The Puke Bowl. Do all families have one? You know, the one you pull out to put next to your kid’s bed when they have an upset stomach and things are sketchy? That, and coke syrup were staples of our childhood when sick. Our family puke bowl also had a dirty little secret.
Puke… not such a pleasant word, but I suppose it’s an apt descriptor. I’m not sure it’s better or worse than vomit, upchuck, ralphing, throw-up, or barf. All get the idea across pretty graphically. As kids, when the flu or some other illness turned our stomachs, the answer was always the same – a spoonful of coke syrup from the fridge, and then off to bed with the Puke Bowl by the bed. Running to the bathroom toilet was always the first option, but the bowl was right there if you didn’t think you could make it. Mom would dutifully wash and clean the bowl through out our misery, and when we finally became better, gave the bowl a thorough double cleaning and put it away in the utility room by the kitchen.
The Puke Bowl … In all it’s Glory …
Over the years, the Puke Bowl was also used by our nieces and nephews, if they happened to get sick when visiting Grandma and Grandpa. Three generations now called that big Tupperware bowl, the Puke Bowl. All of our spouses do as well. It became it’s own family tradition.
My sister Roberta “inherited” the bowl after mom died in 2017. All three of us kids were interested in it for nostalgic reasons, but Berta was the one who claimed it. To be honest, I did not realize mom still owned it, but of course I should have. Mom didn’t throw much away, and everything had multiple uses. Back then, America wasn’t the throw-away society we are today.
Mom Never Threw Much Away…At that Time, Most Folk Didn’t
Fast forward to this year…
A couple of months ago, Roberta’s granddaughter, Lydia, was visiting, became sick and started throwing up. When her mom, Kathi, came to pick Lydia up, Berta sent the Puke Bowl home with them, in case Lydia needed it in the car. A couple of weeks later, Berta was at Kathi’s, along with Kathi’s mother-in-law, Penny. As Roberta was getting ready to leave, Kathi said, “mom, don’t forget the Puke Bowl”, and handed Berta the bowl. Penny had a strange look on her face, and evidently thought the bowl was just a regular Tupperware bowl, like those you use for cooking or food storage. She exclaimed “What?!” Berta and Kathi started laughing, and then explained the WHOLE back story of the bowl to Penny.
In addition to being The Puke Bowl, the bowl had a secret life. It also doubled as THE bowl in which mom made her much acclaimed Potato Salad. It made an appearance whenever there was a big gathering or picnic for the family, church, neighborhood, or where ever. It was a massive bowl and the largest she owned, and due to the popularity of her potato salad, she didn’t want to run out. I don’t recall mom ever running out of potato salad at family (or other) gatherings when growing up. Never.
Tanya, Roberta and I Didn’t Seem to Suffer any Adverse Effects from the Puke Bowl…
The bowl is mostly retired now and lives in Berta’s basement. Lydia’s use a couple of months ago was the first time it was pulled out in quite awhile.
I should also mention Roberta’s daughter, Diane, is the official “holder” of mom’s potato salad recipe. Her version is the closest to mom’s of any I’ve tasted, which means it’s pretty d@mned good. Although Diane has her own set of bowls and Tupperware, including a large one she makes her potato salad in, when ever there’s a big family gathering, inevitably one of her sisters will laugh, and say to her, “Diane, you gonna make grandma’s potato salad in the Puke Bowl for the get together?” No, she doesn’t, but old family memories die hard… 😉
No, Diane Doesn’t use the Puke Bowl, to Make Grandma’s Potato Salad
Addendum:
– Our Niece, Tami, also remembered that the bowl almost always seemed to be the hiding place for someone’s Easter Basket each year at Grandma and Grandpa’s house… 😉
– In writing this blog, and talking with friends, two items became clear.
First, most all families had some version of a “puke bowl” or bucket, and many of them were multi-use products, particularly for holding popcorn.
And second, many lamented the throw-away society we have become. As Americans, we retain very little – Of course diapers, cups, plastic silverware and paper plates are all disposable. These days, so are phones, computers, mixers, coffee pots, stereo equipment, and a great deal of furniture. Washing machines, dryers and dish washers fit the same mode, unless they break down in the first few years of use.
⁃ Special Thanks to Cathy, and my sister Roberta for all of their help on this blog.
⁃ Thanks to sister Tanya, along with nephew Casey, and nieces Diane, Tami, Bre, Kathi and Jordan for their memories as well.
– Thanks and photo credit of the picture of Diane about to make potato salad, to her four year old daughter, Riley! Roberta took the pics of the bowl itself.
⁃ As always, MAJOR thanks to my old friend and editor, Colleen (who didn’t own a Puke Bowl growing up.) She always keeps me straight and on track.
There were no gardens here at Rohan Farm 23 years ago. Now, they dominate our landscape. Cathy made this happen, through a combination of inherited knowledge, hard work and love. She is the daughter of Faye and a Granddaughter of Juda Catherine Strickland.
The hillside garden, the shade garden, the front garden, the vegetable garden, the cutting garden, Cathy designed them and created them. I provided a bit of the grunt labor for the hard scape, but the secret to all of it is Cathy. When she gardens, she is in her Zen Zone. For me, weeding is the ultimate drudgery. Not her. She spends hours each week weeding, improving and cutting in the garden. She once shared with me, “Patience is the key ingredient in gardening, and pays off when a plant reaches maturity and blooms. There’s a special excitement seeing something you have planted, nurtured, cared for and thought about finally bloom. The journey is as important as the end result.”
A Few Glimpses of the Gardens, and Cathy Peaking Around Some of her Daffodils
Cathy’s gardening talent was born long before I was on the scene. She inherited a love of gardening from her mother Faye. Mom was a wonderful gardener and always had flower gardens at the house. Cathy noticed. When her family lived in Chattanooga, Cathy persuaded her mom to let her have a flower garden of her own at age 12. Faye was fine with the idea, but Cathy had to plant it and maintain it.
Whenever mom moved to a new home, the first thing she did was start planning out the flower gardens. Her last home in Alabama was gorgeous with a combination of plants, pathways and surrounding woodland, and I could lose myself in thought while wandering through them.
Faye gained her garden skills from her mother Juda Strickland, who lived a hard life in rural Alabama. She and her husband Ernest had 11 children, 8 of them boys. Electricity and indoor plumbing didn’t come until much later in her life. Cathy remembers that when she visited as a child, they were still using an outhouse. I think two things sustained Grandma Strickland in life – her faith in God, and her gardening. For her, I think they were related.
Juda Catherine Strickland
Cathy spent years following Faye and Juda around grandma’s farm in Alabama, talking about plants and flowers the whole time. They were often joined by Jeff, Cathy’s cousin. While he did the usual “boy stuff”, he also liked to garden. They all discussed the merits of the plants, as they walked and talked. Some plant wouldn’t be doing well and they would decide if it should be replaced or maybe it needed a different spot, or just some love. Most were not exotic plants, but southern favorites like four o’clocks.
In Cathy’s telling, it was great fun walking around the farm. There was always something to see, whether plants, newly born piglets, or watching how live chickens were turned into dinner (I think there’s a whole other blog right here ;-)…). Sometimes the meanderings ended at the vegetable garden, where fresh tomatos were a tasty treat of summer – warm, fragrant and oh so juicy. Summer afternoons were spent on the porch with newspapers stretched over everyone’s laps. There were beans to string, peas to shell and corn to shuck…
Later, after Cathy and I were married, we made several trips to visit Grandma, particularly when stationed in Georgia. Grandma would lead Cathy around the house and garden showing her new, or different plants. She wasn’t quite as mobile then, having broken her hip during a fall in her sixties. She was using a wooden crutch to get around, and would point out the plants or blooms with the crutch. Cathy loved and cherished those times together.
…
Cathy’s younger sister Bonnie also has the gardening gene. At her home near Mendocino, CA, she has roses, flower gardens, a big vegetable garden and fruit trees. It’s all beautiful and fits the Northern California setting perfectly. She has a greenhouse that many professionals would envy. Cathy and Bonnie trade cuttings and seeds back and forth, and more than a few plants have made coast to coast journeys.
Cathy and Bonnie Cutting Roses in California
There are several other Granddaughters of Juda who inherited her green thumb. As an example, in addition to Jeff, Cathy and Bonnie’s cousin Debbie has beautiful gardens in her back yard, and will frequently post pictures that reveal she too has the touch. Other cousins such as Margaret and Dylilah have the gift, and it’s already seen in the next generation – Sasha, the daughter of their cousin Rusty is also an avid gardener. It wasn’t a universal gift though. Cindy, Cathy and Bonnie’s middle sister, was never much of a gardener. Nor was their cousin Loretta, who claims she can’t grow anything. Still, I think Juda’s spirit remains with all of them. As Loretta related, “I definitely did not inherit her green thumb. I manage to kill every plant I get EXCEPT for one. I inherited a Mother-in-Law’s Tongue from Mawmaw in the ‘90s. Believe it or not, despite my best efforts, that plant is still alive.” 😉
Loretta’s Mother-in-Law’s Tongue – Nearly Thirty Years Old, and Still Going Strong
Grandma eventually passed away in 1997, at the age of 98. She was in a nursing home for her last few years. Although she could no longer garden, her faith in God remained with her until the end. I like to think there are gardens scattered across America that are living testaments to her life and her legacy.
Addendum:
Special thanks to Cathy, not only for her gardens, but also for sharing memories of her youth and visiting Grandma in Alabama. She filled in missing critical pieces that I “sensed”, but didn’t specifically know.
Thanks to Bonnie, Loretta and Debi for sharing their own gardening backgrounds. Special thanks to Loretta for sharing the photo of her Mother-in-law’s Tongue (photo credit to Cynthia Smith).
I first met Grandma Strickland in 1973, when Cathy’s family went there for a vacation over spring break. Cathy and I were dating and in high school, and we somehow persuaded our parents that it would be OK for me to go with them. I think at first Grandma was a bit suspicious of this token northerner who was dating her granddaughter. The suspicion was allayed at least a bit on the second night, when she cooked fried okra. I’d never had okra before. Three helpings later, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, and grandma started warming up to me.
Here are two other blogs I’ve written in the past about Cathy and her gardening:
Through Cathy, I’ve gained an appreciation for the colors that make up the palette of our life. For years, I didn’t get it, or understand it. Or perhaps even worse, I didn’t think about it. Sometimes though, you can teach an old engineer new […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/03/23/the-palette-of-our-life/
Ask Cath how she grows orchids and she’ll say “Oh, I just water them. After that, it’s tough love.” Tough love evidently works. In winter, I enjoy looking at the results. The color, the texture, the beauty of orchids and their individual parts – Sepals, Petals, Lip, and Column, make each unique… Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/04/cathy-and-her-orchids/
Odin is not only the god called upon in preparation for war, he is the god of poetry, the dead and magic as well. In a little known side gig, he was also petitioned by cadets at West Point to cancel parades with thunderstorms.
One fall day Plebe Year, my company, B-3, along with our entire regiment, was standing in formation in Central Area waiting for the start of yet another weekday afternoon parade. Central Area is out of view of the general public and where we lined up in preparation for parades. While the upperclassmen were more relaxed, we plebes stood there in full dress uniform, our tar buckets on our heads, and our M14 rifles extended at parade rest. The sky was dark with clouds and foretold the possible arrival of an impending storm. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a plaintive chant starting up, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, it grew louder, closer and more distinct –
OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…
One of our upperclassmen called out – “Beanheads! Take up the chant!!” (Beanhead was one of the less flattering terms the upperclassmen would call us Plebes)
What?!
“Beanheads!! Take up the call to ODIN. Let’s see if we can get this parade canceled!”
The thirty or so of us Plebes in B-3 quickly joined the cacophony.
OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…
Soon, all 300 or so Plebes in the regiment were chanting. I have no idea what it sounded like to anyone in the bleachers on the parade ground itself, but they had to have heard us. We were LOUD and unrelenting. Always the same pace, always the same mournful sound, we continued…
OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…
…
Parades… I never knew anyone at West Point, or in the military for that matter, who actually liked taking part in a parade. The public may enjoy watching them, but the participants? The cadets or soldiers who actually march in the parade? I don’t recall anyone ever saying to me “Wow Max, I am so looking forward to cleaning my weapon, dressing up in uniform, standing around in the hot sun (or freezing cold), and then marching in a review in front of the General. How about you?”
At West Point we did a lot of marching, and A LOT of parades, starting the day we arrived. The soundtrack of that first day was the drums from the Hellcats (West Point’s drum and bugle corps, made up of professional soldiers). They beat their drums all day long, as we learned to march and keep in step. That evening? We paraded to our swearing in ceremony, with parents, family, and the general public looking on.
Our last official parade took place the day before graduation in 1978.
In between those two events, we marched in an untold number of parades. Mondays through Thursdays, one of the four regiments would be in a parade for the public virtually every afternoon in the spring and fall. On Football Saturdays, there would be a double-regimental parade for every home game, and on Homecoming, the entire Corps of Cadets would perform in a parade. While we didn’t parade in the winter, the overall schedule resumed in the spring, and graduation provided another parade for the entire Corps. I learned to hate parades.
We Marched in an Untold Number of Parades at West Point
… In Central Area, our petition to Odin continued …
OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…
A few raindrops started to fall. And then, a few more and it turned in to something between a sprinkle and a light shower. Our chant droned on.
OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…
I could see our commander conferring with the Battalion commander nearby. Suddenly, he returned. “COMPANY… ATTENNNSHUN!” We snapped to attention, the chanting stopped and there was silence, except for the sound of the rain hitting our hats and the ground. Would we march, or not?? Our Commander called out: “B-3 …DISMISSED!”
It worked! We all sprinted to our rooms, gaining an extra hour of rack time.
That evening as we assembled for dinner formation, our squad leader informed us that appealing to Odin to cancel a parade was an Old West Point tradition, and advised us to study up on him. He would quiz us later.
We learned Odin was the god of war in Germanic and Norse mythology. He was a protector of heroes, and fallen warriors joined him in Valhalla. In a bit of a juxtaposition, he was also the god of poets. He was associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, victory, and sorcery. He gave up one of his eyes to gain wisdom. You will notice no where in that description is there any mention of rain, storms, or weather. Evidently, that skill was buried in history.
Odin… a god with Many Talents
Over my remaining years at West Point, there were many times we appealed to Odin for rain to cancel a parade. The vast majority of the time, he ignored our pleas, and we emerged through the Sally Ports and onto The Plain for our parade before the Great American Public. They say the gods are fickle. Maybe that was the case with Odin.
As I was thinking about writing this blog a couple of months ago, 40-some years after that initial appeal to Odin, I was trading messages with a few classmates. We were discussing how infrequently parades were actually cancelled due to calling Odin, when Leroy Hurt said, “By the way, I finally found out why we chanted to Odin.” What!?
It turns out Leroy is teaching a class on West Point History. In his research for the class, he came across a book called “The West Point Sketchbook”, published in 1976. In the book, the authors state that in 1958, some cadets saw the movie “The Vikings”. It’s a so-so adventure movie, with an all-star cast of Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, Ernest Borgnine and Janet Leigh. Throughout the movie, The Vikings make various appeals and chants to Odin, including asking him to effect the weather and bring rain. In the movie, it worked. The cadets brought the Odin chant back to West Point, and the rest, as they say, is history.
Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis BOTH Appeal to Odin in the Classic Movie, The Vikings
Of course time and history evolve. Another classmate, Pete Eschbach was recently back at West Point and spoke with a few cadets about some of our past traditions. None of the current cadets had ever heard of appealing to Odin to cancel a parade. Not one. For the West Pointers reading this blog, Pete privately speculated to me that “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”.* Maybe with the increases in technology, and the weather apps we have today, it’s no longer required. The weather is a foregone conclusion, and an appeal to Odin isn’t going to change things one way or another. Another mystery…
The legend of Odin may have died at West Point, but he remains an item of interest for me and my classmates. Occasionally, one of us still calls on him. Classmate Joe Mislinski even named his dog Odin. Joe lives pretty close to the Great Lakes Naval Station, where Navy basic training is conducted. He likes to occasionally take Odin for a walk outside the station, once a parade has already started. From the look of the slick streets in the photo below, Odin still has the occasional magic touch.
Odin… Bringing Rain to a Navy Parade
Addendum:
⁃ * Pete was making a bit of an inside joke to me about “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”. In a tradition probably as old as West Point itself, among old grads you frequently hear the phrase, “The Corps Has…” Every class at West Point believes that the classes who came after them had it easier than they did. Gone to Hell is never stated, but always implied. 😉
⁃ Thanks to classmates Peter Eschbach and Leroy Hurt for their contributions to this blog, and their reviews. They were invaluable. Special Thanks to Joe Mislinksi for suggesting the idea for a blog about Odin, and providing a picture of his dog Odin!
⁃ In The West Point Sketch Book, it is reported that prior to 1958, Plebes would whistle a song called the “Missouri National” to try and bring on rain. Part of the adapted lyrics include: And now the rain drops patter down/ Our hearts fill with delight/ For hear the OD sounding off-/ “There is no parade tonight.”
⁃ The movie, The Vikings, is actually not bad. You might give it a watch sometime when you have nothing to do. In the meantime, here are several of the callouts to Odin, throughout the movie: https://youtu.be/uAM85DFfR24
If you wish to read a few of the previous blogs from my time at West Point, you can find them here:
It had been raining for a while when Gary pulled two more beers from the fridge. As he handed me one, he said “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.” I popped my beer and looked up. “I didn’t know you were that particular”.
Gary lived two townhouses down from us. His girlfriend Cindy had moved out a couple weeks before, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer a reason. We were casual friends – the kind of guy you saw in the neighborhood often enough. We’d drank beers together a couple of times and I think Cathy and I had Cindy and him over for dinner once.
Gary’s Townhouse was Two Doors Down From our Own
When I came home from my running group that day, he was vacuuming out his Limo in the parking lot. He was pretty religious about keeping it clean. I stopped to talk with him and he offered me a beer from the cooler next to the Limo. I readily accepted.
We talked about this and that, and then it started raining. “Damn. Let me go park this and I’ll be right back. The house door is open.”
I waited on his stoop for the couple minutes it took him to return, and then we went in his kitchen, where he popped two more beers and we sat down.
As we were drinking our beers, he talked about his history as a Limo driver. It may not have exactly been sex, drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll, but it wasn’t far off. There were a couple of B level rock singers who regularly booked him when playing in DC. He did the usual “big dates”, weddings, and business meetings. A few local corporate types used him consistently. He was strict with the kids that rented the limo for prom or graduation. After that? Who was he to judge?
It was then, as he grabbed two more beers from the fridge he uttered “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.”, and I spoke my quick rejoinder “I didn’t know you were that particular”.
“I Don’t do Funerals”
He looked at me and smiled, and then the smile faded away. “I used to do funerals. Quite a few of them. But I learned something about the limo, or I guess more about myself. Afterwards, no matter how hard I cleaned the inside of the car, I couldn’t get the smell out.”
I looked at him inquisitively. “The smell?”
He took a swig of beer. “Yea, the smell. The smell of loss, of sadness, of blackness, of death itself. No matter how much I cleaned the inside of the limo, to me, the smell was still there for the next trip or two. I finally gave up and quit doing funerals. It was better for me, or at least better for my soul.”
After sitting quietly for a couple of minutes, I raised my beer, and as we clinked cans, said “Your Good Health” and he answered “and yours”.
We finished the beers and I said goodbye. It was still raining as I walked home, thinking about Gary, and death, and how something can linger in the air, even when there is no smell.
When I went outside to assess the damage after the storm passed, the first thing I thought of was the musician Prince. There were probably no doves, but as I stood on the back porch, I could hear hundreds (thousands?) of birds plaintively crying out, over and over and over. This wasn’t good.
The forecast had called for thunderstorms, and as the afternoon progressed, I started receiving weather alerts on my phone for severe thunderstorms. Then at 4:20PM, my phone started chirping like crazy – it was an alert from the National Weather Service. 80 MPH winds were expected, take shelter immediately.
92 MPH Winds Actually DID hit Fauquier County that Day
A few minutes later, I looked outside. The sky was turning black. Suddenly, daylight was gone and it was a dark twilight. As I continued to look, the rain started and then suddenly, the wind forcefully arrived. Trees were bent over, seemingly almost in half.
Holy hell! I called for our dog, Carmen, (Cathy was out of town), and we went to the lowest part of the house near the wine room. Carmen and I sat on the steps next to each other. I was petting her back as we listened to the wind blow and the rain pour down. She shivered slightly. The lights flickered, and then the power went out. I counted to 8, and right on time, the generator kicked in and the lights came back on.
How long did we sit there? I’m not really sure. Maybe 5 minutes, maybe 10 minutes. It felt like a lifetime.
Eventually, the wind lessened, although the rain continued to fall in buckets. I moved back up to the kitchen and looked out the windows. The rain was still falling so hard, you couldn’t see more than a few feet. I posted to FB to warn people in Warrenton that craziness was on it’s way. The winds were moving so fast, I think my post hit FB about the same time the storm was raging through Warrenton.
View of the Storm Approaching Warrenton (Photo courtesy of the Washington Post)
The rain finally lightened to a drizzle and I put on a jacket. Time to check on the horses, and the farm for damage. As I stepped out the door, I heard the birds crying and immediately thought of Prince. It seemed a strange thing at the time, but he literally popped in my brain. These weren’t caws, tweets, chirps, whistles, trills or croaks, they were cries. I don’t know what crying doves sound like, but I hope I never hear the sound of that many birds crying out again.
I circled the house and it was fine, although a garden trellis was knocked over and a grill cover had vanished. Not so bad, I thought, and then on the way to the barn, I saw the old pine trees on the edge of our property. Four out of five were sheared off. I felt an immediate sadness, as they were beautiful trees.
I’m Trying to Imagine the Speed of the Wind Gusts that did this. Even the Trees Still Standing had Most of Their Branches Stripped Off.
At the barn, the horses were fine, as was Ollie, our cat. By chance, I’d put him in the feed room an hour before the storm arrive to have an early dinner.
I continued my tour and found a tree down by the pond, and two trees down on the fence in the back paddock. I came out on Swains Road, which borders our property and stopped suddenly. At least four trees had fallen, blocking the road. There, I ran into my neighbor Kevin. He had just returned from doing his own tour, and was getting ready to start cutting up a tree blocking his drive and the road. I told him I’d be back in a bit with the tractor.
As I finished my inspection, I found a couple more downed trees, including one near our driveway and one blocking a dirt road on our property. It was time to get to work.
After dropping the bush hog from the tractor, I made my way back to Swains road. Eventually, using chain saws, my tractor, and a Jeep, there were three or four of us clearing a path on the gravel road. We weren’t Republicans, Democrats or Independents, we were just neighbors doing a job that needed to be done. It’s funny how that works sometimes. I wish it worked that way more often.
Just a Couple of the Trees that Fell Across Swains Road
Around 7:30PM, after checking on a next door neighbor that lives alone, I made my way back home. I put the tractor away, went inside, and made myself a drink and fixed dinner.
I learned that over half of Fauquier County lost power and numerous roads were closed due to fallen trees. A few homes and cars had trees fall on them. Miraculously, no one was killed or injured. The Washington Post shared a bit more information about the storm: “The violent winds were the result of straight-line flow called a downburst, which occurs when an exceptionally strong downdraft strikes the surface and the airflow surges outward along the ground, literally as a blast of wind. The strongest winds occur in the direction that the storm is moving.” According to the Post, a peak wind speed of 92MPH was recorded about a mile to the east of where we live.
We Live About a Mile to the West of the Orange Dot (Photo Courtesy of the Washington Post)
Here at the farm, we lost about ten big trees, including the pines by the house, two that fell on fences and others scattered around the property. One of Cathy’s Redbuds has two branches sheared off, and our beautiful magnolia in the front yard has half of its branches broken by a huge falling oak. Overall, we are pretty lucky. Cathy, Carmen, Ollie the Cat, the horses Stella and Katie. and I are all fine. There’s no damage to the house, and no damage to the barn.
The power came back on and the generator finally shut off 30 hours after the storm. I can hear chainsaws in the distance as the clean up continues. It will take some time.
The chainsaw sounds will eventually fade and disappear, but the sound I don’t think I will forget for a long time is all of those birds crying out in unison. In shock, in pain, calling for others, I don’t know. All I know is it was a plaintive and anguished sound.
High School graduation had come and gone, and the month of June was racing by. In just a few days, I would report to West Point. For our last night together, Cathy had the idea for an “adult” farewell dinner at her house. Never mind that we were just kids of 17 and 18.
How she was able to make it all happen, remains a bit of a mystery to me to this day. In addition to planning our dinner she asked her folks if we could have a bottle of wine with the meal. They agreed, and then checked with my folks to make sure they were OK with it. Amazingly, they agreed as well.
It was finally the last night in Ottawa. I arrived at Cathy’s just as her mom and dad were departing, along with her sisters, Cindy and Bonnie. I don’t remember where they went – maybe the movies or a drive in. All I knew is we would have the house to ourselves.
We opened the wine, a straw covered Chianti bottle, and sipped on it as Cathy finished cooking. She was making spaghetti with a meat sauce, a meal of hers I love to this day. As we sat down for dinner, she also brought out a salad.
Dinner was Served, Along With a Nice Chianti
It’s funny, in my minds eye looking back, we were both adults, and also kids playing at being adults. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how I remember the night. It was somber and sad, and fun all at the same time. We finished dinner eventually and continued to sip on the wine until it too was gone. We talked about everything, and nothing. We talked of the future and when we hoped to see each other again. We promised to write… and finally, it was time for me to go home. We said our goodbyes, and then said them again several more times. Finally there was a long hug, a last kiss and I drove off into the night, with a crazy collection of mixed up feelings inside. I didn’t sleep much that night.
The next morning arrived. Normally, Dad would have had us up at oh-dark-thirty to depart, but for whatever reason, he decided to break the trip to New York into two days, so we were leaving around mid morning. We were finishing packing the car when my old buddy Howard showed up. We’d known each other since kindergarten, and he wasn’t going to let me escape without saying goodbye. We too promised we’d write each other when we could.
At this point, mom, dad, my two sisters, Howard and I were all standing in the driveway. As we were getting ready to leave, Cathy came racing up on her bicycle. We all stood there for a bit talking. If you’ve ever seen American Graffiti, it was a little like the final scene at the airport with Richard Dreyfus saying goodbye to family and friends, before he departs on the plane for college.
The Last Few Minutes of my Departure Weren’t Unlike Richard Dreyfus’s Departure at the End of American Graffiti
I hugged my sisters goodbye and shook Howard’s hand. Cathy and I had a final kiss, and as we were hugging, she pressed a letter into my hand. She whispered “Don’t open this ‘til later…” With that, mom, dad and I climbed in the car and with honks and waves, were on our way.
I looked at that envelope for a long time. I believe we were in either Indiana or, maybe, Ohio before I opened it. I probably read the letter about 50 times on the drive east, and another 500 times during my time at West Point. I won’t share the contents here, but know the letter still sits in a drawer on my side of the bed, and I occasionally pull it out and read it.
I Still Occasionally Read that First Letter from Cathy
I think about that dinner, and the letter. We were just kids in so many ways, but we were also adults, or thought we were. The world turned out to not be quite as black and white as we imagined it in those last 24 hours in Ottawa, but here we are, decades later, reminiscing about our past, and still thinking about the future and what it holds for the two of us.
Addendum:
It’s worth noting a couple of things from that pre-Internet era:
There are no pictures of that last dinner or the farewell the next day. Why? With no cell phones or iPhones to document the events, we simply lived them. Who’s to say which is better?
People actually did write letters to each other back in the day. Particularly that first summer at West Point, the letters that came from Cathy, Howard, mom and dad and others helped sustain me.
Summer is almost here and schools will soon release their prisoners for the season. I envy the kids and their feelings of anticipation right now. Summertime, and the livin’ will be easy… Of course lots of the summer will be planned out, as seemingly everything is for children these days. Do they ever have the chance to just act like kids?
I was thinking back to summertime during my own youth and growing up in Tomahawk Terrace on the Southside of Ottawa, Illinois – population 18,000. There wasn’t much planning of our time at all, with every day it’s own adventure. Playground at the school? Playing Horse or two-on-two basketball at Schaefer’s or Cavanaugh’s house? Playing army in Varland’s nearby corn field or cow pasture? Hanging out and reading comics? … The possibilities were endless.
There were some organized activities in my life, such as Little League Baseball, or Boy Scout Camp, but most of the time? It was just us kids hanging out. You had to be home for lunch, and you had to be home for dinner. After that, I don’t really remember any other requirements.
… me in the mid 60s …
I think one of the best memories was playing “Work Up” baseball behind Honer’s house, next to the cemetery.
Work Up? What’s that you say? It’s the baseball game you play when you don’t have enough players for two teams, or maybe even one team. Hell, it’s the game the kids on the movie “Sandlot” would have been playing if the film had really gotten it right (and yes, I do love the movie).
The rules? Well there weren’t really any rules, but there were norms. Typically we’d have 7, 8 or 9 guys show up to play. You’d have 2 or 3 guys up to bat, with the remainder in the field. In our case, that included, in order of importance, a pitcher, 1st baseman, shortstop, 2nd baseman, and right and center fielders. We didn’t have a catcher, it was just whoever was up next to bat. The game was called Work Up because you would bat and run the bases until you made an out. Then the pitcher would go in to join the batters, the first basemen became the pitcher, and everyone else advanced one position. Whoever made the out moved to right field. Oh, and if you hit a fly ball and someone caught it, you did a direct exchange with that player.
The game was really adaptable. As an example, if you didn’t have enough kids, there might be only one outfielder, or maybe no 2nd baseman.
The only rules I really remember concerned Left Field. Our “ball diamond” had a graveyard where much of left field normally was. We never put a player in left field, although the center fielder might shade that way a bit. When you were at bat, if you hit a tombstone on the fly, it was an out – we basically assumed the gravestone “caught” the ball. If you hit a tombstone on the ground, we assumed the gravestone fielded a grounder and it was an automatic double. If you hit a ball and it didn’t touch any of the gravestones (almost impossible to do), then the ball was in play.
There are now trees near where Home plate, and 1st and 3rd Base were. Varland Park was a cow pasture at the time.
I don’t remember us ever having a set time for a game. Word just spread around and some number of guys would show up. We might play pickle, while waiting for enough folk to show. Most everybody was from the ‘Terrace, with the occasional friend or cousin added in. This included the Honer brothers, the Hinsons, Deaks, Hazelwoods, Steve Schaefer, John Levy, Chuck Ogden, Jim Habben, one of the Leach boys, Leonard Mayberry, Howard … other names I have long forgotten. If everyone showed up, we’d actually have enough for two teams and play pick-up, but that rarely happened. Kids ranged in age from a couple years older than me to a couple years younger, and there were lots of younger brothers in attendance. One unwritten rule was you didn’t try and take advantage of the younger kids. I mean, it was OK if one of your hits went towards them, but if you did it every time? Not so cool.
By the way, there was never an adult in sight. We seemed to manage just fine by ourselves, without their oversight or interference.
I don’t recall much about the games themselves, I just remember playing the game on hot summer days until we were tired. It might have been an hour, it might have gone on for three hours. Eventually someone’s mom would call and that player went home and then someone else would have to leave, and the game slowly broke up. We might reconvene again the next day, or maybe not until a week later.
I know it’s a different world today. Things are more complex, more challenging, and perhaps less safe. Kid’s lives, from what I can see as an outside observer and non-parent, are organized to the nth degree. Multiple activities, multiple practices, multiple study activities. I guess they are able to try more things, but I also think some things might get lost in the process, like the ability to entertain yourself, informal group interactions and how to handle them, and perhaps even learning a little about leadership for better or worse…
I dunno, do kids even want to spend time outside these days, or is it all mostly computer and video games? Back in the day, I know mom, or our babysitter, would have kicked us out of the house if we were hanging there too much.
I suppose some of this makes me sound like a grumpy old man after a fashion. I don’t really mean it that way. I just remember how much fun we had hanging out on our own behind Honer’s house, playing ball and trying like hell to not hit a fly ball to left field, where it was sure to be caught by a tombstone…
Addendum:
I went online to do a bit of research on “Work Up” baseball as a check on my memory. In a sign of the times, I found plenty of entries, most of them with long lists of rules on how to play Work Up… – sigh –
Thanks to Tomahawk Terrace alumni Bob Deak and Leonard Mayberry, for providing input to this blog.
It was Memorial Day Weekend, 1973. High School graduation was a couple of weeks away, when Howard, Funny, Hick, Bull, and I drove north to Wisconsin in search of Beer, Bass and Northern Pike. We would be more successful in finding one of those items than the other two.
I’m not sure who came up with the original thought, but with graduation from Ottawa High School (OHS) looming, the idea of a fishing trip to Wisconsin came up among a number of my friends. Sure we were interested in fishing, but we were also interested in drinking beer. At the time, the drinking age for beer and wine in Illinois was 19, while a mere two hours away in Wisconsin, it was 18. We decided to do it. Amazingly, our parents all agreed with the idea, (the fishing part, that is), and we were just about set. One of our number, my old friend June, actually had to work the whole weekend, and couldn’t make the trip. Another buddy, Jack, had to work on Friday, but would drive up on Saturday and meet us in The Promised Land.
A Photo of me, from the 1973 OHS Yearbook – Yea, we were Young
On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, after skipping a half day of school, five of us set off for Wisconsin. The fishing party included Howard (Kim), Hick (Tim), Funny (Mark), Bull (Ed) and me. We piled into two cars, and drove north. The goal was to head to Lake Geneva, find a campground, find beer, and settle in for the weekend. When we reached the Lake Geneva area, a small bug crept into our plan – It was Memorial Day weekend and everybody and their brother was going camping and fishing in Wisconsin. As teenage boys, it didn’t occur to us to make reservations. There was nothing, and I mean nothing, available.
They say necessity is the mother of invention, and we decided to head west looking for a place to camp. Suddenly, near Delevan, Wisconsin our luck changed. On the side of the road, as if bathed in heavenly light, we came across Don’s Liquor Store. A sign in the window proclaimed “2 cases of Red, White and Blue for $5.85.” We had hit the mother lode! Now, for those who may not be aware, Red, White and Blue was Pabst Blue Ribbon’s lower level beer. You may be thinking to yourself right now “Hmmm, PBR is pretty low level itself. I didn’t know they had an even lower level beer.” Fortunately for us, they did. We didn’t care so much about the taste at the time, this was a matter of economics. Going into Don’s, we made our purchase, and loaded up the trunk of one of the cars with an enviable amount of beer. We then continued west, and that’s where the second bit of good luck hit.
We came across Turtle Lake, and as importantly, Schroeder’s Snug Harbor Inn. The Pabst sign out front drew us in like moths to a flame. It wasn’t fancy, and the lake wasn’t big, but camping sites were available right on the lake. Schroeder, the owner, registered us for three nights. We left the lodge, popped some beers and set up camp. This was going to be good.
The PBR Sign Drew us in, Like Moths to a Flame
Later, we explored the campground and their Lodge. Lodge is really toooooo grand of a title, but I don’t know what else to call it. There was a bar, a pool table, and they sold bait and snacks. A guy named Hank helped Schroeder at the Lodge and bar. The Inn was also affiliated somehow with the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club, but the relationship was murky. All in all, we were pretty happy.
A Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club Patch from 1973
Back at our camp we made a fire and continued to drink beer. Suddenly one of our members came running up – “Guys! Guys! You aren’t going to believe this! Mr Murphy is here with his family and camping about a hundred yards a way!” What!!?!? Now, all of us knew Mr Murphy. He was a teacher at OHS. He’d coached Howard and I in wrestling, and I’d given his sons swimming lessons. More concerning was the fact that he was currently Howard’s homeroom teacher. Rut Roh…
Mr Murphy from the 1973 OHS Yearbook
What to do!? What to do!? We finally decided to take the bull by the horns and go say hello. We left our beers on the picnic table and wandered through the campground till we finally came to his tent. I believe he was as shocked to see us, as we were to see him. What are the odds we would both pick a minor campground in the middle of no-where for the weekend? Everyone shook hands and he introduced his wife and kids. I’m sure we reeked of beer, but he didn’t say anything. And to his credit, after that, we pretty much stayed in our part of the campground, and he stayed in his, preventing chance encounters. Still, we weren’t sure how to interpret this new omen…
Dinner that night was burgers and chips, and of course more beers. We drank around the fire well into the night, before eventually retiring.
The next morning arrived, and at least some of us went out early to fish in our canoe and rowboat. My recollection is that after a couple of hours, we came back in, skunked. No bass, no pike, no fish in general. Making our way to camp, we cooked up some breakfast and discussed the situation, but mostly just put it down to bad first day luck.
A couple of us went up to the lodge bar to have a beer, and Hank was working there. My buddy Hick recently recollected “I can see Hank behind the bar. I still smell his Lucky Strikes, and see the Brylcreem in his hair…” That’s as good of a description of Hank as any. We ordered our beers and were lamenting our poor morning showing to Hank when he suddenly said “You want fun? I’ll tell you what you do. Buy some of these wax worms we have for bait, and you’ll have more fun than a barrel full of assholes!” What? “Yep! More fun than a barrel full of assholes! You’ll catch plenty of brim and bluegill with them!”
Now I don’t know how much fun a “barrel full of assholes” would actually have, but we were hooked and bought some wax worms.
After we finished our beers, we headed back to camp. In the late afternoon, it was back in the boats to try our luck once again.
Someone caught a pike, but in general we were again having no luck and decided to switch to the wax worms – amazingly, we caught a number of brim, but most were too small to keep or cook. I don’t know if we met Hank’s definition of fun, but it made the late afternoon of fishing more enjoyable. The pike and a few brim become a part of dinner that night.
At Least a Few Fish Became Part of a Meal…
Eventually, we made it back to shore. Some of us worked our way to the lodge to shoot pool and have a beer or two. Jack, who had arrived too late to fish, joined us at the bar, where he impressively slapped a handful of bills on the bar like he’d been doing it his whole life. Never mind that we were still in high school.
While we were at the bar, Mr Murphy walked in to buy something in the store. We pretended our beers didn’t exist, and were making small talk with him, when Howard invited him to shoot a game of pool with us. He hesitated for a second, and then readily agreed. We decided to play two on two, with Howard and I against Mr Murphy and one of the other guys. As the game was about to start, Mr Murphy said “What do you say we make it interesting, and put a bet on the game?” We all readily agreed and were trying to decide what would make a good bet when Mr Murphy said “How about losers by the winners a beer?” Dead silence, and then an immediate and resounding “YES!” From all of us.
We played the game, and eventually Howard and I lost. And so it was, that Howard bought his high school homeroom teacher a beer, while still in high school. I don’t see that happening in today’s world.
After awhile, we went back to the campsite and started a fire. Unfortunately, later that night it started to rain, and rain, and rain some more. We moved to our tents when it turned to a deluge. At some point in time, we went to sleep, but the rain didn’t stop and continued all night long. By the early morning hours, our tents and everything in our tents, including us, was soaked through. It was almost as if Turtle Lake itself expanded, there was so much water.
The next morning we woke and went about making breakfast. Jack was already out in a boat by himself a bit off shore, and using the wax worms. Since he’d arrived so late the day before, he hadn’t yet been able to fish and went out early. He was getting a lot of bites, but the fish were so small, he wasn’t pulling any in.
The weather forecast was for rain all day long. As we ate a wet breakfast, a mutual decision was reached – it was time to head home after only two nights in Wisconsin. We packed our soggy belongings, along with our remaining beer and made the drive back to Ottawa. The great fishing expedition was over.
I did have one small problem. My mom worked at OHS as a secretary. What if Mr Murphy told her about seeing us, and our beer drinking? I decided to come clean and after unpacking, casually mentioned to mom and dad – “Did you know the drinking age in Wisconsin is only 18? We drank a couple of beers while fishing.” They didn’t really say much, and a few minutes later I added – “and it was amazing – we ran into Mr Murphy at the campground!” Mom shot me a look, but didn’t say anything. I never asked later whether he told her about seeing us and the game of pool.
The story didn’t quite end there…
Graduation came a couple of weeks later, and four weeks after that, I headed to West Point for summer training. The rest of the guys returned to Turtle Lake for another weekend of beer and fishing later that summer. When they arrived, they bought a beer at the bar and said hello to Schroeder. After a bit, someone inquired about Hank and rather irate, Schroeder immediately answered ““Hank?! You know Hank?! We don’t talk about Hank! Leaves a brown taste in your mouth!”
That was the last any of us ventured up north to Turtle Lake until 2021. 48 years after our fishing adventure, Mark, who now lives in Wisconsin, made a trip to see what, if anything still existed of the Snug Harbor Inn and the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club. The Snug Harbor Inn itself was still there with the PBR sign out front. He reported the lake was lower and smaller than we remembered and the lodge a bit bigger. Unfortunately, it was closed, either due to covid, or being off season and Mark couldn’t obtain any updated information on it, or the Sportsman’s Club.
Mark, and the Return to Turtle Lake in 2021
It’s almost fifty years since we made that trip to the wilds of Wisconsin and none of us live in Ottawa any longer. One of us has passed away, and the rest are scattered between Illinois, Wisconsin, Texas, Georgia and Virginia. In my mind, I can still see us drinking Red White and Blues by Turtle Lake on that first night, with not only the weekend, but our entire lives stretching out in front of us. It’s a pretty good memory, as memories go.
Addendum:
The Snug Harbor Inn is still at Turtle Lake. Looking online, it looks like they expanded some, and it’s nicer than I remember. They also opened a pub inside the lodge area and still have a pool table. I recently had a phone conversation with the current owner, and asked if he knew Schroeder or the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club. He said Schroeder was the owner of Snug Harbor about three owners before him. As to the Sportsman’s Club, he remembered hearing of it, but it no longer existed. He didn’t know what happened to it. You can link to Snug Harbor’s website here: https://snuglakeharbor.com/
Tom Murphy was always one of the good teachers at OHS and you could tell he cared about his students. In addition to serving as a teacher and coach, he later became Principal. My mom was a secretary in the front office, and they worked together there for several years.
Thanks as always to my friend Colleen for her editorial assistance. In a strange twist, Colleen knew about Turtle Lake from her youth, while living in Illinois. Her father was also at the Turtle Lake Sportsman’s Club! What are the odds?!
Thanks to Mark, Howard, Jack and Tim for contributing memories to this blog. Like the great 1950s Japanese movie, “Rashamon”, all of us have various “subjective, alternative and contradictory versions” of the trip to Turtle Lake. I’ve tied together my best recollection of the trip, along with information from the others as much as possible. I left out a couple of items to protect the innocent.
My good friend Mark Dunavan published a book “Almost an Eagle – The Roots and Escapades of a Midwestern Baby Boomer” in 2020 that tells the story of his life. The story of our trip to Turtle Lake is also recounted there, with some variations. This limited edition book is hard to find, but if you can get your hands on a copy, I highly recommend you do so.
How could you not possibly like a local place, where both Patsy Cline and Duke Ellington have performed in the past? Buchanan Hall, a small venue just down the road in Upperville, VA, hosted both of those greats during it’s storied past. The best part? The Hall continues as a focus for music and good times today with their weekly Farmers Market.
Buchanan Hall has existed since the late 1920s, when General James A. Buchanan allegedly decided to build the Hall for his daughter’s wedding. Construction was completed in ‘33, in the middle of the depression. Eventually, the Hall belonged to the community, and a Board of Trustees was set up. The problem was, the Trustees may not have always had the best judgement on who could use the Hall. Some of their clients were “questionable”.
A few years ago, an undated note to the Trustees was found – “I had little problem last [night] with some guys fighting [over] girls, so the security guards put him out [he shot] in the air two or three times and I call the sheriff [but] I take care of the problem for now on… no drinks is allowed and no ins and outs. Thank you Romeo Ferguson.” … Another note from Ferguson read, in part: “To the hustlers, leave the guns at home or in your cars . . . this is a nice place to have fun at – think about it!”
As you can see, Buchanan Hall has a varied history…;-)
But oh, did it draw the crowds. On the local level, there was the likes of Chauncy Brown and his band for dances that drew folk from Middleburg, Warrenton, and even DC. It turns out Brown was often the drummer for Duke Ellington’s band from 1930-37.
An undated photo of Chauncy Brown
They also drew major talent over the years. Ramblin’ Jack Elliott, who was friends with Woody Guthrie, influenced Bob Dylan, The Rolling Stones, The Band and others, performed a couple of times. And then of course, you have Patsy Cline and Duke Ellington – both appeared at Buchanan Hall. Patsy was originally from nearby Winchester, Virginia, so perhaps her appearing was not such a huge surprise. She played many local venues in the early 50s before making it big and moving to Nashville. Duke on the other hand held a national reputation from the 1930s – I’ve wondered if his work with Chauncy Brown is what drew him to Upperville, however, I can find no confirmation.
Can you imagine sitting in a 200 seat theater and hearing Patsy sing “Crazy”, “I Fall to Pieces” and “Walkin’ After Midnight”, or Duke playing “In a Sentimental Mood”, “Satin Doll” and “Take the A Train”? It would have to be both sublime and amazing….
In addition to having the piano in common, Patsy and Duke both appeared at Buchanan Hall
Time passed and by 2000, Buchanan Hall was in disrepair, and locals decided it was time to renovate the structure and grounds. Through donations, the Hall was eventually restored.
Since then?
Buchanan Hall has served in a number of roles. Community Center, wedding venue and event location to name a few. As examples, it continues to host parties and happenings in conjunction with the Upperville Colt and Horse Show, the oldest such show in America. In 2018, it hosted an American Roots Music Revival that sold out over the course of several evenings. And last year, the inaugural Piedmont Pride event, including a drag cabaret brunch, was held there.
I was excited to recently learn the Buchanan Hall Farmers Market is returning again this year. The market is every Wednesday from 4-8 pm from May 18, 2022 through October 26. This isn’t just any farmer’s market. You can of course purchase farm fresh meats, produce, and artisan goods. Even better is grabbing something from one of the food trucks, buying a glass of beer or bottle of wine from one of the local producers, and then pulling up a big piece of lawn and watching a band playing outside the entrance to the Hall. They always have a live band. It’s a pretty good way to spend a Wednesday evening.
Wonderful live music can still be heard at Buchanan Hall on Wednesday evenings during the summer.
I recommend you give the Farmers Market a try this summer on a Wednesday evening or two. While there, wander inside and take a look at the pictures of Patsy, Duke, and Chauncey. Remember those days gone by, while having a wonderful evening in the present.
Addendum:
– Buchanan Hall is located at 8549 John S Mosby Hwy, Upperville, VA 20184. You can learn more about it here: https://www.buchananhall.org/ .
– Much of the history I’ve discussed in this blog came from the Buchanan Hall website itself, and a Washington Post article from a few years ago – Chauncy Brown’s Dance Party Lives On (link is above).
It was May of 1943 in Bizerte, Tunisia. My Dad, then twenty year old Sergeant Willie I. Hall looked at the German soldier and said “Chicago”. The German answered “Chicago?” Dad stared back. “Chicago. Al Capone”. Now the German’s eyes’ widened …
… After the battle at Maknassy, Dad’s unit, the 60th Regimental Combat Team (RCT) reunited with the rest of the 9th Infantry Division. In late April of ‘43, the push was on to finish the war in North Africa, and in the words of the division Commander, Major General Eddy, “A world spotlight will be focused on us from the moment we attack until we have killed, captured, or driven every Axis soldier from Tunisia…”
The history books tell us that as a part of their assault, the 60th, attacked through the Sedjenane Forest and after driving the Germans out of the area, hit a bottleneck at Djebel Cheniti. On May 5th, the 1st Battalion of the 60th (Dad’s Battalion – about 500 men) attacked Hills 207 and 168 (see diagram below) and Djebel Cheniti by a direct assault with fixed bayonets. You read that right. Fixed Bayonets. In the words of the 9th Infantry Division Record, “One of the strongest positions in the final Axis defense was assaulted by one battalion of Infantry, with artillery blasting a shell-strewn pathway for its advance. Another story in the annals of foot soldiers, who do the dirty tasks of warfare”. After several hours, they took the hills and Cheniti.
I never heard dad say a word about the battle at Cheniti. Not one.*
1st Battalion, 60th RCT’s Path While Attacking Djebel Cheniti and then Bizerte
On the 8th of May, they arrived in Bizerte, and on May 9th, the Germans surrendered. The battle for North Africa was over. In the words of one soldier of the 60th, “We were all 20 pounds lighter and 20 years older.”
Soldiers of the 60th RCT in the Hills outside Bizerte, Tunisia on May 7, 1943.
At this point, I’m sure you are saying, “This is all great history Max, but what the hell does it have to do with your Dad and Al Capone?” Good question.
Now we come to the rest of the story.
With the collapse of Rommel’s Africa Corps, the allies captured prisoners. A lot of prisoners. Over 275,000 Axis prisoners were taken in all, including 25,000 in and around Bizerte alone. This included General Jürgen von Arnim, the German Supreme Commander.
There were, of course, no prisons, so in the immediate aftermath they confined the Germans in large “holding pens” with single strands of barbed wire around each of the pens. The 9th, along with other units, were then drafted into guarding the prisoners until more secure facilities could be established.
Prisoner Holding Pens Near Bizerte, Tunisia
Dad talked about guarding the Germans and the Italians. You have to remember just a few days or weeks before, they were in a kill or be killed mode with the enemy, with plenty of butchery to go around. All that separated the two sides now was a bit of barbed wire. According to Dad, the Italians never had much fight, and the captured Germans knew they were beat, so they generally behaved. Still, you needed to be careful.
During the days they were on duty, dad’s platoon always guarded the same area, and after a while, they would recognize certain prisoners, talk a bit back and forth, and maybe even pass a cigarette across the wire. At the same time, Dad said he wanted to make sure he looked tough so no one did anything stupid.
As Dad tells the story, he was talking with a few of the Germans one day and someone asked where he was from. He answered “Illinois”, but the Germans looked confused. So dad thought about it a bit, and then trying to look a bit tougher he said “Chicago”. The German answered “Chicago?” Dad stared back. “Chicago … Al Capone”. Now the German’s eyes widened. Everyone knew who Al Capone was.
The German looked at Dad and said with a smile “Al Capone…. Ratatatatat….” While making a machine gun like motion with his hands.
Dad looked back at the German, nodded his head, patted his M1 Garand Rifle and without smiling, said “Ja, Al Capone.” The German stopped smiling and didn’t say anything else.
Dad always told the Al Capone story with a chuckle. When getting to the punchline, he would draw himself up to look bigger and meaner. But he was deadly serious about the Germans not trying anything. After what they had been through, I don’t think it would have taken much for him to put a bullet in someone, for doing something stupid.
A little over two months later, after a bit of rest and relaxation, Dad and the 60th were back in Combat against the Germans on the Island of Sicily. There, he was wounded and almost died. You can find a link for that story in the Addendum below.
Dad at the WWII Memorial in 2008.
Addendum:
* Except for the story of how he was wounded, Dad never said much about any of the battles he was involved in. For the most part, he told funny stories about events during the war. I was shocked when doing some research for this blog to find he had been involved in a charge with fixed bayonets. As a soldier, you know things aren’t going to be pretty when you receive an order to fix bayonets. That is combat at its most up close and personal. I have to figure that after you’ve been given the command to fix bayonets, and then taken part in a bayonet charge, everything else in your life, maybe for the rest of your life, must seem pretty easy. It may explain a bit about why Dad always had such a good attitude throughout his life.
Al Capone – As everyone knows, after being the Crime Boss of Chicago for much of the Twenties, Al Capone was incarcerated for tax evasion in 1931. He was released from prison in 1939, but wouldn’t die until 1947. He had a worldwide reputation for murder and violence that may have been the equivalent of his actual deeds.
Live Life Exuberantly 