Tag: #humor

Young Love

Young Love

Next week on the 16th of June, Cath and I will celebrate our 43d wedding anniversary. In an interesting twist, the 15th of June is the 49th anniversary of our first date in 1972. Cathy was all of 16 years old, and I was the older man at 17. To tell the whole story though, you need to go a couple months before then, when I turned her down for a Sadie Hawkins dance at our high school.

Every year in the spring, Ottawa Township High School (OTHS) held a Spring Formal which was also a Sadie Hawkins Dance. That is, the girl asks the boy to the event. (Do they still have those? Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. For that matter, does anyone remember Li’l Abner or Dogpatch, where Sadie Hawkins Day* originated? ). In 1972, I was a junior and Cathy Snow was a sophomore. We knew each other a bit from Student Council. Well, one evening in March, I received a call at home. The young Miss Snow was on the line, and after a bit of small talk, asked me if I would go to the Spring Formal with her. Alas, I had to turn her down, as two days before, I’d been asked by a girl in my class named Gail. The call ended pretty quickly after that.

Cathy Snow at 16…

Fast forward two months. My friend Howard and I were at Pitsticks, a local swimming place with a beach, and ran into Cathy and our mutual friend, Lori Lyle. We made small talk back and forth and at some point Cathy asked if I wanted to swim out to the diving platform and off we went. Of course I had to exhibit my prowess as a swimmer and did a one and a half off the high dive. (I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to try and impress a prospective date.) Cathy played her part and said to me “Great Dive! You looked like a knife going through soft butter when you entered the water!” My strategy appeared to be working… ;-). In later conversations, she mentioned she and Lori might be out and about riding their bikes that night. I answered back that I’d thought about going for a bike ride that night as well, and maybe I’d run into them. With that, we said our goodbyes and went back to our respective spots on the beach.

That evening after dinner, I grabbed my bike and started riding around the south side of town looking for Cathy and Lori, but didn’t see them anywhere. Eventually I stopped at a store and went inside to buy a pop. While inside, Cathy and Lori rode by, saw my bike outside the store, stopped and came inside.

Everyone seemed pretty happy to connect. We talked a bit and then went back outside and the three of us rode around town together. Eventually, we ended up back at Cathy’s house at 305 Houston Street and had some ice tea on the back porch.

305 Houston Street. The back porch is on the left side of the house.

Unbeknownst to me, Cath and Lori weren’t sure which of the two of them I might be interested in. Cath had asked me to the dance, however, Lori and I had known each other from church for quite a while. They had a plan. After a bit of time, Lori would say she had to head home. They figured if I said I had to leave as well and rode off with Lori, I was interested in her. If I stayed there when she left, I was interested in Cathy.

Dusk arrived and Lori said she was going to ride home. I wished her a good night and stayed at Cathy’s… 😉

As it grew dark, we talked, and then talked some more. Finally, around 1030PM or so, I said I ought to go home. We walked to the steps leading off the porch, and while I was trying to work up the courage to kiss her goodnight, proceeded to talk another half hour or so. Suddenly, about 11PM, her mom, Faye, appeared at the inside door to the porch in a black nightgown and said “Ina Catherine, I think it’s time to come to bed.” Family history reports I was on my bike and riding away before she finished the sentence (in retrospect, we should have found a more private place to say our goodbyes. Her parent’s bedroom was directly above the porch.)

Two nights later, on June 15th, we had our first official date. I picked Cath up with my folk’s car and we went to the Perky Putt golf course (miniature golf) on the north side of town. While I have no clear recollection of the results, Cathy remembers soundly beating me. Afterwards, we went to a small drive-in restaurant on the Illinois River called the Sanicula Marina. We both ordered Black Cows and proceeded to walk along the river. I did kiss her goodnight that evening, but it was on the front porch, not the side porch under her parent’s windows…

Miniature Golf at Perky Putt and Black Cows at Sanicula Marina – it doesn’t get much more romantic… 😉

As they say, the rest is history. We dated all summer, and then into the school year. And the next spring when she asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance again? I quickly said yes that time around.

Spring Formal (The Sadie Hawkins Dance) in 1973 – I said yes, the second time around.

We have almost five decades together as a couple now, and it’s definitely true – Time flies when you’re having fun.

Addendum:

  • * From Wikipedia – “Sadie Hawkins Day is an American folk event and pseudo-holiday originated by Al Capp’s classic hillbilly comic strip Li’l Abner (1934–1978). This inspired real-world Sadie Hawkins events, the premise of which is that women ask men for a date or dancing. “Sadie Hawkins Day” was introduced in the comic strip on November 15, 1937.”
  • Thanks to my lovely wife, Cathy for her contributions to this blog. In particular, her memories of the day at Pitsticks are more specific than mine, including the comment that my dive “looked like a knife cutting through soft butter”.
  • Thanks to Debi Hillyer for the photo of Sanicula and Curtis Wasilewski for the picture of the Perky Putt score card. A special thanks to Mike Peabody for the photo of Cathy’s old home at 305 Houston Street. In a strange twist of fate, Cathy babysat Mike and his sister Michelle when they were young children living across the street. Mike moved out of Illinois for years and only recently returned to Ottawa. When the home became available, he and his wife bought it.

The Last Lonely Singing Cicada

The Last Lonely Singing Cicada

Get ready. They are coming. You may have heard the seventeen year cicadas are due in our area in another month or so. From mid May to mid June we will have literally billions of singing cicadas. The goal of all that singing? Sex. That’s right, sex. After seventeen years underground, they emerge, eat a bit, the males sing in a chorus, they all have sex, the females lay eggs and everyone dies off. That’s it.

The last time they were here? 2004. I have three lasting memories of that visit, but first a bit of background.

For approximately five to six weeks, starting in mid May, the cicadas will overrun us. These particular Cicadas arrive in seventeen year cycles and each of these cycles are called “Broods”. The Broods are numbered in Roman Numerals, and Brood X (10) is about to grace us. This is one of the largest and most widespread, and encompasses Virginia, Maryland, DC, Delaware, West Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Illinois, Indiana, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and parts of Michigan and New York.

Given this is the time of Covid, you might be forgiven for thinking in terms of biblical plagues and that cicadas are locusts, but they aren’t. Locusts are actually a type of grasshopper, so we are OK in that regard. The cicadas are relatively safe and do no harm, except for possibly small, young trees. We, and our gardens, are safe. In fact, the cicadas are a boon for the rest of nature. Birds and animals feast on them when they first arrive. Eventually, they’ve eaten so many, they go into the animal version of a food coma after Thanksgiving Dinner and stop munching. The cicadas however, continue to arrive.

After emerging, the male cicadas join together singing in a “chorus” to attract the females of the species. Their singing becomes incredibly loud. Scientists who study these things say the choruses can reach 100-120 decibels, the same as a rock concert. The difference? The cicadas can go on for days. That’s right. We’ll be sitting in the equivalent of about row thirty at Woodstock or Lollapalooza. The only difference is that this will go on for quite a bit more than the three or four days of those rock concerts. if you live in our area, they will be impossible to ignore.

Inevitably, you also hear about eating cicadas. DC based Naturalist, Alonso Abugattas, had this to say: “Cicadas are gluten free, low in fat, low carb, rich in protein (the same pound for pound as beef). They’ve been grilled, skewered, steamed, barbecued, blanched, boiled, and used in cocktails. My old boss would fill the empty skins with Cheez Whiz and serve them as appetizers”. Hmmmm….

I have three memories from the last time they visited us in 2004. The first is that they were loud. I don’t remember rock-concert loud, but they were loud enough you couldn’t hear anything else – no other insects, birds, or even small children at the neighbors.

The second memory involved eating them. No, it wasn’t me eating them. It was our dog, Holly. She loved eating them. Hundreds or thousands of them were in our front garden. Most were on plants at dog-eye level. Holly, God bless her, walked at a slow pace from plant to plant eating cicadas off the tops of the plants as she went. Night came and we called, but she didn’t come in. Bedtime came, we called again and she still refused to come. We decided the hell with it, and left her outside (she was on an underground fence and couldn’t leave the property). Morning came and we went out the back door and found Holly laying there. We opened the door and she slowly came in the house, looking a bit how a dog would look with a hangover, if there was such a thing as a dog hangover. We filled her bowl with food. She took one look at it, walked passed it and headed to bed, where she proceeded to sleep the rest of the day. She had gorged on so many cicadas, she wasn’t hungry for breakfast. I had never seen her ignore a meal before, or for that matter, afterwards.

The final memory is a bit sadder. Eventually the noise of the cicadas started dying down. It went from a roar, to a rumble, to a pleasant buzz, to silence. Total silence. Just like that, they were gone. The great 2004 cicada orgy of sex and sound was over. Except it wasn’t.

About a week later, we heard the unmistakeable sound of a single singing cicada coming from the woods by our house. While not particularly loud, you could definitely hear him. A single lonely cicada singing in the night, looking for a partner. Any partner. It might have gone on for an evening or two, and then it too was silent.

A Cidada from Brood X in 2004

I’ve thought about that cicada off and on over the years. I think about the cruelty of it. You’ve spent seventeen years approximately eight inches underground. A lot has gone on. Finally, it’s your day in the sun, but Mother Nature plays a cruel trick on you. Maybe you had to dig around a rock to get above ground. Maybe you were a little deeper than eight inches under ground. Or, maybe you were having a great dream, and decided to sleep in a couple of extra days. In any case, you finally emerge, ready to join the chorus and have a little sex on the side, and… nothing… nada… nobody. It’s as if you make the trip to Spring Break to party, arrive, and find nobody else is there. Spring Break ended a week before and you never got the word. Now, it’s just you, all alone on the sand with scattered empty beer bottles littering the beach. A day later, you die and don’t even make the trip back home.

OK, OK, I know I went a bit over the top, but I did feel a bit sorry for the guy. Sure lots of other cicadas were eaten by animals (including Holly) when they first emerged. At least they saw and heard some from the Brood. The last guy? All alone in this cruel world.

Anthropomorphism is the attribution of human traits or emotions to non-human entities. We all do it at one time or another, particularly with our pets. I doubt seriously the little guy felt alone, realized he was about to die, or missed out on the sex part. Still, he had to know he was singing for some reason, so maybe he did realize he was missing out on sex with some last gorgeous female cicada. Hell, for all I know, maybe there was one last female in the woods, he found her, they had sex, she laid her eggs, and they both died. I’d like to believe they died happy.

Did he ever find a mate? We’ll never know…

Addendum:

Special thanks to my Sister-in-law, Bonnie Harris. She came up with the great line “all alone on the sand with scattered empty beer bottles littering the beach”…. 😉

Want to learn about cooking cicadas? Here’s an interesting article from Bon Appétit Magazine: https://www.bonappetit.com/uncategorized/article/how-to-cook-cicadas-according-to-3-richmond-va-chefs?fbclid=IwAR3cFD_eY0OZUicbGqP3kGiPD1L5C0fDn0p5phG_xi2wj8MeL3quZU_40xA

If you want to check out more about the cicadas themselves, here are a couple of interesting reads:

– This blog is from Alonso Abugattas, a DC area Naturalist: http://capitalnaturalist.blogspot.com/2021/02/periodical-cicadas.html

– Here is a a great read From the Washington Post: https://www.washingtonpost.com/climate-environment/2021/03/09/cicadas-broodx-environment/

Sh!t Water

Sh!t Water

This is a different kind of Thanksgiving story. How often do you give thanks to the owner of a septic system company on Thanksgiving Day?

In 2001, we had a family gathering at our farm for Thanksgiving. It was only two months after 9-11, and while people were still nervous about travel, many also had a strong urge to spend time with family. We didn’t realize the gathering would precipitate problems with our septic system on the day before Thanksgiving.

Mom Snow came from Alabama, along with Cathy’s aunt Bonnie from Missouri. Cathy’s sister Bonnie (Aunt Bonnie’s namesake) and husband Don flew in from California, along with Don’s folks, Shan and Daddy Don. Counting Cathy and I, there were eight of us in the house, with all bedrooms and the office occupied. We were full.

Mom and Daddy Don in 2001

People arrived the weekend before Thanksgiving, and everyone got along remarkably well. We have a nice sized house, but with eight people, and two and a half bathrooms, there could be a bit of congestion in the mornings and evenings. You might even say the bathrooms were working overtime. With the excess food and alcohol consumption that typically happens at family gatherings, and with four of our guests over 70, my observation in retrospect was there were no “regularity issues” among the group at our home.

At this juncture, it’s worth pointing out we live on a small farm in the country. The house was built in 1976. There are no city water or sewage hookups. For water, we are on a well that’s 264 feet deep and serves both the house, and the barn. For waste disposal, we have a septic system. When we bought the house in 1999, both were inspected by the county and deemed operational.

Thanksgiving week progressed and Cathy noticed a small pool of water had formed near the barn. There were recent rains, so she didn’t think anything about it. The next day, the water was still there and she mentioned it to me. Hmmmm. My first thought was perhaps a pipe from the well to the barn was leaking and the water had surfaced. We checked the water pressure in the barn, and the pump seemed fine, with plenty of pressure. To be honest, that was about the extent of my plumbing expertise at the time, and so I decided to call a plumber.

This was the day before Thanksgiving, so naturally every plumber we called was either busy, or didn’t answer the phone. As I was sitting there grumbling, Daddy Don walked by and asked what the issue was. I explained the pool of water and said I was afraid we might have a busted pipe. He asked “Where’s your septic field?” I pointed vaguely to the back yard and said “Over there.” He answered, “Well the pool of water is just below your field, maybe you have a septic problem.”

What?! Jeez, eight people in the house. I certainly hoped that wasn’t the problem. Erring on the side of caution, I thought it was worth checking out. I looked in the phone book, and found All Star Septic, in the village of Hume just a few miles away. I gave them a call and they answered. Even more miraculously, they could have someone out in a couple of hours. In the meantime, I advised everyone to stay away from the small pool of water, in case it was contaminated.

All Star Septic – “You Make it, We Take it”

An hour or so later, a septic truck pulled up, and a man climbed out. It was Chris, the Owner of All Star Septic. We shook hands, and I explained to him what the issue was. He just kind of nodded his head, then said “Where’s the pool of water?” I told him it was by the barn, and we walked over there. Chris looked around a bit and then squatted down next to the pool. He dipped a finger into the water, and held it up to his nose. He then matter of factly said,

“Uhh yep, that’s shit water”.

And with that declaration, we found out we had a septic problem.

I laughed internally to myself about all the cautions I’d taken with the water, and here was Chris dipping his finger in it. I also had the thought I probably wouldn’t shake his hand goodbye.

I mentioned to Chris about eight people at the house for the next several days through the weekend. He answered back that probably explained part of the problem. The house typically only had two people using the septic system and was now overloaded. Chris then said he couldn’t fix the problem right then (it was the day before Thanksgiving afterall), but he could pump out our tank(s) and that should help in the short term.

Chris, from All Star Septic

I thanked him profusely and he proceeded to pump out the two tanks. He commented the tanks looked fine and the problem was something “downstream” and we could tackle that a bit later.

Chris was right, and pumping the tanks removed the immediate issue. On Thanksgiving Day, much like Arlo Guthrie in Alice’s Restaurant, “We had a Thanksgiving dinner that couldn’t be beat, went to sleep, and didn’t get up until the next morning.” Unlike Arlo, for us, the rest of the week passed without incident and the pool of water disappeared. Chris had provided us with a temporary solution that worked, and held for the week everyone was there.

When I think back over the years about Thanksgiving, it is the celebrations that were different that I remember – the Thanksgivings in Germany when we had bachelor Lieutenants over, because they had no where else to go; serving Thanksgiving in the mess hall to the troops; celebrating in Vienna, Austria one year; the time I flew home on Thanksgiving Day itself, due to work delays; and yes, the year Chris, from All Star Septic, saved the day.

My guess is with Covid, Thanksgiving 2020 will also be special, or different if you prefer, and is one all of us will remember for a long time. I hope you make the most of the day, and give thanks for family, friends, and the things in your life that are important to you now, and always. Peace be with you.

Addendum:

  • The rest of the story about our septic field is a bit anticlimactic. Chris did return later and fix the problem. It turned out the previous owners had built the drive to the barn directly over the distribution box for the septic drain field. Over time, the distribution box caved in and the effluents were only going out through three of the distribution pipes in the drain field, instead of all nine. That was fine when just a few people were at the house, but when there were eight of us, it was too much for the three pipes to handle. The end result was the pool forming near the barn. So, our guests didn’t cause the problem, but in fact highlighted the already existing problem. It had probably been that way for years. Chris replaced the distribution box, and several of the distribution lines connected to the box. We’ve had no problems since, and that includes a couple of parties with over 100 people in attendance.
  • All joking aside, if you live in the Fauquier County, Virginia area and have a septic problem, Chris is the guy you want to call. He’s prompt, reliable, professional, and gets the job done. He’s been our guy ever since the “incident”. You can find his info here: https://allstarseptic.com/ , or call him at: (540) 272-9247.
  • If you’ve never listened to Alice’s Restaurant, by Arlo Gutherie, you need to do so. NOW KID! Set aside about 19 minutes and enjoy it for what it is. It’s a protest song, a Thanksgiving song and it’s just plain funny. I typically listen to it every Thanksgiving. Originally released in 1967, it’s full title is actually Alice’s Restaurant Massacree. Here’s one version: https://youtu.be/m57gzA2JCcM . In 2017, it was selected for preservation in the National Recording Registry by the Library of Congress as being “culturally, historically, or artistically significant”.

Kicked out of a Walled City….Twice

Kicked out of a Walled City….Twice

Not everyone can get kicked out of a walled city twice in one night, but dad found a way….

In February of ’43, after relieving the 1st Infantry Division at Kasserine Pass, the 9th Infantry Division spent the next several months in combat across Tunisia. I remember dad telling some stories of those times and the names don’t role across the tongue lightly – Maknassy, Jefna, the Sedjenane Valley, Mateur, Bizerte…. Forgotten names in history books now, but deadly important then. I think the great WWII columnist Ernie Pyle got it right in his description of the Infantry in North Africa:

         “IN THE FRONT LINES BEFORE MATEUR, MAY 2, 1943…..

       There is now a thin line of men. For four days and nights they have fought hard, eaten little, washed none, and slept hardly at all. Their nights have been violent with attack, fright, butchery, and their days sleepless and miserable with the crash of artillery…..The men are walking. Their walk is slow, for they are dead weary, as you can tell even when looking at them from behind. They are young men, but the grime and whiskers and exhaustion make them look middle-aged…..There is an agony in your heart and you almost feel ashamed to look at them. They are just guys from Broadway and Main Street, but you wouldn’t remember them. They are too far away now. They are too tired. Their world can never be known to you, but if you could see them just once, just for an instant, you would know that no matter how hard people work back home they are not keeping pace with these infantrymen in Tunisia.”

They kept at it and on May 9th, the enemy surrendered In Africa. By then, they had fought and beaten the French, Italians, and Germans and were feeling pretty good about themselves.  

Dad’s unit, on the date Bizerte fell (from “An Army at Dawn”, by Atkinson)

At the end of May, the division was in bivouac and had almost seven weeks of light duty and downtime. The nearest town was a walled city, Sidi bel Abbes, about 30 miles away. The Army, in it’s generosity and wisdom, was giving day passes on a quota system. They’d truck the GIs there during the day, and bring them back to the encampment at nightfall.  

Over the course of June, Dad made it there multiple times and drank wine, ate French food, and visited a couple of houses of ill repute. Not a bad way to spend time in your 19th year of life.

In any case, he eventually returned one time to often to Sidi bel Abbes. Towards the end of June, dad and a buddy got a pass and caught the truck ride to town, where they spent the day partying, drinking, and committing other questionable acts. They missed the truck back to the camp and kept partying until they were caught by the MPs who were patrolling the town. The MPs actually cut them a break and didn’t arrest them. They just kicked them out of the walled city, meaning they would have to walk the 30 miles back to camp. They knew they were already in trouble at this point, so they said the hell with it and climbed the wall and went back into the city.  

Part of the wall around Sidi bel Abbes

More partying ensued and they were trying to find a particular address they had been given. The MPs saw them again and gave chase. With the wine they had consumed, they were in no real shape to get away, and were caught a second time. This time, rather than just depositing them outside the gate to the town, the MPs drove them back to the encampment, and turned them over to the company First Sergeant.

The next day, dad reported in to the CO.
      “Sir! Sergeant Hall reporting as ordered”.

The CO looked up from his desk, then looked back down.
      “That will be all Private Hall”.

And so, dad, who entered North Africa as a Sergeant, departed as a Private. In his words, 
       “Hell, what were they going to do to you for acting up? Short of murder, Or armed robbery, no one went to the stockade, especially if you were an Infantryman.    Combat veterans at that point were of incredibly high value, so maybe you got busted, but you stayed with your unit.”

Dad left Africa on July 24th, on a ship bound for Sicily. They landed at Polermo on August 1, while being bombed by the Germans. He didn’t know it yet, but his time with the 9th Infantry Division would be over on August 8th when he was severely wounded. In fact, his buddies thought he was probably going to die. He survived, and was in the Army for two more years, but never did rejoin the 9th…