I’ve never ever heard someone say “Man, I can’t stand The Jetty”. In fact, it’s just the opposite. It’s one of those places that has found a way to appeal to old locals, new locals, people passing by, and tourists. As a bonus, dogs are allowed on the outdoor deck, which makes it one of Carmen’s favorite places as well. Every town should have a place like The Jetty Restaurant and Dockbar, but many don’t.
Cathy and I have been stopping at the Jetty for the last ten years. It’s on the way to our house at the Bay, and a great place for lunch. Two hours from home (and about 45 min from The Bayhouse), it’s the perfect stopping point.
The first time we went to The Jetty was with friends Pat and Bob, and Becky and Jim. Cathy mentioned to her girlfriends we were going to the Bay, and maybe we could meet them for a drink along the way. Becky said to Cathy “What about meeting at the jetty?” Cath answered “Becky – which jetty? There must be ten jetties in that stretch along the water.” Becky answered “Not a jetty, THE Jetty – it’s a bar”. And so we were introduced to this wonderful beach bar.
The Jetty has a great location on Kent Narrows.
Located in Maryland, just over the Bay Bridge on the Eastern Shore, the bar has a great view overlooking Kent Narrows. In the spring, summer and fall, the outdoor tables on the deck stay full, while in the wintertime, the indoor bar and restaurant fill up. With all of the glass “garage type doors” for the bar, the view from inside is almost as good as sitting outside.
With all of the roll-up windows, The view from inside the deck bar, is almost as good as from outside.
When stopping for lunch, we know a nice selection of cold beers, excellent Bloody Marys or tasty Crushes are there waiting for us. The food is decent, and this being the Eastern Shore, the crabs in the summertime and oysters in the winter are always excellent. Good burgers, fish sandwiches or tacos, a great Crab Cake, and excellent salads are all on the menu. This is bar food at it’s best… If you are looking for something more substantial, there’s always several wonderful seafood dinners on the menu as well… As a bonus, dogs are allowed on the outdoor deck, which also makes it one of Carmen’s favorite places. They always bring her a bowl of water, and if you are inclined, you can order special doggie “meals” off the menu for your fourlegged companion (we don’t). She always enjoys barking “hi” to the other dogs on the deck.
The mental transition to vacation mode starts pretty quickly when sitting on the deck, looking at the water and relaxing with a drink. A beer, or two, along with a sandwich makes that last 45 minutes of driving time to Tilghman pass pretty quickly.
Getting in vacation mode….
I’ve seen bikes, motorcycles, cars, trucks, and one year on St Paddy’s Day, a bus parked outside. Many folk also arrive by boat, docking in one of the slips.
We’ve also met friends there for drinks, or for dinner. It’s not a bad way to while away a few hours on a sunny afternoon. On weekends, they often have a band. Our friends, Pat and Bob live just three or four miles from The Jetty – in Pat’s words – “The Jetty is practically our every Friday happy hour go-to bar. Such a beautiful setting, especially the gorgeous sunsets.“
Every town should have a place like The Jetty, but many don’t. The water and view certainly help, but the way they appeal to everyone, local or not, is what makes the difference for me. I’m glad it’s on our list of local watering holes and places for a meal. If you happen to cross the Bay Bridge on Route 50 heading to the Eastern Shore or the Atlantic Ocean, make sure and give The Jetty a try. If you’ve been making the trip for awhile, you probably already knew that.
Addendum:
– Thanks to our friend Pat for reviewing and providing input for this blog.
– Note – this isn’t an advertisement for the Jetty and I was provided no money (or drink) in exchange for writing this blog! It’s a local bar/restaurant we just really like.
The night wasn’t supposed to happen. As a matter of fact, in today’s post 9-11 world, it couldn’t happen. They never would have made it through security. But in 1991? Yea, my buddies Howard and June sprung me from O’Hare Airport during a layover, and we had an unexpected night in Chicago.
It was July 2nd, 1991 and I’d been in Omaha, Nebraska for a week. We were running communications tests on the President’s “other plane” – the National Emergency Airborne Command Post (NEACP – pronounced Kneecap). NEACP is the plane the president uses in the event of a nuclear attack. The tests went well and ended quicker than expected. As a result, I was racing to the airport to try and catch a flight home that evening, rather than my scheduled flight the next day.
NEACP – The President’s Other Plane
I made the airport with twenty minutes to spare and was able to get a ticket. At the time, there were no direct flights from DC to Omaha and I would need to connect through Chicago with a two hour layover. At the airport, I found a pay phone (don’t forget this was the pre-cellphone age) and called my buddies June and Howard in Chicago to see if they could meet me at the airport for a beer (remember pre 9-11 times at the airport? Anyone could walk out to the plane gates, and in fact, many people did. Usually not for a beer, but to meet loved ones when their plane arrived). Neither Howard or June were home so I left them a message on their answering machine. I figured the odds of them receiving the message AND making it to the airport on time were between slim and none. I ran to the plane and boarded.
An Entry From my Journal About the Weekend in Question*
An hour and a half later we landed in Chicago and I left the plane. I’ll be damned – both June and Howard were there at the gate to meet me! Handshakes all around and we found a bar near the gate I would fly out of two hours later.
We drank a couple of beers and June offhandedly said “Why don’t you spend the night?” I told him United wouldn’t let it happen, and how I was lucky to be on this flight at all. Then we thought, what the hell, let’s give it a shot. I walked over to the ticket agent at the gate and talked with him about changing my connecting flight to the next day. We went back and forth about it, but he gave me about fifteen reasons why he couldn’t do it. I walked back to the bar, which was within site of the agent and reported to the boys that it was no dice.
The Chances of Spending the Night in Chicago Didn’t Look Good*
Howard wasn’t going to take no for an answer. He set his beer down and marched over to the agent. He proceeded to berate the agent and said something like this to him – “What kind of American are you? Here’s my friend, a soldier doing his duty protecting our country while here you are, sitting on your ass and not doing anything to help out. My friend puts his life on the line every day – don’t you think he’s worth that small gesture?” (Or words to that effect. Howard was pretty animated – as he related to me recently, he was performing on stage regularly then including at the Improv Olympic in Chicago. That gave him some of the confidence to pull off the role of “irate friend”). They talked a bit more and Howard came back to the table with a smile – It was on! The agent gave me a return ticket for the next day and we left O’Hare.
We were starving by now, and headed to a new Giordano’s Pizzaria. At the time, Giordano’s had only two or three locations in Chicago, and no where else. We ordered a couple of stuffed pizzas along with a few more beers. The night progressed. From there, it was on to another bar, and then to a bar across the street from their apartment for a final beer and a tequila (or two). We finally made it to bed around 1:30AM.
The next morning, I was moving a bit slowly. When I woke up, Howard was already gone, as he had to be at work early. June and I cleaned up and went out for a quick breakfast, before he drove me back to the airport. We arrived at 10:15, just in time to catch my 11:10 flight – it was my original flight, before I rescheduled everything the day before… ;-).
It was an unexpected night in Chicago with my oldest friends. What could possibly be better?
Howard, Me and June, Two Months Later in September of 1991. I was Back in Illinois for a Couple More Days. Bloodies were Evidently on the Menu this Particular Day.
Addendum:
⁃ * I’ve kept a journal for decades. I’ve rarely used it for any of my blogs, because I’m usually sporadic about what I write. When I was younger, it seems I wrote in it most often while traveling. The “writing” pictures you see in this blog are extracts from the journal. I’ve told this particular story several times before, but never looked in my journal to see if I recorded it. I was looking for something else, and came across these entries. My memory was pretty close to what I had written, although I didn’t specifically remember going to Giordano’s, drinking tequila that night, or the breakfast the next day. Those recollections are straight from the journal.
⁃ Thanks to June (Tim Stouffer) and Howard (Kim Johnson) for contributing to this blog. Thanks even more for being lifelong friends.
⁃ The job I had in the Army at the time was pretty interesting, and involved Nuclear Command and Control (C2) systems, among other things. A week after this trip on NEACP, I went to Norfolk for a week and was on the USS Nassau, a Tarawa Class Amphibious Assault ship. We were again testing Nuclear C2 systems.
Bob Bishop is a friend of mine and shared this story with me from his time aboard a Ballistic Missile Submarine. It’s a compelling story from the Cold War and I hope you will give it a read. The movie, “The Hunt for Red October” is a bit of child’s play, compared to what these guys did on a daily basis. My only contribution here is a bit of editing.
My first real duty station was the USS Nathanael Greene (SSBN-636), Blue Crew*. She had just completed her fourth patrol (two Blue, two Gold) when I reported aboard in April 1966 in Charleston, South Carolina. She was about as seasoned as I was and commissioned the same year I graduated from the Academy. We were in the middle of the Cold War, and Russia was building submarines as fast as we were. Vietnam was still just a little country somewhere over there, on the other side of the Pacific.
Bob, at Graduation from The Naval Academy in 1964
Every day on patrol on a Fleet Ballistic Missile submarine (FBM) is, in many ways, just like the day before or the day after. You have watches to stand, duties to perform, qualifications to train for and, at random times, all-hands drills (such as, “FIRE IN THE TORPEDO ROOM,” or “FLOODING IN THE MISSILE COMPARTMENT”) to wake you if you are off-watch or to interrupt the routine of your duties if you are on watch.
While on patrol, all FBMs, like the Nathanael Greene, must remain in constant radio contact to receive any and all incoming traffic all day, every day. However, a FBM only broke radio silence to send a message in a dire emergency, as sending a message would risk giving away the ship’s position to any nearby enemy ship or aircraft.
Because any change in the volume of message traffic from the sender (i.e., the Pentagon) could have some intelligence value, the radio schedule is purposefully full 24 hours a day.
The most important messages are the operational orders — to change a submarine’s patrol area and thus its missile target package. The Navy filled the remaining time with national news, sports scores and stories, all of it in coded 5-character groups. Every ship received the same radio broadcast, but you only really paid attention to messages sent for your ship. All of the news, sports scores, etc. were printed out and attached to a clipboard in the Radio Shack for anyone to read.
The Navy used the same radio system to conduct simultaneous tests of the combat readiness of all FBMs on patrol through a periodic WSRT (Weapons System Readiness Test). The WSRT begins (and the clock starts counting) with the receipt of a special message which begins, exactly as a real launch message would, with the heading “Top Secret — Cryptographic.” The text that follows, even though still in five-character groupings, is in a code that can only be deciphered through use of a special code book.
When such a message was received, the radioman immediately alerts the Captain (CO) and Executive Officer (XO) a potential Launch message has been received, and the Officer of the Deck instantly sounds “BATTLE STATIONS – MISSILE.” Every member of the crew has an assigned battle station, in addition to their regular job, and moves there at a dead run.
Meanwhile, the Communications Officer hustles to the Radio Shack, as does another officer designated at the start of the patrol by the CO to fulfill the required Two-Man rule. The Communications Officer opens the first safe, and the other officer opens the inner safe where the code book is kept. They extract the code book and break the text into English. They then rush to the Control Room to give the CO the plain-text message. Based on the message, the CO unlocks a cabinet in the overhead just forward of the #1 periscope shear, and pulls out the appropriate firing key – black if it is a drill and red if it is Launch. It’s a little cabinet, maybe 3 inches high by 14 inches wide and 8 inches deep, but within it is the key to launch 16 ICBMs towards their targets thousands of miles away.
WSRTs occurred about every eight to ten days. The time and day chosen were “random.” The experience of the “Old Salts” suggested the frequency was selected by somebody in the Pentagon seemingly based on a roll of the dice – it was never sooner than 2 days after the previous drill, and always within 12 days. It also never occurred on a Sunday morning (i.e., between Saturday midnight and Sunday noon) – to give the crew a break from the chaotic 24/7 pace of shipboard life and to allow an opportunity for anyone who wanted to worship (as a result, Jewish services were also held on Sunday mornings).
The USS Nathanael Greene (SSBN-636) at Sea
Fast forward two years…
The world had become a much more dangerous place. The summer of 1968 was a time of great turmoil, both nationally and internationally. Vietnam was raging. The USSR invaded Czechoslovakia and crushed the Prague uprising. North Korea had captured the USS Pueblo. France was in turmoil – as student protests turned into riots, workers joined them striking across the nation and Charles de Gaulle dissolved the National Assembly. At home, LBJ decided not to run, due to the Vietnam War. Rev. Martin Luther King, Jr., was assassinated in April, resulting in race riots across the country. Whole blocks of cities were ablaze. Bobby Kennedy’s assassination in June added still another dimension to the generally bleak outlook. It was a time of high unemployment in the U.S, strained race relations, unprecedented heat waves, and scattered power outages. The tone and tenor of the news we received in those coded messages was alarming.
You couldn’t help but be affected by thinking about where your loved ones were, how they were, and what was going on around them. I had married a scant 3 months before, between patrols, and Suzan was in DC. The turmoil there was frequently mentioned in the news reports, both as local news and as a setting for reporting on what the Federal government was doing to respond.
I was a Lieutenant now, in charge of the largest Division in the Engineering Department, and on my fifth patrol. I was the only junior officer qualified both to operate the ship and to run the nuclear plant (the only other officers qualified both “forward” and “aft” were the XO and the Engineer). As a result, instead of a typical watch rotation of one in three (six hours on and twelve hours off), I was standing a watch aft as Engineering Officer of Watch, in charge of the nuclear plant et al., then a watch forward as Officer of the Deck, in charge of driving the ship (so my schedule was twelve hours on and six hours off, repeated every 18 hours).
It was late on a Saturday afternoon, and we had just finished a WSRT. My Battle Station was, with Chief Blackmon, to oversee the operation of the Torpedo Fire Control System, which was on the starboard side of the Control Room. Once we launched our sixteen ICBMs, we would immediately leave the launch area and become an attack submarine, to seek out, track and sink any hostile ships. During Battle Stations, my boss, Bill Fernow, the Engineer, was aft, watching over the nuclear plant and other engineering systems.
As we stood down from Battle Stations, there was a palpable tension in the ship because of what seemed to be the deteriorating situation in the U.S. and the world. More than one of us was thinking “Someday this could be real.”
I was dog-tired, but the WSRT had occurred while I was Engineering Officer of the Watch, so after we secured from Battle Stations, I went aft to relieve my boss. He looked at me, and then at his watch, looked up and smiled and said, “I’ll take it from here. You look like you could use some sack time.”
I didn’t argue. I went forward to Officer’s Quarters, and leapt into my rack. Forty minutes later, I was woken for my next watch, the 1800 to 2400 shift.
After a quick bite in the Wardroom, I went up to the Control Room to assume the Conn.
I was relieved at 11:45 p.m. after a thankfully routine watch, sat down in the Wardroom for a quick sandwich, and was asleep within seconds of hitting my rack. Exhaustion does that to you. (When the patrol was over, I found I had logged just a bit over 5 hours of sleep per 24-hour period – for 72 days.)
At 3:42 a.m., the klaxon sounded and the cry “BATTLE STATIONS – MISSILE” came over the 1MC. The advantage of being so tired was that you wore your jumpsuit to bed so you didn’t have to waste precious seconds getting your clothes off, or on. I was at my station at the Fire Control panel in the Control Room within 20 seconds, probably the last 10 seconds of which I became cognizant of the situation we were going into.
The last WSRT was just hours ago and never – never – had there been another WSRT so close to the previous one. And it was early morning on a Sunday.
Battle Stations is always a time of pressure – to do your job as well as possible and to hope your systems performed as designed. This time, however, there was a unique quiet. Everyone knew this was the real thing.
There was no emotion, only a deathly quiet. Given my Battle Station location in the Control Room, I was standing about six feet from the XO, and the CO was about eight feet to my left, standing on the raised platform of the Conn. I could hear each of the stations reporting “Battle Stations manned and ready” to the XO’s sound-powered phone-talker. When the last of the stations had reported in, I watched the XO turn to the CO and report formally “Battle Stations are manned, Captain.”
Although everyone was tightly focused on making sure they did what they were supposed to do exactly right, part of each of our brains was recognizing the inevitability that we would never again see everything we knew and loved. Our families, our country, were surely gone. Our future was the ship, and our sole mission was to launch our missiles, seek the solace of the deep, and then seek revenge.
At that moment, the Communications Officer ran into the Control Room and handed the CO the decoded message. The CO read the message, took the lanyard from his neck, unlocked the firing key cabinet, and reached in for the firing key. We were about to launch… And then, he took out the black key, the WSRT drill key, NOT the red firing key.
Among those of us who could see what had just occurred, there was a moment of disbelief, the sure knowledge that you couldn’t believe your eyes. A double-take, and then the realization it really was a drill after all. The sense of relief was palpable, almost as if everyone, at the same time, slowly exhaled the breath they had been holding since Battle Stations had been called what seemed like hours ago, but was in reality, only a few minutes.
We knew we were at war. And then, suddenly, not. Just as there had been no sobbing or other shows of emotion when we each realized we were at war, there were also no cheers or high-fives to find that we weren’t. Instead, there was only a somber reflection that we were, to a man, trained and ready, but fortunately had not been called upon.
Bob Enjoying Life a Couple of Years Ago
Addendum:
– * Submarines have two separate identical crews, called Blue and Gold, which alternate manning the boat. While one crew is deployed, the other is in port for leave, refresher training, and preparation for their next patrol. This maximizes the amount of time the submarine itself is deployed. At the time, a typical deployment was 72 days – the complete cycle, taking over from the other crew, making needed repairs, installing new equipment, and a short sea trial to test everything out, meant nearly 100 days away from home, twice a year.
– Special thanks to my friend Bob Bishop for sharing this story. Bob graduated from the United States Naval Academy in 1964. At the time, Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, the founder of the modern nuclear Navy, personally interviewed and approved or denied every prospective officer being considered for a nuclear ship. The selection rate was not very high.
We recently attended our friend Mark’s high school graduation party. As we were talking, the first thing he said to me was “Remember the weekend we went snake hunting at your house? It was one of the early influences on my interest in snakes and Herpetology.“
I remembered the weekend well, although I was a bit surprised he did. It was in July of 2008 and he was just shy of six years old. His folks, Steve and Jessica, offered us the opportunity to have Mark stay with us for the weekend, and we readily agreed. We picked him up on a Friday morning and he stayed with us until Sunday afternoon.
That weekend was great all around. Not having children, I’m always amazed at kid’s capacity for life and willingness to try different things. With Mark, we went fishing and cooked the fish we caught for dinner. Cathy took him on a horseback ride. He drove our tractor. We did a hike to a “haunted house” looking for ghosts. We also just goofed off and floated around in the pond. They were all wonderful summer activities.
Summertime Fun
One accidental activity was “snake hunting”. On Saturday, as we were walking from the house to the barn, we spied a snakeskin in our sawdust pile (the sawdust is used as bedding for the horses). I mentioned to Mark “Maybe the snake is still around and we should see if we can find it.” He readily agreed. In actuality, the snakeskin was dried out, so I assumed the snake was long gone and we were safe. We retrieved a couple of rakes and started raking through the sawdust. I’ll be damned if we didn’t find another snakeskin. Mark’s eye’s lit up and we resumed raking, but more slowly. Then, we hit pay dirt. No, not a snake, but snake eggs* buried in the sawdust!
Snake Skins and Snake Eggs
Holy hell, this WAS cool. We looked at the eggs awhile, took some pictures, and then covered them back up with sawdust. We continued our search, but never did find any live snakes.
We had more adventures that night and the next day, and then met up for pizza with Steve and Jess Sunday afternoon to return Mark. I think both he and we were a little sad the weekend was over.
Mark’s interest in nature and animals had started before the visit to our small farm, and continued afterwards. He watched Steve Irwin’s wildlife TV show regularly. Although Irwin had died in 2006, when stabbed in the heart by a stingray, his TV show lived on in syndication. Mark remained fascinated by animals, reptiles and snakes. Steve and Jess joined Friends Of the National Zoo (FONZ). As Jess remembers, they spent a lot of time in the reptile house. Mark also loved the books about animals and snakes at school. Later, he joined the Boy Scouts, and went on to become an Eagle Scout.
Life goes on and time accelerates. Suddenly, your five year old visitor is an eighteen year old man, graduating from High School…
At the party last week, Mark told me “I’ve always been interested in animals and snakes, but the weekend at your farm was the first encounter with them ‘in the wild’, and not at the zoo or in a book.” He has continued to search out snakes in their natural habitat. He’s developed his own equipment for handling snakes, should he want or need a closer look.
Snake handling and handling with tools
This summer, Mark will work at a Boy Scout camp near Goshen, VA. While there, he will help with a study on the Pine Snake (of course). He also let me know that starting this fall, he will major in Wildlife Conservation at GMU, and has already been selected to attend the Smithsonian Mason School of Conservation as a part of his studies. It’s a highly selective program that takes place at the Smithsonian Museum’s Campus in nearby Front Royal, Va. He’ll also take courses in Herpetology, the study of reptiles and amphibians. Down the road? Mark would like to spend some post graduate time studying the Variable Bush Viper, or the Spiny Bush Viper, both venomous snakes in Africa.
It’s not always easy to see or understand the effects of simple actions from your life. Sometimes it takes a decade or longer for them to surface. I think this might be the case with our friend Mark. I don’t know the exact role his visit to our farm played in his interest in snakes and Herpetology, but it appears it may have contributed. The ripples of the actions in our lives never cease to amaze me. Such small events can have such large effects. Would things have turned out different for Mark if we’d never seen that snakeskin? Probably not … but I guess we’ll never know.
Cathy and I both wish Mark well in his studies, and hope he’s able to follow his dreams in the future. Maybe, just maybe, it will involve snakes.
****
Addendum:
⁃ *I’ve since learned that Copperheads and Rattlesnakes lay live snakes, not eggs. The eggs we saw were possibly blacksnake or rat snake eggs. It turns out many snakes love to lay their eggs in old wood piles, decayed wood, or SAWDUST if available.
⁃ Yes, I took a flip of the Harrison Ford/Indiana Jones’ comment “Why’d it have to be snakes!?” For the title to this blog.
⁃ Thanks to Mark Stoops and Dorothy Schwetz for the use of some of the photos in this blog.
– Thanks as always to my friend Colleen Conroy for her editing assistance. She has a great way of suggesting corrections, without making me feel like an English illiterate. 😉
Next week on the 16th of June, Cath and I will celebrate our 43d wedding anniversary. In an interesting twist, the 15th of June is the 49th anniversary of our first date in 1972. Cathy was all of 16 years old, and I was the older man at 17. To tell the whole story though, you need to go a couple months before then, when I turned her down for a Sadie Hawkins dance at our high school.
Every year in the spring, Ottawa Township High School (OTHS) held a Spring Formal which was also a Sadie Hawkins Dance. That is, the girl asks the boy to the event. (Do they still have those? Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. For that matter, does anyone remember Li’l Abner or Dogpatch, where Sadie Hawkins Day* originated? ). In 1972, I was a junior and Cathy Snow was a sophomore. We knew each other a bit from Student Council. Well, one evening in March, I received a call at home. The young Miss Snow was on the line, and after a bit of small talk, asked me if I would go to the Spring Formal with her. Alas, I had to turn her down, as two days before, I’d been asked by a girl in my class named Gail. The call ended pretty quickly after that.
Cathy Snow at 16…
Fast forward two months. My friend Howard and I were at Pitsticks, a local swimming place with a beach, and ran into Cathy and our mutual friend, Lori Lyle. We made small talk back and forth and at some point Cathy asked if I wanted to swim out to the diving platform and off we went. Of course I had to exhibit my prowess as a swimmer and did a one and a half off the high dive. (I wasn’t going to waste the opportunity to try and impress a prospective date.) Cathy played her part and said to me “Great Dive! You looked like a knife going through soft butter when you entered the water!” My strategy appeared to be working… ;-). In later conversations, she mentioned she and Lori might be out and about riding their bikes that night. I answered back that I’d thought about going for a bike ride that night as well, and maybe I’d run into them. With that, we said our goodbyes and went back to our respective spots on the beach.
That evening after dinner, I grabbed my bike and started riding around the south side of town looking for Cathy and Lori, but didn’t see them anywhere. Eventually I stopped at a store and went inside to buy a pop. While inside, Cathy and Lori rode by, saw my bike outside the store, stopped and came inside.
Everyone seemed pretty happy to connect. We talked a bit and then went back outside and the three of us rode around town together. Eventually, we ended up back at Cathy’s house at 305 Houston Street and had some ice tea on the back porch.
305 Houston Street. The back porch is on the left side of the house.
Unbeknownst to me, Cath and Lori weren’t sure which of the two of them I might be interested in. Cath had asked me to the dance, however, Lori and I had known each other from church for quite a while. They had a plan. After a bit of time, Lori would say she had to head home. They figured if I said I had to leave as well and rode off with Lori, I was interested in her. If I stayed there when she left, I was interested in Cathy.
Dusk arrived and Lori said she was going to ride home. I wished her a good night and stayed at Cathy’s… 😉
As it grew dark, we talked, and then talked some more. Finally, around 1030PM or so, I said I ought to go home. We walked to the steps leading off the porch, and while I was trying to work up the courage to kiss her goodnight, proceeded to talk another half hour or so. Suddenly, about 11PM, her mom, Faye, appeared at the inside door to the porch in a black nightgown and said “Ina Catherine, I think it’s time to come to bed.” Family history reports I was on my bike and riding away before she finished the sentence (in retrospect, we should have found a more private place to say our goodbyes. Her parent’s bedroom was directly above the porch.)
Two nights later, on June 15th, we had our first official date. I picked Cath up with my folk’s car and we went to the Perky Putt golf course (miniature golf) on the north side of town. While I have no clear recollection of the results, Cathy remembers soundly beating me. Afterwards, we went to a small drive-in restaurant on the Illinois River called the Sanicula Marina. We both ordered Black Cows and proceeded to walk along the river. I did kiss her goodnight that evening, but it was on the front porch, not the side porch under her parent’s windows…
Miniature Golf at Perky Putt and Black Cows at Sanicula Marina – it doesn’t get much more romantic… 😉
As they say, the rest is history. We dated all summer, and then into the school year. And the next spring when she asked me to the Sadie Hawkins dance again? I quickly said yes that time around.
Spring Formal (The Sadie Hawkins Dance) in 1973 – I said yes, the second time around.
We have almost five decades together as a couple now, and it’s definitely true – Time flies when you’re having fun.
Addendum:
* From Wikipedia – “Sadie Hawkins Day is an American folk event and pseudo-holiday originated by Al Capp’s classic hillbilly comic strip Li’l Abner (1934–1978). This inspired real-world Sadie Hawkins events, the premise of which is that women ask men for a date or dancing. “Sadie Hawkins Day” was introduced in the comic strip on November 15, 1937.”
Thanks to my lovely wife, Cathy for her contributions to this blog. In particular, her memories of the day at Pitsticks are more specific than mine, including the comment that my dive “looked like a knife cutting through soft butter”.
Thanks to Debi Hillyer for the photo of Sanicula and Curtis Wasilewski for the picture of the Perky Putt score card. A special thanks to Mike Peabody for the photo of Cathy’s old home at 305 Houston Street. In a strange twist of fate, Cathy babysat Mike and his sister Michelle when they were young children living across the street. Mike moved out of Illinois for years and only recently returned to Ottawa. When the home became available, he and his wife bought it.
It had been a long time. Too long, to be honest. Life, “stuff” and Covid all managed to intervene. Finally, after a couple of years away, we were making a trip back to Illinois to see family and friends. The feelings of anticipation were palpable.
We started with visits to old friends – dinner out one night, ribs on the grill another; laughter and tears; telling old stories and making new memories. From there, it was lunch, beer and tenderloin sandwiches with another old buddy. Finally, it was on to family time and staying with each of my sisters, Tanya and Roberta. Again, more laughter, tears, dinners out, favorite foods* and stories from our youth.
Old Friends…
Everything led up to the last day, and a family picnic at my sister Roberta’s home. Counting my Uncle Don, mom’s last surviving brother, we were four generations strong – Uncle Don and his friend Diane; Roberta, Tanya and I and our husbands and wives; our nieces and nephews and their spouses; and of course their children. The oldest person was 80, the youngest about 14 months old. There were perhaps 30 or 35 of us.
As folks arrived, we greeted each other with smiles and hugs. We hadn’t seen some of our nieces and nephews in four years. There were also great nieces and nephews we’d never before met. There was much laughter and love with each new greeting.
It was a great day – we were talking with everyone, telling stories and catching up… There was a huge potluck lunch, and I ate way too much. Our niece Diane is the curator of mom’s potato salad recipe, so I had to have two helpings of that. After lunch, we followed the kids to the creek and had water balloon fights. Then, it was on to the raft at the pond, where swimming, sliding down a slide, jumping in and diving off the raft all ensued. I managed a backflip off the dock, and to laughter from the grand nieces and nephews, only slightly smacked my face on the water. It was a fun and wet afternoon… 😉
Clockwise from upper left: Uncle Don, Laying out the picnic, At the Creek, In the Pond, and Cathy about to be hit with a water balloon…
We all know all good things come to an end, and people eventually loaded their cars back up with kids, coolers and leftovers. Another set of hugs and kisses, and promises to try and see each other more often. Eventually, the only ones left were Berta and her husband Jack, along with Cathy and I. We finished cleaning up and bringing things into the house. We were, perhaps, a bit quieter than we’d been just an hour or two before. Jack had to go to work early in the morning, so we said our goodbyes to him that night.
The next morning, after coffee, Cath and I hugged Roberta goodbye and departed. I’m not one for long goodbyes, so we left a bit earlier than planned. After a quick stop to briefly visit our parent’s graves, it was on to O’Hare Airport and home.
One of the prices Cath and I paid by joining the Army and moving away all those years ago, is we have missed so much of our friends’ and families’ lives back home. That is a part of what makes these trips precious. We didn’t really get to see our nieces and nephew grow up, except for scattered visits, and history is of course repeating with the grand nieces and nephews. This is true for Cathy’s side of the family as well. We love our lives and have no regrets about the choices we’ve made over the past 40 plus years, and yet…
As I’ve become older, I often have a certain sense of bitter-sweetness about these get togethers with friends and family. The time goes by so quickly, the highs of the greetings and the lows of the departures blend together in a strange set of feelings that don’t easily mesh. There are shades of love, along with the happiness and sadness that accompany love. The passage of time in our lives continues to speed up.
I know (and pray) we will have many more wonderful times together in the years ahead. For me, along with the joy, there will also always be a bit of wistfulness.
Good times … Tanya, me, and Roberta…
Addendum:
* Favorite foods are always an interesting topic. A couple of the things that remind me of home are Tenderloin sandwiches and Sam’s Pizza. You can’t find the sandwiches outside of Iowa, Indiana or Illinois and they are killer good. And Sam’s? Well, it’s Sam’s. GREAT pizzas there…. both make me (and many others) nostalgic for our home town of Ottawa.
Comfort food for sure….
– Thanks to my niece Diane Schott, along with sisters Roberta Gourley and Tanya McCambridge for supplying several of the photographs included here!
There is an old house/cabin in the woods about a half mile from where we live. It was never in great shape, but the owner, Bill Harben, passed away a few years ago, and now the house is slowly sliding back to nature. He built the mostly stone house by hand when he was in the States and not stationed overseas.
It remained a work in progress until the year he died.
Both Bill, and the house, have an interesting history. Bill worked for the State Department as a Foreign Service Officer from the 50s through the 70s. He started on the house during the 60s, between overseas assignments. After he retired in the seventies, he moved permanently to the DC area, and then worked on the place on weekends or other off times. It was slow going, and to be honest, I think he thought of the project mostly as mental therapy. He wasn’t in any particular hurry to finish it and wasn’t ever going to live there. It was merely a getaway.
The First View of the Cabin When Approaching Through the Woods
We first met Bill around 2001. I’d see him driving down the gravel road past our place, or run across him while hiking in the woods. He was probably in his late seventies at the time and still adding stone work to the house.
We became friends of sorts and had him to our home for a few dinners or parties, and were guests at his cabin several times during the summer months. He would have friends (usually ladies) out from “the city” for a cookout. He was an incredibly charming and urbane man, and I think he enjoyed the shock his guests almost always showed on first seeing the roughness of his retreat.
The Front Door
The house was unique, with no apparent master plan. Bill did all of the work entirely by hand. There was no access to the property except for a narrow dirt and grass road and then a trail. It was impossible for big equipment to access and help with the construction. The stonewalls? All the stones were from the property and Bill moved them with a wheelbarrow to the house location. He then put them in place by hand, slowly building the walls up. The floor was made from stone on the property as well. The timbered parts of the home? The logs were from the surrounding woods – Bill cut the trees, and hand hewed them to fit together.
it was a rough house, with no electricity. His water came from a small spring on the property. He did have an indoor toilet, and there was actually a small septic field. A huge stone fireplace heated the “great room”, but nothing else. Light was by candle or lantern.
Bill added many artifacts and mementos to the house from his time overseas. Some were classic, others just odd. There were statues, tiles, old lamps, even a huge antique German Bible. He also imbedded some of the items in the walls. It was quite the eclectic place.
A Few of the Items at the House or Mounted in the Walls
When having cookouts at his place, stories would inevitably come out from his time overseas, and as with many storytellers, they were usually about some funny incident with a twist. With postings in Germany, Austria, Cambodia, Russia, Rawanda and Mexico he had plenty of good source material.
I remember two stories he treated a bit more seriously. He spoke about the time he escorted “Mrs Kennedy” (that would be Jacqueline Kennedy) around Mexico when she visited the country. He didn’t share details, and instead spoke about what a wonderful lady she was. The other story involved how and why his career in the Foreign Service derailed. In the early ‘70s, he and Henry Kissinger had “a falling out” over the conduct of the war in Indochina. Bill was head of the Embassy’s Political Section in Cambodia at the time and Kissinger was Secretary of State under Nixon. Bill ended up on the short end of the stick for that one.
Once when we were visiting, I asked if I could use the bathroom. You needed to walk through his “bedroom” to reach the bathroom. There was a really strange mural in the room, and I also noticed a small painting of Confederate General Robert E. Lee hanging over the bed. It struck me as odd at the time, so when I rejoined Bill and his guests out by the grill, I said “Bill, I have to ask. What’s with the picture of Lee over the bed? You never struck me as a “Lost Cause” type of guy.”
Bill chuckled, and then explained “Years ago, when I was first building the cabin, I would sometimes be gone for months or years in between visits. At the time, there weren’t many homes in this area, it was all woods and fields. Some “good ol’ boys” would be out hunting, and come across the cabin. Inevitably, they’d break in, drink beer and trash the place. I thought about it for awhile, and then decided to hang up the picture of Lee. I knew they’d probably still break in, but once they saw the picture of “Bobby Lee” they’d be more respectful and wouldn’t destroy the place.” He laughed, and then said “It turned out I was right….”
The Mural Still Hangs in the Bedroom, but the Picture of “Bobby Lee” has Disappeared.
Bill passed away a few years ago. He was in his late 80s or early 90s at the time. We probably hadn’t seen him for a couple of years, and I knew he had health issues. I heard later that he moved from his condo in Crystal City to assisted living somewhere else.
My wife, Cathy, talks about how every time an older person dies, it’s like a library burning down. All the knowledge and stories are just gone. I’m glad I was able to spend some time with the Harben Branch Library before it disappeared.
Addendum:
If you want to read an oral version of Bill Harben’s career, you can find it at the link here. It’s a pretty interesting read of one man’s upfront view as a Foreign Service Officer during the Cold War: https://www.adst.org/OH%20TOCs/Harben,%20William%20N.toc.pdf
I’m not going to lie. This Spring, I feel how a bear must feel coming out of hibernation – A bit groggy, and damned hungry. Yes, I’m hungry, hungry for life. While spring is always a time of hope and renewal, this year I’m optimistic about life for a couple of other reasons as well: covid vaccines are happening, and the Nats are going to play baseball in front of live fans again.
Cathy and I have our vaccines now. As of today, two weeks have passed since her second Pfizer shot, so we are both good to go. Although 47+ million Americans are now fully vaccinated, that is actually only about 15% of the US population. Biden declared a goal of 200 million vaccinations by the end of his first 100 days and I think we will make it. You can see the momentum building in the vaccination programs and soon everyone who wants a shot will be able to get one. America is opening up again, slowly, but surely.
I feel doubly lucky right now – My buddy Bill has been a Nats season ticket holder since they returned to DC in 2005, and as a result, he was able to buy 4 of the Covid-limited 5,000 tickets available for opening day (in a 41,500 seat ballpark). Have I mentioned Bill is one of my favorite people in the whole world? I’ll be one of the 5,000 fans attending Opening Day. I should also mention that our group of four are all vaccinated.
Opening Day is on April 1st against the Mets! It’s on my Calendar.
Seeing baseball in the park, with a beer and a brat in my hands, yea, I’m ready for that. After losing live baseball for the entire 2020 season due to Covid, I’m almost giddy about going to Opening Day. Hopefully the Nats win, but for right now, I’m just happy to see a baseball game in person. I can’t wait for the roar of the crowd, as the announcer calls “Play Ball!”
It’s the simple things. The other evening, we went out to dinner with our neighbors. Mike drove the four of us. In his convertible. With the top down. We dined at Field and Main in a cabana with the doors open, letting the evening breeze gently blow in. It was a wonderful night with good friends. It was the kind of night we all took for granted a couple of years ago. Now? It’s silly, but I know I’m going to remember that dinner for a long time.
While I can’t speak for other people, or other locations, here in Virginia, the feeling of renewal is visceral. It’s grown warm, flowers are in bloom, trees are budding out and it’s staying light longer. The Daffodils are everywhere. These things happen every year in the spring, but this year, I’m noticing them more. From comments I’m hearing, others are as well.
The Daffy’s are Everywhere this Spring and seem Especially Bright.
Maybe one of the good things that will come out of this past “Year of Covid” is a renewed appreciation for the little things in life. The things we all took for granted for so long. Whether seeing blooming flowers, attending a baseball game, or having a nice dinner out with friends on a spring evening, I hope I can keep this feeling of renewal alive for awhile. If no where else, I’ll at least keep it in my heart.
Addendum:
Writing this addendum update on the afternoon of April 1st, Opening Day. Silly me. I forgot this was still the year of Covid and today is April Fool’s Day. A Nats player was Covid Positive. Four other players were in proximity and are also in quarantine. The Nats Opening Day has been postponed… for at least two days. It won’t be today, and it won’t be tomorrow (“Out of an abundance of caution”). —sigh— Cathy is laughing at me and saying I’m acting pretty pitiful right now…. ;-).
This too shall pass and is but a small bump on the journey. The arrival of spring, and our overall renewal is inevitable.
The other evening, Cathy and I made some Mussels Pastis (Mussels with Pernod) at home. It was delicious. It was a new recipe with plenty of Pernod in it, which made it quite good and strongly flavored. The strong flavor caused me to reminisce about Brussels, Belgium and an early morning trip to the seafood market there.
Mussels Pastis – the Wonderful Dish that Brought Back the Memory
It was early in 1988. Although stationed in Germany, I was spending chunks of time in Mons, Belgium. We were upgrading the communications systems at the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers, Europe (SHAPE), also known as the Headquarters for NATO. My boss, Rich, was there almost full time, while I was dividing time between Germany, Mons, and another HQ in High Wycomb, England.
When in Mons, if there over the weekend, we often made a day trip to Brussels, which was only about an hour away. The city has a great history to it, and it was fun to see the sites, including the Grand Canal, and the famous Manneken Pis, which is only about two feet high. There was also of course the famous (infamous?) Red Light District of Brussels, with women on display in storefronts. I suppose it gave a whole different meaning to the term window shopping.
What we really enjoyed was wandering the Rue des Bouchers in the Quays District in the early evening. Here, there were numerous restaurants with outdoor seating, and they also set up temporary wooden “bars” where you could buy a drink, or something lite to eat. We’d walk from place to place having a Belgian beer or French wine, along with some oysters, mussels or shrimp croquettes. Several of the places also served frites (french fries) to die for. Usually, we never sat down at a table for dinner – we’d fill ourselves at the little bars as we ambled along.
Rue des Bouchers
The mussels (Moules) were particularly awesome, and I think Brussels is where I really developed a taste for them. There were soooo many ways they served them: Moules Frites (mussels with those famous Belgian fries), Moules Marinière (mussels in a white wine sauce), Moules à la crème (mussels in a cream sauce) and Moules Pastis (mussels with a Pastis, such as Pernod the anise flavored spirit) were probably the main ones we ate.
There was one place we went to a couple of times and came to know the guy working the “bar”. We were talking with him about seafood one night, and how good and fresh it was in Brussels. We asked where was a good place to buy fresh seafood, if we wanted to take some back to Germany with us. He told us our best chance was at the wholesale seafood market that ran every day from 5AM to about 10AM, but you needed to arrive early, as the vendors ran out of their prime seafood early. The other catch was, it was a wholesale market, so you had to find fishmongers willing to sell in smaller amounts to individuals. Rich, our coworker Steve, and I talked about it and decided we’d try and take a haul of seafood back to Germany when we could.
The next time I went to Mons, I took our cooler and stopped by Rich’s house to pick up his. About a week later, we were finishing up the current portion of the project and all of us were returning home. We made the plan to pick up the seafood early on a Thursday morning, and have a big seafood dinner/party on Friday night, at Rich’s home.
Allowing ourselves plenty of time, we woke about 2:30AM and were on the road by 3:15. We arrived in Brussels an hour later, but the seafood market wouldn’t open until 5. We locates an open bistro and went in, where we joined some late night partiers, ending their evening; a few men having breakfast before going to work; and several “Ladies of the Night” who were apparently finished for the night and having coffees and brandy. We sat at an open table and ordered some coffee and fresh croissants.
Just after 5AM, we left the pub and walked over to the market. It was huge, and already quite crowded. We wandered among the stalls and trucks for a while looking to see what was available. To be honest, there were so many choices, it was a bit overwhelming. We started talking to a couple of vendors, however when they found out the small amounts (by wholesale standards) we wanted to buy, they quickly ignored us. Eventually, we found a guy willing to deal with us, and we bought everything from him – a couple kinds of fish, some lobster, and of course, plenty of oysters and mussels. Someone went back to our car for the coolers and we loaded them up. The guy was nice enough to put plenty of ice in the coolers as well.
At the Market
We arrived back at our hotel in Mons around 7:30AM and caught a couple hours of sleep, before driving back to Germany later that day. You have to remember this was pre-Internet and pre-cell phone, so it wasn’t until we returned, when we started calling people for the seafood dinner planned for the next night.
Friday night came and we all met at Rich’s house. In addition to Rich and his girlfriend Lynn, there were Cath and I, Steve and his wife Sabine, a few coworkers and Rich’s boss, Ray Sauer and his wife. It was quite the event, with grilled fish and lobster, Moules Pastis, oysters on the half shell, and fried oysters. We washed it all down with plenty of good German Pils, and some of our local dry white wines. A bottle of Sambuca, along with multiple cups of espresso may have made appearances later in the evening as well.
I hadn’t thought about that market trip, or the subsequent party for years. The Mussels with Pernod meal Cathy and I cooked, brought the memory flooding back. For me, good food has never been just about the taste of the food itself. It has always been defined as much by the place and time, and those who we are sharing the meal with. Our taste buds learn to recognize sweet, sour, salty, bitter and umami. Our minds and memories complete and complement our sense of taste. If you are lucky, years later out of nowhere, the taste of a new meal suddenly blesses you with a remembrance from your past.
For me, Good Food is Never Just About Taste
Addendum:
• Cathy and I had another memory from late ‘88 or early ‘89. I was back in Brussels to present a paper at a conference, and Cathy came with me. We were staying at a nice hotel downtown. We went out for a dinner at a nearby bistro and had Moules Frites. On the way back to the hotel, we stopped at a small bar for a nightcap. While having our drink, several “Working Girls” came in and sat at another table. They ordered wine and champagne, seemed to be enjoying themselves and were in a good mood. As it was earlier in the evening, we speculated they might be on break, or getting ready to go work.
• Pastis is an anise-flavored spirit and apéritif traditionally from France. Two of the best known are Pernod and Ricard. If you are looking for a substitute, Ouzo, Sambuca, Herbsaint and Absinthe are other anise flavored liquors, all with different flavor profiles.
• We’ve made Moules with Pernod at home before, but I never had the same flashback. The previous recipe only had a bit of Pernod in it. This one used a full half of a cup. I think it was the stronger flavor that triggered the memory. The recipe is from a wonderful little cookbook we have called “Cuisine of the Sun”, by François de Mélogue. I like the recipe just the way it is, but if not familiar with Pernod, you may want to cut it just a bit. Here’s a copy of the recipe:
Another part of my childhood is gone forever. Mrs Lois Ahrens, my Cub Scout Den Mother from 1963-65, passed away on March 14th at the age of 92. On hearing the news, I was transported back in time to the joy of Tuesday afternoons, and Den meetings in her home. I also thought about the lessons we learned.
Mrs Ahrens, our Den Mother for Den 1
On Tuesday afternoons, the teachers at McKinley School in Ottawa, Illinois had conferences and as a result, we kids were released early. At eight years old, for me and many of my buddies, that meant heading to a Cub Scout Den meeting. I was a member of Pack 50 and belonged to Den 1, under Mrs Ahrens.
Those meetings are mostly a blur now, but I do have a few distinct memories. Many of the meetings were in her basement, where we engaged in some sort of craft project – maybe making a birdhouse out of popsicle sticks, or something similar. I also remember “field trips” to places of interest around town. At various times we were led on tours of the local newspaper, “The Daily Republican Times”, and a local bread bakery. I think there was also a trip to the grave of WD Boyce, the founder of the Boy Scouts. He is buried in Ottawa.
Den 1 of Pack 50 in 1964. Top row: Kenny Ahrens, Terry Johnson, Max Hall, and Dave Engel. Bottom row: Brian Eastman, Dion Sartorio, Pat Hale and Joey McGinnis.
We also had early teachings about honesty, doing our best and being prepared. I don’t suppose we thought of them as lessons at the time, but they helped lay a foundation for my life. We didn’t know what mentors were then, but looking back, that’s what Mrs Ahrens was, and a very good one at that.
Eventually, I moved on from Cub Scouts to Webelos, and then Boy Scouts. Mrs Ahrens and her family moved away from Ottawa a few years later, but I never forgot her, or the lessons she imparted to us. After fifty-some years, I still remember her, and the fun times we had in Den 1. The flood of good memories have somewhat offset the sadness I felt, upon learning of her death.
Those days were long ago, and now with her passing, the Scout Leaders of my youth are all gone. Not only Mrs Ahrens, but Harry Mayberry, our Pack 50 leader, Harry Nangle the local Police Chief and our Webelos leader, and Don Willy and Farrell Brooks, my Boy Scout Leaders. Collectively, they formed a part of who Max Hall became as an adult – an important part. I remember all of their names and the impact they had on me as a child and young man. I’m lucky to have known them, and had them in my life.
Mrs Ahren’s obituary stated in part:
“ Lois Rita Ahrens, affectionately known by all as ‘Honey’, born January 13. 1929, was called home to our Heavenly Father … on March 14, 2021… Honey, who was a wonderful and caring mother, grandmother and great grandmother and as sweet and kind as her nick-name suggests, leaves behind many family members and friends who will long remember her heartwarming smile, contagious good will, and joyful laughter … In lieu of sending flowers, the family invites you to honor Honey’s life by sharing a laugh and smile with a friend, hugging those you love, and remembering all the lives so tragically effected by the pandemic.”
I do remember her smile, good will, and laughter. You may not have known Mrs Ahrens, but I’m sure many of you knew someone like her, whether in Cub Scouts, Brownies, or another youth group. I ask you to join me in honoring their memories “by sharing a laugh and smile with a friend, and hugging those you love…” I think she, and they, deserve that much.
Addendum:
• Mr Ken Ahrens, Lois’s husband, was my Little League coach a couple of years later. Our team, The Yanks, won the City Championship under him in the summer of 1966 or ‘67. His son, Kenny, seen in the group picture above, was one of our pitchers and had a helluva pitching arm…
• Thanks as always to Tim Stouffer, Howard Johnson and Mark Dunavan for their thoughts and inputs to this blog. Tim and Howard were both four months younger than I, and as a result, they didn’t join Cub Scouts until four months later. They were both in Den 2, under Mrs Stouffer, but remember Mrs Ahrens as well. Mark went to a different grade school, but had memories of trying to hit pitches by Kenny Ahrens in Little League Baseball…. 😉
Live Life Exuberantly 