We inherited Mama Cat about four years ago. Our neighbor had to move to a small apartment and had two other cats she was taking with her, but couldn’t take three. Mama roamed the neighborhood at will and was a frequent overnight guest at our barn, so Cathy said we’d look out for her.
Mama Cat, real name “Nutmeg”, roamed the neighborhood for years. Several people around the area knew her. Early on, she was always shy. You might catch a glimpse of her, and then she was gone. While she was “indoor/outdoor”, I think she was really more of an outdoor cat, who went home to eat occasionally. Of course, she also stopped at several barns/homes in the neighborhood for snacks. Cats, like raccoons, seem to inherently know where there’s a free meal.
When Laura, her owner, had to move, I think she was relieved that Cath said she would keep an eye out for her. Laura’s life had become complicated, and this was one less thing she needed to worry about. After Laura left, we started seeing Nutmeg a bit more, although she was still shy and evasive.
Mama Cat – Also Known as Nutmeg.
At the time, we had two barn cats of our own – Stan and Ollie. Nutmeg started hanging out and generally got along with our two. Then another neighbor’s “Indoor/outdoor” black cat started coming by the barn. He was an unfixed male and wasn’t quite as nice and started chasing our cats away. We didn’t see Mama as much over that time. After about a year the black cat disappeared and we didn’t see him again. We always assumed a fox or coyote caught him at some point.
Cathy followed through on her promise to Laura and we did keep an eye out for Nutmeg. Cath is something of an animal soothsayer and slowly gained Mama’s trust. She was eventually able to pet her and take her to the vet’s office for annual shots. Mama also warmed to me and I too was lucky enough to occasionally pet her. More importantly, for the past couple of years when it turned frigid, we were able to put her in the feed room at night and provided her some heat in a small space. We kept Stan and Ollie in the tack room on those same nights. It’s funny – they were all outdoor barn cats but smart enough to know/learn there was an advantage to being scooped up in the evening and put in a room. They learned to wait around for it, although they were always eager to get out the next morning.
Mama became a regular at the barn and started showing up routinely at mealtimes in the morning and evening over the past year. She’d bound out of wherever she was sleeping in the hay, and report promptly for her meals. She had her own bowl by now, so the cats could all eat at the same time, with no one waiting in line. You would think they were starving with as much as they all ate, but when you picked them up, it was obvious none of them missed many meals.
Mama Cat Doesn’t Miss Many Meals.
Over the past couple of months, Cathy noticed a growing red spot on one of her toes. At first, she thought it was an abscess. Mama wouldn’t let us touch it or examine it closely. Eventually we took her to the vet a couple of weeks ago to have it treated. Unfortunately, it turned out to be an auto-immune disease, and while treatable, there is no cure. It’s not fatal, but puts her at greater risk and she will probably die sooner rather than later. The doctor treated it some and we obtained medicine and brought her home.
Since then, Mama Cat has been extra friendly. She waits to be petted and gives an occasional headbutt. Her purrs are noticeably louder as you scratch her, or she rubs up against you. She doesn’t leave the hay much, and you see her throughout the day if you are at the barn. I’ll be honest, I don’t know if she is thankful we took her to the vet, or her end is approaching and she’s just more comfortable hanging out in the hay. I suspect the latter, although I have no real reason to say it.
I feel lucky Mama Cat is a part of our life here at Rohan Farm. She’s been a project, there’s no doubt about it. At eleven years old, she’s also lived life on her terms. Her friendliness over the past couple of years warms me and I look forward to seeing her every morning when I go to the barn to feed the horses. It may be my imagination, but I think she looks forward to seeing me as well.
After first hearing the questions asked in 1976, I have two answers for Mr Springsteen – Yes, love is wild, and yes, love is real. September 29th of this year, Bruce was to play here in DC at Nats Park. Although I’ve previously seen him four times, we couldn’t make this show.
When I was a cadet at West Point, there was a group called the Dialectic Society that brought numerous acts to perform at Eisenhower Hall, which had an intimate setting and great acoustics. Peter Frampton, Seals & Croft, Linda Ronstadt, The Pointer Sisters, KC & the Sunshine Band, Kenny Loggins, America, James Taylor (actually substituting for Carly Simon), The J Geils Band, Kool and the Gang, Mountain, Sha Na Na, Tommy James and the Shondells, the Nitty Gritty Dirt Band – they and many others all appeared there.
Bruce Springsteen appeared on May 27th, 1976 at West Point. This was during a mini–East Coast tour, after the Born to Run tour in 1975/76. It’s funny, I remember the show, but don’t remember being blown away by him. The music was good, and of course the “Born to Run” album was great, but hey, it was only one album. No one knew at the time he would still be around almost 50 years later.
Bruce at West Point, Along with the Set List.
Years went by and I bought the albums “Nebraska” and “Born in the USA” when they came out, but that was probably the extent of my Springsteen fix at the time. That changed on July 12th, 1988 in Frankfort, Germany. Cath and I, along with several others, took the train from Worms to Frankfort for the show. He was doing the “Tunnel of Love” tour at the time.
Unlike the show at West Point, this time I was blown away. He played for hours – 3 1/2 I think. The show was amazing and went on forever. New songs, classics and everything in between. The show went so long we actually had to leave during the second encore in order to catch the last train to Worms for the night. I remember hearing “Thunder Road” OUTSIDE the stadium as we were walking to the train station.
After returning to the States, Cath and I saw him two more times. Once in ‘92 at the Cap Center for the Human Touch tour, and another time in downtown DC in the late ‘90s. Both shows, as with Frankfort were long – again over 3 hours. NOBODY did three hour shows.
Springsteen’s music is great of course, but what draws me to him are his lyrics. He’s a wordsmith and knows how to tell a story. “Born to Run”, “The River” (Maybe my favorite Springsteen song), “Born in the USA”, “One Step Up”, “Dancing in the Dark”, “Glory Days”… you really need to listen to the words to see the pictures they paint. While the music may sound cheerful, the words often aren’t. I always chuckle at the people who love “Born in the USA”, but don’t really understand the story the lyrics are telling.
Bruce and John Mellencamp a Couple of Years ago. Note Bruce Sporting a West Point Athletic T-Shirt From his Performance at West Point.*
Years after the original version of “Born to Run”, Bruce did an acoustic interpretation. Slowing it down gave the song a whole new meaning. You can feel the weariness settling in. Maybe at that point he too knew the answer to the questions about love and whether it was wild or real for himself, but didn’t really like the answers.
The tour this year generated controversy with ticket policies and pricing. Springsteen’s comments at the time didn’t really help him. Having said that, it’s not why we are missing this show. We have too much going on these days, AND it’s been a while since I’ve seen any stadium rock concert. Sometime in the future? Maybe. In the meantime, I’ll continue to listen to his music at home and ponder the stories he tells, and the questions he asks.
Addendum:
* My friend, Donna Matturro McALeer, West Point class of 1987, first noticed the photo of Springsteen in the West Point athletic shirt. It was a couple of years ago when he was working with John Mellencamp. She did some research and it turns out there were two Bozeks (brothers) in the class of ‘79. It would have been the end of their Plebe year when Bruce played West Point. She checked in with Greg Bozek in Sept ‘21 when the photo first appeared. He had no idea how Bruce may have ended up with the shirt. Interestingly, Greg and the boss share the same birthday.
Note: In September, Bruce Springsteen and The E Street Band postponed all performances scheduled for the remainder of the year. He is being treated for symptoms of peptic ulcer disease and the decision of his medical advisors is that out of caution, he should postpone the remainder of his shows this year.
In 1984, Cath and I were back home in Ottawa for her 10-year high school reunion. I was waiting in line for a drink when a guy approached me. “Hey, aren’t you Max Hall? Didn’t you go to West Point?” I answered, “I am and I did. Why do you ask?” “I’m Joe xxx. We would love to have you come talk with our local militia.” What?
I was a Captain in the Army at the time and had recently returned from four and a half years in Germany with 3ID and VII Corps. Cath and I were stationed in Ohio and returned to Ottawa for the weekend of the reunion.
Me, About the Time of the Encounter – 1984 or ‘85.
Me: “Sure. Where’s the National Guard meeting these days, and what kind of unit is it?”
Joe: “Oh no. We aren’t with the National Guard. We started a private group as a militia. We fire our guns on weekends and do some tactical training. We want to be ready to fight the communists.”
Me:
Joe: “It would be great if you came out to meet with us and give us a talk. I think you could provide some real inspiration!”
Me: “Really?! Where do you all meet?”
He gives me a location south of town in the country.
Me: “Hmmmm. That’s great, but rather than meet there, I think we should meet on LaSalle Street, not far from Bianchi’s Pizza.”
Joe: “Really? Why there?”
Me: “We could go the Army recruiter’s office on LaSalle Street and get you guys signed up. We are always looking for a few good men!”
Joe: “What?!”
Me: “We could meet at the Army recruiter’s office. We are always looking for a few good men to enlist. If you really want to fight the communists, we could use you. I’ll be deploying back to Germany in a year. We could probably even work it out for you to join my unit!”
Joe:
Me: “That’s what I thought. See you later and quit bothering me… Bartender – I’ll have a gin and tonic please.”
Yep. Those militia toy-soldiers who always say they are going to defend our country were around 40 years ago as well. They are still eager to play soldier these days, as long as they don’t have to do anything to, you know, actually defend our country as a soldier.
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Addendum:
I don’t recall Joe’s actual name. I just remember that he was in Cathy’s class and I knew him some from high school.
In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987.
Our old friend Tim visited us several times while we were stationed in Germany. In 1987, he asked if he could visit and bring his friend/work buddy Bobby along. They planned to visit us, and then tour parts of Germany, Austria and Northern Italy, eventually arriving back in Germany for Oktoberfest in Munich. We of course said yes and looked forward to their arrival.
Tim and I at a Bierfest during a different visit.
They flew to Dusseldorf one morning in September and then took the train to Worms where we picked them up. Tim recently recalled the train paralleling the Rhein River for part of the trip, when all of a sudden the train shook a bit. He looked out the window and saw two F15s flying low, following the path of the Rhein as well.
After arriving at our home in Rheindürkheim, we ate lunch. Tim and Bobby may have slept for a couple of hours, although I don’t remember for sure. Later, we gave them a tour of town and walked along the Rhein River. That night, we went out for dinner at a local Gasthaus (pub) called Sportheim. We knew the owners, Vroni and Wolfgang well, and Tim knew them from a previous visit. It’s safe to say they greeted Tim like a long lost relative. It was a great evening and Bobby joined right in. We spent several hours at Sportheim and after many biers and wines, eventually made our way home. We may have drunk a brandy or schnapps, before making our way to bed and a good night’s sleep.
The next day, amazingly, none of us were the worse for wear. After a hearty breakfast with some good German bread, sausages and cheese, we drove around to show Bobby the area. We went into Worms, the city where Martin Luther made his famous statement “Heir stehe ich” (here I stand) before the Imperial Diet in 1521. Basically, it’s where and when Protestantism started.
That evening, we had a special treat in store for the guys. The Rheindürkheim Feuerwehrfest (Fire Department Festival) was going on in town. There were about 1,000 residents in Rheindürkheim and a majority of the adults would be at the Fest. It was a classic German wein festival with a huge tent, oompah band, dance floor and lots of adult beverage.
We made our way to the fest, found some local friends and settled in. Of course we drank our share, and ate brats and other German food, such as curry wurst or roast chicken. We also listened to the music and took turns dancing with Cathy and some of the other ladies in our group. It was a great time. Eventually it was getting late, and the fest was coming to an end. We were going to head home when one of our German friends, Michael, told me several people were going to an after party at the Zenit, basically a local Navy VFW club and wanted to know if we wished to join them. I’d been to Zenit several times and immediately said yes. For Tim and Bobby, it’d be an even greater look at the local culture. Cathy, always the wisest of us two, declined and said she was going home. We left the fest and after dropping Cath at home, walked to Zenit.
Now Zenit was actually a dry-docked ship that was turned into a club. Rheindürkheim, was on the Rhein River and traditionally, most young men of the town served in the Navy instead of the Army. That’s why their “VFW” club-equivalent was in a ship.
The Zenit in Rheindürkheim
As we arrived, we made our way to the bar and bought a couple of biers. I nudged Tim and pointed out a picture hanging in Zenit. Tim’s a history major and I thought his eyes were going to bug our when he saw who it was – Admiral Karl Dönitz*, supreme commander of the German Navy during WWII. Dönitz also took over the German government after Hitler killed himself and it was he was who actually surrendered to the Allies in May of ‘45.
We had a good time at Zenit. The party was eventually winding down when our friend Hans approached me. He and his wife Inge were having an after-after party at their home and wanted to know if we wanted to stop by. Their home was actually on the way back to our house and I again immediately said yes. We joined a group of 15 or 20 people and dutifully walked or stumbled to Hans and Inge’s house.
At Hans and Inge’s there was no oompah music. What was playing on the stereo was the soundtrack from the movie “Dirty Dancing”, released earlier that year. I remember chuckling about it at the time.
I believe they served coffee and dessert for those who wanted it. I also distinctly remember Inge walking around with a bottle of homemade schnapps and pouring people small glasses/shots. Schnapps in Germany is nothing like the sweet stuff we think of as schnapps here in the States. It’s similar to Italian grappa or French marc and can definitely have a rough edge to it. She asked if we wanted some and of course we all said yes. Bobby didn’t yet know about real schnapps. We all toasted with a “Prost”. Bobby took a small sip and may have actually turned green. He looked around and saw a nearby plant, where he discretely poured the remainder of his schnapps.
A bit later, Inge came back by, saw Bobby’s empty glass and refilled. It. At that point Bobby looked at the glass and then leaned into Tim and said, “Tim, I don’t know that I can do this for the whole two weeks.” ;-).
We left a short time later and walked the 3 or 4 blocks home and immediately went to bed.
The next morning, everyone was moving a little slowly and there were probably a couple of hangovers among us, or at least there should have been. I also know this – Tim and Bobby were no longer suffering from jet lag. ;-).
They would leave us a day or two later and head south by train. We linked up with them in Munich for Oktoberfest about ten days later and they told us tales of their travels and the good times they enjoyed. At Oktoberfest itself, other than Cathy throwing her shoulder out on a rollercoaster ride with Bobby (another story, and no, alcohol wasn’t involved), we had a grand time.
Addendum:
* Dönitz was the architect of the German U-boat campaign during WWII. He was by his own admission, a dedicated Nazi and supporter of Hitler. Following the war, he was indicted as a major war criminal at the Nuremberg trials on three counts: conspiracy to commit crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity; planning, initiating, and waging wars of aggression; and crimes against the laws of war. He was found not guilty of committing crimes against humanity, but guilty of committing crimes against peace and war crimes against the laws of war. He was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment. After his release, he lived near Hamburg until his death in 1980.
Around this time of year, at not quite the end of summer, there’s a sound that always says to me, “Yes, it’s still summer. Enjoy it while you can.” I’m sure you know it too. It’s the sweet summertime sound of the cicadas. It’s September now, but their music will still be with us for a little while longer. There’s a lesson for us too.
I’m not talking about the periodic thirteen or seventeen year cicadas. I’m referring to the ones known as the Dog-Day Cicadas, so named because they make their way out of the ground every year during the dog days of summer in July and August. You know them. These annual cicadas provide the background chorus for summer’s soundtrack. They are so much a part of summer’s song that sometimes you don’t notice their continual buzz at all. Until you do. Like the lightning bug, they remind me of the more carefree days of my youth.
This past Labor Day weekend, I listened to them for four straight days. The weather was gorgeous with warm days and cool nights. It was so nice, we’d turned off our AC and with the windows open, could hear the cicadas whether we were inside or out. Each day, I heard them all day long and into the evening.
That “noise” is their mating call. As with most of us, they are looking for a partner before they die. With only a few weeks above ground, they may have a greater sense of urgency than we do.
As I listened to them on Labor Day itself, I thought “There’s not much time left little buddies. Soon it will turn chilly and the leaves will fall. Like summer itself, you too will disappear. Make the most of it while you can.”
In June of ‘83, I returned to America after serving 4 1/2 years with the Army in Germany. At the time, the Post-Vietnam dislike of soldiers was still alive, a decade after the war. Returning to the States, I had a good experience at the airport that still gives me shivers today.
Captain Hall in Early 1983. Commander, HHC, 34th Signal Battalion.
It’s different now and we as a country, or at least most of us, have learned to separate politics from the people serving in uniform. Back then? Post-Vietnam? We weren’t so great about how we treated our soldiers. I remember someone spitting at me as a cadet while walking in New York City in the mid-‘70s. In 1979, right before we first deployed to Germany, a woman from our church commented to my mom about how terrible it was that they as taxpayers had to pay for Cathy to go to Germany with me, and for us to be able to take some of our belongings with us. AND this was a woman from our church I’d know since I was a child.
Of course most family friends, and our close friends were great with us, but past that? Things were often ambiguous. None of this was as bad as soldiers put up with during Vietnam, but it would be years later before we (as a country) really learned to separate politics and our respect for our soldiers.
In June of ‘83, I turned over my Company Command in Stuttgart, Germany. I had a couple of weeks of additional work I needed to do, so Cathy flew back ahead of me. Finally it was time for me to go home and I flew on a commercial flight wearing civies. We landed at Dulles and I made my way to customs where the line seemed about a mile long. Several flights arrived at the same time, and the line wasn’t moving.
As I stood there, I noticed a young lady walking down the line looking at people in the line. Eventually she arrived in front of me and said “Are you in the Armed Forces?” I’m sure my short haircut and bearing probably gave me away.
I answered “Yes ma’am, the Army.” and she said “Follow me.”
I walked with her for quite awhile and we finally arrived at the front of the customs line. One of the stations opened up and she walked me over to it. The guy behind the counter looked at me and asked for my passport, or my military ID and orders, which I produced for him. He took a quick look, handed my papers back to me and then said, “Thank you for your service. Welcome home to the United States of America.”
I still get a shiver typing those words today. It was the first time someone went out of their way to thank me for what I was doing, and then welcomed me home to boot. It was such a little thing, but plainly had a huge impact on me. I remember it clear as a bell forty years later.
I’ve thought about this story lately. Probably since Panama in ‘89, and certainly since the First Gulf War, we’ve thanked our soldiers and shown respect for them. Unfortunately, an annual poll conducted last November by the Reagan Institute shows respect for the military dropping from 70% in 2017 to 48% in 2022. Much of the drop was attributed to people (from both sides) trying to politicize the military, or what the military was doing.
To be quite frank, most people today have no connection with our armed forces. Their sons and daughters aren’t in our military. If fact, over 70% of American youth today aren’t qualified for the military. They are overweight, or are doing illegal drugs, or are doing legal drugs that make them ineligible for military service. I fear that for many, saying thank-you is a cheap and easy way to feel good, while not really caring about our troops. Maybe I have that wrong, but I’m not so sure.
As time progresses, I’m hoping we as a nation can adult enough to remember to mentally separate politics and the soldiers serving in the military. I hope that we can take a couple of minutes to genuinely thank our troops. Not pro forma, but really thank them. We continue to owe them that much.
Addendum:
in a side note, in the 4 1/2 years we were gone on that tour, I only made it back to the States once. That was to attend my sister Tanya’s wedding. When Roberta married the next year, we couldn’t afford another trip home. It was one of the many family events we would miss over the course of our almost 9 years overseas.
Thanks to my wife Cathy for input to parts of this blog. As an Army wife, she too remembers those days. Like me, she is also concerned about the lack of connectivity between our society and our military today.
My friend Bob Bishop, straight out of the US Naval Academy, was interviewed by Admiral Hyman Rickover in 1964 for admission to the Navy’s Nuclear Power Program. Rickover, known as the “Father of the Nuclear Navy”, served in a flag (General Officer) rank for nearly 30 years (1953 to 1982), ending his career as a four-star admiral. His total of 63 years of active duty service make him the longest-serving naval officer, as well as the longest-serving member of the U.S armed forces, in history. In 1954, with the launch of the first nuclear submarine, the USS Nautilus, he appeared on the cover of Time Magazine.
Admiral Rickover on the Cover of Time in 1954
There were those who loved him and those who hated him. He exercised tight control for three decades over the ships, technology, and personnel of the nuclear Navy. He interviewed every single prospective officer considered for service in a nuclear ship in the US Navy until his retirement in 1982 at the age of 82.
According to Wikipedia, “over the course of Rickover’s career, these personal interviews numbered in the tens of thousands; over 14,000 interviews were with recent college-graduates alone.” Many of those interviews are now lost to history. Here is the story of Bob’s interview in his own words.
Bob in 1964 at the Naval Academy.
***********
Much has been written regarding the harshness of his interviews, but none can criticize the results. Certainly none of those who successfully emerged from the crucible would do so.
On Friday, January 21, 1964, I was a First Classman (senior) at the Naval Academy and joined 34 other classmates on a bus to DC to be interviewed for the nuclear power program. At the time, many offices of the Navy were still located in “temporary buildings” built on the Mall during the Second World War – and were still in use twenty years later.
There were lots of tidbits floating around about the interviews with Admiral Rickover, aka “The Kindly Old Gentleman,” (abbreviated KOG), although never called that to his face. One such rumor was that the chair you sat in was rigged so it rocked if you were nervous. Most importantly, you should answer any question quickly and decisively.
Needless to say, I was apprehensive. We (there were also a couple of busloads of Midshipmen from Navy ROTC schools) were herded into a large semi-circular room with simple folding chairs, arranged in rows facing the center of the room. There were four passageways leading out from that central hub like spokes on a wheel. There were a couple of vending machines and we were told a head (bathroom) was just down one of the passageways. We were told not to talk to one another. We were also told to remain in the room until your name was called, and that was all. To be honest, we were afraid to even go to the head, because what happened if your name was called and you weren’t there? So, there we sat. Soon, someone would come down one of the hallways and call out a Midshipman’s name. He (there were no women at the Naval Academy for another 13 years) would rise and go with him, and sometime later come back and sit down. The scuttlebutt was that each person would have three interviews before potentially meeting with the Admiral, although some had four and a few had five. Some of those interviews were short (5-10 minutes) and some were long (an hour plus). Also, you had no idea if the person interviewing you was a chief petty officer, a prospective commanding officer, a member of the Nuclear Reactors division or somebody else – they were all in their 40s-50s and all in civilian clothes.
I had three interviews and what we discussed became a blur – I was so focused on answering the questions, I really couldn’t remember the questions even immediately after they were asked. I was thinking on how I did, was I sitting up straight enough, remembering to be decisive, etc. The one question I remember most clearly was being asked about the window air-conditioning unit. I started into a description of the freon cycle when I was stopped. The questioner wanted to know why it didn’t fall out of the window. I started postulating about ways it could have been installed so it wouldn’t fall either in or out. I also remember being asked the value of studying naval history (pro and con), why I decided to go to the Naval Academy, what was Bernoulli’s equation, and why did I want to go into nuclear submarines.
Each time I went back into the central room, there were more and more empty seats. With no one to ask, I merely presumed they had finished the process. I worried and wondered if it was good news or bad that I was still there. As I sat there, morning became afternoon and afternoon night. Eventually, there were maybe three or four of us left. It was 8 something PM, and my name was called. I was led down a narrow corridor, lit only by bare light bulbs hanging down periodically the length of the corridor and into the distance. Light showed in the hallway from only one office, at the end of the corridor on the right. As we approached, my escort told me the Admiral’s yeoman (Navy admin) was gone and I should just walk past her desk and into the Admiral’s office and sit down in the empty seat.
I did and sat down in the Navy issue aluminum square channel chair, with a naugahyde seat. The room was a little dark. The scuttlebutt was right – the two front legs were shorter than the back legs, and one of the front legs was shorter than the other so that, if you were the least bit nervous, you would slide off the seat or rock sideways. I sat with my butt firmly implanted up to the back of the chair, giving thanks to the many hours I spent plebe year on “The Green Bench” (envision sitting in a chair against a wall, with your knees/lower legs at a 90° angle and your thighs/lower back also at a 90° angle – now take the chair away).
His office was a mess. It was about 10’ wide and 15’ deep. There was a bookcase behind me, another on the wall to my left, bookcases down each wall, and a big old wooden desk directly ahead. Each of the horizontal surfaces, including his desk, were piled high with a hodgepodge of varying heights of stacks of books, interspersed with folders. The door I came in was on my right, behind me. I was focused straight ahead (the Navy term was “keeping your eyes in the boat”), but my peripheral vision, and attention, was focused to my right so I could immediately rise as soon as he came in.
Three or four minutes passed when all of a sudden, I heard a loud voice say, “Why the f**k have you been wasting all your goddam time?” I immediately focused straight ahead and there he was, and had been the whole time, obviously just watching me. I never met an Admiral before and certainly never expected one to curse. Notwithstanding the advice to respond quickly and cogently, what do you suppose came out of my mouth? “Umm, er. . .” “What?!” he said. “I have been working hard, sir.” “Don’t give me that shit,” he replied. Our “discussion” did not go much better, although I don’t remember much of it, just the feeling it was going a lot less than well.
Things I remember vividly – At one point, I said something along the lines of “I think there is more to education than just book-learning.” Big mistake. Unfortunately, not the last. Our discussion circled back around to my grades (I thought afterwards he must have those in a folder on his desk). He asked what my class standing was going to be when I graduated. I knew I was doing pretty well but I had no idea what the current number was, so I said “55.” He replied, loudly, “WHAT?” I said “50?” a little plaintively. He said, “DO YOU MEAN . . . ?“ I quickly interrupted and said “45?” He roared “GET THE F**K OUT OF MY OFFICE!”, which I rapidly did.
Admiral Rickover – the “KOG“
What felt like a three-hour-long crucible under intense heat, actually lasted around twenty-two minutes. It took me a couple of hours, and a couple of scotches, to get my resting heart rate down. I also started thinking of what I wanted to do in the Navy, other than nuclear submarines, when I graduated. Plainly, I wasn’t going to be selected.
A couple of months later, a list was posted at each of the twenty-four company offices at the Academy. The word quickly spread so each of us Firsties (seniors) who had applied hurried down the corridor. If your name was on the list, you were in. I read the list, haltingly, three times to make sure that was really my name.
Postscript – I had three other interactions with the KOG during my six-plus year career in nuclear submarines. Not bad for a mere lieutenant, but those are stories for another time.
Bob Enjoying Life Last Week
Addendum:
if you have the time, it’s worth reading up on Admiral Rickover’s career. It was pretty amazing, although he actually only commanded one ship. Some of his detractors compared his hold on the Navy, and particularly the Nuclear Navy, to Hoover’s hold on the FBI for all of those decades. He was a brilliant man, and there’s no doubt our Nuclear Navy would not be where it is without him.
Bob is a wonderful storyteller. Here are two other blogs from his time in the Navy on a Nuclear Submarine:
The movie, “The Hunt for Red October” is child’s play, compared to what these submariners did on a daily basis … “The Comms Officer ran in 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” […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/23/we-knew-we-were-at-war/
Crazy Ivan anyone? … In 1970, our sub, the USS Finback, was helping with Anti-Submarine Warfare training for NATO aircraft. An observer on the sub said “I think I understand your plan. You alternate going to port or starboard as soon as you submerge.” I responded, “Well, not actually”, and we walked over to […]. Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/04/13/submarine-games
We have lived in our current home for 24 years. When we started looking here in Fauquier County, since I was the one who would be doing the long commute, I told Cathy the only way I would move out this far is if we found the house we were going to die in. Cath, of course, took on the challenge.
In last week’s blog I spoke about a 750+ unit housing development happening about 15 minutes from us in nearby Culpeper County. (A link to the blog is in the Addendum). It consists of cookie-cutter homes starting north of $500K, with some as high as $800K+. All are on small lots. I’m sure they are someone’s dream home, but not mine.
It did get me to thinking about our journey to Fauquier back in 1999 and our own dream home.
When Cathy and I returned from Germany in 1989, a couple things happened: first, We bought a townhome in Fairfax, Va; second, I started working a classified job with the military; and third, Cath got a job in Crystal City, AND bought a horse she was to own for the next 15 years – Arthur. After I decided to get out of the Army in ‘92, we stayed in Fairfax. I started a great job with a company called SRA and had about a 30 minute commute to work.
Our townhouse was nice, but by ‘98 we’d decided to look for a house. More specifically, a property with enough room to keep a couple of horses on it, which meant at least five acres of land. By then Cathy had her own business and was working from home, while I was still working for SRA. We looked in Fairfax County and found a few properties we liked in the Clifton and Fairfax Station areas and even put an offer on one, narrowly losing out to another couple. It was frustrating to lose out on the house, but we were also frustrated as there weren’t many properties for sale in the area that met our requirements and were in our price range.
That’s when Cathy suggested moving out farther to Fauquier County, a beautiful area. We’d spent time there over the years for various horseshows, weekend trips to B&Bs, going to a few Sunday brunches and of course visiting a couple of our favorite wineries. We loved Fauquier.
I immediately said no. Not only no, but hell no. It was not open to discussion. There was no way I was going to do that commute on a daily basis. At the time I was working in Arlington and the commute would take an hour and fifteen or twenty minutes each way.
We circled around that “discussion” for quite some time and a few weeks probably passed. I then made a mistake.
We were discussing Fauquier again, and in a weak moment I said, “I tell you what. If we find the house we are going to die in, I’ll move there.” Cathy nodded and said OK.
In the coming week or two, Cath found three country places online to look at, and with our agent, we scheduled visits to all three on the same day in February of 1999. It snowed an inch or two the evening before our visit but was sunny as we drove to view the properties.
The first place didn’t really look as it did in the photos and we spent no time there. The second place was nice, new and had a barn to die for. Some of the rooms in the home were a bit odd, but overall, we liked it. We weren’t blown away by it but might give it further consideration. We left, and then proceeded to house number three, also the farthest away.
We drove down the long driveway with snow in the field to the left and the woods to the right. It was a nice setting. You couldn’t yet see the house and then we crested a small hill for our first view. It had stone and cedar siding with two chimneys and a cedar shingled roof. How pretty in the snow! We parked outside the garage and walked to the stone porch in the back of the house. As we stood there looking at the pond and fields, three horses trotted by in the paddock between the house and the pond. I mean it was so perfect, it was almost as if they were holding the horses out of sight, and as we arrived, someone called and said, “Cue the horses.”
The Pond, on Another Winter Morning
Cathy and I didn’t say a word but looked at each other. It was one of those looks married couples have where an entire conversation takes place and no one says a word. We hadn’t entered the house yet, but pretty much knew this was our next home.
This house wasn’t new. It was about 20 years old, but built in a way to make it look much older. In the family room there was flooring and beams from a pre-Civil War warehouse near Petersburg, Virginia. One of the doors was antique and made entirely by hand with no nails involved. Most of one side of the home was glass or glass doors so there were constant views of the pond and fields. The fireplace in the family room was made with stone from the property and installed by an old stone mason who lived just up the road (and is now deceased).
The Morning Sun Streaming in on the Family Room’s Stone Fireplace.
There were things that needed updating of course. Some of the colors were straight out of the 70s. The peacock wallpaper in the dining room would have to go. Most of the carpet was old – probably from the late ‘70s as well.
We also did a tour of the barn. It was functional, although nothing special. The barn at house number two kind of blew it away, but this one was perfectly functional with 6 stalls, instead of the 4 at the previous place.
We left and drove back home with our agent. The distance didn’t seem quite so far to me now.
A few days later we called the owner directly and asked if she would give us a tour of the property itself, which she was more than happy to do. We spent a few hours walking the twenty acres and helped her feed her horses that night. As we passed by the pond, she said “I’ll even throw in the rowboat, if you decide to buy.” When our agents (both ours and hers) found out we’d met without them, they were, ummm, a bit upset, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it.
The next day we put our offer in, and after some back and forth, we signed the contract. We couldn’t actually close until the end of May, as the owner had a couple of pregnant mares and didn’t want to move them until the foals were born and old enough to travel. It made perfect sense to us.
We closed on the appointed day in May and a few days later, with our pickup truck, horse trailer and a U-Haul truck, our friends helped us move. The house was christened with a party that afternoon and evening, and on its way to becoming a home. We named it Rohan Farm*.
Our Home, Rohan Farm
Although the house was already nice, we spent a decade getting everything just the way we wanted it – repainting and recarpeting; the ‘70s look went, as did the outdated kitchen; ultimately, a wine room was added. There was lots of work outside as well – redoing things in the barn; clearing brush off of fencing and replacing the fencing; adding an outdoor riding ring; adding new paddocks; putting in automatic waterers; adding multiple gardens; and of course an endless list of smaller items.
In June it will be 25 years here. We love this place. It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it’s warm and comfortable. It looks like it belongs here in Virginia and has been here forever. We love it and hope to remain here forever as well.
Addendum:
* Rohan Farm – Yes, this is from Lord of the Rings. Rohan was the land of the horse people, so it seemed to fit. We’ve both been big fans since the ‘70s, well before the movies ever came out.
You can find a link to last week’s blog on the housing development here – The new housing development sits in the middle of nowhere, 6 miles west of Warrenton and 12 miles north of Culpeper. Some thought it might provide “affordable housing” for the area, but with homes starting “in the low $500s”, I don’t think so. Or maybe my definition of affordable housing is […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/08/08/paving-paradise/
Where is your Zen Zone? That is, what do you do, or what place do you go to that helps you relax, find peace and become accepting of what “is” in your life? Where do you go to bring balance to your life? I’m lucky, in that I have a place that works for me in today’s crazy world.
When I talk about a Zen Zone, I don’t really mean the full-on Buddhist Zen practice with meditation, aiming at enlightenment. I’m talking about finding a place of peace, contentment and balance in my life. A place that brings back some sanity to this mad world we live in these days.
How Do You Find a Place of Peace, Contentment and Balance?
If you go to the web and look up Zen, or Zen Zone, you find a number of descriptions, some of them not very Zen like. Many look distinctly as if they are coming from someone trying to make a buck, which isn’t particularly Zen. I did however, find a couple of definitions/comments that spoke to what I’m talking about:
Put simply, Zen is an orientation toward life that generates a sense of peace, equanimity, acceptance, and contentment. To be Zen is to be committed to maintaining clarity and remaining grounded in the present moment, no matter how challenging it is to do so.
“A space designed to be peaceful and calming. No matter what is happening outside this area, it allows me to have a small, predictable place in the world that was created specifically to comfort me.”
Making your way in the world today takes everything you’ve got. Taking a break from all your worries, sure would help a lot. Wouldn’t you like to get away? (OK, kidding on this one – these are the opening lines of the old TV show Cheers, but doesn’t it sound sort of Zen like? 😉 … )
Over the years, I’ve done meditation off and on. When I was working full time, I often took a short ten-minute break in the middle of the day to meditate and re-center myself. I think it helped some, and certainly provided some grounding and calming. I wouldn’t say it was anything to do with Zen, or a Zen Zone, just taking a few minutes to find some peace and balance.
And now? Where’s my Zen Zone? Where do I relax, find peace and “meditate”? It’s an easy answer for me – on my daily walks in the woods. With my knee issues, I don’t run anymore, but I love to walk. Most afternoons you can find me, along with our dog Carmen, in the nearby woods on a three or four mile escape. Sometimes I remain attentive to nature and my surroundings, but other times, the “Zen times”, I lose track of where I am and what I’m doing. Suddenly, I come out of it a quarter mile from home. Hello!? Where am I? Oh yea, I remember now. Be thou at peace.
It’s a wonderful trick when it happens, although it doesn’t happen all of the time. And when it doesn’t happen, it’s still time well spent – a wonderful hike and enjoying what nature has to offer: the trees, animals, plants and views; wildflowers and ferns; a small stream or two; and of course, watching Carmen enjoy the walk as much as I do.
A Walk in the Woods Works for Me.
In either case, I always feel better after my walk. My mind is clearer and less stressed. Maybe I’ve solved a problem or two, or at least gained some perspective. Running and then later, walking, have always worked as exercise for me – burning off calories and trying to stay in reasonable shape. But the mental benefits aren’t to be undersold. As I become older, I am much more appreciative of those mental aspects.
What about you? Have you found such a zone? Perhaps running or walking? Working in the garden? Maybe hunting or fishing? Quilting? Yoga? Doing active meditation? What works for you? Where do you lose yourself and gain some balance in your life?
Making our way in the world today DOES take everything we’ve got. Politics, online garbage, traffic, aggressive people, health concerns, and other personal issues all raise our stress levels. Finding a Zen Zone can help make a difference, even if only for a few minutes each day. Taking a break from all our worries and reclaiming some balance and peace in our lives – I can live with that. Maybe the Cheers theme song was on to something after all.
“If you are depressed, you are living in the past. If you are anxious, you are living in the future. And, if you are at peace, you are living in the present.” ~ Lao Tzu
Addendum:
Zen is a school of Buddhism which emphasizes the practice of meditation as the key ingredient to awakening one’s inner nature, compassion and wisdom. The practice of meditation, as a means of attaining enlightenment
Cathy was thrown from her horse two months ago. While she has some lingering pain, overall, she was pretty lucky. It reminded me of the story my friend Bob Bishop told of being thrown by a horse, but unfortunately not clear, as the horse galloped away. He too was lucky as you’ll soon find out.
This is Bob’s story and it’s a good read. All I’ve added is a bit of editing.
In 1952 Crested Butte, Colorado was a bucolic place in the summer, with blue skies, white clouds and mountains surrounding the area. At the time, Crested Butte was a little town of maybe fifteen frame houses, a general store, and a post office/sheriff’s office. All were two stories high, and each had a door on the second floor. Crested Butte typically received twelve to fifteen feet of snow in the winter, and with drifts, that door became the only way people could exit their house. They would chop stairs in the snow and ice down to the street. As spring approached and the likelihood of more snow lessened, they tunneled through the snow to the front door and used that as access as the snow started to melt.
Needless to say, it was not the multimillion-dollar ski area it is today.
My father and mother were asked by our friends, the Dorsetts, if mom could help them out at the boy’s camp they had founded a few years earlier. This was mid-May, two weeks before the camp was to open for the summer, and the camp cook had just quit. The Dorsetts knew that mother was schooled as a dietician, and also knew she was a good cook. Coincidently, father had just accepted a new job with Aetna Life Insurance Company, which required him to attend a four-week school in Hartford, Connecticut. Mother and father agreed they could help the Dorsetts out and a little extra money would be welcome. My brother and I could go to the camp for free, and they waived the requirement that a camper must be at least twelve years old, for nine-year-old me.
Bob, About the Time of the Incident
The camp was three miles down a dirt road from the town of Crested Butte, at the base of Mt. Crested Butte, which rose almost three thousand feet straight up from the meadow. We kids slept in Conestoga wagons – not replicas, but real ones left there by those who rode in them to seek their fortunes in the west decades earlier. Inside the canvas covered wagons were four sets of bunk beds, two on each side. Light came from three kerosene lanterns hanging in the middle. There were six wagons with eight boys to a wagon, for a total of forty-eight campers. The only electricity in the camp was in the kitchen, the residence “hall” for the staff and counselors, and the dining hall.
One of the Conestoga Wagons They Were Using.
It was pretty idyllic, for a young lad of nine. Other than the mandatory arts and crafts sessions, we were free to go fishing, hiking, or horseback riding, or to just play. I generally chose horseback riding, and off we rode to the meadows beyond the camp for romping around, and frequently to play flag football on horseback.
Great fun, until …
One fateful day, my horse saw something. A snake? A gopher hole? I’ll never know. She reared up – I was just moseying along, reins held loosely, and then I was airborne. Spooked by whatever she had seen, the horse took off at a gallop. I was thrown off, but unfortunately, not completely. My left foot caught in the stirrup, and I was just tall enough that my head almost reached the ground. I remember fervently hoping I didn’t hit a rock with my head, although it was clearly beyond my control. My journey across the meadow continued with me hanging upside down, bouncing off the ground in synch with the horse’s gallop. The direction I faced changed with each bounce – seeing the meadow stretching endlessly behind at one moment, and next peering at the blue sky from under the horse’s belly. Although I have no exact recollection, I was later told the whole journey lasted less than a couple of minutes before my horse was pulled to a stop by one of the counselors.
The next thing I remembered was lying in my bed in our Conestoga wagon, just staring up at the canvas top. I could talk and move my arms, but I had no sensation below my waist. In time, the “local” doctor (from Gunnison, 30 miles away, the last 15 on a dirt road) came in to evaluate my condition. He reminded me of a shorter, thinner Santa Claus, with white hair and a beard. After an eternity of poking, prodding and sticking pins into me everywhere, he drew a deep breath, turned to my mother and said, “He’s paralyzed, and it’s either temporary or permanent. Either way, the only thing you can do is make him comfortable.” He said if I could ever wiggle my toes, the paralysis was probably temporary, a traumatic inflammation of the spinal cord, and I would likely become fully functional. If not, well …
What’s a nine-year-old to think? Honestly, not much. I had no idea what “permanently paralyzed” meant. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t be able to walk, bike, play baseball, or go horseback riding again. My brother and some of my wagon-mates kept me supplied with comic books, Archie and Jughead, which helped while away the time. I was not in pain, but ached all over. I slept a lot.
As time passed, I kept looking down at my toes. I concentrated as hard as I could on wiggling them, but nothing happened. Until, on the third day, I stared at my toes, willing them to move. And then I swear, my right big toe did. I swear. I saw it move just a little. Didn’t it? I thought it did. I concentrated even harder, and, sure enough, I could actually see it move. Not much, but it actually moved. Yippee!!!
A couple of hours later, Mom came in with my lunch, and I said, “Mom?! Watch this!” And I wiggled my right big toe. She looked at me and said, “What, Bobby? What do you want me to watch?” I yelled, “Mom! LOOK! Look at my right foot!” She turned to look down at my feet, I wiggled my toe, and her eyes glistened as she turned back and looked at me. She broke into a huge smile, leaned down, and gave me a BIG hug.
In a couple more days, I could wiggle all of my toes. The doctor came back to check on me a week after the accident. I recognized him as he pulled the canvas flap aside and climbed into the wagon. I said, “Hi. Watch this.” He started smiling as I performed my new trick (wiggling my toes), and said, “You sure are one lucky little boy.” Pause. “I think you’re going to be just fine.” Then he left.
A couple more days passed, and I was up and walking, although I needed help to keep my balance. Another week, and I was fine, walking and running around – just as if it never happened.
Later in life, I learned there is real value in being as good as you can be, but it is really good if you’re also very lucky.
Bob in 1952, and Again in 2020.
Postscript: I started having back problems in 2017. It began with tingling in both quadriceps, but two months later, I had a pinched nerve in my neck. The MRI showed “severe” narrowing of where the nerves go from the spinal cord out to my left at L2-3 and to my right at L3-4 (aka “spinal stenosis”). Oh, also some scoliosis, having lost 4” of height in the last twenty years. I mentioned the horse escapade to my orthopedist and asked whether it might have some bearing on the condition of my back. He looked at me over the top of his horned-rim glasses and said, “It can’t a-helped” and smiled. And so did I.
Addendum:
I should mention Bob later attended the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and served for several years in the Navy as a submariner. He’s a great storyteller and I’ve done a couple of previous blogs with him about his time in the Navy. If you would like to read them, you can do so here:
Crazy Ivan anyone? … In 1970, our sub, the USS Finback, was helping with Anti-Submarine Warfare training for NATO aircraft. An observer on the sub said “I think I understand your plan. You alternate going to port or starboard as soon as you submerge.” I responded, “Well, not actually”, and we walked over to […]. Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/04/13/submarine-games
The movie, “The Hunt for Red October” is child’s play, compared to what these submariners did on a daily basis … “The Comms Officer ran in 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” […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/23/we-knew-we-were-at-war/
Live Life Exuberantly 