Tag: #friendship

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

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!?

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.

Davie

Davie

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

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

Random Hash Photos from DC, Orlando and Trinidad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Davie at the Oktoberfest Hash this Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

The Chili Dump

The Chili Dump

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

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

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

A Cauldron of Chili….

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

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

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

The Pot was Getting Full!

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

The Bonfire WAS Big…

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oooohhh! Aaaahhhh!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

Going Home

Going Home

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

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

The Last Visit Home

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

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

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

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

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

High Above Vermillion’s Waters…Camp Kishauwau

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

High School graduation had come and gone, and the month of June was racing by. In just a few days, I would report to West Point. For our last night together, Cathy had the idea for an “adult” farewell dinner at her house. Never mind that we were just kids of 17 and 18.

How she was able to make it all happen, remains a bit of a mystery to me to this day. In addition to planning our dinner she asked her folks if we could have a bottle of wine with the meal. They agreed, and then checked with my folks to make sure they were OK with it. Amazingly, they agreed as well.

It was finally the last night in Ottawa. I arrived at Cathy’s just as her mom and dad were departing, along with her sisters, Cindy and Bonnie. I don’t remember where they went – maybe the movies or a drive in. All I knew is we would have the house to ourselves.

We opened the wine, a straw covered Chianti bottle, and sipped on it as Cathy finished cooking. She was making spaghetti with a meat sauce, a meal of hers I love to this day. As we sat down for dinner, she also brought out a salad.

Dinner was Served, Along With a Nice Chianti

It’s funny, in my minds eye looking back, we were both adults, and also kids playing at being adults. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how I remember the night. It was somber and sad, and fun all at the same time. We finished dinner eventually and continued to sip on the wine until it too was gone. We talked about everything, and nothing. We talked of the future and when we hoped to see each other again. We promised to write… and finally, it was time for me to go home. We said our goodbyes, and then said them again several more times. Finally there was a long hug, a last kiss and I drove off into the night, with a crazy collection of mixed up feelings inside. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning arrived. Normally, Dad would have had us up at oh-dark-thirty to depart, but for whatever reason, he decided to break the trip to New York into two days, so we were leaving around mid morning. We were finishing packing the car when my old buddy Howard showed up. We’d known each other since kindergarten, and he wasn’t going to let me escape without saying goodbye. We too promised we’d write each other when we could.

At this point, mom, dad, my two sisters, Howard and I were all standing in the driveway. As we were getting ready to leave, Cathy came racing up on her bicycle. We all stood there for a bit talking. If you’ve ever seen American Graffiti, it was a little like the final scene at the airport with Richard Dreyfus saying goodbye to family and friends, before he departs on the plane for college.

The Last Few Minutes of my Departure Weren’t Unlike Richard Dreyfus’s Departure at the End of American Graffiti

I hugged my sisters goodbye and shook Howard’s hand. Cathy and I had a final kiss, and as we were hugging, she pressed a letter into my hand. She whispered “Don’t open this ‘til later…” With that, mom, dad and I climbed in the car and with honks and waves, were on our way.

I looked at that envelope for a long time. I believe we were in either Indiana or, maybe, Ohio before I opened it. I probably read the letter about 50 times on the drive east, and another 500 times during my time at West Point. I won’t share the contents here, but know the letter still sits in a drawer on my side of the bed, and I occasionally pull it out and read it.

I Still Occasionally Read that First Letter from Cathy

I think about that dinner, and the letter. We were just kids in so many ways, but we were also adults, or thought we were. The world turned out to not be quite as black and white as we imagined it in those last 24 hours in Ottawa, but here we are, decades later, reminiscing about our past, and still thinking about the future and what it holds for the two of us.

Addendum:

It’s worth noting a couple of things from that pre-Internet era:

  • There are no pictures of that last dinner or the farewell the next day. Why? With no cell phones or iPhones to document the events, we simply lived them. Who’s to say which is better?
  • People actually did write letters to each other back in the day. Particularly that first summer at West Point, the letters that came from Cathy, Howard, mom and dad and others helped sustain me.

Playing “Work Up”

Playing “Work Up”

Summer is almost here and schools will soon release their prisoners for the season. I envy the kids and their feelings of anticipation right now. Summertime, and the livin’ will be easy… Of course lots of the summer will be planned out, as seemingly everything is for children these days. Do they ever have the chance to just act like kids?

I was thinking back to summertime during my own youth and growing up in Tomahawk Terrace on the Southside of Ottawa, Illinois – population 18,000. There wasn’t much planning of our time at all, with every day it’s own adventure. Playground at the school? Playing Horse or two-on-two basketball at Schaefer’s or Cavanaugh’s house? Playing army in Varland’s nearby corn field or cow pasture? Hanging out and reading comics? … The possibilities were endless.

There were some organized activities in my life, such as Little League Baseball, or Boy Scout Camp, but most of the time? It was just us kids hanging out. You had to be home for lunch, and you had to be home for dinner. After that, I don’t really remember any other requirements.

… me in the mid 60s …

I think one of the best memories was playing “Work Up” baseball behind Honer’s house, next to the cemetery.

Work Up? What’s that you say? It’s the baseball game you play when you don’t have enough players for two teams, or maybe even one team. Hell, it’s the game the kids on the movie “Sandlot” would have been playing if the film had really gotten it right (and yes, I do love the movie).

The rules? Well there weren’t really any rules, but there were norms. Typically we’d have 7, 8 or 9 guys show up to play. You’d have 2 or 3 guys up to bat, with the remainder in the field. In our case, that included, in order of importance, a pitcher, 1st baseman, shortstop, 2nd baseman, and right and center fielders. We didn’t have a catcher, it was just whoever was up next to bat. The game was called Work Up because you would bat and run the bases until you made an out. Then the pitcher would go in to join the batters, the first basemen became the pitcher, and everyone else advanced one position. Whoever made the out moved to right field. Oh, and if you hit a fly ball and someone caught it, you did a direct exchange with that player.

The game was really adaptable. As an example, if you didn’t have enough kids, there might be only one outfielder, or maybe no 2nd baseman.

The only rules I really remember concerned Left Field. Our “ball diamond” had a graveyard where much of left field normally was. We never put a player in left field, although the center fielder might shade that way a bit. When you were at bat, if you hit a tombstone on the fly, it was an out – we basically assumed the gravestone “caught” the ball. If you hit a tombstone on the ground, we assumed the gravestone fielded a grounder and it was an automatic double. If you hit a ball and it didn’t touch any of the gravestones (almost impossible to do), then the ball was in play.

There are now trees near where Home plate, and 1st and 3rd Base were. Varland Park was a cow pasture at the time.

I don’t remember us ever having a set time for a game. Word just spread around and some number of guys would show up. We might play pickle, while waiting for enough folk to show. Most everybody was from the ‘Terrace, with the occasional friend or cousin added in. This included the Honer brothers, the Hinsons, Deaks, Hazelwoods, Steve Schaefer, John Levy, Chuck Ogden, Jim Habben, one of the Leach boys, Leonard Mayberry, Howard … other names I have long forgotten. If everyone showed up, we’d actually have enough for two teams and play pick-up, but that rarely happened. Kids ranged in age from a couple years older than me to a couple years younger, and there were lots of younger brothers in attendance. One unwritten rule was you didn’t try and take advantage of the younger kids. I mean, it was OK if one of your hits went towards them, but if you did it every time? Not so cool.

By the way, there was never an adult in sight. We seemed to manage just fine by ourselves, without their oversight or interference.

I don’t recall much about the games themselves, I just remember playing the game on hot summer days until we were tired. It might have been an hour, it might have gone on for three hours. Eventually someone’s mom would call and that player went home and then someone else would have to leave, and the game slowly broke up. We might reconvene again the next day, or maybe not until a week later.

I know it’s a different world today. Things are more complex, more challenging, and perhaps less safe. Kid’s lives, from what I can see as an outside observer and non-parent, are organized to the nth degree. Multiple activities, multiple practices, multiple study activities. I guess they are able to try more things, but I also think some things might get lost in the process, like the ability to entertain yourself, informal group interactions and how to handle them, and perhaps even learning a little about leadership for better or worse…

I dunno, do kids even want to spend time outside these days, or is it all mostly computer and video games? Back in the day, I know mom, or our babysitter, would have kicked us out of the house if we were hanging there too much.

I suppose some of this makes me sound like a grumpy old man after a fashion. I don’t really mean it that way. I just remember how much fun we had hanging out on our own behind Honer’s house, playing ball and trying like hell to not hit a fly ball to left field, where it was sure to be caught by a tombstone…

Addendum:

  • I went online to do a bit of research on “Work Up” baseball as a check on my memory. In a sign of the times, I found plenty of entries, most of them with long lists of rules on how to play Work Up… – sigh –
  • Thanks to Tomahawk Terrace alumni Bob Deak and Leonard Mayberry, for providing input to this blog.

Turtle Lake and Fishing for Beers

Turtle Lake and Fishing for Beers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club Patch from 1973

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

Mr Murphy from the 1973 OHS Yearbook

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At Least a Few Fish Became Part of a Meal…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story didn’t quite end there…

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

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

Mark, and the Return to Turtle Lake in 2021

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

Addendum:

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