on my fingers.

Addendum:

I didn’t touch on it here, but the demise of print newspapers, and local newspapers in general is a real thing, and an unfortunate one. Between 2004 and 2022, over 2,500 local papers have ceased operation, including over 360 that have disappeared just since the start of the pandemic. We are all a little poorer for their disappearance.
* There have been changes to the Sunday WaPo over the years. Book World disappeared and later reappeared. Outlook (The Opinion section) moved from a separate section to just a few pages at the end of the main section. And, just before Christmas last year, the Sunday Magazine disappeared all together.

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