Tag: #oldfriends

A Celebration of Life and Celebrating Life

A Celebration of Life and Celebrating Life

A few weeks ago Cathy and I spent a Saturday seeing the full circle of life. The day started at a brewery, attending a Celebration of Life for a friend who passed away three months ago. It ended at a winery where another friend was celebrating her seventieth birthday. The two events were surprisingly similar.

Our old friend Davie passed away last October at the age of 67. His death was unexpected and hit many of us hard. We were a part of the same running group since the early ‘90s and became good friends over the years. Another friend, Tia, and I talked and decided to host a Celebration of Life for Davie, but after some time went by – time enough for the rawness of his death to pass. We eventually decided on a Saturday in mid-January.

On the appointed day, a wonderful and diverse crowd of seventy five or so came together and after a short run, gathered at a local brewery. Five of us brought in homemade food for a buffet lunch with BBQ, coleslaw, mac n’ cheese and other goodies. Beer and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. The decision Tia and I made to delay for three months was a good one. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories of Davie were told – some poignant, some bawdy. At the end of the “formal” part of the Celebration, we sang the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as a final send off (an off-color version of the song is usually sung at the end of our weekly runs).

Friends at Davie’s Celebration of Life at the Brewery

We left the brewery while the party was still roaring, to make our way to our friend Kathy’s 70th birthday party. We arrived at home, let Carmen out and changed clothes. From there, we drove the twenty minutes to the winery where Kathy’s birthday party was being held.

Upon arriving, we found the party and joined in with the other 20 or 25 guests. A friend of Kathy’s made delicious homemade appetizers. Wine and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories and jokes were told and Kathy’s husband mentioned a couple of times that he was lucky to have married an older woman (I should point out he is only 18 months younger than Kathy). At the end of the “formal” part of the celebration, we sang “Happy Birthday ” to Kathy as a final tribute.

Friends at Kathy’s Birthday Party at the Winery.

Speaking with Kathy later, she mentioned she wanted to celebrate her life while she was “still vertical”. The guests represented different aspects of her life and what held meaning for her — old friendships formed in her youth, friendships from her days in community theater, friendships formed in pursuit of change in our social and political systems and those she partnered with while strengthening her health and fitness levels. It was a diverse and wonderful group of people. After the party, she and Steve stayed up late into the night talking about how lucky they were. Her comment to me – “Why wait to gather together and celebrate life?”

I’ve spent the last month or so thinking about the juxtaposition of those two gatherings. They were sooooo similar to each other. Friends gathered. Good homemade food was served at both. Excellent local adult beverages were available for consumption. There was lots of laughter, with jokes and stories being told. Even a song was sung at both to end the formal part of the festivities. The only real difference between the two events was the guest of honor attended one in person, but not the other.

Kathy being Roasted at her Birthday Celebration. I Like to Think Davie Attended his Celebration of Life in Spirit.

Yes, there’s a fine edge between life and death, between living and dying, between celebrating a life, and a Celebration of Life. That Saturday and those two gatherings brought it home to me.

Celebrating life, and Celebrations of Life are both important. None of us knows how much time we, our family, or our friends have left and we should take advantage of celebrating not just birthdays, but every part of life we can, while we are alive.

I’m glad we were able to celebrate Davie’s life. He wasn’t physically with us, but I know he would have enjoyed the party. I like to think he was looking on us from somewhere on high with a glass of champagne or a mimosa in his hand.

I’m even happier we were able to celebrate Kathy’s 70th with her in the room, and I’m pretty sure she did enjoy the party. As Fitzgerald stated in The Great Gatsby, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.“

Celebrating life while living, seems an important part of having a good Celebration of Life later. At my Celebration of Life, I hope there will be jokes and stories and snorts of laughter. In a corner of the room, maybe loud guffaws and then someone will say, “What a great story! I didn’t know that about Max. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I…”

When I started thinking about this blog, I thought the song “The Circle of Life” from The Lion KIng might be nice for an ending with it’s lyrics about despair and hope, and faith and love. It’s a fine song, and I suppose makes people feel warm and fuzzy. Personally, I think Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is more relevant for me, and has a better take on all of it:

Well, I'm just a modern guy
Of course, I've had it in the ear before*
And I've a lust for life (lust for life)
'Cause I've a lust for life (lust for life)
Got a lust for life
Yeah, a lust for life…

I’m going to continue to honor and celebrate those around me, both alive and dead. I think about that Saturday and those two events. Like my friends Davie and Kathy, a lust for life is what I have. I’m taking Iggy’s advice, and plan to continue to live life exuberantly. I’m going to celebrate life and all it throws at me. If you happen to make my Celebration of Life down the road, eat some fine food, have a drink, laugh and tell a good story about the times we shared together. Hopefully, it starts out something like this, “There Max and I were. It was crazy, but…”

Addendum:

  • I encourage you to listen to Elton John’s “Circle of Life”, and then Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life”. Both of them are fine songs. One of them will get you up, moving, and ready to engage life to the utmost.
  • Circle of Life with Elton John can be found at: https://youtu.be/IwH9YvhPN7c
  • Lust for Life with Iggy Pop and David Bowie can be found at: https://youtu.be/HuBU3pzy7is ; or try this version to go with the Movie Trainspotting: https://youtu.be/jQvUBf5l7Vw
  • Thanks to our friend Tia Perry for leading the effort on Davie’s Celebration of Life – It was a great event. Special thanks to our friend Kathy Kadilak for allowing me to talk about her milestone birthday and the impact it had on me. Both Tia and Kathy were a part of writing this blog.
  • * The phrase “I’ve had it in the ear before” isn’t sexual and it’s not drug related. It means someone’s given you a hard time or screwed you over.

Tuna Salad with Julia and Grandma Grubaugh

Tuna Salad with Julia and Grandma Grubaugh

It was strange. It was simple. It was visceral. One moment I was taking a bite of a tuna salad sandwich made with Julia Child’s recipe. The next instant I was a little boy sitting with Grandma Grubaugh at her kitchen table having lunch. It hit me like a bolt out of the blue.

A couple of my favorite benefits of our New York Times subscription are the food and cooking articles. The columns tell great stories, and the recipes are usually pretty manageable. A while back, chef, James Beard Award winning author and former New York Times food columnist Dorie Greenspan wrote a great column “This Tuna-Salad Sandwich Is Julia Child-Approved Lunch”. She was working with Julia at the time on an upcoming book and recounted a day spent in her kitchen. Here’s a partial extract:

“We were working around the kitchen table when Julia declared, “Dorie, let’s make lunch.” I saw Stephanie smile — clearly, she knew what was coming — and then I was at the counter with Julia, doing as I was told, which was cutting celery. While it might not seem like much of a job, I was cutting celery for Julia Child, and I was going to do it right: I trimmed the celery, I peeled it (because I learned to do that in Paris, I thought it was important to do it for the woman who wrote “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”) and I cut the celery into minuscule cubes that were all the same size. I’m only exaggerating a smidge when I say it took me so long that when I put down my knife, Julia had finished everything else, and we were ready to sit down to one of her favorite lunches: tuna salad on an English muffin.”

The article was about nothing and about everything. I love writing like that. I mean, how can you possibly write an entire article about a tuna salad sandwich? And yet Greenspan wrote a great one and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

Julia Childs in the Kitchen.

The list of ingredients in the actual sandwich intrigued me. We’ve all made tuna salad – tuna, mayo, celery and maybe onion and a boiled egg, but this one was a bit different. Yea, there was tuna (packed in oil), mayo (always Hellman’s), celery and onion, but it also included capers, cornichons (small French pickles) and lemon juice. Hmmmm. I was going to have to try this. Some of you know of my aversion to pickles in potato salad, but with tuna salad, why not give it a shot?

I had everything on hand, with the exception of the Cornichons. After doing a little online research, I figured the baby dills in our fridge were a suitable substitute.

I dutifully chopped the celery (sorry, no peeling), onion, capers and pickles. After emptying the tuna in a bowl, I added all of the chopped ingredients. In went the mayo, and the parsley and I combined everything. Finally, I squeezed the lemon juice in, added salt and pepper, and combined it all again. I did a small taste, and of course because of who I am, added a bit more mayo. Another small taste, and then I put the bowl in the fridge to chill for a couple of hours.

Tuna Salad Heading to the Fridge.

At last it was lunch time and I made my sandwich. More mayo on the bread, the tuna salad itself, some lettuce, tomato and a small slice of onion. Another slice of bread, and then I cut the whole thing in half.

Tuna Salad Sammich. It Doesn’t Get Any Better.

I took the first bite, waiting to be transformed in my mind to Julia Child’s kitchen, and … wait! What!? Was that Grandma Grubaugh sitting next to me? Where in the hell did that come from?! It was a visceral reaction – I was a young boy back in Ottawa, sitting at the kitchen table at Grandma’s house having a tuna sandwich with her.

Grandma Grubaugh and I in 1957.

After rejoining the present, I sat there eating my sandwich trying to figure out what brought on those feelings. Grandma, to my knowledge, never cooked anything from Julia Child. Besides, my flashback would have been some time in the ‘60s, well before Julia became popular in America.

I thought through the ingredients. I don’t really remember grandma keeping fresh lemons, or capers around the house, although I suppose she might have. Grandma putting either in tuna salad seemed a pure fantasy. It had to be the pickles, although I didn’t remember mom putting pickles in tuna at our house.

At this point in time, mom had already passed away. Uncle Don, her younger brother was still alive, and I gave him a call. After catching up for a few minutes, I explained why I was calling, asked about grandma’s tuna salad, and whether she put pickles in it. He immediately answered “No, there were no pickles”, and my heart sank. Then he quickly added – “No, no pickles. She used a couple big spoonfuls of pickle relish.” And it all connected.

We talked a bit more and I eventually hung up. As I thought about Grandma and her pickle relish, it made sense. The relish certainly would account for the pickle flavor and maybe some of the brightness. In a subsequent conversation with my cousin Dawn, she reminded me that while Grandma didn’t really keep fresh lemons around the house (who did in midwest America in the ‘60s?), there was always a bottle of Real Lemon Juice in the fridge – for lemon cake, lemon pie, maybe a spoonful in cobblers. Who’s to say she didn’t add a spoonful to her tuna salad? While it doesn’t all add up perfectly, it made sense to me.

Since then, I’ve continued to make my tuna salad with pickles, capers and lemon juice. I have to admit Julia’s is better than what I’d made before. It’s also a nice lunchtime bonus – remembering Grandma Grubaugh on a day when you are “only” having tuna salad is pretty special.

Addendum:

• Thanks to my sister Roberta, and cousin Dawn (one of Uncle Don’s Daughters – also a flower girl at our wedding) for their contributions to this blog – both had distinct memories of Grandma’s tuna salad and some of grandma’s habits at the time. Dawn was also quite emphatic Grandma used sweet pickle relish in her Tuna salad. We also had a great conversation about foods triggering happy family memories – Thanksgiving at mom and dad’s house (Uncle Don, Aunt Diane and family were almost always in attendance as well), potato salad, Aunt Diane’s cherry pies and cobblers, watermelon outside on the picnic table, and Grandma Grubaugh expertly spitting her seeds across the yard, to the delight of her grandchildren.

• Here’s another blog about Grandma Grubaugh and her delicious date nut bread: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/12/04/grandmas-date-nut-bread/

• Here’s a link to the column that inspired me to try Julia Child’s Tuna salad. It’s a quick read – https://www.nytimes.com/2020/10/21/magazine/this-tuna-salad-sandwich-is-julia-child-approved-lunch.html?unlocked_article_code=a2vDZUZ1eo1yVrKAfuZxMgmll7EsQe8k7K-jTFFMqtFBjYV_jUe1I577EkeqZQNBGpaScBbP2xFhlRgEXk0W3tuhHedthiZqjAOIlq7mFMVFRXTSWUW-mugkmUlR6AtNmjBpqnBC45Dacm7NKVcjag8DPq4nW_Mk-gleZC2NfUBimTJW8wqPnaCRsC9BXBDeHOI6FVeL60bLuggz3IU80r0Op815enYRuh9uZRbZwfNBd33TI6IJNJk_1qSRqnFXzpHmKs4RRpwBBMsGROoFMHGYZ-jWFgxYd51U2M-oYm9mLIFmxsE2twHD2-Qtkx8ZSmRV-W7eCe36dnvravfZOe3UkdJOwFAHYcitmVZSPDenybPsa9HK0r6y4Pgo9YUyIA&smid=share-url

• Here’s a link to the recipe from the NYT: https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1021561-tuna-salad-sandwich-julia-child-style?smid=ck-recipe-iOS-share

• And here’s the exact same recipe if the NYT won’t let you open their recipe without a subscription: https://bwtribble.com/recipe/1071

Max

Max

I always suspected it might be true. Still, it was a bit jarring to find out it actually was true. Here in America, there are more dogs named Max, than people named Max. A lot more. In fact, there are about 8 times as many dogs as people named Max. I’m honored … I think.

Growing up in Ottawa, Illinois in the ‘60s, Max was a unique name. I believe I was the only Max at McKinley Grade School and it caused a bit of a problem. When filling out forms or headers for formal tests, teachers never believed my name was just “Max”. They were convinced it must be Maximillian, or Maxwell. I’d dutifully tell them no, it was just Max. I know at least a couple of them called mom, as I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about. Mom would let them know I DID know my own name, thank you very much.

Of course Maxwell Smart in the ‘60s, Mel Gibson as Mad Max and Russell Crowe as Maximus in Gladiator spread the name a bit more. And, Cathy’s Dad was named Max (I believe he was the first Max I personally knew). Over time, it wasn’t quite as unique among us humans.

As I grew older, one of the things many people said when they first met me was “Oh! I know a dog named Max!” We would of course have a chuckle. Sometimes they would ask if I could sit, or stay, and I’d do a reasonable dog imitation. I drew the line at rolling over.

Time passed. People became more inventive, or more sharing. I learned of several horses named Max, a Cat named Max and even a Guinea Pig named Max. And then of course there was the occasional person with a mother or daughter named Max. Years ago, friends in Germany wanted to name their beagle Max (pronounced Machs in German), but checked with me first to make sure I didn’t mind. I didn’t mind and thought it was cool, although they also pointed out they weren’t actually naming him after me ;-).

Max, the Beagle.

Which brings us to the present.

The Washington Post recently ran an article about dog and people names and the overlap between them. It turns out Max is the second most popular dog name in America right now. Only Bella (of Twilight Saga fame) is a more popular name for dogs.

Max is Pretty Popular as a Dog Name.

So how popular is Max? If you gathered 100,000 people and 100,000 dogs together in a park, 351 dogs would be named Max, while only 44 people would be named Max (for Bella, it’s 357 dogs and 20 people). At the other end of the spectrum, only 80 dogs, but 411 people would be named George.

Outnumbered a Bit on the Human Side.

Yep, if you know a “Max” (other than me), he’s more likely a dog than a human.

What’s in a name? Max means “The Greatest” and I agree it’s a great name for either a man or his best friend. The Baby Center, (an online site with a wealth of knowledge about babies, including names) had this to say – “Max is undoubtedly a cool name, but if you’re considering it, keep in mind it’s also a common pet name. In fact, Max is the most popular name for dogs in the United States, right up there with Toby, Bella, Riley, and Molly.”

We should all be so honored and appreciated.

Addendum:

  • Thanks to our old friend Steven Buxton for sending us a picture of Max the beagle. We had so much fun with Steven and his folks Jim and Res back in the ‘80s.
  • It turns out this is my 300th blog. I started this effort in October of 2015 and it’s evolved over time. Back then, I’d push something out every couple of weeks, or when I could get to it. The last couple of years, it’s been more or less weekly. For better or worse, my topics have remained as diverse as ever. I’m still small scale, but 300 blogs and 7 plus years of continuity – I’ll take it. I think Live Life Exuberantly remains a valid title for the blog, and one of my ongoing life goals. Thanks to all who continue reading my wandering posts.
  • If you want to read the full WaPo article about dog and human names, you can find it here. (And check out how popular your name is as a dog name). You may need a subscription to read it, I’m not sure – https://www.washingtonpost.com/business/interactive/2022/people-names-for-dogs/

A Plebe Christmas

A Plebe Christmas

I distinctly remember returning to West Point after Christmas my Plebe year. It wasn’t fun. As a matter of fact, the last couple of days at home became bittersweet as I started thinking about returning to West Point as a Beanhead* for another five months.

It wasn’t just returning to the Plebe System (Fourth Class System) that affected me. We had first semester finals two weeks after returning. Also, have you ever visited West Point in winter? In the Fall, West Point is one of the most beautiful places in the country. In the winter? Not so much, unless you have a fondness for the color grey. January to March at West Point is called “Gloom Period”**, with good reason.

If I’m honest with myself, it wasn’t Gloom Period, or finals that brought me down. It was going back as a Plebe for another five months. Before you enter the Academy, you hear all about how tough Plebe year is both mentally and physically. It’s one thing to hear about it. It’s another to experience it for six months, have a break, and then know you are going back for more of the same.

Official Plebe Photo

Coming home to Ottawa that December, Christmas break was great. Being a real person again was even better. Everyone wanted to know how West Point was, and of course I told them the good stuff, while minimizing the actuality of Plebe life. The time at home divided out between family events, dates with Cathy and partying with my friends.

During the day, I spent time at home, or went to see Grandma, various aunts and uncles, and church or family friends. I remember racing around town fitting in as many visits as I could. It was good to catch up with so many people, but also a bit exhausting.

Cath and I went on dates most evenings and tried to make up for lost time. The last we’d seen each other was Labor Day Weekend, when she visited West Point with my folks. In the interim, we’d written so many letters back and forth, I lost count of the actual number. While home, there was even a formal holiday dance at Ottawa High (Cathy was still a senior in high school). I wore my dress uniform, and felt so much older than the high school “kids”, who in reality were only one or two years younger.

At Home Before Going to the OHS Winter Formal

Since she was still in school, Cathy had a curfew most nights. After our dates ended, I often linked up with my buddies Howard, Tim, Mark and others. The drinking age in Illinois was 19 at the time for beer and wine, but nobody really checked. We made the rounds at Berta’s, The Flamingo and Russell’s Tap before finally making it to bed. The next morning I’d wake up and start the cycle all over again. As I recall, sleeping in wasn’t an option.

I’d taken a couple of text books home with me to study over break, but of course I never cracked them. The days and nights raced by.

Finally it was New Year’s Eve and just a couple days before I would return to West Point. I remember going to a party with Cathy at our friend Jack’s home that night. Many of our friends were there. It was a great time, and as the clock struck midnight, there were kisses, handshakes and toasts all around. It was wonderful and things seemed almost perfect.

Maybe an hour later, it hit me. This was all going to end and I would return to the reality of Plebe life. The exhilaration from midnight rapidly disappeared. I crashed and a forlorn feeling took over. I found a quiet spot in an empty room and just sat there thinking. The dread I felt was visceral. Cathy found me a few minutes later and could tell something was wrong. She asked if I was OK and I struggled with words, then just gave up trying to explain. The thing is, she felt it too. We stood there hugging for I don’t know how long.

I more-or-less bounced back the next day and enjoyed my last day or two of freedom. Finally, it was time. As a Plebe, I think I was required to travel in uniform, and when Mom, Dad and Cathy drove me to O’Hare, that’s what I wore. Back then everyone could walk all the way to the gate, and that’s where we said our final goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mom gave me a care package and with a last wave and a smile, I boarded the plane for New York.

A Smile for Mom, Dad and Cathy as I Boarded the Plane to New York.

At the airport in New York (LaGuardia I think), cadets were everywhere. Most of us made our way to buses for the final fifty miles to our Rock Bound Highland Home on the Hudson. The bus I was on was pretty quiet, with Plebes and upperclassmen alike lost in their own thoughts. By now, I’d steeled my mind for the return to school and Plebe life. I was as ready as I was going to be.

And of course it wasn’t as bad as things looked on New Year’s Eve. I made the Dean’s list that first semester, and by late March or early April, Gloom Period was lifting. As for dealing with upperclassmen and the 4th Class System, that too passed. As the Semester wore on, things became easier and and finally, in June, Recognition Day happened. We were no longer Plebes, but full fledged members of the Corps of Cadets.

To this day, I remember that New Year’s Eve and the roller coaster of emotions I felt. Speaking with Cathy, she too distinctly remembers that night. I recently told her I thought I’d write a blog about New Year’s Eve Plebe year. She immediately knew what I was talking about. I laughed a bit and said something like “I didn’t know you remembered”. She quickly answered “How could I forget?”

Addendum:

  • *Beanhead – one of the many less flattering terms upperclassman used for Plebes at the time.
  • ** Gloom Period – If you want to read more about Gloom Period, you can do so here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/01/21/gloom-period/
  • I’ve often thought of that New Year’s Eve over the years and the feelings I experienced that night. I’d contemplated writing a blog about it before, but couldn’t quite wrap my head around it. Then, during Christmas season this year, one of my classmates posted an email on his own feelings about the return to West Point after Christmas. Several others chimed in. Some were worried about academics and getting separated due to grades. Others, like me, thought about the return to the 4th Class System for several more months. Still others talked of the general malaise around our return, with Gloom Period settling in. A few told (now) funny stories about missing flights, late arriving girl friends, and even running into the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders during a stopover on the return to the Academy. It’s interesting what binds people together. My classmates and I laugh and now tell stories of those times that seemed so serious back then. Time and distance have brought perspective and a camaraderie that has lasted a lifetime. I feel lucky to be a member of the Proud and Great Class of ‘78. Thanks for the memories, and the continued friendship my brothers.

Davie

Davie

Davie was the gentlest soul I have ever known. He also had a memorable lust for life. When he died last week, the world became colder, less kind, and a little less forgiving. I mourn his passing, and there is a weight on me.

Davie and I first met through our running group, The Mount Vernon Hash House Harriers* (MVH3), in ‘90 or ‘91. Back then, we were all in decent shape, and could both run for miles and drink copious amounts of beer, sometimes at the same time. There were lots of good times running around different parts of Northern Virginia. We’d run, eat and drink, and then maybe party some more. At the time, Cath and I only lived about 1/2 mile from Davie, and frequently found ourselves in his hot tub on Saturday afternoons, some time after The Hash finished.

Random Hash Photos from DC, Orlando and Trinidad

Later, when The Hash started hosting it’s annual Red Dress Run (yes, all members were required to wear red dresses on the run), some of Davie’s outfits were legendary. Wearing his Carmen Miranda fruit plate hat still draws chuckles from those who were there.

At the Red Dress Run – Davie with his Carmen Miranda Hat, and the two of us a Different Year

Our friendship grew to be much more than just The Hash. We started doing other activities together, including dinners out, hikes in the woods or up Old Rag, and visits to our then cabin in West Virginia. Sometime in the mid ‘90s Davie organized an annual ski trip for 8 or 10 of us to the wilds of West Virginia. He’d rent a big group house, where we’d ski during the day, and take turns cooking dinners at night. There was more hottubbing, beer drinking and partying in general, but what I remember most was the fellowship we all had with each other. It was the best of times and something we looked forward to every year.

Hikes, Ski Trips, and Parties – Alway a Fun Time

In the late ‘90s, Davie came out to us. We always suspected, although we weren’t sure. It was very different then, than it is today, and coming out was a real act of bravery. It took him over half an hour and some tears before he finally came to the point he was gay. Cathy and I told him we loved him, and it didn’t matter, we still loved him. We shared hugs and tears all around at that point. It’s also what made me realize no one chooses to be gay – no one would want to willingly go through the pain and fear of potentially being an outcast of society. God, or genetics, or some combination of the two made Davie gay, and also made him the wonderful person he was.

We eventually moved to the country, a little over an hour from our old home. We saw Davie less frequently, but still had great times.

For his part, Davie, who always loved to travel, was traveling even more. He was a recognized expert on waterways for the Army Corps of Engineers and frequently flew around the country and the world for conferences, and to speak at some of those conferences. He also travelled on his personal time and loved to bicycle. I remember one trip when he went to Vietnam and rode by bike from Hanoi to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). He told great stories of that trip and one he biked in South Africa.

When covid hit, we didn’t see each other for a couple of years. We texted and had a few random phone calls, but that was it. One of the unfortunate realities of covid was the year or two it robbed from all of us. It’s easier to recover from the loss of a year or two when you are in your twenties. When you are in your sixties, you may still think death isn’t imminent, but you notice it hanging around out there on the horizon.

We saw Davie three times this year, including twice at Nats’ games. The final time we shared together was at our home during our annual Oktoberfest Hash, just two weeks before his death. Davie arrived early and we hugged as always. He didn’t do the trail that day, instead, hanging around the house drinking beer and eating brats. It was a fine autumn day and we spent time talking about nothing. They were the kind of conversations you have when you don’t yet know one of you is going to die in two weeks. It was wonderful.

Davie at the Oktoberfest Hash this Year

The day we found out Davie died was a grey, misty day. His death was sudden and unexpected. Calls followed to others. When you call someone in the middle of the day that you normally never call in the middle of the day, they know something is up. Still, there is the shock of the specific news.

It stayed grey, misty and rainy for two days before the sun finally re-emerged. It certainly fit our mood. The depression felt like a weighted blanket on my forehead and temples. It was a visceral, oppressive feeling. The opening stanza of W.H. Auden’s melancholy poem, “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” came to mind –

“Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.”

Yes, the sun is out now, and certainly life goes on. I always think we who are living have a duty to keep the memories of those who have died alive. For my part, I will remember Davie’s smile and the twinkle in his eyes. I will recall his gentleness, and his lust for life. And I will chuckle at his fruit-plated hat, and the many other stories I haven’t shared here.

When I think of Davie, his personality, and how he enjoyed life, I often think of the opening lines of the great Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy” –

“Well I’ve never met anyone
With your courage,
And the way your enjoy life
Puts me to shame.
Just an hour with you,
And I understand
Why we had to meet…”

Davie was our friend, whom we loved. We will miss him always.

Addendum:

  • * MVH3 is a part of a world wide group known as the Hash House Harriers, which started in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia in 1938. Hash, in this case refers to bad food, not pot. The runs are hare and hound in nature, with a marked trail. Typically, beer and food are served after the run. Hashers have the playful motto of “we are a drinking club with a running problem”. You can find out more about The Hash here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hash_House_Harriers
  • If you haven’t heard the Joan Armatrading song, “Everyday Boy”, give it a listen. It’s worth it. Ditto on the WH Auden poem “Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone” – find it online and give it a read.
  • Special thanks to my wife Cathy, and our friend Tia Perry who both contributed thoughts and ideas to this blog.
  • Thanks to Sharon Gustafson Schoen for the pic of Davie with the Carmen Miranda hat. The hat was actually made by our old friend Renee Ayer, who wore it at a previous Red Dress Run. Thanks also go out to Ann Simon for the last photo of Davie at Oktoberfest.

The Chili Dump

The Chili Dump

I hate missing a good party. Unfortunately, we will miss Chili Dump 2022. We made the 2016 version, which featured great chili, a band, Elvis, a bonfire tended by a front-end loader, and 200, or so, of my sister and brother-in-law’s closest friends. What’s a Chili Dump? I’m glad you asked.

My Brother-in-law Jack started his legendary Chili Dump party around 2002 with his then wife, Meg. The first party was a thank you for friends who helped clear the land they were building their home on, and then subsequently helping them build their home. It became an annual event, and as their kids grew older, their friends started attending the party as well. Sadly, Meg passed away in 2013. When my sister Roberta met Jack later, she too was introduced to The Chili Dump. In 2016, we timed our visit home to Illinois so we could attend the party.

On that October ‘16 afternoon, Jack started a fire in the back yard and put a huge pot over it. The pot actually looked more like a cauldron than any pot I’d ever seen. They added the usual chili ingredients – cooked ground beef, tomatoes, tomato juice, hot peppers, beans and spices (and please, I don’t want to hear from any Texans about how beans don’t belong in chili). Soon, the chili started to cook and bubble away. By then, we may have had a beer or two.

A Cauldron of Chili….

The first friends arrived by ATV, and brought more ingredients to add to the Chili – venison and jalapeños if I recall correctly. Others continued to arrive. Smoked brisket, hotdogs, sausage, bratwurst – they all went into the pot. Wood was added to the fire, to keep the chili cooking. Our friends Tim and Renee arrived from the Chicago ‘burbs with a blend of spices they specifically put together for the chili. Into the pot it went.

Tim and Renee’s Special Chili Spice for the Chili Dump!

Other folk brought toppings, including sour cream, grated cheddar cheese, sliced jalapeños and fried bacon. Someone made cornbread. There were bags of chips and Doritos added to the serving table. My sister Tanya and her husband Shawn arrived, and added more beef in the pot. Nieces and nephews arrived, and all dutifully put something in the pot. The volume of chili in the pot was definitely increasing.

The Pot was Getting Full!

Pickup trucks and cars were now lined up near the cow pasture. It started getting crowded and started getting dark. Around then, Jack lit the bonfire. It was a biiiiiig bonfire…

The Bonfire WAS Big…

Somewhere during all of this, people began sampling the chili. I have to admit, I was a bit skeptical, but then I took my first bite. Wow! This was surprisingly tasty. People kept arriving and adding to the chili. There was now also a steady stream of bowls being filled, so the volume stayed about the same, or maybe started to go down. There were probably 200 people at the farm by then.

Eventually, the Joel Limberg Band started playing. Some folks were dancing, and as at weddings, lots of little kids were hopping around on the dance floor. At some point, the band brought out a surprise guest singer – Elvis. Actually, a Philippine Elvis. Let me tell ya, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard Elvis sing Sweet Caroline, with the crowd joining in on the response – “Sweet Caroline, oh oh oh, Good times never seemed so good – So Good! So Good! So Good!” The party was going strong now!

Yes, Elvis is a bit Blurry, Much Like Parts of the Evening….

More dancing. Talking with family and old friends. Making new friends. More beer. More chili. The chili level in the pot was definitely receding. The bonfire was also going down, but Jack wasn’t ready to let that happen just yet. You know you have a big fire when you need to tend it with a tractor’s front-end loader.

Nothing Says Party, Like Fire in the Front-End Loader…

Although it was getting later, no one was leaving. Suddenly fireworks went off and exploded in the sky. We all watched, and oohed and ahhhed. The neighbors didn’t complain, because most of them were at the party.

Oooohhh! Aaaahhhh!

The band played another set, and it was time for more beer and more chili. The volume in the pot was definitively lower, but the chili was still hot, and still tasty. I noticed the crowd was starting to thin some, although I don’t think the sound volume was any lower.

Well after midnight, Cathy and I finally went to bed. It was a great party, but sometimes it’s good to know your limits.

The next morning, we woke, not feeling overly fuzzy. Jack and Berta were already up and had fed their calves and chickens. Amazingly, they didn’t seem to much worse for wear. I asked Berta how late the party went, and all she said was “Late”.

Our friends Tim and Renee also spent the night and they too woke up and joined the living. Eventually, we all went outside and started cleaning up. We may have partaken of a little “hair of the dog” during the cleanup. A couple of the youngsters also stopped by and with all of us involved, it wasn’t tooooo much work and we finished up after a couple of hours.

That was the 2016 party, and so far, the first and last one we attended. Since then, we’ve been out of the country for a couple of them, and of course covid slowed things down. I should mention they burned a Covid Snowman at the 2020 Chili Dump.

SnowMore Covid ‘19, was Added to the Bonfire in 2020…

I’ve both attended and hosted a number of good parties over the years, here in the States, and overseas in Germany, Austria, France, Belgium and the UK. I have to say the 2016 Chili Dump was one of the best. Anytime you combine chili, beer, Elvis, a bonfire, fireworks and fun people, it has to be pretty good, doesn’t it?

Addendum:

Thanks to my sister, Roberta, for help with this blog.

Going Home

Going Home

We are driving home to Illinois this week. The last time we drove to Ottawa was in 2017, and mom was dying. This time, we are going to see living family and friends, and stay at one of the touchstones of my youth.

We never get back to see folk as often as we would like. Life gets in the way, and time keeps on ticking, or depending on your perspective, racing along. We have visited a couple of times since 2017, but always flew. Our last trip was a short one a little over a year ago, and my sister Berta and her husband Jack had a great family reunion while we were there.

The Last Visit Home

This time, Cath and I are bringing our dog, Carmen, and driving. It typically takes 12 to 14 hours to cover the 750 miles, but you don’t measure progress by time or by miles. You track the States you cross. We’ll go from Virginia to West Virginia, then Maryland, back to West Virginia, then Pennsylvania, West Virginia a third time, Ohio, Indiana, and finally, Illinois. You get to see a bit of ‘Murica along the way.

The Northern Route is Shorter, but the Southern Route is an Easier Drive

Cathy is never crazy about the drive. For her, it’s a bit like Cormac McCarthy’s, “The Road” (if you haven’t read the book, you may have seen the movie with Viggo Mortensen.) Me? I always enjoy it. I watch the land transform from the Piedmont here in Virginia, to the Appalachian Mountains of West Virginia and Pennsylvania, the rolling hills of Ohio, and eventually the flatlands of Indiana and Illinois. None of it is dramatic landscape, but if you have the time, it’s a beautiful way to see and reach the heartland.

It’s funny. I started this blog with “We are driving home…”. Neither Cathy or I have lived in Ottawa since we were 18, nearly 50 years ago. We have lived in our current home here if Virginia for over 23 years. “Going home” of course isn’t always about going to a place. It can be about a time in your life as well. Some may think it’s corny, but there’s something gratifying about occasionally returning to your roots, however short the visit is.

This visit is actually starting at Kishauwau Cabins, a resort we knew in our younger days as Camp Kishauwau, our local Boy Scout Camp. During our youth, my friends, Tim, Howard, Mark and I spent many a night there, either camping in tents or sleeping in one of the few run down cabins it had at the time. The Boy Scouts sold the camp decades ago, and it was turned into a getaway that attracts people from Chicago and the suburbs now. On this trip, we’ll be with our wives and girlfriends and staying in their new and remodeled cabins. My guess is our food and adult beverages will be better than the camp fare we ate and bug juice we drank during our previous stays in the ‘60s and ‘70s.

High Above Vermillion’s Waters…Camp Kishauwau

I’m sure we will tell an old story or two, but we’ll try and keep it in check. Still, I would be surprised if WrongWay LeBeau isn’t mentioned a time or two. Other subjects might come up as well – marshmallow fights, the time we started to run a fellow scout up the flagpole, or the time our troop failed to keep a proper fire-watch during summer camp, or … We’ve only told and heard these stories a few hundred times before, so there’s no reason to repeat them. And yet we probably will, at least a few times.

Like These Old Photos From Camp, our Memories may be a bit Blurry.

Later, we’ll spend a few nights at Berta and Jack’s beautiful home and see them, along with my other sister, Tanya and husband Shawn. The trip is short enough that it’s doubtful we’ll have time to see all of the nieces, nephews, grand-nieces and grand-nephews. Sadly, that’s just how life is sometimes, especially when you live six states away.

Over the course of the week, we will probably have a pizza from Sam’s or Bianchi’s, and maybe a pork tenderloin sandwich somewhere. I’m sure we will visit Allen Park as well. There are some things you just “have to do” when back in Ottawa, no matter the length of the trip.

Eventually, the visit will end and we will return to our home in Virginia. The departure, not money, is always the real price of a trip back home. Knowing time is fleeting and we are growing older, departing is always a little bittersweet for me. The hugs, the handshakes, the I love you’s … the thought of “When will we gather together again?”

Memories are nice. Keeping friendships and family love alive are even better. The best trips make new memories, and I know it will happen this time as well. Still, there is always a question in the back of my mind – “Where does the time go, and when will we gather together again?”

Addendum:

My friend Tim is always more poetic than I am, and suggested adding the 1969 song “Who Knows Where the Time Goes” by Fairport Convention in the Addendum. It’s a nice listen and adds perspective as well – https://youtu.be/OkOB57UcYk8

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

Biology and Charlie Alikonis

In August of 1970, I started to sweat and no, it wasn’t from the summer heat. I was taking Biology my sophomore year at Ottawa High School, with Charlie Alikonis as my teacher. We were to turn in our Insect Collections in early September. In theory, I had been collecting bugs all summer, but I’d been a bit lax, and the bill was coming due.

High School biology at OHS under Charlie Alikonis was something. There were other good biology teachers, including Mr Anderson and Mr Carlin, but Charlie was legendary. He had already taught at OHS for 36 years, starting in 1934. Hell, he taught my mom in ‘47. When mom had him, he was also the JV Football coach and had two undefeated teams in ‘47 and ‘48. Those of us who had him in ‘70, approached the class with a combination of awe and dread.

Charlie in the OHS Yearbooks from 1949 and 1971

OHS biology classes had plenty of class time, lab time and tests, but what everyone really remembers is the three collections we were required to submit – Insects in the summer, Leaves in the fall, and Wildflowers in the spring. They could make or break your grade, that’s how important they were. It’s also why I was starting to sweat.

Earlier that summer, I’d made the trip to The Book Store at the corner of Main and Court Street. I bought the little pins and labels for the bugs, and most importantly, carbon tetrachloride*, or carbon tet, as we learned to call it. Soak a cotton ball in it, put the cotton ball in a jar, and drop in your bugs – good night! To box the collection, some classmates bought styrofoam boxes, or used shoe boxes. My buddy Howard and I obtained old cigar boxes from Senate Billiards, just up the block on Court Street. We’d gone to Senate Billiards for years, as it was also the best place in town to buy comic books.

I eventually kicked my bug hunting skills into high gear for those last two weeks of August and the first couple of weeks in September. The little glass jar with the carbon tet worked overtime producing specimens for my collection. The tiny labels were a pain, but everything came together. I turned in a reasonable collection, although I don’t recall my grade.

An OHS Insect Collection From Back in the Day

It didn’t really matter though, as we were already starting our leaf collections. We were mostly on our own to find and identify the leaves, although I seem to recall a class field trip or two on the East Side of town. I distinctly remember a Ginkgo tree there, one of only a few in town. To this day, I still recognize their unique fan-shaped leaves, with the veins radiating out into the leaf blade. There were other unique trees in town, if you knew where to look. Sally Richland recalls her family having a sassafras tree in their yard and students came from all over to pluck leaves. At the time, it was the only one in LaSalle County.

Although not as impressive as some, I did better on my leaf collection than with my insect collection. Not everyone did though. My friend Mark recalls two other buddies, Clay and Mike only starting their collections the day before they were due. They evidently spent a good part of the night outside with flashlights trying to find particular leaves. No word on what their grades were… ;-).

An OHS Leaf Collection and a Couple of Covers – I Don’t Recall being so Clever, or Typing the Info for each Leaf

By now it was late fall, or early winter, and in addition to studying bugs and leaves, Howard and I were studying Charlie Alikonis himself. We were fascinated by him. He was of Lithuanian heritage and spoke with a bit of an accent. He also had a unique way of communicating, that anyone who studied under him remembers. As he was identifying something for you to learn, he always started with a question and then answered his own question. As an example, when holding up a Ginkgo leaf he would say, “and this is a what-ah? This is a Ginkgo Leaf”. We thought it was brilliantly funny and started imitating him ourselves, while doing other things around town, as in – “and this is a what-ah? This is a pepperoni pizza…”. , or, “and this is a what-ah? This is a cheeseburger.”

We didn’t stop there. At the time, Charlie mostly wore bow ties. Howard and I went to Bell’s Clothing in town and bought tie bow-ties. Charlie wore a flat cap to and from school. We returned to Bell’s, and both bought similar, if a bit more brightly colored caps, and wore them for the next couple of years. I don’t recall anyone else among the teachers, or for that matter the students, wearing flat caps at the time, and yet there we were. (I lost mine over the years, while Howard still has his).

A 1973 OHS Yearbook Photo of me with my Flat Cap, and Howard Sporting his Just a Few Months Ago

We may have started out doing all of this to have some fun at Charlie’s expense, but as time progressed, things shifted. It evolved into us paying homage to him. I can’t say when or why the transformation started, but it was real. I’d like to think we matured a bit and began to understand what a great teacher he was, but we were teenage boys at the time, so who knows.

Winter eventually turned to spring, and we were back in the woods and fields surrounding Ottawa. This time, we were looking for wildflowers. I recall Charlie leading a collection/identification trip after school one day, near his house in the country. Although he had to be in his 60s, he was nimble as a mountain goat running around pointing out different flowers. We kids had a tough time keeping up. He also pointed out a flower called a White Trillium, but warned us not to have it in our collections. It was rare, and endangered in Illinois at the time.

Second semester eventually ended and I passed biology. The next year, I would have Red Ryder for Chemistry and a year later, Mr Krabel for physics. OHS had a great science department back then, and I learned from all of them. Having said that, Charlie Alikonis and those collections are what have stayed in my memory over the years.

It turns out I wasn’t alone. In talking with friends and others from Ottawa, everyone who took biology remembers the collections. And those under Charlie? A near universal seal of approval, particularly from those going on to study science in college.

Charlie retired from OHS just a couple of years after we had him. In 2009, he was posthumously inducted into the OHS Hall of Fame. The highlighted words in the citation below say it all.

Charlie Alikonis – Preparing Students for Future Success

Addendum:

  • * Carbon tet is now a known carcinogen and no longer used. As Howard recently said, “Carbon tet and cigars—those collections were deadly…”
  • I owe thanks to a number of people for contributions to this blog, including buddies Tim Stouffer, and Mark Dunavan, along with Dan Shoulders, Sally Richland, Mary Cunningham Heider, and Jeanie Cunningham Ruhland.
  • Thanks to Karen Crisler and Leslie Poole for providing photos from their insect and leaf collections – they were a perfect addition!
  • Special thanks to my old friend Howard Johnson, who I’ve known since before first grade. His memories on Charlie in particular helped round out this blog.

Odin

Odin

Odin is not only the god called upon in preparation for war, he is the god of poetry, the dead and magic as well. In a little known side gig, he was also petitioned by cadets at West Point to cancel parades with thunderstorms.

One fall day Plebe Year, my company, B-3, along with our entire regiment, was standing in formation in Central Area waiting for the start of yet another weekday afternoon parade. Central Area is out of view of the general public and where we lined up in preparation for parades. While the upperclassmen were more relaxed, we plebes stood there in full dress uniform, our tar buckets on our heads, and our M14 rifles extended at parade rest. The sky was dark with clouds and foretold the possible arrival of an impending storm. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a plaintive chant starting up, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Suddenly, it grew louder, closer and more distinct –

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

One of our upperclassmen called out – “Beanheads! Take up the chant!!” (Beanhead was one of the less flattering terms the upperclassmen would call us Plebes)

What?!

“Beanheads!! Take up the call to ODIN. Let’s see if we can get this parade canceled!”

The thirty or so of us Plebes in B-3 quickly joined the cacophony.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

Soon, all 300 or so Plebes in the regiment were chanting. I have no idea what it sounded like to anyone in the bleachers on the parade ground itself, but they had to have heard us. We were LOUD and unrelenting. Always the same pace, always the same mournful sound, we continued…

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

…

Parades… I never knew anyone at West Point, or in the military for that matter, who actually liked taking part in a parade. The public may enjoy watching them, but the participants? The cadets or soldiers who actually march in the parade? I don’t recall anyone ever saying to me “Wow Max, I am so looking forward to cleaning my weapon, dressing up in uniform, standing around in the hot sun (or freezing cold), and then marching in a review in front of the General. How about you?”

At West Point we did a lot of marching, and A LOT of parades, starting the day we arrived. The soundtrack of that first day was the drums from the Hellcats (West Point’s drum and bugle corps, made up of professional soldiers). They beat their drums all day long, as we learned to march and keep in step. That evening? We paraded to our swearing in ceremony, with parents, family, and the general public looking on.

Our last official parade took place the day before graduation in 1978.

In between those two events, we marched in an untold number of parades. Mondays through Thursdays, one of the four regiments would be in a parade for the public virtually every afternoon in the spring and fall. On Football Saturdays, there would be a double-regimental parade for every home game, and on Homecoming, the entire Corps of Cadets would perform in a parade. While we didn’t parade in the winter, the overall schedule resumed in the spring, and graduation provided another parade for the entire Corps. I learned to hate parades.

We Marched in an Untold Number of Parades at West Point

… In Central Area, our petition to Odin continued …

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

A few raindrops started to fall. And then, a few more and it turned in to something between a sprinkle and a light shower. Our chant droned on.

OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN… OOOOOOOO-DIIIN…

I could see our commander conferring with the Battalion commander nearby. Suddenly, he returned. “COMPANY… ATTENNNSHUN!” We snapped to attention, the chanting stopped and there was silence, except for the sound of the rain hitting our hats and the ground. Would we march, or not?? Our Commander called out: “B-3 …DISMISSED!”

It worked! We all sprinted to our rooms, gaining an extra hour of rack time.

That evening as we assembled for dinner formation, our squad leader informed us that appealing to Odin to cancel a parade was an Old West Point tradition, and advised us to study up on him. He would quiz us later.

We learned Odin was the god of war in Germanic and Norse mythology. He was a protector of heroes, and fallen warriors joined him in Valhalla. In a bit of a juxtaposition, he was also the god of poets. He was associated with healing, death, royalty, knowledge, battle, victory, and sorcery. He gave up one of his eyes to gain wisdom. You will notice no where in that description is there any mention of rain, storms, or weather. Evidently, that skill was buried in history.

Odin… a god with Many Talents

Over my remaining years at West Point, there were many times we appealed to Odin for rain to cancel a parade. The vast majority of the time, he ignored our pleas, and we emerged through the Sally Ports and onto The Plain for our parade before the Great American Public. They say the gods are fickle. Maybe that was the case with Odin.

As I was thinking about writing this blog a couple of months ago, 40-some years after that initial appeal to Odin, I was trading messages with a few classmates. We were discussing how infrequently parades were actually cancelled due to calling Odin, when Leroy Hurt said, “By the way, I finally found out why we chanted to Odin.” What!?

It turns out Leroy is teaching a class on West Point History. In his research for the class, he came across a book called “The West Point Sketchbook”, published in 1976. In the book, the authors state that in 1958, some cadets saw the movie “The Vikings”. It’s a so-so adventure movie, with an all-star cast of Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, Ernest Borgnine and Janet Leigh. Throughout the movie, The Vikings make various appeals and chants to Odin, including asking him to effect the weather and bring rain. In the movie, it worked. The cadets brought the Odin chant back to West Point, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Kirk Douglas and Tony Curtis BOTH Appeal to Odin in the Classic Movie, The Vikings

Of course time and history evolve. Another classmate, Pete Eschbach was recently back at West Point and spoke with a few cadets about some of our past traditions. None of the current cadets had ever heard of appealing to Odin to cancel a parade. Not one. For the West Pointers reading this blog, Pete privately speculated to me that “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”.* Maybe with the increases in technology, and the weather apps we have today, it’s no longer required. The weather is a foregone conclusion, and an appeal to Odin isn’t going to change things one way or another. Another mystery…

The legend of Odin may have died at West Point, but he remains an item of interest for me and my classmates. Occasionally, one of us still calls on him. Classmate Joe Mislinski even named his dog Odin. Joe lives pretty close to the Great Lakes Naval Station, where Navy basic training is conducted. He likes to occasionally take Odin for a walk outside the station, once a parade has already started. From the look of the slick streets in the photo below, Odin still has the occasional magic touch.

Odin… Bringing Rain to a Navy Parade

Addendum:

⁃ * Pete was making a bit of an inside joke to me about “Perhaps both The Corps, and Odin have… (gone to hell)”. In a tradition probably as old as West Point itself, among old grads you frequently hear the phrase, “The Corps Has…” Every class at West Point believes that the classes who came after them had it easier than they did. Gone to Hell is never stated, but always implied. 😉

⁃ Thanks to classmates Peter Eschbach and Leroy Hurt for their contributions to this blog, and their reviews. They were invaluable. Special Thanks to Joe Mislinksi for suggesting the idea for a blog about Odin, and providing a picture of his dog Odin!

⁃ In The West Point Sketch Book, it is reported that prior to 1958, Plebes would whistle a song called the “Missouri National” to try and bring on rain. Part of the adapted lyrics include: And now the rain drops patter down/ Our hearts fill with delight/ For hear the OD sounding off-/ “There is no parade tonight.”

⁃ The movie, The Vikings, is actually not bad. You might give it a watch sometime when you have nothing to do. In the meantime, here are several of the callouts to Odin, throughout the movie: https://youtu.be/uAM85DFfR24

If you wish to read a few of the previous blogs from my time at West Point, you can find them here:

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

A Farewell Dinner and a Letter

High School graduation had come and gone, and the month of June was racing by. In just a few days, I would report to West Point. For our last night together, Cathy had the idea for an “adult” farewell dinner at her house. Never mind that we were just kids of 17 and 18.

How she was able to make it all happen, remains a bit of a mystery to me to this day. In addition to planning our dinner she asked her folks if we could have a bottle of wine with the meal. They agreed, and then checked with my folks to make sure they were OK with it. Amazingly, they agreed as well.

It was finally the last night in Ottawa. I arrived at Cathy’s just as her mom and dad were departing, along with her sisters, Cindy and Bonnie. I don’t remember where they went – maybe the movies or a drive in. All I knew is we would have the house to ourselves.

We opened the wine, a straw covered Chianti bottle, and sipped on it as Cathy finished cooking. She was making spaghetti with a meat sauce, a meal of hers I love to this day. As we sat down for dinner, she also brought out a salad.

Dinner was Served, Along With a Nice Chianti

It’s funny, in my minds eye looking back, we were both adults, and also kids playing at being adults. I don’t know if that makes sense, but it’s how I remember the night. It was somber and sad, and fun all at the same time. We finished dinner eventually and continued to sip on the wine until it too was gone. We talked about everything, and nothing. We talked of the future and when we hoped to see each other again. We promised to write… and finally, it was time for me to go home. We said our goodbyes, and then said them again several more times. Finally there was a long hug, a last kiss and I drove off into the night, with a crazy collection of mixed up feelings inside. I didn’t sleep much that night.

The next morning arrived. Normally, Dad would have had us up at oh-dark-thirty to depart, but for whatever reason, he decided to break the trip to New York into two days, so we were leaving around mid morning. We were finishing packing the car when my old buddy Howard showed up. We’d known each other since kindergarten, and he wasn’t going to let me escape without saying goodbye. We too promised we’d write each other when we could.

At this point, mom, dad, my two sisters, Howard and I were all standing in the driveway. As we were getting ready to leave, Cathy came racing up on her bicycle. We all stood there for a bit talking. If you’ve ever seen American Graffiti, it was a little like the final scene at the airport with Richard Dreyfus saying goodbye to family and friends, before he departs on the plane for college.

The Last Few Minutes of my Departure Weren’t Unlike Richard Dreyfus’s Departure at the End of American Graffiti

I hugged my sisters goodbye and shook Howard’s hand. Cathy and I had a final kiss, and as we were hugging, she pressed a letter into my hand. She whispered “Don’t open this ‘til later…” With that, mom, dad and I climbed in the car and with honks and waves, were on our way.

I looked at that envelope for a long time. I believe we were in either Indiana or, maybe, Ohio before I opened it. I probably read the letter about 50 times on the drive east, and another 500 times during my time at West Point. I won’t share the contents here, but know the letter still sits in a drawer on my side of the bed, and I occasionally pull it out and read it.

I Still Occasionally Read that First Letter from Cathy

I think about that dinner, and the letter. We were just kids in so many ways, but we were also adults, or thought we were. The world turned out to not be quite as black and white as we imagined it in those last 24 hours in Ottawa, but here we are, decades later, reminiscing about our past, and still thinking about the future and what it holds for the two of us.

Addendum:

It’s worth noting a couple of things from that pre-Internet era:

  • There are no pictures of that last dinner or the farewell the next day. Why? With no cell phones or iPhones to document the events, we simply lived them. Who’s to say which is better?
  • People actually did write letters to each other back in the day. Particularly that first summer at West Point, the letters that came from Cathy, Howard, mom and dad and others helped sustain me.