It’s nice to have constants in your life, even when they are little ones. Something you can count on. Something that gives you comfort. Something you can look at and say, “Yep, it’s still there.” For me, one of those constants is my old friend Orion in the winter night sky.
I suppose my interest in space and the constellations started with Mrs Finkeldey, my first grade teacher. On February 20th, 1962, a little over halfway through our school year, astronaut John Glenn became the first American to orbit the Earth. Mrs Finkeldey talked about Glenn, and taught us about the solar system and the (then nine) planets. Combining current events and science for first graders – who knew?
Later, in Boy Scouts, I began learning about the constellations. It started with the Big Dipper pointing to the North Star in the Little Dipper. Suddenly, and amazingly, you always knew what direction north was (unless it was a cloudy night). That was just the beginning. With my Boy Scout Handbook, I began to learn how to identify and locate the constellations – Cepheus and Cassiopeia; Canis Major, along with Sirius, the brightest star in the sky; Gemini the Twins; Taurus the Bull; the Pleiades (the Seven Sisters) and many others.
Knowledge of the Constellations in My Old Boy Scout Handbook
I’m not sure why, but my favorite was always Orion, The Hunter. Orion is one of the more identifiable constellations and has been mentioned by Homer and Virgil, and is even in the Bible*. According to Mythology, Orion was a great hunter and the son of Poseidon. He was killed by the sting of a large scorpion after possible misdeeds. Later, Zeus put both Orion and the Scorpion (Scorpius) in the sky as constellations.
Orion, The Hunter.
Orion is easy to see and easy to recognize, but here in the Northern Hemisphere, only viewable in winter. Starting in November, I watch him traverse the sky. Every night when I take Carmen out for her last walk, there he is overhead. If I take binoculars with me, or bring out my telescope, I can see the the Orion Nebula in his sword with greater detail. It’s no matter though. Knowing he, and it, are there are comfort enough.
Photo of Orion Taken With My iPhone 12 at Home in Virginia
I’ll observe him until March or so, and then he disappears from the night sky. The good news is he will reappear in late Fall, as he always does. He’s a bit more reliable than many of the unstable things in our lives.
Photo of the Orion Nebula,Below Orion’s Belt. Taken With My iPhone 12.
It’s not just here at home where I see him. Because of his location in the sky, he is visible in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. He was with us when we lived in Germany in the ‘80s. Over the years, I’ve seen him on vacations around the world, including this week in Grand Cayman. He has been a reliable travel companion.
iPhone 12 Picture of Orion With his Shield From Grand Cayman This Week.
Take a look one of these nights around 10PM. This time of year, he is high overhead, and slightly south of the center of the sky. You will find him easily enough. Look for his belt, and the rest will come with it. Know that I will probably be gazing on him around that time of night as well. I spend a few quiet moments with him almost every evening.
It is perhaps strange to think of a constellation as a touchstone, but that is what Orion has become for me. He is a constant I can count on and my eyes are drawn to him on starry winter nights. For me, he provides calmness and serenity, if only for a few moments. For most of us, there aren’t many things that do so. When you find one, it’s good to hold onto it.
… Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels… Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Job 9:9. Who makes the Bear, Orion and the Pleiades, And the chambers of the south;
Job 38:31. Can you bind the chains of the Pleiades, Or loose the cords of Orion?
Amos 5:8. He who made the Pleiades and Orion And changes deep darkness into morning, Who also darkens day into night, Who calls for the waters of the sea And pours them out on the surface of the earth, The Lord is His name.
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.
I distinctly remember returning to West Point after Christmas my Plebe year. It wasn’t fun. As a matter of fact, the last couple of days at home became bittersweet as I started thinking about returning to West Point as a Beanhead* for another five months.
It wasn’t just returning to the Plebe System (Fourth Class System) that affected me. We had first semester finals two weeks after returning. Also, have you ever visited West Point in winter? In the Fall, West Point is one of the most beautiful places in the country. In the winter? Not so much, unless you have a fondness for the color grey. January to March at West Point is called “Gloom Period”**, with good reason.
If I’m honest with myself, it wasn’t Gloom Period, or finals that brought me down. It was going back as a Plebe for another five months. Before you enter the Academy, you hear all about how tough Plebe year is both mentally and physically. It’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to experience it for six months, have a break, and then know you are going back for more of the same.
Official Plebe Photo
Coming home to Ottawa that December, Christmas break was great. Being a real person again was even better. Everyone wanted to know how West Point was, and of course I told them the good stuff, while minimizing the actuality of Plebe life. The time at home divided out between family events, dates with Cathy and partying with my friends.
During the day, I spent time at home, or went to see Grandma, various aunts and uncles, and church or family friends. I remember racing around town fitting in as many visits as I could. It was good to catch up with so many people, but also a bit exhausting.
Cath and I went on dates most evenings and tried to make up for lost time. The last we’d seen each other was Labor Day Weekend, when she visited West Point with my folks. In the interim, we’d written so many letters back and forth, I lost count of the actual number. While home, there was even a formal holiday dance at Ottawa High (Cathy was still a senior in high school). I wore my dress uniform, and felt so much older than the high school “kids”, who in reality were only one or two years younger.
At Home Before Going to the OHS Winter Formal
Since she was still in school, Cathy had a curfew most nights. After our dates ended, I often linked up with my buddies Howard, Tim, Mark and others. The drinking age in Illinois was 19 at the time for beer and wine, but nobody really checked. We made the rounds at Berta’s, The Flamingo and Russell’s Tap before finally making it to bed. The next morning I’d wake up and start the cycle all over again. As I recall, sleeping in wasn’t an option.
I’d taken a couple of text books home with me to study over break, but of course I never cracked them. The days and nights raced by.
Finally it was New Year’s Eve and just a couple days before I would return to West Point. I remember going to a party with Cathy at our friend Jack’s home that night. Many of our friends were there. It was a great time, and as the clock struck midnight, there were kisses, handshakes and toasts all around. It was wonderful and things seemed almost perfect.
Maybe an hour later, it hit me. This was all going to end and I would return to the reality of Plebe life. The exhilaration from midnight rapidly disappeared. I crashed and a forlorn feeling took over. I found a quiet spot in an empty room and just sat there thinking. The dread I felt was visceral. Cathy found me a few minutes later and could tell something was wrong. She asked if I was OK and I struggled with words, then just gave up trying to explain. The thing is, she felt it too. We stood there hugging for I don’t know how long.
I more-or-less bounced back the next day and enjoyed my last day or two of freedom. Finally, it was time. As a Plebe, I think I was required to travel in uniform, and when Mom, Dad and Cathy drove me to O’Hare, that’s what I wore. Back then everyone could walk all the way to the gate, and that’s where we said our final goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mom gave me a care package and with a last wave and a smile, I boarded the plane for New York.
A Smile for Mom, Dad and Cathy as I Boarded the Plane to New York.
At the airport in New York (LaGuardia I think), cadets were everywhere. Most of us made our way to buses for the final fifty miles to our Rock Bound Highland Home on the Hudson. The bus I was on was pretty quiet, with Plebes and upperclassmen alike lost in their own thoughts. By now, I’d steeled my mind for the return to school and Plebe life. I was as ready as I was going to be.
And of course it wasn’t as bad as things looked on New Year’s Eve. I made the Dean’s list that first semester, and by late March or early April, Gloom Period was lifting. As for dealing with upperclassmen and the 4th Class System, that too passed. As the Semester wore on, things became easier and and finally, in June, Recognition Day happened. We were no longer Plebes, but full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets.
To this day, I remember that New Year’s Eve and the roller coaster of emotions I felt. Speaking with Cathy, she too distinctly remembers that night. I recently told her I thought I’d write a blog about New Year’s Eve Plebe year. She immediately knew what I was talking about. I laughed a bit and said something like “I didn’t know you remembered”. She quickly answered “How could I forget?”
Addendum:
*Beanhead – one of the many less flattering terms upperclassman used for Plebes at the time.
I’ve often thought of that New Year’s Eve over the years and the feelings I experienced that night. I’d contemplated writing a blog about it before, but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Then, during Christmas season this year, one of my classmates posted an email on his own feelings about the return to West Point after Christmas. Several others chimed in. Some were worried about academics and getting separated due to grades. Others, like me, thought about the return to the 4th Class System for several more months. Still others talked of the general malaise around our return, with Gloom Period settling in. A few told (now) funny stories about missing flights, late arriving girl friends, and even running into the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders during a stopover on the return to the Academy. It’s interesting what binds people together. My classmates and I laugh and now tell stories of those times that seemed so serious back then. Time and distance have brought perspective and a camaraderie that has lasted a lifetime. I feel lucky to be a member of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78. Thanks for the memories, and the continued friendship my brothers.
My wife, Cathy, has had Multiple Sclerosis (MS) since 1976 when she was 20 years old. It’s been almost 47 years since that first diagnosis. The MS is always there, lurking in the background, but Cath refuses to give in to it. It’s a special strength she has, and I love her for it.
Cathy Around the Time of her Diagnosis, and Just a Few Weeks Ago
MS is called the snowflake disease; no two people have exactly the same symptoms, or frequency of occurrence. MS symptoms can include: trouble walking, fatigue, vision problems, numbness, muscle spasms, weakness, mobility issues, and bladder or bowel issues, among other problems. Not all symptoms are visible.
Cathy’s symptoms have varied over the years, but fortunately for her (and us), she has been relatively stable for the last few decades, with only some minor issues. Compared to many with the disease, we are extremely lucky.
We both belong to a Facebook MS support group called We’re not drunk, we have MS. The name is a bit of an inside joke. Many people who have MS but can still walk, sometimes have an unsteady looking gait or trip easily, not unlike someone who’s had a few too many drinks.
Recently someone put a query out to the group: “If you were to wake up tomorrow MS free, what is the first thing you would do?” There were many responses. Reading through them, I thought they expressed how the disease effects so many people much better than anything I’d ever read or watched on TV about MS. It’s the straightforwardness and simplicity of the answers that is their strength. People were just asking for the basic things in life that so many of us take for granted.
Here are some of their answers to the question “If you were to wake up tomorrow MS free, what is the first thing you would do?”
Walk normal
Stand
Run
Walk
Dance
Stand up, embrace my husband, and not let go for a long time
Go Skiing
Ride my horse
Go for a hike in the woods
Dance with my husband
Wear heels again
Jump out of bed
Go for a run – maybe like Forest Gump
Ride a bike
Hike in the mountains
Shoot hoops again
Walk on the beach
Go horseback riding and then dance
Get a full night’s sleep
Play tennis again
Walk through my neighborhood
Chase my grandchildren
Go skateboarding again
Run with my kids
Stay at a hotel
Go up and down stairs
Walk, run, dance
Drive my car
Learn to belly dance
Dance in rhythm again
Get on the floor and play with my grandchildren
Eat out and enjoy every meal
Start quilting again
Go skating, then dancing
Go to my daughter’s home and go up the stairs to see my grandchildren’s room
Work in the flower bed
Ride a motorcycle again
Carry my grandchildren around
Rake the leaves in my yard
Go back to work
Just to consider this is overwhelming
Buy a lottery ticket because it would be a miracle
Jump in the ocean
Walk on the beach with my husband
Get on my knees and thank God.
They have newer medicines these days to address the symptoms of MS, and sometimes lessen the progression of the disease, but there is still no cure. In the meantime, these MS Warriors soldier on.
As for Cath and I, we count ourselves pretty lucky in the big scheme of things. She has some issues, and occasional flare ups, but continues to live her life. Every day is something to be enjoyed, and lived to the fullest.
Cathy and I in ‘77, a Year After her Diagnosis, and Last Summer
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!
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.
It’s not your imagination. The light actually is different this time of year. Golden and lush, it’s also more magical. It’s not just the color of the leaves, or the chill in the air. The light is different and it’s changing fast. There’s science behind the magic as well.
Poets love to write about autumn. They call it our gilded season, or talk of the golden light this time of year. The leaves turning color, the chill in the air, perhaps the smell of wood smoke from a fire. The shadows lengthen. Birds start to head south. At the Bay, you hear more geese honking as they arrive. There is a poignancy to autumn that isn’t present in the other seasons, as well. In the back of our minds we know we will soon be ensconced in the two tone world of winter. For me, those thoughts make me want to linger longer in the golden time of year that is autumn.
I love the light this time of year. It’s different from the flat light of summer, or the cold light of winter. It is softer, and almost has a thickness to it, particularly in early morning and late afternoon. It gives a golden glow that isn’t present in the other seasons. It bathes the woods with a warmth of color. Combined with the turning leaves, it becomes magical.
A Magical Time of Year
But it’s not just magic. There is also a science behind Autumnal Light. Over the course of the year, the angle of the earth changes every day. The sun was straight overhead at the Summer Equinox, giving us the longest day of the year. Since then? As our axis shifts, the sun has dropped lower in the sky every day. In fact, since the start of Autumn, it’s dropping even faster. As the sun falls, it must pass through more atmosphere before reaching us. The color is altered by the absorption and refraction differences with the lower angle. The end result is the magic of autumn we all love.
Soon Halloween, and Thanksgiving will pass, and winter will arrive. The bright spots of Christmas and New Year’s Eve will provide cheer, and then it’s the slow slog through January, February and March. I don’t hate winter, but I’m always glad when it’s over.
In the meantime, I’m going to enjoy the rest of this autumn. Walks in the woods in the late afternoons are pure joy. The quiet of the woods, the color of the leaves on the trees, the crunch of leaves underfoot, a deer racing up a nearby hill, they all combine to create moments that are mystical. Add in the dappled fall sunlight playing across the woodland and it’s enough to make me wish that moment of perfection would last just a little longer. If only it could.
The Interplay of Color and Light Make me Wish I Could Stretch the Time a Little Longer
Addendum:
Thanks to our friend Vinnie for the photo of our neighbor Susan’s home on the Bay in the afternoon light. I love this picture.
I was recently informed by WordPress (the site where my blog is hosted), that I first started this blog seven years ago, last week. My, how time flies. Here’s the blog that started it all, published in October of 2015: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2015/10/19/why-live-life-exuberantly/
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…
Live Life Exuberantly 