Tag: #oldstories

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

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Dad and a Cuppa Joe

Sometimes, it’s the little things we remember. With a small assist from Burt Lancaster, I once surprised Dad with a present of WWII mess hall coffee mugs he’d been trying to find in antique shops for years. The gift brought joy to both of us at the time, and continues giving me comfort to this day.

Dad always liked his coffee. From the time we were kids, I remember the role it played in his life. On early weekday mornings, he packed the big thermos with him as he left for work on the railroad. On weekends, there was a pot available all day long on Saturdays, and half the day on Sunday. On Saturday mornings, various uncles or aunts stopped by. They all sat around the kitchen table drinking endless cups of coffee, while telling, or retelling, the stories of their youth, and the war years. We kids often listened in, laughing at the stories we came to know by heart.

I started understanding a bit more about his love for coffee when I was applying to West Point. On a couple of occasions, dad drove me to Fort Sheridan (an Army Post in Illinois that no longer exists) for a physical and a fitness test. As we were walking on the Post, he surprised me by becoming a bit nostalgic for the “good old days” in the Army, and talked about how good the coffee was. I think he may have even joked with one of the folk we interfaced with about reenlisting, if he could have a cup of coffee from the Mess Hall. It’s strange, the things you remember, but I distinctly recall the conversations about Army coffee on those trips. It was about 27 years after World War II and he was 48 at the time.

Dad in the “Good Old Days” in 1941, Sometime Before Pearl Harbor

I eventually graduated from West Point and Cath and I were deployed to Germany for most of the ‘80s. We didn’t see Mom and Dad much during our time overseas.

In ‘85, Dad retired from the railroad, and he and mom started traveling more, particularly to jazz concerts around the country. They also managed to visit us in Germany in ‘88. While there, dad talked about their travels. In a side conversation, he mentioned they also typically visited “antique” stores during their trips. He was looking for mess hall coffee mugs from WWII, but hadn’t found any. I was intrigued. What the hell do WWII mess hall coffee mugs look like, and why did he want them?

In Dad’s words, they were thick, heavy white mugs with no handle. You could put both hands around the mug when you took your first sip in the morning, and the mug warmed your hands. He’d used them throughout his time in the Army during the war. I mean, he was waxing poetic about these mugs. I still didn’t quite know what they looked like, but that was OK. During their visit, we stopped in a couple of shops with older items, and Dad would poke around. His thinking was maybe during the occupation of Germany after the war, some mugs made it into the local economy. The looking was to no avail, and no mugs were found.

Dad, Cathy and I at a Winefest on the ‘88 Trip to Germany.

We eventually returned to the States in ‘89, and on a visit at Mom and Dad’s over Christmas, Dad and I were watching TV. The classic WWII movie, From Here to Eternity, was on. You know the movie… Burt Lancaster, Montgomery Clift, Frank Sinatra, Donna Reed, Debora Kerr and Ernest Borgnine. It has the great scene with Lancaster and Kerr kissing on the beach as the waves crash over them.

As we were watching, Dad suddenly shouted out “There’s the coffee mug! Look in Burt’s hand!” What!? I look up, and I’ll be damned. Just as the Japanese are about to attack Pearl Harbor, there’s Burt with a white, thick, handleless coffee mug… which he immediately throws on the ground to go out and confront the attacking Japanese.

Everyone Knows the Scene of Burt and Deborah Kerr on the Beach, but Dad and I Were More Interested in Burt and the Coffee Mug.

I’d completely forgotten about the mugs until Dad’s outburst. Of course I immediately asked him how the hunt was going. He’d visited a lot of shops, but never seen any, or really even met anyone who knew what he was looking for.

At the time, I was involved in a couple of classified Black programs for the military and traveling a fair amount. Cathy couldn’t know where I was going, only the approximate day of my return. On the trips, we could only use cash, and no credit cards were allowed. We often had some spare time, and now that I knew how the mugs looked, I too started poking around in the occasional store.

A couple of years went by, and I wasn’t having much luck either. That changed in the spring of ‘93. I was looking around a junk shop in the middle of no where, and there they were – Six of them! Holy hell. Were these really them? I asked the owner what he knew about them, which wasn’t much, only that they were old coffee mugs. It was enough for me. I counted out some cash, bought all six mugs, and returned home with them a week later.

Six Handleless Coffee Mugs, Bought with Cash at an Unnamed Location

Cathy and I thought about giving them to Dad for a Christmas or Birthday present, however those were still a while away. Mom and Dad were coming for a visit in July, and we decided we would give them to him then, with a twist. Rather than just hand them over, we would not say anything, serve soup in them, and see if Dad noticed.

They finally made it to Virginia and the big night arrived. It was a beautiful evening, and we ate dinner in the backyard on the picnic table. Cathy made Gazpacho for a first course, and we served it in the mugs. As she and I brought the soup out, we set a mug in front of each of us.

I could hardly contain myself, I was so excited. We started eating and both Mom and Dad complemented Cath on the soup. There was no word from Dad on the mugs. Were these not the right ones? We continued eating, and all of a sudden Dad paused, and started looking at his mug. He looked more intently, and then, “Say! I … I … I think these are the mess hall coffee mugs!”, at which point I burst out laughing.

Dad verified these were INDEED the mugs. By then, we were all laughing, and I told him the story of how I found them.

We used those mugs for coffee in the morning for the rest of their visit. Dad would use both hands, and bring it up to his mouth and nose to inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, probably the same way he did back in 1940-‘45. When they left, I sent four of the mugs home with them, and kept two for us.

Nostalgia and Coffee. What’s Not to Like?

Eventually, Dad passed away in 2010. At some point in time, mom gave the four mugs back to us. Occasionally, I use one of them for my own Cuppa Joe in the morning. I feel the warmth of the mug in my hands, inhale the smell of the fresh brewed coffee, and think back to Dad – It’s a wonderful way to start the day.

Addendum:

If you want to see the scene of Burt Lancaster with the coffee mug as the Japanese are attacking Pearl Harbor, you can view it here: https://youtu.be/2UxTGH7cR5Y

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.

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl

The Puke Bowl. Do all families have one? You know, the one you pull out to put next to your kid’s bed when they have an upset stomach and things are sketchy? That, and coke syrup were staples of our childhood when sick. Our family puke bowl also had a dirty little secret.

Puke… not such a pleasant word, but I suppose it’s an apt descriptor. I’m not sure it’s better or worse than vomit, upchuck, ralphing, throw-up, or barf. All get the idea across pretty graphically. As kids, when the flu or some other illness turned our stomachs, the answer was always the same – a spoonful of coke syrup from the fridge, and then off to bed with the Puke Bowl by the bed. Running to the bathroom toilet was always the first option, but the bowl was right there if you didn’t think you could make it. Mom would dutifully wash and clean the bowl through out our misery, and when we finally became better, gave the bowl a thorough double cleaning and put it away in the utility room by the kitchen.

The Puke Bowl … In all it’s Glory …

Over the years, the Puke Bowl was also used by our nieces and nephews, if they happened to get sick when visiting Grandma and Grandpa. Three generations now called that big Tupperware bowl, the Puke Bowl. All of our spouses do as well. It became it’s own family tradition.

My sister Roberta “inherited” the bowl after mom died in 2017. All three of us kids were interested in it for nostalgic reasons, but Berta was the one who claimed it. To be honest, I did not realize mom still owned it, but of course I should have. Mom didn’t throw much away, and everything had multiple uses. Back then, America wasn’t the throw-away society we are today.

Mom Never Threw Much Away…At that Time, Most Folk Didn’t

Fast forward to this year…

A couple of months ago, Roberta’s granddaughter, Lydia, was visiting, became sick and started throwing up. When her mom, Kathi, came to pick Lydia up, Berta sent the Puke Bowl home with them, in case Lydia needed it in the car. A couple of weeks later, Berta was at Kathi’s, along with Kathi’s mother-in-law, Penny. As Roberta was getting ready to leave, Kathi said, “mom, don’t forget the Puke Bowl”, and handed Berta the bowl. Penny had a strange look on her face, and evidently thought the bowl was just a regular Tupperware bowl, like those you use for cooking or food storage. She exclaimed “What?!” Berta and Kathi started laughing, and then explained the WHOLE back story of the bowl to Penny.

In addition to being The Puke Bowl, the bowl had a secret life. It also doubled as THE bowl in which mom made her much acclaimed Potato Salad. It made an appearance whenever there was a big gathering or picnic for the family, church, neighborhood, or where ever. It was a massive bowl and the largest she owned, and due to the popularity of her potato salad, she didn’t want to run out. I don’t recall mom ever running out of potato salad at family (or other) gatherings when growing up. Never.

Tanya, Roberta and I Didn’t Seem to Suffer any Adverse Effects from the Puke Bowl…

The bowl is mostly retired now and lives in Berta’s basement. Lydia’s use a couple of months ago was the first time it was pulled out in quite awhile.

I should also mention Roberta’s daughter, Diane, is the official “holder” of mom’s potato salad recipe. Her version is the closest to mom’s of any I’ve tasted, which means it’s pretty d@mned good. Although Diane has her own set of bowls and Tupperware, including a large one she makes her potato salad in, when ever there’s a big family gathering, inevitably one of her sisters will laugh, and say to her, “Diane, you gonna make grandma’s potato salad in the Puke Bowl for the get together?” No, she doesn’t, but old family memories die hard… 😉

No, Diane Doesn’t use the Puke Bowl, to Make Grandma’s Potato Salad

Addendum:

– Our Niece, Tami, also remembered that the bowl almost always seemed to be the hiding place for someone’s Easter Basket each year at Grandma and Grandpa’s house… 😉

– In writing this blog, and talking with friends, two items became clear.

  • First, most all families had some version of a “puke bowl” or bucket, and many of them were multi-use products, particularly for holding popcorn.
  • And second, many lamented the throw-away society we have become. As Americans, we retain very little – Of course diapers, cups, plastic silverware and paper plates are all disposable. These days, so are phones, computers, mixers, coffee pots, stereo equipment, and a great deal of furniture. Washing machines, dryers and dish washers fit the same mode, unless they break down in the first few years of use.

⁃ Special Thanks to Cathy, and my sister Roberta for all of their help on this blog.

⁃ Thanks to sister Tanya, along with nephew Casey, and nieces Diane, Tami, Bre, Kathi and Jordan for their memories as well.

– Thanks and photo credit of the picture of Diane about to make potato salad, to her four year old daughter, Riley! Roberta took the pics of the bowl itself.

⁃ As always, MAJOR thanks to my old friend and editor, Colleen (who didn’t own a Puke Bowl growing up.) She always keeps me straight and on track.

Granddaughter of Juda

Granddaughter of Juda

There were no gardens here at Rohan Farm 23 years ago. Now, they dominate our landscape. Cathy made this happen, through a combination of inherited knowledge, hard work and love. She is the daughter of Faye and a Granddaughter of Juda Catherine Strickland.

The hillside garden, the shade garden, the front garden, the vegetable garden, the cutting garden, Cathy designed them and created them. I provided a bit of the grunt labor for the hard scape, but the secret to all of it is Cathy. When she gardens, she is in her Zen Zone. For me, weeding is the ultimate drudgery. Not her. She spends hours each week weeding, improving and cutting in the garden. She once shared with me, “Patience is the key ingredient in gardening, and pays off when a plant reaches maturity and blooms. There’s a special excitement seeing something you have planted, nurtured, cared for and thought about finally bloom. The journey is as important as the end result.”

A Few Glimpses of the Gardens, and Cathy Peaking Around Some of her Daffodils

Cathy’s gardening talent was born long before I was on the scene. She inherited a love of gardening from her mother Faye. Mom was a wonderful gardener and always had flower gardens at the house. Cathy noticed. When her family lived in Chattanooga, Cathy persuaded her mom to let her have a flower garden of her own at age 12. Faye was fine with the idea, but Cathy had to plant it and maintain it.

Whenever mom moved to a new home, the first thing she did was start planning out the flower gardens. Her last home in Alabama was gorgeous with a combination of plants, pathways and surrounding woodland, and I could lose myself in thought while wandering through them.

Faye gained her garden skills from her mother Juda Strickland, who lived a hard life in rural Alabama. She and her husband Ernest had 11 children, 8 of them boys. Electricity and indoor plumbing didn’t come until much later in her life. Cathy remembers that when she visited as a child, they were still using an outhouse. I think two things sustained Grandma Strickland in life – her faith in God, and her gardening. For her, I think they were related.

Juda Catherine Strickland

Cathy spent years following Faye and Juda around grandma’s farm in Alabama, talking about plants and flowers the whole time. They were often joined by Jeff, Cathy’s cousin. While he did the usual “boy stuff”, he also liked to garden. They all discussed the merits of the plants, as they walked and talked. Some plant wouldn’t be doing well and they would decide if it should be replaced or maybe it needed a different spot, or just some love. Most were not exotic plants, but southern favorites like four o’clocks.

In Cathy’s telling, it was great fun walking around the farm. There was always something to see, whether plants, newly born piglets, or watching how live chickens were turned into dinner (I think there’s a whole other blog right here ;-)…). Sometimes the meanderings ended at the vegetable garden, where fresh tomatos were a tasty treat of summer – warm, fragrant and oh so juicy. Summer afternoons were spent on the porch with newspapers stretched over everyone’s laps. There were beans to string, peas to shell and corn to shuck…

Later, after Cathy and I were married, we made several trips to visit Grandma, particularly when stationed in Georgia. Grandma would lead Cathy around the house and garden showing her new, or different plants. She wasn’t quite as mobile then, having broken her hip during a fall in her sixties. She was using a wooden crutch to get around, and would point out the plants or blooms with the crutch. Cathy loved and cherished those times together.

…

Cathy’s younger sister Bonnie also has the gardening gene. At her home near Mendocino, CA, she has roses, flower gardens, a big vegetable garden and fruit trees. It’s all beautiful and fits the Northern California setting perfectly. She has a greenhouse that many professionals would envy. Cathy and Bonnie trade cuttings and seeds back and forth, and more than a few plants have made coast to coast journeys.

Cathy and Bonnie Cutting Roses in California

There are several other Granddaughters of Juda who inherited her green thumb. As an example, in addition to Jeff, Cathy and Bonnie’s cousin Debbie has beautiful gardens in her back yard, and will frequently post pictures that reveal she too has the touch. Other cousins such as Margaret and Dylilah have the gift, and it’s already seen in the next generation – Sasha, the daughter of their cousin Rusty is also an avid gardener. It wasn’t a universal gift though. Cindy, Cathy and Bonnie’s middle sister, was never much of a gardener. Nor was their cousin Loretta, who claims she can’t grow anything. Still, I think Juda’s spirit remains with all of them. As Loretta related, “I definitely did not inherit her green thumb. I manage to kill every plant I get EXCEPT for one. I inherited a Mother-in-Law’s Tongue from Mawmaw in the ‘90s. Believe it or not, despite my best efforts, that plant is still alive.” 😉

Loretta’s Mother-in-Law’s Tongue – Nearly Thirty Years Old, and Still Going Strong

Grandma eventually passed away in 1997, at the age of 98. She was in a nursing home for her last few years. Although she could no longer garden, her faith in God remained with her until the end. I like to think there are gardens scattered across America that are living testaments to her life and her legacy.

Addendum:

  • Special thanks to Cathy, not only for her gardens, but also for sharing memories of her youth and visiting Grandma in Alabama. She filled in missing critical pieces that I “sensed”, but didn’t specifically know.
  • Thanks to Bonnie, Loretta and Debi for sharing their own gardening backgrounds. Special thanks to Loretta for sharing the photo of her Mother-in-law’s Tongue (photo credit to Cynthia Smith).
  • I first met Grandma Strickland in 1973, when Cathy’s family went there for a vacation over spring break. Cathy and I were dating and in high school, and we somehow persuaded our parents that it would be OK for me to go with them. I think at first Grandma was a bit suspicious of this token northerner who was dating her granddaughter. The suspicion was allayed at least a bit on the second night, when she cooked fried okra. I’d never had okra before. Three helpings later, I thought I’d died and gone to heaven, and grandma started warming up to me.

Here are two other blogs I’ve written in the past about Cathy and her gardening:

  • Through Cathy, I’ve gained an appreciation for the colors that make up the palette of our life. For years, I didn’t get it, or understand it. Or perhaps even worse, I didn’t think about it. Sometimes though, you can teach an old engineer new […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/03/23/the-palette-of-our-life/
  • Ask Cath how she grows orchids and she’ll say “Oh, I just water them. After that, it’s tough love.” Tough love evidently works. In winter, I enjoy looking at the results. The color, the texture, the beauty of orchids and their individual parts – Sepals, Petals, Lip, and Column, make each unique… Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/03/04/cathy-and-her-orchids/

Odin

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:

Mad Cow and Donating Blood

Mad Cow and Donating Blood

I received an interesting piece of mail from one of our local Blood Donor organizations last week. After a ban of twenty years, I am eligible to donate blood again. Evidently, I am no longer likely to pass on vCJD, better known as “Mad Cow Disease”, to others via a blood transfusion.

Starting in 1973 when I turned eighteen, I was always an active blood donor. That changed in 2002.

A little back story…

From 1986-‘89, while stationed in Europe, I spent several months in England. The Army was refurbishing an old WWII era bunker to become the Alternate Support Headquarters (ASH) for the United States European Command (EUCOM). It was where EUCOM would go, if the Cold War turned Hot and they needed to evacuate the headquarters element from Germany. The facility had some grounding and communications issues, and I was flown in to solve the problems. I eventually identified the multiple grounding issues that were plaguing the facility and they were corrected. The work continued, and I spent quite a bit of time there in the late ‘80s consulting on various communications questions and issues. Eventually, we returned home to the States in June of ‘89, and I promptly forgot about the ASH and my time in England … Until the early ‘90s.

Photo of Me in Europe in the Late ‘80s.

Word started coming out of Europe, and specifically the UK about something called bovine spongiform encephalopathy (BSE), more commonly known as Mad Cow Disease. Initially no one here in the US paid much attention. Some cattle in England were acting strange – sick cattle had trouble walking and getting up, and could also act nervous or violent, hence “Mad Cow Disease.” There were a few jokes on TV, and quarantines on British beef, but, that was it.

Then, things got serious.

It turned out the disease could be transferred to humans by eating contaminated beef. Variant Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (vCJD), the human version of Mad Cow disease, was first diagnosed in 1996 in the United Kingdom. It was the first man-made health epidemic, and was called the “Frankenstein disease”*. Companies had decided to feed meat and bone meal to cattle (which are herbivores) to increase their protein consumption. This caused what was previously an animal pathogen to enter the human food chain.

Initial human symptoms include psychiatric problems, behavioral changes, and painful sensations. In the later stages of the illness, patients often exhibit poor coordination and dementia. The length of time between exposure and the development of symptoms is thought to be years, but could be decades, and the average life expectancy following the onset of symptoms is 13 months. There is no cure.** YIKES!

Sometime in 2002 or 2003, I went to donate blood at a blood drive our company was hosting. I’d done the same thing for the past decade. This time? I was turned down. There were a couple of questions in the fine print, which excluded me. It turns out, in May of 2002, due to the possibility of Mad Cow Disease, the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) instituted a ban on blood donations from anyone who spent three months or more in the UK between 1980 and 1996. I’d spent about five months in England in the late ‘80s. The kind ladies at the blood drive let me eat my cookies and drink my juice, but “sorry sir, we don’t want, or need, your blood.”

At my next physical, I spoke to the doctor about Mad Cow. He didn’t know much about it, but thought it was highly unlikely I had it. And, oh by the way, there wasn’t really any way to know if you had it. You could only verify a diagnosis of Mad Cow via brain biopsy or autopsy (that remains true to this day).

Over the next few years, when additional company blood drives were held, I tried donating again, but the questions were still on the form, and I was always turned down. Eventually, I quit trying.

In 2008, Mad Cow Disease came to TV prime time on the show Boston Legal. William Shatner’s character, Denny Crane, starts having mental lapses, memory losses, and confusion, probably caused by the onset of Alzheimer’s disease. When questioned by his coworker, Allan (James Spader) about the lapses, Crane preferred to give a self diagnosis of Mad Cow Disease, rather than the reality of Alzheimer’s. It becomes something of a running punch line off and on for the rest of the time Boston Legal was on the air.

“I’m sorry, your honor. I have mad cow disease. I think you do, too.”

But I digress…

Time passed. More time passed. And then, this June I received a piece of mail from INOVA, one of our local health providers. I almost threw it away, but something prompted me to open it. Lo and behold, they changed the rules for donating blood!

Twenty years after my initial ban, I was once again eligible. Why? The FDA updated their guidance in May of 2022 – “We are changing the geographic deferral recommendations for vCJD risk based on new information in risk assessments … These risk assessment models … demonstrate that the current risk of vCJD transmission by blood and blood components would expose transfusion recipients to no or minimal additional risk of vCJD in the future…”***.

The Good New from INOVA Health

So, while I may still have Mad Cow Disease (remember, it can take decades to appear), the risk of my transferring it via blood donation is low… 😉

That’s almost everything. I plan to donate blood once again at the earliest opportunity. In the meantime, I leave you with these two additional tidbits.

First, I’m amazed my blood donor file was still active. For the past two decades, my rejection due to Mad Cow has sat quietly somewhere in a database. All that was needed was guidance from FDA for someone to hit a switch and change my eligibility in the database. Literally one month after the guidance changed, I received my letter. Don’t kid yourself, there is no privacy anymore. Everyone knows everything about us, and we are generally the ones who provided the information.

And lastly, be careful out there kiddos. While doing some research for this blog, I discovered that in 2015, a man from New York developed vCJD after eating squirrel brains. Yep, squirrel brains. You can’t make this stuff up.

Addendum:

  • UPDATE: I have been informed by others that the ban on folks who lived in Germany during that time period was lifted three years ago. This update was just for those in the UK and France.
  • While I joked about it in the blog, I think it is extremely unlikely that I have Mad Cow lurking somewhere in my body. Statistically, the chances are almost nil.

• * Jonathan Quick, of the Harvard Medical School coined the term “Frankenstein disease”.

• ** vCJD information is summarized from Wikipedia at this address: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Variant_Creutzfeldt%E2%80%93Jakob_disease

• *** The complete updated 2022 FDA guidance can be found here: https://www.fda.gov/media/124156/download

I Don’t Do Funerals

I Don’t Do Funerals

It had been raining for a while when Gary pulled two more beers from the fridge. As he handed me one, he said “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.” I popped my beer and looked up. “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

Gary lived two townhouses down from us. His girlfriend Cindy had moved out a couple weeks before, although I’m not sure why. I didn’t ask, and he didn’t volunteer a reason. We were casual friends – the kind of guy you saw in the neighborhood often enough. We’d drank beers together a couple of times and I think Cathy and I had Cindy and him over for dinner once.

Gary’s Townhouse was Two Doors Down From our Own

When I came home from my running group that day, he was vacuuming out his Limo in the parking lot. He was pretty religious about keeping it clean. I stopped to talk with him and he offered me a beer from the cooler next to the Limo. I readily accepted.

We talked about this and that, and then it started raining. “Damn. Let me go park this and I’ll be right back. The house door is open.”

I waited on his stoop for the couple minutes it took him to return, and then we went in his kitchen, where he popped two more beers and we sat down.

As we were drinking our beers, he talked about his history as a Limo driver. It may not have exactly been sex, drugs and Rock ‘n’ Roll, but it wasn’t far off. There were a couple of B level rock singers who regularly booked him when playing in DC. He did the usual “big dates”, weddings, and business meetings. A few local corporate types used him consistently. He was strict with the kids that rented the limo for prom or graduation. After that? Who was he to judge?

It was then, as he grabbed two more beers from the fridge he uttered “I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t do funerals.”, and I spoke my quick rejoinder “I didn’t know you were that particular”.

“I Don’t do Funerals”

He looked at me and smiled, and then the smile faded away. “I used to do funerals. Quite a few of them. But I learned something about the limo, or I guess more about myself. Afterwards, no matter how hard I cleaned the inside of the car, I couldn’t get the smell out.”

I looked at him inquisitively. “The smell?”

He took a swig of beer. “Yea, the smell. The smell of loss, of sadness, of blackness, of death itself. No matter how much I cleaned the inside of the limo, to me, the smell was still there for the next trip or two. I finally gave up and quit doing funerals. It was better for me, or at least better for my soul.”

After sitting quietly for a couple of minutes, I raised my beer, and as we clinked cans, said “Your Good Health” and he answered “and yours”.

We finished the beers and I said goodbye. It was still raining as I walked home, thinking about Gary, and death, and how something can linger in the air, even when there is no smell.

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.