I always suspected it might be true. Still, it was a bit jarring to find out it actually was true. Here in America, there are more dogs named Max, than people named Max. A lot more. In fact, there are about 8 times as many dogs as people named Max. I’m honored … I think.
Growing up in Ottawa, Illinois in the ‘60s, Max was a unique name. I believe I was the only Max at McKinley Grade School and it caused a bit of a problem. When filling out forms or headers for formal tests, teachers never believed my name was just “Max”. They were convinced it must be Maximillian, or Maxwell. I’d dutifully tell them no, it was just Max. I know at least a couple of them called mom, as I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. Mom would let them know I DID know my own name, thank you very much.
Of course Maxwell Smart in the ‘60s, Mel Gibson as Mad Max and Russell Crowe as Maximus in Gladiator spread the name a bit more. And, Cathy’s Dad was named Max (I believe he was the first Max I personally knew). Over time, it wasn’t quite as unique among us humans.
As I grew older, one of the things many people said when they first met me was “Oh! I know a dog named Max!” We would of course have a chuckle. Sometimes they would ask if I could sit, or stay, and I’d do a reasonable dog imitation. I drew the line at rolling over.
Time passed. People became more inventive, or more sharing. I learned of several horses named Max, a Cat named Max and even a Guinea Pig named Max. And then of course there was the occasional person with a mother or daughter named Max. Years ago, friends in Germany wanted to name their beagle Max (pronounced Machs in German), but checked with me first to make sure I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind and thought it was cool, although they also pointed out they weren’t actually naming him after me ;-).
Max, the Beagle.
Which brings us to the present.
The Washington Post recently ran an article about dog and people names and the overlap between them. It turns out Max is the second most popular dog name in America right now. Only Bella (of Twilight Saga fame) is a more popular name for dogs.
Max is Pretty Popular as a Dog Name.
So how popular is Max? If you gathered 100,000 people and 100,000 dogs together in a park, 351 dogs would be named Max, while only 44 people would be named Max (for Bella, it’s 357 dogs and 20 people). At the other end of the spectrum, only 80 dogs, but 411 people would be named George.
Outnumbered a Bit on the Human Side.
Yep, if you know a “Max” (other than me), he’s more likely a dog than a human.
What’s in a name? Max means “The Greatest” and I agree it’s a great name for either a man or his best friend. The Baby Center, (an online site with a wealth of knowledge about babies, including names) had this to say – “Max is undoubtedly a cool name, but if you’re considering it, keep in mind it’s also a common pet name. In fact, Max is the most popular name for dogs in the United States, right up there with Toby, Bella, Riley, and Molly.”
We should all be so honored and appreciated.
Addendum:
Thanks to our old friend Steven Buxton for sending us a picture of Max the beagle. We had so much fun with Steven and his folks Jim and Res back in the ‘80s.
It turns out this is my 300th blog. I started this effort in October of 2015 and it’s evolved over time. Back then, I’d push something out every couple of weeks, or when I could get to it. The last couple of years, it’s been more or less weekly. For better or worse, my topics have remained as diverse as ever. I’m still small scale, but 300 blogs and 7 plus years of continuity – I’ll take it. I think Live Life Exuberantly remains a valid title for the blog, and one of my ongoing life goals. Thanks to all who continue reading my wandering posts.
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. 😉
As we hiked towards the Hanakapi’ai Falls on Kauai, what I was thinking was “If one more person happily says to me ‘You’re almost there!’, I am going to punch them.” Seriously. Bonnie and I knew we were almost there, but I was concentrating on climbing over boulders, roots and slippery rocks, and not falling down…again.
Bonnie, my sister-in-law, contacted Cath and I to see if we were interested in a couple of hikes while visiting Kauai, one of the Hawaiian Islands, with her and her daughter Lana. The hike to Hanakapi’ai Falls sounded interesting, although not for the faint of heart. Bonnie had completed the hike several years earlier with her husband Don, before he passed away. She warned us the trail was a challenge – It’s an eight mile round trip trek with mud, lava rock, roots and stream crossings, with over 1,800 ft of elevation change. It also promised a tropical forest, panoramic ocean views and the Falls themselves, which drop over 400 feet.
The only catch was the rules changed since her last visit – now you needed reservations for the bus to the trailhead and access to Haena State Park. Both Bonnie and I were in, and she made the reservations.
The big day came for the hike and we packed lots of water, snacks and sandwiches. Our friend John dropped us off at the bus pick-up point. We told him we thought we’d finish between 2 and 3PM, and would call once we returned to the shuttle. That allowed 5-6 hours for the hike, at a 2 miles/hour pace, plus some spare time at the beach and Falls. It seemed like a reasonable time estimate. That was our first underestimation. ;-).
We arrived at the park itself about 9:00AM, where there was a check-in station and we were given more information about the trail. It turned out they’ve now measured the trail multiple times in recent years – it clocks in at 9.2 miles, not 8. Whoops! What’s another mile among friends? We were also warned to leave the Falls no later than 2:00PM to ensure we had enough time to hike the return to the start, where the last bus left at 5:30PM. If you missed the bus, it was a 6 mile stroll back to the parking area.
We started up the trail about 9:15. The first section was two plus miles from Ke’e Beach to Hanakapi’ai Beach. Two miles – easy peasy, right? Well, not quite. The first mile was all uphill, much of it over slick flat rocks. The trail also had a 500 or so foot drop off on the right hand side, which ended in the ocean. Mental note to self:if you fall on the rocks, don’t fall to the right. As we hiked along, we passed some folk, others passed us. One young woman hiked by in flip flops, while chatting with her friends. We eventually reached the high point and were rewarded with beautiful views of the ocean and distant coastline. We stopped and took a couple of pics, before continuing.
The View, One Mile Into the Hike.
From there, it was another mile or so downhill. The slippery rocks mostly disappeared, to be replaced by steps carved into the side of the mountain. You know the kind of steps I’m talking about – too wide, and too high to be comfortable while moving downhill. They were easy enough, but would come back to haunt me on the return trip.
An hour and twenty minutes after starting, we reached Hanakapi’ai Beach which was gorgeous. We stopped for a break and to eat a snack. Sitting for a bit felt good. There were warning signs everywhere about the treacherous rip tides and not to swim here. Evidently every couple of years someone would get sucked out to sea, never to be seen again.
At the Beach. Numerous Signs Warned About the Dangers of Swimming Here.
Around 11, we continued our hike. It looked like well over half of the people we’d seen along the way, including the young lady in flip flops, were staying at the beach, so the number of people on the trail to the Falls thinned out considerably. It would be a little over two more miles to the Falls.
Bonnie brought out her new, never used walking sticks for this part of the hike. After the first half mile or so, the trail narrowed considerably. Flat ground gave way to a tangle of tree roots, mud and lava rocks. It slowed us down as we worked to find a reasonable path on the path. We passed through bamboo stands and dense forest along the way.
There were Lots of Rocks and Boulders on the Trail – Looking for a Path on the Path was a Challenge.
Hanakap’ai Stream was on our left as we made our way up the trail. Along the way, we crossed the twenty foot wide stream three times. We rock-hopped across the stream pretty easily the first two times, but on the third crossing, I slipped and went into the water, banging my shin in the process. Bonnie looked at me and my bleeding shin, and with a smile, changed from her boots to water shoes. She then used her sticks to safely cross.
One of the Stream Crossings.
At this point we were nearing the Falls. The trail was getting more slippery, and we were frequently climbing over wet rocks. I fell another time or two, scraping the same shin I’d already banged up. Bonnie stayed vertical the entire time – I may need to buy a pair of those walking sticks for next time!
This is also when we started encountering the Good Samaritans coming the other way – “You’re almost there!” … “Keep going, it’s worth it!” … “Only 15 more minutes to the Falls!” … and then 15 minutes later, “Only 15 more minutes to the Falls – you’re almost there!” I believe that last one was what made me think I’d punch the next person with words of encouragement … ;-).
We did arrive at the Falls a short time later, and they were beautiful. It made the hike totally worthwhile. Bonnie took a short swim in the pool at the base of the Falls and then we ate lunch – our sandwiches tasted pretty damned good. I looked around at the other people at the Falls taking their breaks – I think almost everyone was a decade or four younger than us. Well younger physically, but maybe not mentally. Having eaten, I was feeling pretty good again.
Bonnie, as we Arrived at The Falls.
After about a half hour break, it was 1:00PM and we started our hike back. We were at the four hour mark from our start that morning and knew we were going to be late returning to John, Cathy and Lana. There was no cell coverage in any case, so nothing to be done for it.
The return hike was the same path we came in on only in reverse. Again we passed a few people, and some passed us. There were three Japanese ladies we hiked with for a while, before eventually passing them for good. Another lady was running to the Falls – we would see her again as she re-passed us a couple of hours later. We crossed the stream three more times, and this time, with the use of one of Bonnie’s walking sticks, I managed to stay dry. Eventually we reached the beach, and took another short break before tackling the last two miles.
A Section of the Trail, Returning from the Falls.
The last two miles? As I said before, Bonnie had done this hike 5 or 6 years earlier and at this point said to me “These next two miles are going to suck!” and we both laughed. Finding humor in the truth is always a good thing. She was right – for me, they were tough. Those steps on the way up were spaced just far enough apart to make me dislike them. The downhill for the last mile over those wet stones and roots, well, my knees noticed every step. And yet, there was also a peaceful feeling of contentment. Maybe we were drawing strength from the trail itself.
Finally, at about 4:30PM, a little over seven hours after we set out, we were back at the start. It had been a great experience, a wonderful hike, and a tiring day. We still had no cell coverage, and couldn’t reach our crew to let them know we were safely back, so we just climbed on the bus for the drive to the parking lot. When we arrived dirty and sweaty at the drop off point, two or three hours later than our “expected time”, they were there waiting for us. There were hugs all around and a return to John’s for a well deserved beer.
Over the next couple of days, my thighs reminded me of what a good time I had. I reflected back on the hike, and a couple of things occurred to me. First, Bonnie and I both encouraged each other along the way, as we traded off the lead at various points. It was a natural back and forth between us. Also, although, I’m the former Boy Scout and Army Airborne trooper, Bonnie was the better prepared. She brought her water shoes and the walking sticks, making for a better and safer hike. Those last couple of miles? She may not have skipped up the trail, but she handled them better than I and my old man knees did.
My final thought? Age truly is a state of mind. Go for the gusto, and enjoy every bit of life you can.
Aloha, Until the Next Time.
Addendum:
Talking with locals afterwards, I’ve learned the hike is considered one of the “tougher ones” on the island. I’ve been asked by several folk if I would do it again, and the answer is an unqualified yes.
Special Thanks to Bonnie for her contributions of content and editing for this blog. Also a big thanks for suggesting the trail in the first place, and for being such a positive force on the hike itself – it was a blast. Love you sis!
It was a bit sad, to be honest. When the frost came in mid-October, Cathy picked the last three tomatoes from the garden and brought them in to ripen. One week, ten days, fifteen days went by, and then, voila’, they were ready! But what to do with them? You know the answer.
The Three Last Lonely Tomatoes
We decided to end the tomato season as it began – BLTs of course. It did take time for the tomatoes to ripen, but finally, they were ready. A day later, and we had the ingredients – a head of romaine, a half pound of bacon, and a loaf of fresh wheat bread from Red Truck Bakery.
That Saturday we both arrived home a bit late after canvassing. Cath was there first, and when I finally arrived, she’d just finished making a dozen pepper poppers with the last jalapeños and poblanos from the garden. A manhattan later, and the poppers were baked and nicely browned. They were damned tasty, with about every fourth one having a bit of heat.
Cathy finished frying the bacon and we were ready. Slice the tomatoes, slice the bread, slather the mayo on the bread (a bit heavy for me, thank you), then pile on the bacon lettuce and tomato. It was looking good.
Almost Ready
We popped a bottle of Jsparkling wine, because, why not? It was Saturday, we were having BLTs, and why the hell not? It tasted wonderful and life was wonderful, at least for the night.
It wasn’t summer, and we’d been so busy lately we didn’t have time to make side dishes, but Nick’s Market in Marshall solved the problem. Some of their potato salad and a half dozen deviled eggs rounded out the meal. We were ready.
Nick’s to the Rescue!
You know, it may not have been quite as good as the first sandwich of the summer. I mean, in July, to borrow from DR Frankenfurter in Rocky Horror, you “shiver with antici…..pation” waiting for the first bite of that first BLT. How do you top that? Still, this one was pretty good. Considering it was November 5th, it was d@mned good.
We finished dinner and were still sipping on the J, when Cath said she hadn’t been quite truthful with me. “What? What are you talking about?” She pulled out a basket and there were seven, count them seven, green tomatoes she’d gathered from the garden that very day. BLTs in December? Will they ripen, or stay green? I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
BLTs in December?
Addendum:
Maybe I have a bit of a BLT obsession – here’s a blog I wrote a couple of years ago about the first BLT of the season – Last night we had our first Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato sandwiches of the year. They were perfect. I’m not sure why I like the BLT so much, but I do. They taste of summer I think. They are simple. There’s a finite time when they are in “season”. And they taste so […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/07/30/perfection-in-a-sandwich/
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.
Things that belong in martinis: Gin (or vodka), vermouth, maybe a dash of orange bitters or splash of olive juice, and either a lemon peel or olives. Things that don’t belong in martinis: MSG, pasta water, garlic powder, fish sauce or “Filipino sugar cane vinegar.” Yes, this blog is an Old Man Rant.
Dave, a friend of mine, recently gave me the October ‘22 issue of Food & Wine magazine. I was flipping pages when I came upon an article on the “Drink of the Year”. The lead in was pretty good – “The martini is America’s most iconic cocktail, and it’s undeniably the “it” drink of 2022.” This looked interesting at first; however, the article went downhill from there. They gave recipes for seven “signature martinis” from around the country. A couple were twists on a standard martini. The others? While they may be good or interesting drinks, they are definitely not martinis, or at least not in my book.
Some Interesting Drinks, but Most Aren’t Really Martinis.
Among the highlights, there’s the Salmon Martini, with “smoked salmon-infused gin” with a caper berry garnish. Next is a Datu Datu Martini with “Filipino sugar cane vinegar”, garlic powder and fish sauce. Then we have the MSG Martini with MSG and Shaoxing wine. And finally, (and I’m not making this up), the Dirty Pasta Water Martini which uses starchy pasta water in the mix.
A Dirty Pasta Water Martini … Really
Now these may be fine drinks, but do we really need to call them martinis? Doesn’t it show just a little lack of imagination on the originator’s part? It takes me back to the bad old days of the Chocotini and Appletini… ughhhhhh.
Ian Fleming and James Bond stirred up quite the controversy decades ago with his shaken, not stirred, Vodka Martini. I’ll grant you the Vodka Martini is OK, but not really my cup of tea, thank you very much. By the way, it’s called a Vodka Martini, not a Martini. And yes, a martini should be stirred, but I won’t throw it away if it’s shaken.
Baltimore-born satirist H.L. Mencken famously said the martini is “The only American invention as perfect as the sonnet.” I always thought ol’ HL was a pretty smart and witty guy. And of course when he said “martini”, he really meant a gin martini.
My Martini? Beefeater gin, a little vermouth, and a small splash of olive juice, stirred or shaken depending on the day, and served up with a couple of olives. Simple, smooth and straightforward. Pretty tasty as well.
Rant over. 😉
Simple, Smooth, Straightforward and … Tasty,
Addendum:
This blog was half tongue-in-cheek and half rant. But a Dirty Pasta Water Martini? Really? It sounds like someone cleaned out a pot and used it to dilute a martini. 😉
Thanks to my buddies Tim and Mark for their commentary and suggestions for this blog. Mark is a vodka guy, and Tim views martinis as olive injection systems.
I was in Warrenton between stops at the dry cleaners and the UPS store when Iron Butterfly’s “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” came on the radio. Talk about flashbacks. I don’t think I’d heard it in decades. When I came out of the UPS store several minutes later, it was still playing and my mind drifted back to Plebe year at West Point.
As Plebes (Freshmen), we weren’t allowed to have stereo equipment in our rooms during the first semester. I suppose some sort of depravation challenge for us. Second semester, the restriction was lifted, and many of us went to the Cadet Store to dutifully buy audio equipment of varying quality.
Me, as a Plebe at West Point
Of course I started buying albums of various types as well. Sometime in the middle of the semester, a friend dropped by and said something like “Have you listened to Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida?” Now the album was actually released in 1968. Not only had I never heard it, I’d never heard of it. I looked at the album and said “Hey, there’s only one song on this side.” My friend looked at me like I was stupid, and put the album on the turntable.
Full On 1968…
I was blown away. Seventeen minutes for one song. It went on and on and on. The lyrics were simple and repeated. And then somewhere in the middle is that incredible drum solo. I was hooked and bought a copy. For the next month, I hardly played anything else.
The Lyrics were … Simple … and Repeated Over and Over
Eventually, my infatuation faded a bit and it moved into a normal musical rotation. By Firstie (Senior) year, it moved to the back of the albums and was rarely played.
….
Back in my car, the drum solo was pounding and I cranked the volume. I was lost somewhere between nostalgia and thinking to myself “Hmmm, this is still pretty good.”
The drum solo eventually finished, and so too did the song about half way home. When I arrived at our house, I looked through my old albums for Iron Butterfly. It wasn’t there. Somewhere along the way, it evidently didn’t make the cut for our next move. Or maybe someone borrowed it and it never came home.
I know in today’s world, I can call it up online and listen to it anytime I want, and now that I’ve remembered it, maybe I will. Or I could pay Apple and downline the single. I don’t know that I’ll do either, but yesterday was a pretty cool drive home and I enjoyed the trip back in time.
Addendum:
⁃ In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida actually started as “In the Garden of Eden” and a reference to Adam and Eve. When one of the band members first wrote down the words from a band mate’s recording that was slurred (due to alcohol consumption), In a gadda da vida is what he heard, and what was written down. The rest is rock history.
Here are two YouTube videos of the song. First one contains a video of the band (very blurry and very ‘60s). Second one is just the album cover, but I think the audio is better.
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.
Am I going crazy? The weird feelings and nausea while driving by the wind turbines were real. I furtively look at them and yep, they were still standing there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. My eyes snapped back to the road and I tried to focus.
On our recent trip home to Illinois, Cath and I drove through some huge wind farms off of Interstate 65 between Indianapolis and Chicago. As I saw the wind turbines in the distance, I felt a rumble in my stomach. D@mn… With a nervous laugh, I started telling Cathy about the last time I drove through them, thinking maybe telling the story would make the rising feelings go away.
It was 2017 and I was driving home to see mom. She hadn’t been well for a while and as a result, I was probably off a little. I was going to stay at my Sister Berta and her husband Jack’s home near Pontiac, and Google Maps was taking me a different way for the last section of the trip. As I was driving north from Indianapolis, I entered a field of wind turbines. There were hundreds of them and it went on for miles. The turbines were huge, with three blades turning on each. I looked across the fields, mesmerized.
Wind Turbines… For as Far as the Eye Can See
The turbines were turning at different speeds. Some weren’t turning at all. There were lines of them. There were scattered individual ones. There was a pattern. There was no pattern. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh the blades continued to turn silently. I rolled down a window to hear them, but they made no discernible sound. And still they turned, independent and out of synch with each other. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I started to think of them as the evil cousins of the quaint wooden windmills in Holland.
The Evil Cousin of the Quaint Wooden Windmills in Holland
And that’s when I started to feel funny. A bit of nausea, a little out of sorts, foggy in the brain. I tried to keep my eyes on the road and ignore them, but found my eyes continually drifting to the left or right to watch them some more. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… I felt myself drifting. Whoosh… whoosh…whoosh… With a start, I popped out of my reverie, saw an exit and pulled off the interstate and into a gas station.
I got out of my car and shook my body a couple of times. Inside the station, I bought a Diet Coke, and with a nervous laugh, told the clerk about the windmills and that I needed a break. He chuckled, and said something like “Yea, that happens around here sometimes. ” After about 15 minutes, I resumed driving. Ten minutes later I was past the turbines without incident.
I finished telling Cathy the story. Without commenting, she just looked at me like I was nuts.
About then, we started passing through the first wind farm and initially everything was fine. I kept up a steady chatter with Cathy, and tried to ignore the beasts outside. Unfortunately, after a bit, I found myself looking at them, standing there, extended in every direction as far as you could see. I kept talking to Cathy. “What do you think about them hon?” “They’re kind of ugly.” was all she said.
No Traffic, but Plenty of Wind Turbines
About then, nausea started creeping in. This was ridiculous. Hmmm, did I eat anything for breakfast that might cause nausea? No… I focused on the road ahead. Ten more miles and we’d exit the interstate. I furtively look left and right. Yep, they were still there, slowly turning, nothing coordinated between turbines, some not even moving. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… My eyes snapped back and I focused on the road. I suggested to Cathy she take a couple of pictures of the turbines. I turned the radio up. The feeling was getting worse. Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh… Suddenly, our exit appeared, and we left the interstate. A mile or so to the west, we were finally free of the windmills and my nausea disappeared. I didn’t tell Cathy about this second wind turbine experience, except to say I thought they were creepy.
Was I going crazy? Later, I looked around on the internet to see if I could find anything. It turns out, something DOES happen to some people, but not most. They even have a name for it – Wind Turbine Syndrome (of course).
Symptoms have been observed in some of those who live near the farms, and in people passing through them. Effects including headaches, nausea, lack of concentration, vertigo and ringing in the ears have all been documented.
The cause? They aren’t sure, but two possibilities have been suggested. First, “Infrasound”, a sound-wave just below what the ear can actually detect (I immediately thought of what has happened to some of our diplomatic folk in Cuba). It is created by the turbines disturbing wind flow. The second possibility is something called “Flicker”. Flicker is caused by the sun reflecting off turbine blades creating a strobe effect. Both can cause headaches and nausea. Apparently, I’m in a minority and most people aren’t effected by the wind turbines at all. Still, I was happy to learn I’m not totally crazy, at least not due to the wind turbines.
As I sit here typing now, I think of them silently and stoically waiting for my return. Maybe next time, they will have a bigger effect, and I won’t get off so easy. Maybe even now they are plotting something new. Maybe they will get closer to the road. Maybe they will… Maybe next time… Maybe… Whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…whoosh…
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
Live Life Exuberantly 