Glacier Skiing

In the summer of ‘87, my folks visited us in Germany. We had a grand time touring Germany, Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland. One of the highlights was Glacier Skiing at Sölden, Austria and then afterwards, hanging at the Lodge drinking bier, while Cathy worked on her tan.

On our first tour in Germany from ‘79-83, Mom and Dad visited once for a vacation in the summer of 1982. I was a Company Commander in the 34th Signal Battalion at the time and the day we were to leave on vacation with them, the phone rang about 4AM. Cath said, “Don’t Answer it”. I said, “I have to.” She answered back, “Don’t answer it.” I answered the phone.

The call came from Battalion Headquarters and we deployed on an alert for the next three days. While I was in the field, Cath showed Mom and Dad around Southern Germany and the Black Forest. When I returned from the alert, we travelled the next ten days together. Dad understood what happened with the alert and why I had to go, but I’m not sure Mom did.

When we moved back to Germany in ‘85, we didn’t think Mom and Dad could afford another visit. Airline travel was expensive, as was the trip itself. Then, fate intervened. Dad hit 5 out of 6 numbers on a lottery ticket and won several thousand dollars. Never ones to let extra money go to waste, they scheduled a visit with us in Worms in the summer of 1987.

When they arrived, we spent the first few days near Worms and the village of Rheindurkheim, where we lived. In addition to introducing them to local friends, we spent an evening at one of our favorite Weinfests. Everyone enjoyed themselves, or at least that’s what the photos seemed to indicate.

Eventually, we left Rheindurkheim and headed South for the main part of the vacation. I’m not sure why, but Cath and I decided to take our skis along and get some Glacier skiing in, something we’d never done before. Looking back now, it seems an odd decision. Mom and Dad wouldn’t ski, but I’m sure we talked with them about it. In any case, off we went down the Autobahn with the skis strapped on the roof rack of our Saab.

After visiting good friends Jim and Res in Stuttgart for a night, we made our way to the Alps. We planned a drive through Austria, Northern Italy and Switzerland, but started with Sölden, Austria where we would ski. In the 1980s, you could still ski Sölden virtually all year long*.

Glacier skiing is a bit different from regular skiing. You have to hit the slopes early, and most people only ski in the AM. By late morning, the sun has warmed the slope and the glacier starts turning to slush. Also, as the morning wears on, the snow/ice on the glacier tends to become gravelly, not quite ice and not quite snow.

That first night at Sölden, we ate dinner in the little Gasthaus where we were staying. We discussed skiing the following morning. Cathy was thinking about skiing in her bikini and I was up for wearing a pair of shorts. Ultimately, we decided to ski in sweats and jeans. If we fell, the gravelly snow would scrape us up pretty good.

The next day, after an early breakfast of Kaffee, Brotchen, Wurst und Käse (Coffee, rolls, sausage and cheese) we made our way to the slope and were skiing by 7:30AM. We’d told Mom and Dad they could hang at the Gasthaus, but they insisted on coming with us to the ski lodge. Dad took a photo as we headed to the lift.

Cath and I spent the next three hours skiing the glacier and it was wonderful. The piste (ski trail) wasn’t crowded, the snow was in great shape and we were skiing well. Occasionally, we’d check on Mom and Dad who were drinking Kaffee on a picnic table outside the lodge. Dad snapped some pics of us skiing, but for the life of me, I can’t find them. Around 10:30 the snow started getting slushy. By 11, we were through. We started getting wet from the knees down and were tired from the morning’s activities. In the additional good news department, we hadn’t fallen all morning.

We stacked our skis in a rack, joined Mom and Dad and ordered some biers. Cathy stripped off her sweater and jeans, revealing the bikini she wore underneath. In the photo I took of Cath with Mom and Dad, I love the bored/sullen Euro look she adopted. Just another ho-hum day skiing the Alps and catching rays.

***Cathy Working on Her Tan after Skiing in the Morning.***

We spent one more night in Sölden, before heading for Nauders, Austria right on the Italian border. We’d previously skied a couple of winters there. After a couple of days seeing friends, we eventually crossed into Italy and then Switzerland, having an occasional roadside lunch of bread, cheese and wine. One day we forgot glasses, but that didn’t stop us. ;-).

We worked our way to Davos, where we enjoyed a multi-course 5-Star meal at a restaurant just outside of town. At our hotel that night, we saw fireworks going off in the mountains across the valley. It was the celebration of the Swiss National Day, their equivalent to our 4th of July and pretty amazing. At the time, we had no clue about the importance of Davos or the World Economic Forum. All we knew was that we ate a great meal that evening and then saw a cool light show in the Alps.

Eventually, we returned to Rheindurkheim and other adventures, before Mom and Dad flew home.

It’s funny, I remember many parts of that vacation**, but for some reason skiing the glacier at Sölden stands out. It was only a small part of the trip, but remains firmly in my mind. Maybe it was the fun of the day. Maybe it was the skiing. Maybe it was just the remembrance of my wife soaking up sunshine in a bikini at the ski lodge after a morning of good play. All our days should be so happy.

Addendum:

I should point out that there were MANY women sunbathing in bikinis, not just Cathy. She’s the only one I took a picture of ;-).
* These days at Sölden, due to Global Warming the glacier is receding. Skiing stops sometime in May, and picks back up in September.
**When people visited us in Germany, we gave them atypical tours of Germany and Europe. We weren’t big on Churches and Museums, and instead, focused on local activities off the beaten path. On this particular vacation with Mom and Dad, we really wanted to show them parts of the Alps we’d grown to love in both the winter and summer months. I doubt we saw another American the entire time.

Grandma’s Umbrella

Last week it rained pretty heavily one day. Late at night I took Carmen out to do her business and it was still raining. I grabbed one of our umbrellas and as I opened it, thought of Grandma Grubaugh. We’d given her the umbrella as a young man. It returned to Cath and me when she passed away.

I remember as a child, we kids would give Grandma and Grandpa Grubaugh some sort of homemade Christmas gift, or Mom would buy something and put a tag on it, saying it was from the three of us. When Grandpa died in 1968, it transferred over to just getting something for Grandma.

At some point in time, maybe in High School, or when I left for West Point, I started buying Christmas gifts for Grandma on my own. I don’t really remember much about what I bought her. I mean, what do you buy for a woman who pretty much had everything she needed or wanted? Inevitably it was some knick-knack or something else she didn’t really need. When at West Point, it might have been a pin or brooch related to West Point. Of course she always acted as if it was the most precious thing in the world when she opened the gift on Christmas Day.

***Grandma and I at my West Point Graduation.***

Later, when Cathy and I married and were living in Germany, we typically sent her some German chocolates or something similar. Or, would have Mom and Dad pick up some steaks for her. We’d learned over the years it was better to give her food she could actually enjoy rather than yet another gift she didn’t really need.

Eventually Grandma passed away in 1996. It fell to Mom and my Aunt Pauline to go through her things and get her house ready for sale. Most of it was straight forward. The aunts and uncles claimed the items they wanted to remember Grandma by, and then we grandkids were offered a choice of remaining items. That’s how I ended up with the pink monkey and blue elephant glasses. I always remembered them from my childhood – drinking milk at Grandma’s kitchen table while eating her homemade date-nut bread.

One day during all of this, I received a call from mom. They’d come across a chest and when they opened it, they were a bit shocked. It was full of Christmas and Birthday presents Grandma had received over the years and never used. Each item had a tag saying who gave her the present. There were plates and bowls, and even unopened packages of brassieres (Grandma would never have used the word bra).

Among the items was an umbrella, with mine and Cathy’s name on it. The plastic box was still unopened. Mom gave it to us the next time we were home visiting.

I have to say, it’s a bit of an ugly umbrella. I suppose sometime back in the ‘70s the color combo might have been considered the height of good taste. No plain black or blue or red – it’s an in-your-face design with shades of brown and orange. Color-wise, it’s a perfect match for our 1970s era crockpot. It also turns out it is an incredibly durable product. Made in the ‘70s and first used in the late ‘90s, it’s still functional and going strong in 2024.

It currently resides in a storage stand in the mudroom, along with a basic black umbrella, a couple of walking sticks and some snowshoes. It’s only used a few times a year – usually late at night when I’m taking Carmen out to do her business and there’s a driving rain. Still, it never fails to make me smile and think of Grandma Grubaugh, a truly treasured gift.

Grizzly Bear Scat

We arrived at the ranger Station in Wrangell-St Elias National Park, Alaska. As we checked in for our backpacking trip to Dixie Pass, an older looking ranger eyed me. After a brief conversation, he asked, “Do you know what grizzly bear scat looks like?” I shook my head no.

Six months before meeting that ranger, Cathy turned 40 years old. We decided to celebrate her milestone birthday in Alaska the next summer and do some backpacking while there. Coincidentally, Cath’s sister Bonnie was marrying Don that June and they asked about coming with us for their honeymoon. We quickly said yes and started outlining the trip.

While we planned to visit several places, the highlight would be a four-day backpacking trip in Wrangell-St Elias National Park (WSNP). It is a vast national park that is the same size as Yellowstone National Park, Yosemite National Park, and Switzerland combined. Only Denali, also in Alaska, is a larger Park.

We specifically chose WSNP because of its remoteness. Unlike Denali, which has buses circling the park and regulates when and how people can enter the park, WSNP is a wilderness area with one 60-mile gravel road dead-ending at the town of McCarthy. I should mention that while McCarthy’s summertime population was 200, its winter population was just 13.

In the WSNP there were no trails, only suggested routes requiring map and compass skills. We eventually settled on a hike to Dixie Pass – a four-day, 28-mile round trip hike with 5,400 feet of elevation gain. The country was remote and about half the hike was above the tree line. It was also mosquito infested until you were above the tree line. Guidebooks suggested checking in and out with the Ranger Station at the entrance of the park for safety reasons.

***Part of Our Map for the Hike to Dixie Pass***

After Bonnie and Don’s wedding in June of ‘96, the four of us flew to Anchorage. We spent a few days seeing some sites and getting acclimated to the near continuous sunlight. Eventually we made our way to WSNP and checked in at the Ranger Station.

We signed in and spoke with one of the two rangers working that day and told him of our planned hike to Dixie Pass. He gave us a few safety tips and talked about the fact there were both black bears and brown bears (also known as grizzly bears) in the park. While black bears are usually more timid and less confrontational, the grizzly bear was totally different. They could attack even when unprovoked.

The ranger pointedly looked at us and then asked, “Have you bought any jingle-bells for attaching to your pack to make noise, so the bear know you are coming?” I answered, “No, we planned to attach our drinking cups to the outside of our packs so they would make noise.”

“Ahhhhhh. Did you bring any pepper spray with you?” – “Ummm, no. Should we have?”

“Hmmmmmmm. Do you know the difference between black bear skat (poo) and grizzly bear skat?” – “No, we don’t. Could you fill us in?”

He kind of smiled, and then said, “Sure. Black bear scat is sort of brownish and fibrous. You’ll often see berries in it as well. And grizzly bear scat? Well, it’s similar to black bear scat, but it also has jingle bells in it and smells like pepper!”

A half second passed and then all of us, including the ranger, burst out laughing. He’d reeled me in like a bluegill in a pond.

After the laughter ended, he did share that in WSNP, unlike Denali, there generally were no bear problems. There were so few people in the park that when the bear smelled or saw humans, they generally turned around or went in a different direction. They didn’t really know what we were and would probably avoid us. If we did come across a bear, stay still or slowly back away, don’t run, and things would probably turn out fine.

We thanked him for his help and then drove down the gravel road awhile before turning onto a dirt trail for a bit. Eventually, we arrived at a small, cleared area. We saw a small sign pointing towards Dixie Pass. There were no other cars.

***Cathy and Bonnie at the Start of the Hike.***

The hike itself was wonderful and everything we hoped for – beauty, silence, wilderness – Mother Nature at her best.

We definitely needed a map and compass to guide us, so both Boy Scout and Army skills came in handy. Mountains, valleys, creeks, draws, outcroppings … they all became important in identifying our route.

The mosquitos were horrible until we climbed above the tree line. A half mile into the hike, we needed our head nets and sprayed ourselves with 90% Deet. We used so much Deet, Cath’s running tights basically disintegrated when we returned home and she washed them.

***Cathy and Bonnie in Their Mosquito Netting, While Holding a Moose Antler.***

The route challenged us. There were multiple creek crossings, some two feet deep, and places where we hiked over snowpack. We switched to Tevas or sandles several times each day to keep our boots dry. There was also plenty of rock hopping where you were using both legs and arms to scramble over the boulders. While not really dangerous, the trail wasn’t for the faint of heart.

***Creeks and Snow and Boulders, Oh My!***

We finally arrived at Dixie Pass where there were gorgeous views in all directions. We lounged around, ate lunch and took some photos. Although it was June 30th, we were snowed on while hiking back down from the pass.

***View From Dixie Pass Looking Back at our Approach Route.***

On the 3rd morning around breakfast time, we did have a distant encounter with a brown bear, but the ranger was right. When the grizzly smelled us, he turned in another direction and gave us a wide berth. We were probably 75 yards or so away and watched him from a hillside. Still, I have to say it elevated my pulse.

Eventually, we finished the hike and our grand adventure ended. It was both a beautiful and challenging hike – one of those life events you never forget. For me, the story is never complete without also talking about the ranger, the jingle bells and the pepper spray. I laugh to this day when I tell the tale, and it always gets a chuckle.

***Bonnie, Don, Cathy and I at Dixie Pass.***

Uncle Noble

80 years ago this week, my “Uncle” Noble and the 9th Infantry Division sealed off the Cherbourg Peninsula eleven days after D-Day during WWII. I was thinking about him while watching the Band of Brothers on TV. When Easy Company jumped into Normandy for their first wartime engagement, Noble and the 9th had already been in combat for over 1 1/2 years.

Noble was Dad’s best friend, after his brothers, Mick and George. Both he and Dad joined the Army when underage in 1940, over a year before WWII started. They were in B Company, 60th Regimental Combat Team (RCT), of the storied 9th Infantry Division.

***Dad and Noble in ‘41 or early ‘42.***

Mom, Dad, “Uncle” Noble and “Aunt” Myra were great friends through the years and got together several times a year. The four of them had a close friendship that lasted a lifetime. I learned a lot about life, and about enjoying life from all of them, but particularly Dad and Noble. They told stories from their time in the Army – almost always funny stories of things that happened. The serious stuff? The stories of death and destruction? Those didn’t make it to the kitchen table where folks gathered, drinking coffee and listening, as these two combat veterans told their tales.

Noble’s actual WWII story is interesting. It’s one you can’t really tell without also telling the story of the 9th.

Dad and Noble’s wartime experience started on November 8th, 1942, when the 9th took part in the Invasion of North Africa. Until D-Day happened, it was the largest wartime amphibious assault ever. After three days of battle, they took Port Lyautey, Morocco and the Vichy French surrendered. After some downtime, in January of ‘43, the 60th RCT was the only unit selected to take part in a review for President Roosevelt who was at the Casablanca Conference. Dad and Noble were both there and told us funny stories of the comments in the ranks as Roosevelt passed their unit in a jeep for the review. “Hey Rosie – who’s leading the country while you’re over here?” “Hey Rosie – Who’s keeping Mamie warm while you’re over here?”

***Roosevelt Reviewing the 60th RCT During the Casablanca Conference***

Things got tough again after that. Starting in February, they fought their way across Algeria and then Tunisia. Station de Sened, Maknassy, Bizerte – forgotten names now, but deadly locations in the spring of ‘43. The Germans eventually surrendered at Bizerte, on May 9th, 1943, just over a year before D-Day.

The 9th wasn’t finished though. A little over two months later, in July of ‘43 they took part in the invasion of Sicily. The 60th conducted the famous “Ghost March” through the mountains of Sicily, which the Germans originally thought were impenetrable. Dad was shot three times there, and almost died. It took them a few days to evacuate Dad to an aid station, and then a hospital. The war was over for him and they eventually sent him back to the States.

***Chicago Tribune Asking for a Picture After Dad was Wounded.***

In fact Dad’s wounds were so severe, Noble thought he had died, or would die shortly. As they evacuated him, Noble and the 60th continued the fight. 38 days after the invasion began, Sicily fell on August 20th. Noble was there when Patton addressed the Division on August 26th, congratulating them for their efforts.

In September of ‘43, the 9th deployed to England for rest and refitting. With just over nine months until D-Day, the 60th had already fought in four countries on two continents.

On June 10th, D-Day plus 4, Noble and the 9th landed on Utah Beach. Their mission? Attack towards Cherbourg and cut off the peninsula. This they did and on the 17th of June, reached the ocean on the other side of the peninsula, and eventually, captured the port of Cherbourg itself. If you’ve forgotten your history, Cherbourg was critical for the allies to establish a port on the Atlantic Seaboard. Back home, the news singled out the 9th for their efforts.

***Ernie Pyle and Time Magazine Talking About the 9th on the Peninsula***

From there, they started on the great chase across France. The 9th advanced over 600 miles by the end of September thru France and into Belgium. In 3 1/2 months they were engaged in three major campaigns and were only out of action for a total of five days.

The 9th was among the first units entering Germany itself. For actions on December 12th in the Hurtgen Forest area of Germany, Noble’s unit, B company 60th RCT, received a Distinguished Unit Citation for combat actions in Germany. At the time, the company probably had around 80 or so men.

***Noble and B Company, in Action Just Before the Bulge***

Just after the 12th, The 9th was pulled out of the line due to the heavy casualties they had sustained. It was “resting” in the Monschau Forest area of Belgium, when on December 16th, 1944, the German winter offensive, the “Battle of the Bulge” started. Thrown back into combat, the Division beat back the enemy at the northern edge of “The Bulge”.

The Battle of the Bulge, The Ardennes, the fight across Germany to the Rhine River – Noble saw all of that. On 7 March, when the American 9th Armored Division captured the bridge across the Rhine River at Remagen, Noble and the 60th RCT were among the first Infantry units to cross under heavy fire and defend the bridgehead from the East side of the Rhine.

On across Germany – The Ruhr, The Hartz Mountains… On April 26th, 1945, a patrol from the 60th RCT linked up with the Russians at the Elbe River. The war in Europe officially ended on May 7th.

Noble spent 2 1/2 years in combat, fought in seven countries and survived without a scratch. Miracles do happen.

In 1950, a minor miracle also happened.

In July of that year, a knock came at my parent’s door and Mom answered. A young couple was standing there and wanted to know if William Hall lived there. Mom said yes and called Dad. All of a sudden there was yelling, and exclamations, and hugging, and dancing and back pounding – it was Noble, and his new wife Myra.

It turned out Noble and Myra were traveling from a vacation in Wisconsin back to Southern Illinois where they lived, when they passed our hometown – Ottawa. Noble thought Dad had died in Sicily, and then remembering he was from Ottawa, decided to stop in and see if he could find Dad’s parents and offer his condolences. He looked the name William Hall up in the phone book, and stopped off at the local VFW to see if anyone knew of Dad or his relations. They then drove to the address from the phone book, assuming it was my grandfather’s home. Instead, he and Dad saw each other for the first time since August of 1943 in Sicily.

I was born in ’55 and named Max Noble Hall in honor of Noble. I always enjoyed seeing him and Myra over the years during their visits. Later, at West Point, and then while spending my own time in the Army, I often asked myself if I was measuring up to these men from B Company of the 60th RCT.

***Noble and Dad in the Mid-‘70s in Ottawa. Still Ready to Kick Ass.***

I feel so lucky having known them and having heard the stories Noble and Dad told. It’s only in the last decade I’ve matched those stories up to the details in history books. I can tell you they greatly underplayed what they did for America and the free world. What I wouldn’t give for another day with Noble and Dad – listening to the stories, and this time, asking more questions.

The “Greatest Generation” is mostly gone now. I think it’s important we not let them, or their stories be forgotten.

Here’s to you Uncle Noble. Thanks for everything you did for this country and being an influence in my life. It’s a debt I can never repay.

Addendum:

Some of this blog was extracted from a blog I did a few years ago about Dad and three of his buddies from the 9th. You can read it here if you want: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2016/06/17/dad-deason-boggs-and-noble/
I relied on the book, “Eight Stars to Victory, A History of the Veteran Ninth U.S. Infantry Division”, published in 1948, as background for much of the factual information in this blog.

Tyranny at the Townhouse

Cath and I bought our first home 35 years ago in June of 1989. It was a townhouse in Fairfax, VA and we were excited. It turned out our townhouse was in a Homeowner Association (HOA), a term I’d never heard before, but grew to hate. Our skirmishes with them lasted a decade.

After living in Germany for most of the ‘80s, we returned to the DC area for our next assignment with the Army. We also decided it was time to take the plunge and buy a home.

After looking at numerous townhouses (we couldn’t afford a house at that point), we finally found one we liked in Fairfax – four years old, with only one previous owner. Going through the paperwork, we learned our townhouse was in an HOA, a term we’d never heard. Our agent explained we would pay dues to the HOA and they did things like maintaining common grounds, pay for children’s playgrounds, and “help maintain the standards of the community.”

Now I’m not saying our agent acted dishonestly, but she didn’t quite go into the details of what “maintain the standards of the community” meant. She more or less explained it as making sure people kept their houses painted and looking nice, as how the neighborhood looked affected our property values. I suppose we should have/could have done our own research, but we were eager to buy, and that made sense. We didn’t think anything more about it, signed away our lives and bought the home.

We moved in and all was going well. As we’d done since we owned our first horse in 1983, we hung a horseshoe over the door for good luck. We’d done so at our apartment in Augusta, Georgia, our rented townhome in Dayton, Ohio and both houses we rented in Rheindurkheim, Germany. Couldn’t we all use a little extra luck?

About a month after we moved in, the HOA sent out a notice. They were having elections for all positions and we were encouraged to attend. The night of the election, we showed up, and I was impressed. There were a couple of speeches, printed ballots and then the actual elections themselves. Wow! We were watching democracy in action! This was amazingly cool. Little did I know, or really understand.

Another month passed and Cath and I received a notice in the mail. We were in violation of HOA rules. What!? The letter informed us that in accordance with section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), nothing was allowed on the door or over the door. Our horseshoe was in violation.

This couldn’t be! I called the number in the letter and the person picked up. I said I didn’t understand. What rules? How could a good luck horseshoe hanging over the door violate anything? The gentlemen referred to the HOA code. I said, “What code? We just moved in and never received any code.” He answered, “Yes you did. Check your closing documents when you bought the house. You’ll find a copy there.”

I pulled out our folder from closing, and sure enough, found the HOA document. I turned to section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), and he was right – nothing was allowed on or above the door, except during the Christmas holidays when a suitable wreath or garland could be hung.

D@mn.

With a great deal of complaining, I took down the horseshoe. I think that’s when my unofficial war with the HOA began.

I went back to the rule book and read through it in its entirety. There were, to put it mildly, a lot of rules and regulations. More than you would think possible.

I spent a fair amount of time over the next several weeks reading those rules, when all of a sudden, I noticed something. While they said nothing could hang on or over the door, it didn’t say anything about the window frame, three feet left of the door. I read and reread the rules and could find nothing prohibiting hanging something on the window frame. I immediately hung our horseshoe by the window.

About a month later we received another notice saying we were in violation of section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), just like before. I called the number again, spoke with the same gentleman and asked what the problem was. He said, “One of our inspectors told us you’ve put the horseshoe back up.” I answered, “Not above the door.” He answered, “nothing is allowed on the front of the house.” I paused slightly and said “That’s not what section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3) says. It only talks about the door.” He answered, “It means the front of the house.” I answered, “That’s not what it says.”

—Silence—

Then, from his end “I am referring this to the board. I’d advise you to take the horseshoe down.”

I left the horseshoe up. Surprisingly, I never heard back from the HOA or received another letter about it. Score a small victory for the Halls, along with justice and the American Way.

***On Our Front Porch With Some Neighbors. Note the Horseshoe on the Window Framing. 😉***

Other letters arrived over the years. I won a couple and lost a couple. My trim paint was off a shade in color one year and I lost that one. A year later, I found out the fence around our back yard was actually inset 3 feet from the community property line and decided to move the fence back to the line itself. If you live in a townhouse, three feet is a big deal.

The HOA dutifully sent us another letter saying we had illegally moved our fence and needed to restore it to its original location. I asked where it said in the HOA rules that a setback was required. I already knew the answer, but waited for them to find it as well – it didn’t say anything about a setback anywhere. Score another one for the Halls. Two of my neighbors subsequently moved their fences back in the coming months.

Our last victory, though probably illegal, provided great joy. It was in ‘97 or ‘98.

Parking is usually tight in townhouse communities and regularly managed. In our community, people were parking, usually temporarily, in places where they shouldn’t, including at the end of the pipe-stem we lived on. The HOA dutifully painted the curb in front our house yellow and wrote “NO PARKING” in black letters on the curb. This was fine. As I said, no one really parked there anyway, unless they were packing up or unloading a car.

Of course, the HOA couldn’t let it end with the painting. They also put up two “NO PARKING” signs at either end of the yellow paint. One of the signs was literally right in front of our door. I was, needless to say, pissed. It looked ugly setting right in front of our front door, and if approaching our home from the street, you needed to walk around the sign to reach our house. Note, the HOA put the signs up, not the town or county. As a result, they didn’t use any concrete, they just put the sign in the ground, something that turned out to be important.

Each day when I came home from work, I rocked the sign back and forth just a little bit. And then a little bit more. And then a little bit more. It became looser in the ground.

A couple months later, we were having a small party. Our neighbors, Laura and Jason, were moving to Texas and we were saying goodbye. A U-Haul truck was parked in front of their house and they were loading it, with some of our help. Suddenly, a genius idea came to me.

“Hey Jason. Just curious, will you have any spare room in the back of the truck? I may have something I’d like to ship to Texas.” He answered, “I think a little bit. How much do you need?”

I said, “ENOUGH FOR A NO PARKING SIGN!.” and smiled. He smiled back and replied, “I think we could fit in one of those.”

And so, over the next hour or so, we worked on the sign. Cathy had the honor of pulling it out of the ground. ;-). Jason and I loaded it into his truck sometime after dark.

***Cathy Triumphantly Holding up the “No Parking Sign”!***

We never did hear anything from the HOA about the incident, which seemed a bit strange given the number of people at the party. Maybe everyone else was fed up as well.

I do understand the need at one level for HOAs, particularly in something like a townhouse community, or with a Condo Association. There are some central costs, and you do want your neighborhood looking good. Still, I’ve always wondered what kind of junior fascist signs up as an inspector for their neighborhood. Do they think they are doing good, or are they just addicted to control?

In ’99, we left Fairfax and moved to our present home in the country. One of the requirements for the new property? It couldn’t be in an HOA. ;-).

At Rohan farm, our horseshoe proudly hangs over the garage door.

***The Horseshoe’s Still Hanging, Even After All These Years.***

Addendum:

I don’t really remember that it was section II, paragraph B, sub paragraph 3), but it was referenced similarly.

Spreadsheets and Stories

Mom and Dad’s wedding anniversary was last week. They were married 73 years ago on May 14th, 1951. I was thinking about them and how both influenced my life and the lives of others. Many people say I remind them of dad, but Cathy, my wife, says mom shines through me.

In my view, both views are right and I’m a product of the two of them. Upbringing and genetics combined, making me who I am, although not always in ways people think.

Our environment at home was a good one. They had a unified front in how to raise the three of us kids and supported and reinforced each other at home. I’m hard pressed to remember a single time with any separation between them in their views about how to raise us. Home was a good environment, but they were also strict about what we could and couldn’t do as kids. They certainly encouraged us, and gave us carrots/rewards, but they also weren’t opposed to spankings and we all received our fair share. We learned about honesty, work, fairness, friendship and love in our home on Cherokee Lane. I think that environment and those ideals prepared me for life.

There were differences in their individual personalities and how they approached life for themselves. Like many good marriages, their ways were complementary to each other and for them, it was a classic case of 1 + 1 = 3. I’ll talk about a couple of examples here and how they rubbed off on me.

Most who know me would say I’m pretty organized – some might even say anally so. I’ve been that way for much of my life. I use to-do lists, spreadsheets, outlines, plans … probably more than most. While some think I inherited that from dad, it’s actually pure mom. That’s how she attacked life, and her work. She was the secretary in the main office at our local high school. If you needed to find out something, the standard answer was “go ask Gen”. When I applied to West Point, it was mom who organized everything, making sure my packet was complete and reflected well on me.

***Mom and I on Graduation Day at West Point.***

I’ve thought about how much of my “orderliness” was a product of her, or of my time at West Point and in the Army. Maybe over the years, they became mutually reinforcing.

Dad on the other hand, was a bit looser in his approach to life. I’m not sure how much the war influenced him, but I think quite a bit. I’m betting getting wounded and almost dying makes you approach a lot of things differently, and so it was with dad. He was a hard worker, but when work was done, he enjoyed life. Dinners out, dancing, having a few drinks. When the weekend came, he was ready to enjoy it and life. I think he approached life in general that way, and tried not to let things burden or worry him, even when there were challenges.

He was also a gifted storyteller. Telling tales about his childhood, or the war, or one of the railroads he worked for – he could tell his story and make you feel you were right there. You were living it with him while he talked. It was a special gift and over the years if you were ever with dad at our home, or somewhere else, you probably heard more than a few of his stories. Even when he repeated them, he could still make you laugh.

One other thing about Dad. He never made all that much money, but money never had a hold on him. He was always generous, with family, friends and strangers.

I certainly inherited his lust for life and try to enjoy every day. As for story telling, well, I think I have some of his ability to tell a tale, however if I’m honest with myself, I’m only a pale imitation in that department. It’s perhaps what I miss about him the most.

***Dad and I Swapping Stories, While Drinking Some Wine in the Alps***

They both were friends with people of all ages and had the ability to put people at ease. When traveling, they would inevitably make new friends.

My cousin Dawn may have given the best description of mom and dad I’ve ever heard. “Your mom was like home. Comfortable and warm. Your dad was like a spark that gets a flame going then keeps the fire dancing. They were special people. I’m smiling now thinking about it.”

Although both mom and dad have passed on, I’m wishing them a happy belated anniversary. I’m thankful for the gifts they’ve given me, and for the enrichment they brought so many others.

***Happy Anniversary and Thank You for Everything.***

Addendum:

Thanks to my cousin, Dawn Tedrick, for her wonderful description of my folks!

Top and Cathy

With no kids to talk about, Cath and I have a million stories about our dogs, particularly our first dog, Top. Don’t parents always have the most pictures and stories about their first born?! A German friend called Top “Einmalig”, which translates to “one of a kind”. This story, from 1981, involved Top, Cathy hitting a tree with our car, the MPs, the German Polizei and a little old lady. We were stationed in Würzburg, Germany at the time.

***Cathy and Top, Around the Time of the Story.***

Cathy had been shopping at the commissary and was returning home with both Top and our groceries in the back seat. Here is her version of what happened.

#—#

Top and I were on our way home from shopping at the commissary at Leighton Barracks in Würzburg one afternoon. As we entered a traffic circle, I must have been going a little too fast, as the groceries fell over onto Top and scared him. Out of my peripheral vision I saw him try and jump out my car window. I caught him by the collar and pulled him back into the car, but of course I didn’t pay attention to where I was driving. When I looked back at the road I was heading straight for a tree, which I hit. I must have only glanced off of it because the car was fine, or so I thought at the time.

I kept driving and stopped at a red light, where reaction to the accident set in. I said to Top in the back seat, “Well at least we are still together and OK!” I looked in the back and Top wasn’t there – he jumped out of the window after all. I pulled over and imagining the worst, got out of the car and looked under it, making sure I hadn’t dragged him by his leash. No Top there, so that was a small bit of grace, but where was he, and what to do?

I was near the American MP station, so I drove there. I repeated the story of what happened, and they decided it would be prudent to call the Polizei.

In Germany, they treat their animals and trees well. Really well. If you illegally kill an animal or damage or fell a tree, there are hefty fines. Hearing we were involving the PoIizei, I naturally became concerned and worried about both them and a potential fine. My only real interaction with the Polizei up to this time was at the German airports where they guarded against terrorists, were always in riot gear and carrying automatic weapons. You didn’t mess around with them.

The Polizei arrived and looked a bit stern at first. I explained everything again, this time in German, and at one point I think I saw one of the Polizei hiding a laugh or a small smirk. I should point out you generally didn’t see the Polizei laughing. In this instance they were quite nice and helpful. We determined the tree wasn’t really damaged and they let me go with a warning to drive more carefully.

As I was getting ready to leave, it turned out something was wrong with the car, as it was making a funny noise. The MPs and I decided to leave the car at the MP station and have someone pick me up. We called Hindenburg Kaserne where Max was stationed, but he had deployed to an undisclosed location in the field and was unreachable. His company said they would send Lieutenant Smrt (yes, that really was his last name – it had no vowels) from his Company to pick me up.

I was waiting on a corner for LT Smrt’s arrival when all of a sudden Top, seemingly without a care, trotted down the sidewalk towards me, trailing his leash. I grabbed him and sat on the corner hugging and holding him, crying tears of joy and relief. A little old lady who was walking by, stopped and asked me what was wrong and “Ist dein Hund krank?” (Is your dog sick?) I looked at her and just couldn’t go through the story a third time, and for a second time in German. I said the easiest thing that came to mind. “Ja. Er hat Krebs.” (Yes, he has cancer.) She petted Top, wished us good luck and looking sad, walked away.

We’ve told this story over the years and it always gets a chuckle. I laugh at myself a bit in the telling. We spoke fluent, or near fluent German at the time, but I was so overwhelmed with emotions, the “Krebs” story was the best I could do.

#—#

Top was with us for 16 years, dying, not of cancer, but old age in 1997. By then he was a world traveler, having crossed the Atlantic three times, visited numerous European countries and several States back home. He truly was Einmalig and we still miss him and his antics.

Addendum:

Here are three previous blogs about Top.

I don’t know if our dog,Top, could bark in both German and English, but he had a fluent understanding of the two languages … We discovered this outside our local Bäckerei (Bakery), when an old German lady bent down, looked at Top and said “Gib mir deine Pfote”. As she extended her hand, Top […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/07/15/our-bilingual-dog-top/
Next month, it will be 25 years since our first dog, Top, passed away. He was 17 at the time. I was recently thinking about him, as we placed baskets on couches and chairs, so our current dog, Carmen, couldn’t hop up for a quick snooze while we were out. We weren’t that smart with Top. He was a covert couch sleeper the entire […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/12/01/let-sleeping-dogs-lie/
Top was our first dog, but not our last. When he died in 1997 at seventeen years of age, I think we cried for three days. We still have a book with all of the sympathy cards our friends sent us. If you want to know a bit more about Top, here’s the eulogy we read when we spread his ashes at Tibbet Knob, on the border between Virginia and West Virginia […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/01/09/top/

Making Espresso

When we returned from Germany in ‘83 there were many things we missed from our 4 1/2 years in Europe. One of those items was coffee. Good Coffee. Cathy rectified that by buying me a small Espresso/Cappuccino Maker for Christmas that year. 40 years later, it still brews decent coffee, even if it looks old and outdated.

We were happy to return to the States, but in addition to good coffee, there were a number of things we missed from our time overseas, including good bier and cheese. The craft bier movement wouldn’t really hit its stride in the US until the ‘90s. As a result, Michelob or Heileman’s Special Export were what passed for top-shelf domestic beer at the time. The cheese market in the states consisted of American, Swiss and Cheddar once you were outside of Wisconsin or a couple of places in New York and Northern California. That too would change, but in the early ‘80s, it was a desert. Of course you could buy imported beer (back then, Lowenbrau or Heineken), or imported cheese, but there weren’t any real American products. I was further mystified to find the concept of a charcuterie board hadn’t reached the States – how was it possible something we routinely ate for lunch in a German Gasthaus didn’t even exist here?! And don’t get me started on wine…

Yes, I know this all sounds like an old man rant, and if I were saying it now, it would be. I was saying this in 1983, at the grand old age of 28.

Back to coffee. ;-).

Coffee in Germany and Europe was so much more than just a pot of brewed coffee. The Europeans made stronger coffee in general – not more bitter, just stronger and with great flavor. At the Gasthäuser (local restaurants) we visited, it was always made fresh – it wasn’t from a pot that was sitting for hours. In the afternoon, you could visit a Konditorei (the German word for a pâtisserie or confectionery shop) for a coffee and a sweet treat of some sort. The coffees varied from regular, to espresso, to cappuccino, to café au lait (coffee with a separate small pitcher of hot steamed and slightly frothed milk you added to your coffee). One of our great pleasures was sitting outside at a cafe in Berlin, or Paris, or Vienna, or Monte Carlo or any number of cities having a coffee, while watching the world pass by. I become nostalgic even today thinking about it.

There wasn’t the same type of coffee availability here in the States in ‘83. Starbucks started in Seattle in 1971, but didn’t really begin expanding until the late ‘80s. Although local coffee shops existed in some places, The “Local Coffee Shop” was an idea that hadn’t yet come into its own.

At the time, we were stationed in Dayton, Ohio. At a local mall, we discovered a shop that sold coffee beans. (I can’t remember if you could actually also buy a cup of coffee there or not.) In any case, we bought a grinder, and started grinding our own beans for our regular coffee pot at home and were able to make a stronger cup of coffee. We also bought espresso beans and used our Italian stovetop espresso maker (known as a Moka pot, it cost all of $6 when we bought it in Italy in ‘82 – I see they run $25 plus on Amazon now) to make a decent espresso. Half the problem was solved.

***Our Old Moka Pot Also Still Works Well.***

Cathy solved the other half of the problem that Christmas when she gave me an Espresso/Cappuccino maker. I was thrilled and started using it that very day. It became a fixture at our house and if you visited us in the ‘80s through the mid ‘90s, I practically forced a coffee on you

***A Great Christmas Present in 1983!***

Espressos? Sure. In addition, my after-dinner cappuccinos became a point of pride and were quite good, if I do say so myself. I’d add a capful of Cointreau for a sweetener and grind a little fresh nutmeg on the top of the foam. We also did Irish Cappuccinos. I think you know how I made those.

Somewhere along the way, other manufacturers started selling upscale Espresso machines of better quality. Now days, you can easily spend between $500 and $1,600 on a high-end espresso/coffee maker. Breville, Rancillo, Gaggia and others all make excellent machines … at a price. Over the years, I looked at a couple of them, but never pulled the trigger. We have a couple of friends who own them. One uses his religiously. Another found it more trouble than it was worth and it now sits on the counter, mostly unused. For my friends* that own super nice espresso machines and are real aficionados, good for you, and I’m happy for you. I’m sure you can probably make a better espresso than I can, and that’s OK.

Coffee shops are now ubiquitous here and these days you can’t trip without falling into one of them. They generally make great coffee. There are a few good local shops near us not named Starbucks, and I prefer those. If you ask, they’ll serve you your coffee in an actual coffee cup – not some crap paper cup.

Over time, I backed off using our little machine quite as much. Life was too busy, or I’d lost interest. And then, after retiring about a decade ago, I started using it more again. Usually, it’s in the afternoon and Cath and I feel the need for a little pick-me-up. I’ll make us cappuccinos and we take a break from life and sit and sip our coffees for ten or fifteen minutes. It’s a nice pause, especially on a winter day with fresh snow outside.

***Yes, It Still Makes a Decent Cappuccino. Nutmeg and Cointreau are Optional.***

Yes, over the last forty years, we here in the States have caught up to Europe on bier, cheese, good everyday wine and even charcuterie boards. As for coffee, I’m guessing we have more coffee shops than Europe now days.

At home, I would bet we’ve gone through five or six regular coffee machines since 1983. They die every six or seven years. Our Maxim Espresso Machine? It’s a little banged up but works fine and keeps chugging along. How many forty-year-old machines do you have in your home you can say the same thing about?

Addendum:

* I do know there are lots of great espresso makers out there, and that those of you who have them can pull a better shot, with more crema than I can. I certainly mean no criticism of those machines and am, at least a little, envious of you. My point in this blog was about my machine being 40 years old, and there’s not much that lasts that long anymore. Still, it’s interesting. In Italy, rather than buying an elaborate espresso machine, over 3/4 of the country still uses their stove-top espresso machine (Moka pots) everyday for their first cup of coffee. You can read more about the Moka pot here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Moka_pot
The blue coffee cup with my name on it is a bit precious to me. It was a gift from our old friend Tim in ‘80 or ‘81. He bought it while visiting us in Germany and gave it as a gift. Tim passed away last December.

Valentine’s Day

I’m one of those guys who, although not always in a timely fashion, notices milestones in my life. It turns out this Valentine’s Day is the 51st Cathy and I have shared. Yea, our first was in 1973, when we were both students at Ottawa High School.

***Cath and I in the OHS Yearbook for ‘73***

At the time, we had been dating for about eight months. I have no memory of what we did on that momentous occasion. Cathy doesn’t either. 🙂

***At Homecoming Dance, a few Months Before our First Valentine’s Day.***

When I was at West Point, with Cathy in DC, we were always apart and sent letters or cards to each other for the big day. (You remember letters don’t you?) Later in the ‘80s during our tours of duty in Germany with the Army, I’m sure we were separate on at least half of those Valentine’s Day, with me deployed on maneuvers or Temporary Duty somewhere. We probably enjoyed a celebratory dinner after I returned home, but again, I don’t remember.

It’s only since the ‘90s and civilian life that I think we’ve regularly celebrated Valentine’s Day. I know we did trips away or dinners out at nice restaurants several times. Later, we became tired of the rush and crowding of restaurants and celebrated more at home. A nice dinner – steaks, or a special pasta dish, or maybe a cheese and charcuterie board with champagne in front of the fireplace. Sometimes there were gifts, sometimes not.

I was thinking about our past celebrations, as I’ve seen ads in the lead-up to Valentine’s Day this year – Godiva or Ferrero Rocher chocolates; flower delivery services; special cards from Hallmark; sexy underwear; and of course, jewelry, including Kay’s and Pandora. The New York Times even ran an article about “The 31 best Valentine’s Day gifts for her”. One of the “great” things about America is we always find a way to make a buck off of anything.

***More Suggestions of Chocolate, Underwear, Flowers and Fake Flowers.***

I took a further trip down memory lane and reread our wedding vows. We had dutifully recited, as many couples do, “For better, for worse; For richer, for poorer; in sickness and in health; … as long as we both shall live…” I also reread what Reverend Fred Fullerton*, my high school classmate and the minister at our wedding, asked for in prayer concerning our marriage: “strengthen and deepen it through time… steady it by toil… crown it with greatness through self-discipline… purify it in the crucible of our inevitable human pain…”

***Fred’s Thoughtful Prayer for our Marriage and Life Together.***

We’ve certainly seen for better and worse, trying financial times and our fair share of sickness. I like to think our love has strengthened and deepened over time and we have constantly worked at our marriage over our years together. Challenges and pain have happened, as they inevitably do. As is always the case, how we respond to those challenges is more important than the challenge itself.

In the past year, we’ve had constant reminders of both the joy and the fragility of life. We have celebrated good times with family and friends. We’ve also witnessed deaths with some of those same friends and family members. We’ve confronted new injuries and diseases, both our own and other folk’s. Lately, our lives seem to be on one of those roller coasters all of us occasionally experience.

51 years. Cripes, that’s over half a century. We still enjoy celebrating Valentine’s Day and I think have learned to take nothing in life for granted. This year, we are staying home and will keep it simple – Steak Diane and a nice red wine. We’ll celebrate our past. And then, we’ll clink our glasses and toast our future together for as long as we both shall live.

I love you hon….

Addendum:

Reverend Fred Fullerton was my good friend and high school classmate in the OHS class of ‘73. He was also our class president. He became a minister in the Nazarene Church. We are very proud to have been the first marriage service he preformed.

Tammy

Recently, I stopped in at David’s Barbershop for a haircut. My usual barber wasn’t there and instead, Tammy cut my hair. We were making small talk, when I learned she was one of the original boat people* who escaped from Vietnam. She told a fascinating story filled with both sadness and hope.

You know what I mean by barbershop small talk with a new barber – the weather, what’s new in town, whether I was retired… When I asked where she was originally from, she said Ho Chi Minh City, but left as a young girl. I asked her if she was one of the boat people. She looked at me, nodded and started telling her story.

After the fall of Saigon (now Ho Chi Minh City) in 1975, things became tougher in what was then South Vietnam. The North Vietnamese were rooting out “problems” and people who were, perhaps, too close to the previous government in the South. Tammy’s extended family decided that in order to survive, they needed to leave Vietnam.

They considered going overland to Thailand but discarded the idea. The only practical way was via boat as many others were already doing. Tammy’s aunt, her father’s older sister, took on the task of organizing the escape for their family.

Eventually, she found a boat making the trip to the Philippines. The boat held 50 people total and they secured passage. They were told when and where to meet the boat and have the remaining necessary funds with them.

***They Would Attempt to Cross the South China Sea, Heading for the Philippines.***

On the appointed day, they arrived early at the location and the boat was waiting for them. They made their final payments and boarded. Her father suddenly remembered something he needed from their house. Tammy doesn’t remember exactly what it was, only that it was important. There was plenty of time, so he left the boat and told them he would be back soon.

Time passed. Her father didn’t return. More time passed and her father still hadn’t returned. Finally, it was time for the boat to leave. Tammy’s aunt tried persuading the captain to delay the departure, but it was to no avail and the ship departed. Tammy never saw her father again.

The journey was a perilous one, as they needed to cross the South China Sea to reach the Philippines. They didn’t encounter pirates on their trip, which was sometimes common, however they did face bad weather and rough seas and the ship became lost. Although the captain piloted them back on route, they spent six days without food or water, before eventually landing in the Philippines. 49 people departed Vietnam. Unlike many of the boats evacuating people, all 49 arrived alive at their destination. Her father would have been the 50th person.

***A Boat Similar to the One Tammy and Her Family Used.***

Her family spent one or two years in a refugee camp in the Philippines, before eventually relocating to the United States. There she would meet her husband, also a Vietnamese refuge. He became an electrical engineer and eventually worked for the United States government. They raised two sons, one of whom graduated from George Mason with a degree in Cybersecurity, and the other from Virginia Tech with a degree in Software Development.

Tammy finished cutting my hair and I thanked her for the haircut and for sharing her story. I’d gone to the barbershop for a haircut – I also left with a small history lesson.

While driving home, I thought about Tammy, her family and other Vietnamese who came to this country in the aftermath of the Vietnam War. Wikipedia tells us about 2 million people attempted to flee Vietnam by boat. Somewhere between 200,000 and 400,000 people died. Roughly 800,000 were successful in finding a new home. Over 400,000, including Tammy, eventually settled in the United States.

All they wanted was a bit of freedom and a better life than what they saw coming at home. They were willing to risk death or imprisonment. Tammy and her family achieved some version of their dream here in America, although at the price of losing her father. Since then, she has contributed to our country and her children will contribute to our future.

In many ways, her story isn’t so different from the indentured servants, the Puritans, the Irish, the Italians, the Eastern European Jews, the Mexicans or others who have emigrated to America over the course of our history. People left home, often at great peril, to flee persecution, or seek a better life or greater freedom. For many, upon reaching America there was a period of adjustment on their part, and resistance by those already here, before they too were accepted and became a part of the melting pot.

It is a story as old as America itself and regularly repeats over the decades and centuries of our history. Personally, I believe it builds up who we are as a country. They say the strongest steel is forged in the hottest fires. Thank heaven for Tammy and people like her who have faced great adversity and are now a part of America. We need them to continue strengthening the steel of this country.

Addendum:

Some older people may have forgotten the story of the Vietnamese Boat People, and those who are younger may have never heard about them. The short version of the story goes like this: the United States left Vietnam in 1973. In 1975 30 North Vietnamese divisions were involved in the fight to take South Vietnam. A great number of the troops defending South Vietnam were concerned about their own families and deserted. The North Vietnamese moved rapidly through South Vietnam and Saigon fell in April of 1975. After the fall, many South Vietnamese were in fear of their lives under the new government and fled, or tried to flee South Vietnam. This took place between 1975 and the early ‘90s, with the highest period of flight from ’78 – ‘79. While some travelled overland, trying to reach Thailand, most went by boat with destinations of Thailand, the Philippines, Malaysia, Hong Kong and Guam.
Thanks to my friend and West Point Classmate, Ken Bresnahan, for some assistance with this blog.

Live Life Exuberantly

max's occasional blog about life

Tag: #oldstories

Glacier Skiing

Grandma’s Umbrella

Grizzly Bear Scat

Uncle Noble

Tyranny at the Townhouse

Spreadsheets and Stories

Top and Cathy

Making Espresso

Valentine’s Day

Tammy

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