Tag: #friends

Offal Cookery

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”.

Expand Your Knowledge…

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.

Derek at the Start of Class

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

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.

Plebe Year at West Point.

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 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

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.

Julia Childs in the Kitchen.

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.

Tuna Salad Heading to the Fridge.

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.

Grandma Grubaugh and I in 1957.

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

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?!

The Email Colleen Received

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.

Artificial Intelligence, Art, and Writing

Artificial Intelligence, Art, and Writing

There’s been a lot in the news lately about creative Artificial Intelligence (AI) art and writing programs. Some see them as the doom of mankind, others as a bright and shiny future. I don’t have an answer to either point, but what I DO know is people better get ready – this is happening and will continue to grow.

AI, or near AI capabilities have been around for awhile, and continue to expand in our lives. Everyone knows about computers frequently beating all but the very best chess champions on a regular basis. In fact IBM’s “Big Blue” computer defeated the reigning world champion, Gary Kasparov, in 1990. In the intervening decades, AI has expanded in numerous other areas to help mankind – assisting doctors, robots performing intricate operations on humans, financial fraud detection, facial recognition, digital assistants (think Siri or Alexa) and navigation apps (think Waze, Google Maps, etc) to name just a few. In general, we have accepted and embraced these changes and advances. They have improved our lives in one way, or another.

However, we humans seem a bit concerned as of late. It was all fine when AI was assisting us. Now, it is moving into “creative” areas, such as art and writing. People seem a bit more … uneasy – “Wait a minute, if a computer can be creative, what’s my value-add to this thing called life?”

We Seem to have More Concern with AI When it Starts Getting Creative

Over the past several months, my friend Morgan and I have been discussing AI and the potential repercussions of it’s expansion into art and writing. It started last fall when he downloaded the AI art program DALL·E 2. It’s free for the first 50 searches. After that, it’s $15 for 115 searches. Each search gives you four images based on what you input as a request. You can request a theme, a style and color scheme and the computer does the rest. Some questions – if a computer can do a da Vinci quality painting, do we need Leonardo? And what’s the value of either painting – how do you equate them? Are there moral issues? How do you compare something generated by a human versus something generated by a computer?

We spent several miles of walking and more than a couple of beers discussing all of those questions and others. We even ran a series of “tests” comparing the classic painting “Dogs Playing Poker” by American Artist Cassius Marcellus Coolidge, and computer versions, based on Morgan’s inputs. You can judge a couple of the results below, including the refinement over time. I particularly like how one of the dogs in the lower (later) AI painting is looking in the direction of the artist – a nice touch.

Dogs Playing Poker by Coolidge on the Left. A Couple of AI Generated Pictures on the Right

Then last December, the news started talking about a new AI writing tool called ChatGPT. It can write poems, answer questions, generate lists, act as an assistant in writing, and even do writing of it’s own, including “factual information”, essays and short stories. There have been problems with the “factual info” sometimes getting something totally wrong, but it’s also been correct more often than not.

Morgan and I again spoke about the ramifications. In the future, what happens to a prospective Tom Clancy, James Patterson, Tolstoy or Shakespeare? What happens to college essays? What are the implications for plagiarism? If you wrote the questions that generated the subsequent ChapGPT output, are you the author?

More miles of walking and more beers ensued. Generating a list to help you was one thing, but the computer writing an essay submitted as your work was another. How would teachers know what was reality? We again ran a test of sorts.

Last December, I wrote a blog about our neighbor’s dog, Kylie, who stole some of our shoes (Read it here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/12/21/kylie-the-shoe-thief/). A couple of weeks ago, I asked ChaptGPT to “Write a short story about my neighbor’s Dog, Kylie, who steals our shoes, when our dog Carmen isn’t outside.” In the meantime, Morgan asked DALL·E 2 to produce an accompanying picture. Here was the response from ChapGPT, and Morgan’s picture:

“ Sure! Here's a short story about Kylie the shoe-stealing neighbor's dog:

It was a typical sunny afternoon in the neighborhood, and Carmen the dog was lounging in the yard as her owner, Maria, worked in the garden. Suddenly, Maria noticed something odd happening at the edge of the property. It was Kylie, the neighbor's mischievous golden retriever, sneaking into the yard and making a beeline for the porch.

Maria watched in amazement as Kylie snatched one of her shoes and ran off with it, barking happily. Carmen chased after Kylie, but the clever retriever was too fast. Maria couldn't help but laugh at the sight of the two dogs running circles around the yard, with Kylie proudly holding on to her prize. Despite her initial frustration at losing a favorite pair of shoes, Maria couldn't stay mad at the playful Kylie for long. She knew that the retriever was just having a good time, and she couldn't help but admire her neighbor's dog for her boundless energy and enthusiasm.

In the end, Maria decided to keep an eye on her shoes whenever Kylie was around, but she knew that the playful retriever would always find a way to keep them on their toes (or rather, off their feet).”
Picture of Kylie with a Stolen Shoe, produced by Morgan Using the AI Program, DALL·E 2.

My friend Mark wasn’t overly impressed with the story. His words – “It’s fine, but it looks like it was written by an eighth-grader.” And he is right to a degree. Obviously, ChatGPT didn’t have the full context of the reality of the thefts, but as stories go, it had a beginning, an end and maybe made you smile a little. With a bit of imagination, you can see where the future is heading.

There are lots of questions surrounding “creative” AI – ethical, moral, values, access, financial and privacy concerns to name a few areas. Yes, we need to continue discussing all of this. As importantly, we need to understand the inevitability and implications of what is coming in the future. As Morgan said on one of our walks, “People need to understand this is going to happen. It’s not going away, and it will get exponentially better in the coming years. Good writers will avoid this technology. Great writers will embrace it to flesh out their stories. You won’t lose your job to AI. You’ll lose your job to people who know how to use AI”.

Sometime in the future, a real HAL computer (Of 2001: A Space Odyssey fame) will exist. Will computers become sentient in their own fashion? You never know, but I wouldn’t bet against it. Maybe there will always be a “Dave” or two around to protect us. Maybe we won’t need them. Then again…

Dave: Open the pod bay doors, HAL.
HAL: I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that.
Dave: What's the problem?
HAL: I think you know what the problem is, just as well as I do.

Addendum:

  • I realize this is a hard topic to really cover in 1,000 words or so (my typical blog length), but thought it was worth getting the topic out there. The future is now, and the more people are aware, the better.
  • You can read my original Kylie, The Shoe Thief blog here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/12/21/kylie-the-shoe-thief/
  • Thanks to Morgan Johnson for editing support and additions to this blog. More importantly, thanks for being a good friend and engaging in these ongoing conversations.
  • Thanks to my friend Colleen and wife Cathy as always for their editing support. Also thanks to my old buddy Mark Dunavan for taking a look or two.

A Plebe Christmas

A Plebe Christmas

I distinctly remember returning to West Point after Christmas my Plebe year. It wasn’t fun. As a matter of fact, the last couple of days at home became bittersweet as I started thinking about returning to West Point as a Beanhead* for another five months.

It wasn’t just returning to the Plebe System (Fourth Class System) that affected me. We had first semester finals two weeks after returning. Also, have you ever visited West Point in winter? In the Fall, West Point is one of the most beautiful places in the country. In the winter? Not so much, unless you have a fondness for the color grey. January to March at West Point is called “Gloom Period”**, with good reason.

If I’m honest with myself, it wasn’t Gloom Period, or finals that brought me down. It was going back as a Plebe for another five months. Before you enter the Academy, you hear all about how tough Plebe year is both mentally and physically. It’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to experience it for six months, have a break, and then know you are going back for more of the same.

Official Plebe Photo

Coming home to Ottawa that December, Christmas break was great. Being a real person again was even better. Everyone wanted to know how West Point was, and of course I told them the good stuff, while minimizing the actuality of Plebe life. The time at home divided out between family events, dates with Cathy and partying with my friends.

During the day, I spent time at home, or went to see Grandma, various aunts and uncles, and church or family friends. I remember racing around town fitting in as many visits as I could. It was good to catch up with so many people, but also a bit exhausting.

Cath and I went on dates most evenings and tried to make up for lost time. The last we’d seen each other was Labor Day Weekend, when she visited West Point with my folks. In the interim, we’d written so many letters back and forth, I lost count of the actual number. While home, there was even a formal holiday dance at Ottawa High (Cathy was still a senior in high school). I wore my dress uniform, and felt so much older than the high school “kids”, who in reality were only one or two years younger.

At Home Before Going to the OHS Winter Formal

Since she was still in school, Cathy had a curfew most nights. After our dates ended, I often linked up with my buddies Howard, Tim, Mark and others. The drinking age in Illinois was 19 at the time for beer and wine, but nobody really checked. We made the rounds at Berta’s, The Flamingo and Russell’s Tap before finally making it to bed. The next morning I’d wake up and start the cycle all over again. As I recall, sleeping in wasn’t an option.

I’d taken a couple of text books home with me to study over break, but of course I never cracked them. The days and nights raced by.

Finally it was New Year’s Eve and just a couple days before I would return to West Point. I remember going to a party with Cathy at our friend Jack’s home that night. Many of our friends were there. It was a great time, and as the clock struck midnight, there were kisses, handshakes and toasts all around. It was wonderful and things seemed almost perfect.

Maybe an hour later, it hit me. This was all going to end and I would return to the reality of Plebe life. The exhilaration from midnight rapidly disappeared. I crashed and a forlorn feeling took over. I found a quiet spot in an empty room and just sat there thinking. The dread I felt was visceral. Cathy found me a few minutes later and could tell something was wrong. She asked if I was OK and I struggled with words, then just gave up trying to explain. The thing is, she felt it too. We stood there hugging for I don’t know how long.

I more-or-less bounced back the next day and enjoyed my last day or two of freedom. Finally, it was time. As a Plebe, I think I was required to travel in uniform, and when Mom, Dad and Cathy drove me to O’Hare, that’s what I wore. Back then everyone could walk all the way to the gate, and that’s where we said our final goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mom gave me a care package and with a last wave and a smile, I boarded the plane for New York.

A Smile for Mom, Dad and Cathy as I Boarded the Plane to New York.

At the airport in New York (LaGuardia I think), cadets were everywhere. Most of us made our way to buses for the final fifty miles to our Rock Bound Highland Home on the Hudson. The bus I was on was pretty quiet, with Plebes and upperclassmen alike lost in their own thoughts. By now, I’d steeled my mind for the return to school and Plebe life. I was as ready as I was going to be.

And of course it wasn’t as bad as things looked on New Year’s Eve. I made the Dean’s list that first semester, and by late March or early April, Gloom Period was lifting. As for dealing with upperclassmen and the 4th Class System, that too passed. As the Semester wore on, things became easier and and finally, in June, Recognition Day happened. We were no longer Plebes, but full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets.

To this day, I remember that New Year’s Eve and the roller coaster of emotions I felt. Speaking with Cathy, she too distinctly remembers that night. I recently told her I thought I’d write a blog about New Year’s Eve Plebe year. She immediately knew what I was talking about. I laughed a bit and said something like “I didn’t know you remembered”. She quickly answered “How could I forget?”

Addendum:

  • *Beanhead – one of the many less flattering terms upperclassman used for Plebes at the time.
  • ** Gloom Period – If you want to read more about Gloom Period, you can do so here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/21/gloom-period/
  • I’ve often thought of that New Year’s Eve over the years and the feelings I experienced that night. I’d contemplated writing a blog about it before, but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Then, during Christmas season this year, one of my classmates posted an email on his own feelings about the return to West Point after Christmas. Several others chimed in. Some were worried about academics and getting separated due to grades. Others, like me, thought about the return to the 4th Class System for several more months. Still others talked of the general malaise around our return, with Gloom Period settling in. A few told (now) funny stories about missing flights, late arriving girl friends, and even running into the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders during a stopover on the return to the Academy. It’s interesting what binds people together. My classmates and I laugh and now tell stories of those times that seemed so serious back then. Time and distance have brought perspective and a camaraderie that has lasted a lifetime. I feel lucky to be a member of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78. Thanks for the memories, and the continued friendship my brothers.

Kylie, The Shoe Thief

Kylie, The Shoe Thief

There is a thief in our rural Orlean neighborhood. We’ve discovered this over the past couple of months as some items have gone missing. The items are of low value and the intent seems mostly to show he visited us and could get away with the theft, rather than anything more devious. We even know the young thief’s name – Kylie.

Kylie is pretty good as a youngster overall and our dog Carmen likes him. If he stops by while Carmen is outside, they have fun together and to be honest, I think they wear each other out a bit. Sometimes, when Carmen is inside, I’ll see him standing forlornly on the back porch staring at the door. He won’t knock, he’ll just stare at the door. I usually relent and let Carmen outside. He gives me a friendly nod and a grunt, and off they run together.

If he’s in our physical presence, with, or without Carmen there, he’s well mannered. He’ll look me straight in the eye like the most innocent guy around. “Who me? Why no, I’d never take anything from your garage, like say a shoe for instance.”

But there’s no getting around it. If we don’t see him, or don’t let Carmen out to play, that’s when the thievery occurs. We didn’t realize what was happening at first. We usually leave our garage door open and have our shoes sitting by the back door of the house inside the garage. Cathy was the first to notice something was up. One of her flip flops was missing, but she found it later in the backyard. “Hmmmm, that’s a bit strange. I wonder…”. But she didn’t finish her sentence.

A few days later, one of her muck shoes went missing. Now, Cathy’s suspicions rose up, and she called Kevin and Julie, our neighbors. Kevin, Kylie’s dad answered the phone. “Hey Cathy” – “Hey Kevin – ummmm, is Kylie by chance a shoe thief?” “What kind of shoe are you missing?” “A muck shoe.” “Yep! I found one in the front yard – I thought it was Julie’s!” That’s when we knew Kylie was the thief for sure. Evidently he’d come to play with Carmen, and since she wasn’t there, stole the shoe as a memento of his Carmenless visit. He then took the shoe to his home, which is a quarter mile away. When Kevin returned the shoe, it was a bit strange, as there were no teeth or bite marks on it.

Yes, Kylie is our neighbor’s golden retriever.

The Face of Innocence.

I chuckled about it when it happened to Cathy, and said “There must be something about you he likes.” Then it happened to me – one of my barn shoes disappeared. We looked around the house, the barn and in our backyard. No shoe. Finally, we called Kevin and Julie and asked if they’d seen the shoe. All apologetic, they immediately searched their yard, and no shoe. Kev came to our place and looked around the yard, in the woods, and by the pond (Kylie loves going for a swim in our pond). No shoe. Kevin offered to buy me new shoes, but I said don’t worry about it. These things happen, and I probably needed new ones anyway.

Kylie continued to drop by to play with Carmen, but we started keeping our garage door closed, just to remove the temptation and that seemed to work. I bought new muck shoes and dutifully placed them in the garage by the door.

Carmen and Kylie Playing Together

A couple of days later, I was walking Carmen and we passed Kevin and Julie’s home. Kevin came running out of his garage with a shoe in his hand. He’d found the shoe! Except he hadn’t. This was one of the new muck shoes I’d recently bought! What?! It turns out we’d left the garage door open earlier that morning and Kylie saw his opportunity, and seized it, so to speak.

Safely Returned with No Teeth Marks

We continue to try and keep the garage door closed, and store our muck shoes on a shelf out of reach. It seems to be working. Kevin and Julie continue to work with Kylie to understand the boundaries of their yard. In the meantime, he still drops by to play with Carmen, which she loves. I guess like many fathers, I’m a bit suspicious of her boyfriend’s intent. He’s a great dog – other than the shoe thievery thing. 😉

Hey Mr Hall! Can Carmen Come out to Play!?

The Hike

The Hike

As we hiked towards the Hanakapi’ai Falls on Kauai, what I was thinking was “If one more person happily says to me ‘You’re almost there!’, I am going to punch them.” Seriously. Bonnie and I knew we were almost there, but I was concentrating on climbing over boulders, roots and slippery rocks, and not falling down…again.

Bonnie, my sister-in-law, contacted Cath and I to see if we were interested in a couple of hikes while visiting Kauai, one of the Hawaiian Islands, with her and her daughter Lana. The hike to Hanakapi’ai Falls sounded interesting, although not for the faint of heart. Bonnie had completed the hike several years earlier with her husband Don, before he passed away. She warned us the trail was a challenge – It’s an eight mile round trip trek with mud, lava rock, roots and stream crossings, with over 1,800 ft of elevation change. It also promised a tropical forest, panoramic ocean views and the Falls themselves, which drop over 400 feet.

The only catch was the rules changed since her last visit – now you needed reservations for the bus to the trailhead and access to Haena State Park. Both Bonnie and I were in, and she made the reservations.

The big day came for the hike and we packed lots of water, snacks and sandwiches. Our friend John dropped us off at the bus pick-up point. We told him we thought we’d finish between 2 and 3PM, and would call once we returned to the shuttle. That allowed 5-6 hours for the hike, at a 2 miles/hour pace, plus some spare time at the beach and Falls. It seemed like a reasonable time estimate. That was our first underestimation. ;-).

We arrived at the park itself about 9:00AM, where there was a check-in station and we were given more information about the trail. It turned out they’ve now measured the trail multiple times in recent years – it clocks in at 9.2 miles, not 8. Whoops! What’s another mile among friends? We were also warned to leave the Falls no later than 2:00PM to ensure we had enough time to hike the return to the start, where the last bus left at 5:30PM. If you missed the bus, it was a 6 mile stroll back to the parking area.

We started up the trail about 9:15. The first section was two plus miles from Ke’e Beach to Hanakapi’ai Beach. Two miles – easy peasy, right? Well, not quite. The first mile was all uphill, much of it over slick flat rocks. The trail also had a 500 or so foot drop off on the right hand side, which ended in the ocean. Mental note to self: if you fall on the rocks, don’t fall to the right. As we hiked along, we passed some folk, others passed us. One young woman hiked by in flip flops, while chatting with her friends. We eventually reached the high point and were rewarded with beautiful views of the ocean and distant coastline. We stopped and took a couple of pics, before continuing.

The View, One Mile Into the Hike.

From there, it was another mile or so downhill. The slippery rocks mostly disappeared, to be replaced by steps carved into the side of the mountain. You know the kind of steps I’m talking about – too wide, and too high to be comfortable while moving downhill. They were easy enough, but would come back to haunt me on the return trip.

An hour and twenty minutes after starting, we reached Hanakapi’ai Beach which was gorgeous. We stopped for a break and to eat a snack. Sitting for a bit felt good. There were warning signs everywhere about the treacherous rip tides and not to swim here. Evidently every couple of years someone would get sucked out to sea, never to be seen again.

At the Beach. Numerous Signs Warned About the Dangers of Swimming Here.

Around 11, we continued our hike. It looked like well over half of the people we’d seen along the way, including the young lady in flip flops, were staying at the beach, so the number of people on the trail to the Falls thinned out considerably. It would be a little over two more miles to the Falls.

Bonnie brought out her new, never used walking sticks for this part of the hike. After the first half mile or so, the trail narrowed considerably. Flat ground gave way to a tangle of tree roots, mud and lava rocks. It slowed us down as we worked to find a reasonable path on the path. We passed through bamboo stands and dense forest along the way.

There were Lots of Rocks and Boulders on the Trail – Looking for a Path on the Path was a Challenge.

Hanakap’ai Stream was on our left as we made our way up the trail. Along the way, we crossed the twenty foot wide stream three times. We rock-hopped across the stream pretty easily the first two times, but on the third crossing, I slipped and went into the water, banging my shin in the process. Bonnie looked at me and my bleeding shin, and with a smile, changed from her boots to water shoes. She then used her sticks to safely cross.

One of the Stream Crossings.

At this point we were nearing the Falls. The trail was getting more slippery, and we were frequently climbing over wet rocks. I fell another time or two, scraping the same shin I’d already banged up. Bonnie stayed vertical the entire time – I may need to buy a pair of those walking sticks for next time!

This is also when we started encountering the Good Samaritans coming the other way – “You’re almost there!” … “Keep going, it’s worth it!” … “Only 15 more minutes to the Falls!” … and then 15 minutes later, “Only 15 more minutes to the Falls – you’re almost there!” I believe that last one was what made me think I’d punch the next person with words of encouragement … ;-).

We did arrive at the Falls a short time later, and they were beautiful. It made the hike totally worthwhile. Bonnie took a short swim in the pool at the base of the Falls and then we ate lunch – our sandwiches tasted pretty damned good. I looked around at the other people at the Falls taking their breaks – I think almost everyone was a decade or four younger than us. Well younger physically, but maybe not mentally. Having eaten, I was feeling pretty good again.

Bonnie, as we Arrived at The Falls.

After about a half hour break, it was 1:00PM and we started our hike back. We were at the four hour mark from our start that morning and knew we were going to be late returning to John, Cathy and Lana. There was no cell coverage in any case, so nothing to be done for it.

The return hike was the same path we came in on only in reverse. Again we passed a few people, and some passed us. There were three Japanese ladies we hiked with for a while, before eventually passing them for good. Another lady was running to the Falls – we would see her again as she re-passed us a couple of hours later. We crossed the stream three more times, and this time, with the use of one of Bonnie’s walking sticks, I managed to stay dry. Eventually we reached the beach, and took another short break before tackling the last two miles.

A Section of the Trail, Returning from the Falls.

The last two miles? As I said before, Bonnie had done this hike 5 or 6 years earlier and at this point said to me “These next two miles are going to suck!” and we both laughed. Finding humor in the truth is always a good thing. She was right – for me, they were tough. Those steps on the way up were spaced just far enough apart to make me dislike them. The downhill for the last mile over those wet stones and roots, well, my knees noticed every step. And yet, there was also a peaceful feeling of contentment. Maybe we were drawing strength from the trail itself.

Finally, at about 4:30PM, a little over seven hours after we set out, we were back at the start. It had been a great experience, a wonderful hike, and a tiring day. We still had no cell coverage, and couldn’t reach our crew to let them know we were safely back, so we just climbed on the bus for the drive to the parking lot. When we arrived dirty and sweaty at the drop off point, two or three hours later than our “expected time”, they were there waiting for us. There were hugs all around and a return to John’s for a well deserved beer.

Over the next couple of days, my thighs reminded me of what a good time I had. I reflected back on the hike, and a couple of things occurred to me. First, Bonnie and I both encouraged each other along the way, as we traded off the lead at various points. It was a natural back and forth between us. Also, although, I’m the former Boy Scout and Army Airborne trooper, Bonnie was the better prepared. She brought her water shoes and the walking sticks, making for a better and safer hike. Those last couple of miles? She may not have skipped up the trail, but she handled them better than I and my old man knees did.

My final thought? Age truly is a state of mind. Go for the gusto, and enjoy every bit of life you can.

Aloha, Until the Next Time.

Addendum:

  • Talking with locals afterwards, I’ve learned the hike is considered one of the “tougher ones” on the island. I’ve been asked by several folk if I would do it again, and the answer is an unqualified yes.
  • Special Thanks to Bonnie for her contributions of content and editing for this blog. Also a big thanks for suggesting the trail in the first place, and for being such a positive force on the hike itself – it was a blast. Love you sis!
  • You can find more information on the hike here: https://www.hawaii-guide.com/kauai/hiking-trails/the_hanakapiai_falls_trail

Our Candidate

Our Candidate

We started gathering signatures last winter to place our congressional candidate on the ballot. We would have from February to November to get her elected – it would be a busy year. With redistricting, Fauquier County moved from a bright RED district, to a new slightly BLUE one. Slightly Blue is worth squadoosh, especially in today’s world. We had our work cut out for us.

Introducing our Candidate at an Event in Warrenton Last April.

Over the next nine months, we held and attended events for the candidate to meet members of the community. We wrote Letters to the Editor. Our Ad campaign placed ads in our local hardcopy paper, and digital pop up ads in local online publications. We expanded our social media presence. We texted. We phone-banked. We ordered and placed over 140 large signs across the county on major (and some minor) roads. We mailed well over 10,000 post cards to local voters. Our candidate attended rallies, visited people and talked with local businesses.

Big Signs, Yard Signs, Flyers, Events, Ads and Post Cards – just a Part of our Effort

We raised money for her. In fact the fundraiser my friend John hosted at his barn was the largest fundraiser held for our candidate across her entire district.

The Fundraiser at John’s Barn

And we knocked doors. If you want to see America, I urge you to canvass for a candidate. Here in Fauquier, it’s a bit different than canvassing in a city, where you quickly walk door to door to door on the city streets. Yes, we have the small towns of Warrenton, The Plains, Marshall, Bealeton and Remington where you can do that, but most of the county, and our 55,000 voters, live in the country. We criss-crossed the highways, byways and gravel roads of Fauquier over the summer, and into the fall. You might be able to canvass 100 homes in an afternoon, if in a town. If driving through the countryside, it might take 3 1/2 hours to canvass 35 homes.

We Canvassed Everywhere in Fauquier County.

We met voters with mile long driveways and magnificent vistas from their back porches. We knocked on doors of small apartment complexes that had seen better days. We spoke with voters whose families lived in Virginia since before the Civil War. We met newcomers who only recently moved to the county. Men, women, young and old (the oldest person I personally canvassed was 91). Brown, black, white and every shade of color in between. We met dog people, cat people, and families with no pets at all. Single moms, families with 2.2 children and bachelor guys were all spoken with and listened to.

A few weeks before the election, a call came from my friend Austin, the Campaign Manager. The race was tightening. Our opponent was closing the gap and we needed all hands on deck. I couldn’t find my notebook, and furiously scribbled notes on a 3×5 card for reference.

Make it or Break it Time was at Hand.

During the final three weekends and the Get Out The Vote (GOTV) effort, we doubled down on our door knocking. We revisited areas previously knocked. We spoke with parents, whose kids were away at college, making sure they too had a plan to vote. We encouraged people to vote early, and if not yet registered, to take advantage of Virginia’s Same Day Registration. We started in the morning and were still knocking as dusk approached.

Finally, it was Election Day itself. Our precinct captains and their teams covered every one of our 24 polling locations from 6AM to 7PM. It was a sunny, but chilly and blustery day. As I drove around and spoke with our volunteers, people were bundled up against the cold and wind, but remained in good spirits. A couple of volunteers continued to text voters, reminding them to get out and vote. Voter turnout was high, although it was difficult to tell whether there were more Republicans than usual, or more Dems. Fauquier remains a red county, but margins matter, and margins were what we would look at later that evening.

Election Day – A long Day that Included a Visit by our Candidate.

When I made a visit to a last polling location at 6:45PM, it was cold and dark. An election official came outside to announce the poll would close in 15 minutes. Our team reported the Republicans working at the location had already left to attend their Victory Party. Our team was still talking to voters at 6:55, 56, 57, 58, 59… At 7PM, they closed polling location 206, at P.B. Smith Elementary School.

That night, after the polls closed, there was an official campaign Watch Party at a brewery in Loudoun County about an hour away, and our candidate would be there. We were tired, and elected to stay local, rather than chance the drive. Our friend Whitney hosted a party, and we went to her house. To be honest, most of our volunteers were exhausted from the long day and went home. I popped a beer and ate a slice of pizza. While election coverage was on the big TV in the family room, several of us were in the kitchen where one of our members was downloading results from the Virginia Election site as soon as they were posted.

As I said earlier, our new district, the 10th CD, is slightly Blue. What that means is if we voted exactly as the district did one year before in the governor’s election, our candidate would win by two points* – not much of a safety net, particularly in this day and age. It’s why we were interested in what our margin would be when results started coming in.

Fauquier is always one of the first counties to report. As expected, we were losing across the board in the county, but something interesting was going on. As precincts were reporting, something was happening. Although still losing in the county, we were performing three points better than we had the year before. Wow – THREE POINTS!

Three points up from a year ago was great for us, but our neighbor to the north, Loudoun County – the largest county in the District by far, would be the deciding factor.

Their precincts started reporting as well, as did other parts of the district. Our candidate’s lead remained steady, dropped some, dropped some more, then started to grow. Things were starting to look promising. I traded texts with Austin, and he confirmed things were going well from their perspective, but no one wanted to get ahead of themselves.

Finally, around 10PM, our candidate, Democrat Jennifer Wexton, was declared the winner by multiple sources, and won re-election!

Yessssss!

Emotions washed across all of us. Joy, relief, happiness… A bottle of bubbly was popped and we toasted Jennifer, each other and the Fauquier Democrats. We’d done our part to secure her re-election. The best candidate had won, and a Democrat would represent Fauquier County in the United States House of Representatives for the first time in a long time.

Cheers and Congratulations all Around!

When all was said and done, there were about 700 more Dem votes in Fauquier than during last year’s Gubernatorial election. It’s unheard of for a stand alone Congressional election to have more votes than a Gubernatorial election. Our Republican brethren had about 1,700 less than a year ago. Together, those numbers accounted for our 3.4+ point shift in the county. 12,250 people voted Democratic in Fauquier this year. We turned parts of the town of Warrenton Blue, as well as the village of The Plains – something that hadn’t happened since before 2008.

Jennifer won overall by over 5 points, and 16,000 votes. Here in Fauquier County, we are proud of the part we played in this victory for her, and for Democracy.

Jennifer Wexton – our New Congresswoman.

Addendum:

  • * With redistricting here in Virginia, this is actually the first elections held with the new districts. When I said “if we voted exactly as the district did one year before in the governor’s election, our candidate would win by two points ”, what that actually means is they re-combined the votes from last year’s Youngkin/McAuliffe Gubernatorial election (in their old districts) into their new districts, to project what a specific district might look like. Those Numbers showed Wexton winning by a couple of points, and showed Congresswoman Abigale Spanberger to the south of us, losing by a couple of points.