Well shut my mouth! For the first time, I won a lottery here in Virginia through the state Alcohol Beverage Control (ABC) Store. My prize? A bottle of Van Winkle Special Reserve 12 Year Old Bourbon for $150. It’s almost impossible to find, and if you do find it, it’s usually over $700 a bottle.
Continue reading “Van Winkle 12 Year Old Bourbon”
Last Christmas Eve, I was talking with our nephew Casey. He mentioned a visit to our home as a young boy, and then asked “Do you remember making cheese fondue at the cabin? That was so cool!” The memories of that weekend, and our ‘70s era burnt orange fondue pot came flooding back.
Continue reading “Cheese Fondue”
Oktoberfest in München, Germany is from September 21 to October 6th this year. Thinking back, I remember our adventures there in ‘87 with our friends Tim and Bobby. Cathy injured her arm on the rollercoaster at the fest grounds and had to drink her liter mugs of bier with one arm in a sling for the rest of the day.
Our old friend Tim and his buddy Bobby visited us in the Fall of ‘87. At the time, we were stationed in Worms, Germany. Upon arrival, they spent a few days at our house*, and then boarded a train to tour parts of Germany, Austria and Northern Italy. Before they left, we agreed we’d all meet at a location in the München Bahnhof (Train Station) eight days hence and go to Oktoberfest together. This was before cellphones, or texts or email so coordination was a bit trickier. Plus, phone calls in Europe, especially country-to-country were expensive and we avoided them unless necessary.
Cathy and I had, of course, visited many bier and wein festivals in Germany over the years. We usually enjoyed the smaller local festivals more than the big ones. To borrow a word from the Germans, the smaller fests tended to be more “Gemütlich”, a word that doesn’t really translate well to English, but roughly means a combination of fun, pleasant, comfortable, friendly and of good cheer. When Tim asked about joining them at THE Oktoberfest, we agreed to give it a go, and would meet them in München.
The München Oktoberfest is huge – part bierfest, part carnival, part party and part madhouse. Last year, visitors consumed over 6.5 million liters (a little over 1.7 million gallons) of bier at the festival. Only bier brewed at the city of Munich’s breweries is served. Anyone who has visited München knows about the Hofbrau Haus, but there are actually five other breweries in the city besides Hofbrau, including: Augustiner, Hacker-Pschorr, Löwenbräu, Paulaner and Spaten. The breweries all adhere to Germany’s beer purity law from 1516, the Reinheitsgebot, which states beer is only made from four ingredients: water, malt, hops, and yeast.
On the day before our link up, Cathy and I drove to Augsburg, Germany, about an hour outside of München. There we had reservations for a Gasthaus for the next two nights and for Tim and Bobby on the second night. We spent the night in Augsburg and the next morning, took the train to München. At the Bahnhof in München, all of us miraculously arrived at the appointed time. Then it was off to the Fest!
Paulaner was always my favorite München bier, so when we arrived at the Fest Grounds, we made a beeline to the Paulaner tent. Each of the breweries have massive tents that can hold thousands of people. People sometimes hang all day at one tent, while others move from place to place. The only problem with the second option is the tents fill up early and stay packed. Giving up your seats in one tent doesn’t guarantee seats in another.
As we were finishing our first liter at Paulaner, we were trying to decide what to do next. Someone suggested that if we were going to ride any carnival rides, we should do that now, before consuming more bier. We made the ill-fated decision to ride the rollercoaster before going to the Hacker-Pschorr tent.
At the roller coaster, Tim and I climbed in one car and Bobby and Cathy jumped in the next. I should point out Bobby was only a few inches taller than Cathy, but probably weighed 75 pounds more. You might see where this is going.
The rollercoaster took off and rapidly gained speed. At the second corner, it made a sharp left turn and Bobby slid hard into Cathy, slamming her into the right side of the rollercoaster car. When we all got off the rollercoaster a few minutes later, Cathy could not move or lift her right arm without pain. In fact, she could hardly move the arm at all. What to do!?
Well, it turned out Oktoberfest had its very own first aid station with doctors and we visited it (in 2023, over 8,000 people used the aid station during the festival). Still early in the day, there were no patients yet. Cathy got right in, while Tim, Bobby and I waited outside. Eventually she returned with her arm in a sling. They didn’t believe she broke any bones, but had severely pulled the muscles around the shoulder and strained some ligaments. They put her in a sling to immobilize her arm and gave her aspirin for the pain.
What to do now? Of course we headed to the Hacker-Pschorr tent and ordered four biers. As the biers arrived, Cath ran into a slight problem. She’s right-handed and that’s the arm she injured, so she had to drink with her left hand. It sounds simple, but liter mugs are heavy, especially when full of bier. She ended up holding the stein in her left hand and then used her right hand (in the sling) to support the mug from the bottom. It was quite the operation. ;-).
The rest of the day was a fun time, and anyone who knows Cathy, knows she’s a trooper. We made it to a couple of other tents along the way and also ate some great food. I think Cath and Bobby both had the famous roast chicken, while Tim and I ordered grilled ham hocks the size of small hams. I’ve never seen ham hocks that big before or since. They were huge, and oh-so-tasty.
Eventually it was getting late and we caught a train back to Augsburg. It was crammed with other revelers heading out of the city. There were various states of intoxication, but people were all in a good mood – a few were still singing German songs, while others tried to sleep. About an hour later we arrived in Augsburg, and finally made it to the hotel and bed.
The next morning, I woke up and felt surprisingly good. After taking a shower, I heard Cathy call out to me. She was in bed, but couldn’t turn over or get out of bed – her arm was of no use. I turned her over and other than her arm hurting like hell, she was ok. We put her arm back in the sling.
We linked up with Bobby and Tim for breakfast and then the four of us made the drive back to Worms. The next day, Cathy went to the doctor’s office. Diagnosis? Just as the doctor said at Oktoberfest, she had some pulled muscles and strained ligaments. She ended up wearing the sling for two more weeks.
We joked later that rather than riding the roller coaster early, we should have skipped it all together and stuck to the bier tents. It would have been a safer day. 😉
Addendum:
In the summer of ‘87, my folks visited us in Germany. We had a grand time touring Germany, Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland. One of the highlights was Glacier Skiing at Sölden, Austria and then afterwards, hanging at the Lodge drinking bier, while Cathy worked on her tan.
On our first tour in Germany from ‘79-83, Mom and Dad visited once for a vacation in the summer of 1982. I was a Company Commander in the 34th Signal Battalion at the time and the day we were to leave on vacation with them, the phone rang about 4AM. Cath said, “Don’t Answer it”. I said, “I have to.” She answered back, “Don’t answer it.” I answered the phone.
The call came from Battalion Headquarters and we deployed on an alert for the next three days. While I was in the field, Cath showed Mom and Dad around Southern Germany and the Black Forest. When I returned from the alert, we travelled the next ten days together. Dad understood what happened with the alert and why I had to go, but I’m not sure Mom did.
When we moved back to Germany in ‘85, we didn’t think Mom and Dad could afford another visit. Airline travel was expensive, as was the trip itself. Then, fate intervened. Dad hit 5 out of 6 numbers on a lottery ticket and won several thousand dollars. Never ones to let extra money go to waste, they scheduled a visit with us in Worms in the summer of 1987.
When they arrived, we spent the first few days near Worms and the village of Rheindurkheim, where we lived. In addition to introducing them to local friends, we spent an evening at one of our favorite Weinfests. Everyone enjoyed themselves, or at least that’s what the photos seemed to indicate.
Eventually, we left Rheindurkheim and headed South for the main part of the vacation. I’m not sure why, but Cath and I decided to take our skis along and get some Glacier skiing in, something we’d never done before. Looking back now, it seems an odd decision. Mom and Dad wouldn’t ski, but I’m sure we talked with them about it. In any case, off we went down the Autobahn with the skis strapped on the roof rack of our Saab.
After visiting good friends Jim and Res in Stuttgart for a night, we made our way to the Alps. We planned a drive through Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland, but started with Sölden, Austria where we would ski. In the 1980s, you could still ski Sölden virtually all year long*.
Glacier skiing is a bit different from regular skiing. You have to hit the slopes early, and most people only ski in the AM. By late morning, the sun has warmed the slope and the glacier starts turning to slush. Also, as the morning wears on, the snow/ice on the glacier tends to become gravelly, not quite ice and not quite snow.
That first night at Sölden, we ate dinner in the little Gasthaus where we were staying. We discussed skiing the following morning. Cathy was thinking about skiing in her bikini and I was up for wearing a pair of shorts. Ultimately, we decided to ski in sweats and jeans. If we fell, the gravelly snow would scrape us up pretty good.
The next day, after an early breakfast of Kaffee, Brotchen, Wurst und Käse (Coffee, rolls, sausage and cheese) we made our way to the slope and were skiing by 7:30AM. We’d told Mom and Dad they could hang at the Gasthaus, but they insisted on coming with us to the ski lodge. Dad took a photo as we headed to the lift.
Cath and I spent the next three hours skiing the glacier and it was wonderful. The piste (ski trail) wasn’t crowded, the snow was in great shape and we were skiing well. Occasionally, we’d check on Mom and Dad who were drinking Kaffee on a picnic table outside the lodge. Dad snapped some pics of us skiing, but for the life of me, I can’t find them. Around 10:30 the snow started getting slushy. By 11, we were through. We started getting wet from the knees down and were tired from the morning’s activities. In the additional good news department, we hadn’t fallen all morning.
We stacked our skis in a rack, joined Mom and Dad and ordered some biers. Cathy stripped off her sweater and jeans, revealing the bikini she wore underneath. In the photo I took of Cath with Mom and Dad, I love the bored/sullen Euro look she adopted. Just another ho-hum day skiing the Alps and catching rays.
We spent one more night in Sölden, before heading for Nauders, Austria right on the Italian border. We’d previously skied a couple of winters there. After a couple of days seeing friends, we eventually crossed into Italy and then Switzerland, having an occasional roadside lunch of bread, cheese and wine. One day we forgot glasses, but that didn’t stop us. ;-).
We worked our way to Davos, where we enjoyed a multi-course 5-Star meal at a restaurant just outside of town. At our hotel that night, we saw fireworks going off in the mountains across the valley. It was the celebration of the Swiss National Day, their equivalent to our 4th of July and pretty amazing. At the time, we had no clue about the importance of Davos or the World Economic Forum. All we knew was that we ate a great meal that evening and then saw a cool light show in the Alps.
Eventually, we returned to Rheindurkheim and other adventures, before Mom and Dad flew home.
It’s funny, I remember many parts of that vacation**, but for some reason skiing the glacier at Sölden stands out. It was only a small part of the trip, but remains firmly in my mind. Maybe it was the fun of the day. Maybe it was the skiing. Maybe it was just the remembrance of my wife soaking up sunshine in a bikini at the ski lodge after a morning of good play. All our days should be so happy.
Addendum:
My friend John told me a story about once taking on a high-level job after his predecessor was fired. He knew the guy (Sandy) he was replacing and asked him if he had any advice. Sandy gave him the usual pablum, and then said “I’ve left you three letters in the top drawer of the desk. If you get in trouble, open each of the letters in turn.”
John took on the job and it was quite a challenge. After about three or four months, things weren’t going very well and he decided to open the first of the letters. He opened it and inside was a single sheet of paper. On it, Sandy had written “Blame your predecessor (me) for the issues. That will give you some more time.”
John thought about it some. He didn’t want to throw Sandy under the bus, but then thought, hell the advice came from Sandy himself and he decided to do it.
At the next board meeting he explained he had uncovered some new issues and they were directly caused by Sandy and his time with the company. The board nodded in agreement and told him to proceed and fix things.
Six months later, things hadn’t improved much. John was getting a bit desperate again and opened the second letter. For the second time, there was a single sheet of paper inside and on it, Sandy had written, “Reorganize.”
John thought to himself, “Of course! Brilliant idea!” And so, at the next board meeting John explained he was reorganizing and this would bring greater efficiency and increased profits. The chairman nodded in agreement and said, “That sounds good John, but let’s get on with it. We’ve put our faith in you.”
Another six months went by and things didn’t get any better. As a matter of fact, they might have become worse. Reluctantly, John decided he needed to open the last letter from Sandy.
For the third time, there was a single sheet of paper inside. On this one, Sandy had written, “Write three letters!”
__ 😉 __
No, not a true story, but I think a funny one. And while not a true story, there is some truth to what people try and do to improve an organization. As a SR VP in a publicly traded company, a COO for a private company, and the Chairman of a small IT Services company, I’ve seen all types of leaders and managers. I’ve never thought the blame game helped anyone and I’ve never been a believer in change for changes sake. Some “leaders” seem to do both.
The cashew I was eating one evening last week cracked a filling and broke a piece off of one of my crowns. Sixteen hours later, I was sitting in a chair at Gainesville Dental Associates with the filling repaired and a temporary crown in place. I don’t think people say it very often, but I love my dentist.
It was about 8:30 or 9:00PM and I was watching some bad TV. I decided to have a snack and went in the kitchen and served myself a half a cup of cashews.
As I sat back on the couch, I popped one in my mouth. It crunched and somehow became totally lodged between two teeth, or so I thought at the time. I tried removing it with a toothpick, and then with floss, but when the floss cut in half three times in a row, I knew something was wrong. I eventually removed the nut, but there was a half gap where a tooth used to be. Strangely, I felt no pain.
I called my dentist’s office, Gainesville Dental Associates, and asked if they could call me back in the morning so we could schedule an appointment to have the tooth looked at. I figured, with luck, they could get me in within the next few days.
Early the next morning as I returned from the barn, my phone rang. The dentist’s office was returning my call. I again explained what happened and was hoping for an appointment as soon as possible. “Just a moment.” the person said, and after a few seconds, “Could you be here at 2:50 this afternoon?” “Of course!”, I answered and thanked her profusely.
That afternoon, when I arrived at the dentist’s they escorted me to the exam room. As I spoke with the tech who was taking X-rays and would be assisting the dentist, I expressed my surprise at receiving an appointment so quickly. It turns out the office runs between 7AM and 8PM (they run two shifts) and they always keep a couple of slots free during the day for emergencies. All I can say is what a brilliant idea – I certainly benefited from it.
The X-rays showed one of my fillings had cracked, AND part of a crown had cracked and separated from the tooth (and disappeared). There was no pain because the crown covered a root canal from years before and hence, there was no feeling in the tooth. The sharp edge of the remaining part of the crown is what cut my floss the night before. That must have been one hard nut.
The dentist came in and we spoke a bit and went over options. Ultimately, we decided to repair the cracked filling and replace the crown. He started immediately.
For the next 1 1/2 hours, the dentist, the tech, and I became buds of sorts. Rock music played in the background and there were bits of conversation. As they were starting to work on the crown they put a small “shield” in my mouth between the tooth and my cheek to help protect the cheek. Of course as time progressed, I kept playing with it with my tongue trying to figure it out, and then trying to decide what it was made of. Finally, I said to the dentist during a break, “What’s the shield made of, plastic or cardboard?” He looked at me and said, “Are you an engineer?” I answered, “what?!”. He said again, “Are you an engineer?”, and I answered, “Well as a matter of fact I am. Why?” He then laughed and said, “My brother’s an engineer and that’s exactly the kind of question he asks!” We both chuckled and talked a bit about engineers and their ways. I told him my favorite engineer joke which he laughed at out loud and planned to tell his brother the next time he saw him. (For the record, the shield is made out of plastic AND cardboard.)
The work continued. They took a mold for my permanent crown and measured for a temporary crown until the permanent crown is ready.
My dentist left and the tech finished putting the temporary crown in place. She then talked about things to do and not do until the permanent crown is in. Chief among the advice – “Do not eat any nuts!”
I’ve been with Gainesville Dental Associates for over 25 years. They’ve been great the whole time. Whether routine cleaning, exams, handling a couple of issues I had, or responding to my plea for help this past week, they’ve always risen to the occasion and done an excellent job. If you live in the Warrenton/Manassas/Gainesville/Haymarket area, you should definitely consider using them. You won’t regret it.
As for me, I’ll be back on August 6th, when they’ll put my permanent crown in.
Addendum:
We arrived at the ranger Station in Wrangell-St Elias National Park, Alaska. As we checked in for our backpacking trip to Dixie Pass, an older looking ranger eyed me. After a brief conversation, he asked, “Do you know what grizzly bear scat looks like?” I shook my head no.
Six months before meeting that ranger, Cathy turned 40 years old. We decided to celebrate her milestone birthday in Alaska the next summer and do some backpacking while there. Coincidentally, Cath’s sister Bonnie was marrying Don that June and they asked about coming with us for their honeymoon. We quickly said yes and started outlining the trip.
While we planned to visit several places, the highlight would be a four-day backpacking trip in Wrangell-St Elias National Park (WSNP). It is a vast national park that is the same size as Yellowstone National Park, Yosemite National Park, and Switzerland combined. Only Denali, also in Alaska, is a larger Park.
We specifically chose WSNP because of its remoteness. Unlike Denali, which has buses circling the park and regulates when and how people can enter the park, WSNP is a wilderness area with one 60-mile gravel road dead-ending at the town of McCarthy. I should mention that while McCarthy’s summertime population was 200, its winter population was just 13.
In the WSNP there were no trails, only suggested routes requiring map and compass skills. We eventually settled on a hike to Dixie Pass – a four-day, 28-mile round trip hike with 5,400 feet of elevation gain. The country was remote and about half the hike was above the tree line. It was also mosquito infested until you were above the tree line. Guidebooks suggested checking in and out with the Ranger Station at the entrance of the park for safety reasons.
After Bonnie and Don’s wedding in June of ‘96, the four of us flew to Anchorage. We spent a few days seeing some sites and getting acclimated to the near continuous sunlight. Eventually we made our way to WSNP and checked in at the Ranger Station.
We signed in and spoke with one of the two rangers working that day and told him of our planned hike to Dixie Pass. He gave us a few safety tips and talked about the fact there were both black bears and brown bears (also known as grizzly bears) in the park. While black bears are usually more timid and less confrontational, the grizzly bear was totally different. They could attack even when unprovoked.
The ranger pointedly looked at us and then asked, “Have you bought any jingle-bells for attaching to your pack to make noise, so the bear know you are coming?” I answered, “No, we planned to attach our drinking cups to the outside of our packs so they would make noise.”
“Ahhhhhh. Did you bring any pepper spray with you?” – “Ummm, no. Should we have?”
“Hmmmmmmm. Do you know the difference between black bear skat (poo) and grizzly bear skat?” – “No, we don’t. Could you fill us in?”
He kind of smiled, and then said, “Sure. Black bear scat is sort of brownish and fibrous. You’ll often see berries in it as well. And grizzly bear scat? Well, it’s similar to black bear scat, but it also has jingle bells in it and smells like pepper!”
A half second passed and then all of us, including the ranger, burst out laughing. He’d reeled me in like a bluegill in a pond.
After the laughter ended, he did share that in WSNP, unlike Denali, there generally were no bear problems. There were so few people in the park that when the bear smelled or saw humans, they generally turned around or went in a different direction. They didn’t really know what we were and would probably avoid us. If we did come across a bear, stay still or slowly back away, don’t run, and things would probably turn out fine.
We thanked him for his help and then drove down the gravel road awhile before turning onto a dirt trail for a bit. Eventually, we arrived at a small, cleared area. We saw a small sign pointing towards Dixie Pass. There were no other cars.
The hike itself was wonderful and everything we hoped for – beauty, silence, wilderness – Mother Nature at her best.
We definitely needed a map and compass to guide us, so both Boy Scout and Army skills came in handy. Mountains, valleys, creeks, draws, outcroppings … they all became important in identifying our route.
The mosquitos were horrible until we climbed above the tree line. A half mile into the hike, we needed our head nets and sprayed ourselves with 90% Deet. We used so much Deet, Cath’s running tights basically disintegrated when we returned home and she washed them.
The route challenged us. There were multiple creek crossings, some two feet deep, and places where we hiked over snowpack. We switched to Tevas or sandles several times each day to keep our boots dry. There was also plenty of rock hopping where you were using both legs and arms to scramble over the boulders. While not really dangerous, the trail wasn’t for the faint of heart.
We finally arrived at Dixie Pass where there were gorgeous views in all directions. We lounged around, ate lunch and took some photos. Although it was June 30th, we were snowed on while hiking back down from the pass.
On the 3rd morning around breakfast time, we did have a distant encounter with a brown bear, but the ranger was right. When the grizzly smelled us, he turned in another direction and gave us a wide berth. We were probably 75 yards or so away and watched him from a hillside. Still, I have to say it elevated my pulse.
Eventually, we finished the hike and our grand adventure ended. It was both a beautiful and challenging hike – one of those life events you never forget. For me, the story is never complete without also talking about the ranger, the jingle bells and the pepper spray. I laugh to this day when I tell the tale, and it always gets a chuckle.
A while back, a friend talked about her son, who was either prepubescent or a new teen. In the screed, she spoke about “stinky boy stuff” or something similar. It reminded me of a lecture I received from my mom upon returning home from a week at Boy Scout camp in the summer of ‘66.
I was all of 11 years old. I’d joined Boy Scout Troop 45 that spring and was going to my first ever summer camp at Camp Kishauwau. To say I was excited was a huge understatement – a week away from home, sleeping in tents, having fun with your buddies – what could possibly be better?!
Mom of course helped me pack. In addition to scout uniforms, a swimsuit, a windbreaker, jeans and shorts, she dutifully packed six pairs of underwear, six white T-shirts and six pairs of sox. Of course, also a towel, wash cloth, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, bandaids, mosquito repellent, and who knows what else.
Mom and Dad dropped me off at Kishauwau on Sunday morning and I had a great week. We went swimming everyday, took canoes out on the Vermillion River, ate great meals at the mess hall, cooked our own food a couple of times, and learned all kinds of new skills. The week passed by in a flash.
Mom and dad picked me up on Saturday and we returned home. That day or the next, mom was doing my laundry from camp and I heard my name called/yelled. I dutifully came to the washing machine.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” and held up my underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear I hadn’t touched or changed all week long. I proceeded to receive a lecture from mom about cleanliness, hygiene, what the hell did I think I was doing, how could I go a whole week without changing my underwear and on and on and on… I had no defense and took it as best I could. I probably looked like a young puppy just caught peeing on the floor. Finally, she wound down and let me go. – whew! –
Fast forward a year. It’s time for summer camp again and I’m looking forward to going just as much as the previous year. Mom helps pack again and in go the six pairs of underwear, the six white T-shirts and the six pairs of sox. Of course along with the packing, I also receive another lecture about health and good hygiene. “Yes mom! I get it!”
Camp was a great time once again – water sports, learning how to track animals, bonfires, learning knots and lashings, building a bridge. It was awesome.
Friday night came and I was getting my stuff ready to go back home the next day. To my horror, I came across my six pairs of underwear, again unused. OH NO! What to do?! I was sure to be in real trouble this year. I thought about it and then had an idea. I would make the underwear look dirty! I quickly threw them on the ground and then proceeded to move them around in the dirt and walk on them in my hiking boots. They looked dirty for sure and I slept peacefully that night.
The next day Mom and Dad brought me home. I went out to play and then heard my name called loudly by Mom. Uh-Oh.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” And proceeded to hold up my underwear. My six pairs of underwear with boot prints on them. “Ummm, my dirty underwear.” “WITH BOOTPRINTS?! WHAT IS GOING ON??”
As I looked at her, my brain feverishly worked, trying to find an answer. What could I say!? What possible excuse could I give!? I had nothing.
“Ummm, I forgot to change my underwear again and thought I could make them look dirty.”
Mom stared at me. Finally with a look only a mom could give, she said “Go to your room.”
Now I’d done it. I sat in the bedroom thinking. She was sure to tell Dad, and then what? How much trouble was I actually in? Why the heck hadn’t I remembered to change my underwear? Why hadn’t I been smarter about how to make them dirty?
Time passed. Finally, I was called to dinner. Evidently it was going to be a public execution.
Except it wasn’t. Mom didn’t say anything. Dad didn’t say anything. In my memory, I seem to remember a small smile from him, but that may just be a trick of my mind 57 years later. And that was it. I didn’t hear anything more about it. By the next year, I actually did remember to change my underwear, although probably not as often as mom would have wished.
I’ve thought about the conversation I’m guessing took place between Mom and Dad. Mom laying out the case. Dad maybe hesitating a bit – remembering his own childhood during the depression. Or maybe thinking about being in North Africa during WWII, when he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to change his clothes for several weeks. And who knows, maybe Mom never said anything to Dad – maybe she had her own chuckle over the whole thing after sending me to my room.
Addendum:
– Fun Camp Kishauwau Fact: Ryan Gosling wore a Camp Kishauwau T-Shirt in the 2007 movie, Fracture, which also starred Anthony Hopkins.
– Here are two previous blogs about my time in the Boy Scouts:
Two questions simultaneously occupied my brain – “Why would I possibly order a hotdog with mac n’ cheese and crab meat on it?” – and – “How could I possibly turn down a hotdog with mac n’ cheese and crab meat on it!?” I admit it – I’ve sampled some strange ‘dogs at the ballpark this year.
Until last season, a good brat stand was not far from our seats and it became my go-to place at Nat’s Park. It’s gone now, or moved somewhere else. Instead, behind our seats in section 219 is a concession stand with burgers and hotdogs. It also has a specialty hotdog called “Taste of the Majors” on the menu.
The “Taste of the Majors” hotdog changes every series, depending on who the visiting team is and where they are from. It pairs the hotdog with something that city or region is known for.
If the Cubs or White Sox are visiting, it’s easy and a straightforward Chicago dog is on the menu. With Milwaukee, it’s always a brat instead of a hotdog, maybe with grilled onions if you want. Both of those make sense. It’s when other cities visit that things can get, well, a little strange.
Earlier this season, when the Baltimore Orioles were in town, they added crab meat and mac n’ cheese. The crab meat I understood, but not sure I knew Bal’more was a mac ‘n cheese hotbed. Seeing it on the menu, I felt both appalled and intrigued. “Intrigued” won out and I ordered it.
And?
In its own weird way, it was delicious. And messy. I needed a knife and fork to finish eating it.
A few weeks later, the NY Mets were in town. The Taste of the Majors ‘dog? A hotdog with pastrami, sour kraut and mustard. Excellent. A hotdog with kraut is fairly normal, so the pastrami was just a nice add-on. As a bonus, no knife or fork were required.
A week later the Atlanta Braves were visiting. OK, this was interesting – A deep fried hotdog with pulled pork, BBQ sauce, cole slaw and a pickle. My stomach rumbled just looking at the description. My brain said no. My stomach said no. Some other part of me said “You must try this!”, so I ordered it. It was interesting, but… I wouldn’t get it a second time. I thought it might be a cousin to a chili dog and taste pretty good, but that wasn’t the case. It tasted just as strange as it first sounded. I should note did take a Pepcid before going to bed that night. Curiously, as I write this blog, I am re-tasting the Atlanta dog – a not entirely pleasant sensation.
So the early season review? The O’s ‘dog was intriguing and good; the Mets ‘dog was a perfect blend of tastes; and the Braves ‘dog was a clash of flavors that didn’t quite work together.
Each of these puppies weighed in at around 850-900 calories. Healthy is never a term used to describe a hotdog, let alone these bad boys. Cath rolls her eyes when I tell her what I had to eat at the park. Still, my macabre fascination remains. We aren’t at the All-Star break yet and there are many games and ‘dogs to go. At some point, will common sense or my taste buds prevail and I’ll heed Nancy Reagan’s advice and “Just say no!” to these mutants?
That’s a question I can’t definitively answer, but my guess is that for better or worse, I have a few more “Taste of the Majors” hotdog creations in my future.
Addendum:
⁃ Between this blog and the one I did about sausage gravy Pizza, I’m sure at least some people are asking what the hell kind of stuff is Max putting in his system. I actually do eat healthily most of the time – salads, vegetables/vegetarian, some meat, and not much dairy, potatoes or pasta. Still, I think it’s good to enjoy life and challenge the ol’ digestive track on occasion. Otherwise, what’s the point of it all?
Cath and I bought our first home 35 years ago in June of 1989. It was a townhouse in Fairfax, VA and we were excited. It turned out our townhouse was in a Homeowner Association (HOA), a term I’d never heard before, but grew to hate. Our skirmishes with them lasted a decade.
After living in Germany for most of the ‘80s, we returned to the DC area for our next assignment with the Army. We also decided it was time to take the plunge and buy a home.
After looking at numerous townhouses (we couldn’t afford a house at that point), we finally found one we liked in Fairfax – four years old, with only one previous owner. Going through the paperwork, we learned our townhouse was in an HOA, a term we’d never heard. Our agent explained we would pay dues to the HOA and they did things like maintaining common grounds, pay for children’s playgrounds, and “help maintain the standards of the community.”
Now I’m not saying our agent acted dishonestly, but she didn’t quite go into the details of what “maintain the standards of the community” meant. She more or less explained it as making sure people kept their houses painted and looking nice, as how the neighborhood looked affected our property values. I suppose we should have/could have done our own research, but we were eager to buy, and that made sense. We didn’t think anything more about it, signed away our lives and bought the home.
We moved in and all was going well. As we’d done since we owned our first horse in 1983, we hung a horseshoe over the door for good luck. We’d done so at our apartment in Augusta, Georgia, our rented townhome in Dayton, Ohio and both houses we rented in Rheindurkheim, Germany. Couldn’t we all use a little extra luck?
About a month after we moved in, the HOA sent out a notice. They were having elections for all positions and we were encouraged to attend. The night of the election, we showed up, and I was impressed. There were a couple of speeches, printed ballots and then the actual elections themselves. Wow! We were watching democracy in action! This was amazingly cool. Little did I know, or really understand.
Another month passed and Cath and I received a notice in the mail. We were in violation of HOA rules. What!? The letter informed us that in accordance with section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), nothing was allowed on the door or over the door. Our horseshoe was in violation.
This couldn’t be! I called the number in the letter and the person picked up. I said I didn’t understand. What rules? How could a good luck horseshoe hanging over the door violate anything? The gentlemen referred to the HOA code. I said, “What code? We just moved in and never received any code.” He answered, “Yes you did. Check your closing documents when you bought the house. You’ll find a copy there.”
I pulled out our folder from closing, and sure enough, found the HOA document. I turned to section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), and he was right – nothing was allowed on or above the door, except during the Christmas holidays when a suitable wreath or garland could be hung.
D@mn.
With a great deal of complaining, I took down the horseshoe. I think that’s when my unofficial war with the HOA began.
I went back to the rule book and read through it in its entirety. There were, to put it mildly, a lot of rules and regulations. More than you would think possible.
I spent a fair amount of time over the next several weeks reading those rules, when all of a sudden, I noticed something. While they said nothing could hang on or over the door, it didn’t say anything about the window frame, three feet left of the door. I read and reread the rules and could find nothing prohibiting hanging something on the window frame. I immediately hung our horseshoe by the window.
About a month later we received another notice saying we were in violation of section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), just like before. I called the number again, spoke with the same gentleman and asked what the problem was. He said, “One of our inspectors told us you’ve put the horseshoe back up.” I answered, “Not above the door.” He answered, “nothing is allowed on the front of the house.” I paused slightly and said “That’s not what section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3) says. It only talks about the door.” He answered, “It means the front of the house.” I answered, “That’s not what it says.”
—Silence—
Then, from his end “I am referring this to the board. I’d advise you to take the horseshoe down.”
I left the horseshoe up. Surprisingly, I never heard back from the HOA or received another letter about it. Score a small victory for the Halls, along with justice and the American Way.
Other letters arrived over the years. I won a couple and lost a couple. My trim paint was off a shade in color one year and I lost that one. A year later, I found out the fence around our back yard was actually inset 3 feet from the community property line and decided to move the fence back to the line itself. If you live in a townhouse, three feet is a big deal.
The HOA dutifully sent us another letter saying we had illegally moved our fence and needed to restore it to its original location. I asked where it said in the HOA rules that a setback was required. I already knew the answer, but waited for them to find it as well – it didn’t say anything about a setback anywhere. Score another one for the Halls. Two of my neighbors subsequently moved their fences back in the coming months.
Our last victory, though probably illegal, provided great joy. It was in ‘97 or ‘98.
Parking is usually tight in townhouse communities and regularly managed. In our community, people were parking, usually temporarily, in places where they shouldn’t, including at the end of the pipe-stem we lived on. The HOA dutifully painted the curb in front our house yellow and wrote “NO PARKING” in black letters on the curb. This was fine. As I said, no one really parked there anyway, unless they were packing up or unloading a car.
Of course, the HOA couldn’t let it end with the painting. They also put up two “NO PARKING” signs at either end of the yellow paint. One of the signs was literally right in front of our door. I was, needless to say, pissed. It looked ugly setting right in front of our front door, and if approaching our home from the street, you needed to walk around the sign to reach our house. Note, the HOA put the signs up, not the town or county. As a result, they didn’t use any concrete, they just put the sign in the ground, something that turned out to be important.
Each day when I came home from work, I rocked the sign back and forth just a little bit. And then a little bit more. And then a little bit more. It became looser in the ground.
A couple months later, we were having a small party. Our neighbors, Laura and Jason, were moving to Texas and we were saying goodbye. A U-Haul truck was parked in front of their house and they were loading it, with some of our help. Suddenly, a genius idea came to me.
“Hey Jason. Just curious, will you have any spare room in the back of the truck? I may have something I’d like to ship to Texas.” He answered, “I think a little bit. How much do you need?”
I said, “ENOUGH FOR A NO PARKING SIGN!.” and smiled. He smiled back and replied, “I think we could fit in one of those.”
And so, over the next hour or so, we worked on the sign. Cathy had the honor of pulling it out of the ground. ;-). Jason and I loaded it into his truck sometime after dark.
We never did hear anything from the HOA about the incident, which seemed a bit strange given the number of people at the party. Maybe everyone else was fed up as well.
I do understand the need at one level for HOAs, particularly in something like a townhouse community, or with a Condo Association. There are some central costs, and you do want your neighborhood looking good. Still, I’ve always wondered what kind of junior fascist signs up as an inspector for their neighborhood. Do they think they are doing good, or are they just addicted to control?
In ’99, we left Fairfax and moved to our present home in the country. One of the requirements for the new property? It couldn’t be in an HOA. ;-).
At Rohan farm, our horseshoe proudly hangs over the garage door.
Addendum:
Live Life Exuberantly 