Tax Day! Mom was something of a pack rat – a neat one, but a pack rat nonetheless. My sister Roberta and I recently went through a box of old photos and papers and came across her 1948 Tax Return. She was a junior in high school at the time, and it turns out at a juncture in her life.
Continue reading “Mom, 1948 and Her Tax Return”
A while back, a friend talked about her son, who was either prepubescent or a new teen. In the screed, she spoke about “stinky boy stuff” or something similar. It reminded me of a lecture I received from my mom upon returning home from a week at Boy Scout camp in the summer of ‘66.
I was all of 11 years old. I’d joined Boy Scout Troop 45 that spring and was going to my first ever summer camp at Camp Kishauwau. To say I was excited was a huge understatement – a week away from home, sleeping in tents, having fun with your buddies – what could possibly be better?!
Mom of course helped me pack. In addition to scout uniforms, a swimsuit, a windbreaker, jeans and shorts, she dutifully packed six pairs of underwear, six white T-shirts and six pairs of sox. Of course, also a towel, wash cloth, soap, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, bandaids, mosquito repellent, and who knows what else.
Mom and Dad dropped me off at Kishauwau on Sunday morning and I had a great week. We went swimming everyday, took canoes out on the Vermillion River, ate great meals at the mess hall, cooked our own food a couple of times, and learned all kinds of new skills. The week passed by in a flash.
Mom and dad picked me up on Saturday and we returned home. That day or the next, mom was doing my laundry from camp and I heard my name called/yelled. I dutifully came to the washing machine.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” and held up my underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear. My six pairs of clean underwear I hadn’t touched or changed all week long. I proceeded to receive a lecture from mom about cleanliness, hygiene, what the hell did I think I was doing, how could I go a whole week without changing my underwear and on and on and on… I had no defense and took it as best I could. I probably looked like a young puppy just caught peeing on the floor. Finally, she wound down and let me go. – whew! –
Fast forward a year. It’s time for summer camp again and I’m looking forward to going just as much as the previous year. Mom helps pack again and in go the six pairs of underwear, the six white T-shirts and the six pairs of sox. Of course along with the packing, I also receive another lecture about health and good hygiene. “Yes mom! I get it!”
Camp was a great time once again – water sports, learning how to track animals, bonfires, learning knots and lashings, building a bridge. It was awesome.
Friday night came and I was getting my stuff ready to go back home the next day. To my horror, I came across my six pairs of underwear, again unused. OH NO! What to do?! I was sure to be in real trouble this year. I thought about it and then had an idea. I would make the underwear look dirty! I quickly threw them on the ground and then proceeded to move them around in the dirt and walk on them in my hiking boots. They looked dirty for sure and I slept peacefully that night.
The next day Mom and Dad brought me home. I went out to play and then heard my name called loudly by Mom. Uh-Oh.
Mom: “What is this!?” Pointing at my underwear. “What is what?” I answered. “This!” And proceeded to hold up my underwear. My six pairs of underwear with boot prints on them. “Ummm, my dirty underwear.” “WITH BOOTPRINTS?! WHAT IS GOING ON??”
As I looked at her, my brain feverishly worked, trying to find an answer. What could I say!? What possible excuse could I give!? I had nothing.
“Ummm, I forgot to change my underwear again and thought I could make them look dirty.”
Mom stared at me. Finally with a look only a mom could give, she said “Go to your room.”
Now I’d done it. I sat in the bedroom thinking. She was sure to tell Dad, and then what? How much trouble was I actually in? Why the heck hadn’t I remembered to change my underwear? Why hadn’t I been smarter about how to make them dirty?
Time passed. Finally, I was called to dinner. Evidently it was going to be a public execution.
Except it wasn’t. Mom didn’t say anything. Dad didn’t say anything. In my memory, I seem to remember a small smile from him, but that may just be a trick of my mind 57 years later. And that was it. I didn’t hear anything more about it. By the next year, I actually did remember to change my underwear, although probably not as often as mom would have wished.
I’ve thought about the conversation I’m guessing took place between Mom and Dad. Mom laying out the case. Dad maybe hesitating a bit – remembering his own childhood during the depression. Or maybe thinking about being in North Africa during WWII, when he wouldn’t have had the opportunity to change his clothes for several weeks. And who knows, maybe Mom never said anything to Dad – maybe she had her own chuckle over the whole thing after sending me to my room.
Addendum:
– Fun Camp Kishauwau Fact: Ryan Gosling wore a Camp Kishauwau T-Shirt in the 2007 movie, Fracture, which also starred Anthony Hopkins.
– Here are two previous blogs about my time in the Boy Scouts:
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.
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.
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.
Addendum:
On May 1st of this year, The United Methodist Church voted overwhelmingly to accept LGBTQ clergy and allow ministers to perform LGBTQ weddings. It was a good day for my church and for all of us. Raised as a Methodist, I’m happy to see the church finally take this next step, although it hasn’t been an easy path getting to this point.
I grew up a Methodist. I was baptized in the church as a baby, confirmed in my youth, and received my Boy Scout God and Country award after working with our minister, Reverened Hearn, for nearly a year. I belonged to the Methodist Youth Fellowship (MYF) both in Junior High and High School. When mom passed away in 2017, her service was held at the same church I grew up in and where she and my dad were married in 1951. I believe our church was a part of my foundation, helping me grow into the person I’ve become.
John Wesley founded the Methodist Church in the mid 1700s and over time, it grew to become the second largest Protestant denomination in the United States. The church has focused on social issues from the beginning, including the abolition of slavery. The Methodist Church also promoted the idea of women pastors, who were officially recognized in 1956, earlier than most other churches.
Although the Methodist Church had openly gay members and ministers for quite some time, in 2019, delegates from around the world voted 438 to 384 passing what was called the “Traditional Plan”, which tightened the church’s existing ban on same-sex marriage and gay and lesbian clergy. Many of those that voted to tighten the ban were from overseas churches, particularly in Africa, and from conservative churches here in the southern United States. However, the writing was on the wall, and it was inevitable that change would come. As a result, in 2019 churches were also given a four-year window to choose to leave over “reasons of conscience” if they desired, and still keep their church property.
In the intervening four years, nearly a quarter of the nation’s roughly 30,000 United Methodist churches departed by the December ‘23 deadline. In Texas, more than forty percent of the churches left.
I prefer looking at the statistics another way. Three-quarters of the churches elected to stay and embrace love, and the future. The tally Wednesday to remove the 40-year-old ban on the ordination of “self-avowed practicing homosexuals” was 692 to 51. Embrace the future, indeed.
“We’ve always been a big-tent church where all of God’s beloved were fully welcome,” said Bishop Tracy Smith Malone, the new president of the Council of Bishops. She called the vote “a celebration of God breaking down walls.” *
After the votes, some attendees gathered in a circle to sing a Methodist song that has become a refrain for many LGBTQ Christians. “Draw the circle wide, draw it wider still. Let this be our song: No one stands alone.” *
I spoke with a friend, Bob, who I grew up with. Bob still lives back home and goes to our old church there. He told me that at last week’s service, as communion was offered, the minister made an extra point of saying everyone is welcome to take communion. Everyone.
Yes, I grew up a Methodist. I’m proud of what the Church did this month. God’s love is alive and with all of us. Let this be our song – no one stands alone.
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Addendum:
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.
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. 🙂
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.
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…”
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:
The last time I saw Tim, I was back in Ottawa for my Brother-in-Law Jack’s funeral. I didn’t know it would be the last time, although I suspected it might. Mark, Howard and I were invited to Tim and Renee’s home for a lunch of Mooseburgers, with Tim serving as grill master.
Cath and I had visited Tim and Renee a few weeks before, while in Ottawa for my 50th high school reunion. After flying into Chicago, we stopped by and spent a few hours at their place in St Charles. It was good to catch up. They were supposed to make the reunion as well, but couldn’t. At the time, Tim was a 4+ year pancreatic cancer survivor, but things were going downhill the last couple of months prior to the reunion.
When Jack died of brain cancer a couple of weeks later, I returned for his services and to see my sister Roberta. I called Tim and Renee to see if we might get together, and I think Tim came up with the idea of the group lunch. Old buddies, Mark and Howard were invited and both quickly said yes. The five of us met on the 14th of October.
Tim, Howard and I have known each other since before kindergarten. Mark came on the scene around 5th grade and we have all been buddies ever since. As to Renee, Tim and Renee met through Cath and I in the early ‘90s. What started as friendship turned into love, and they married.
The lunch was a good time. Renee made some wonderful appetizers and our conversations were wide-ranging. Yes, we talked about Tim’s cancer, but we also talked about the Bears and the White Sox, and as is inevitable when together, retold stories from our youth and good times together over the years.
After a while, Tim shuffled out to the grill and cooked the Mooseburgers. They’d brought the ground moose back last summer from their annual vacation to their place in Maine. I believe a cousin shot the moose and gave them some of the burger. Renee let us know that although he was weaker, Tim insisted on cooking. The burgers were great, and cooked perfectly. There was more talk and Tim, his voice somewhat raspy, eventually grew tired. It was time to go. We hugged Renee, fist-bumped Tim and said our goodbyes and “I love you’s”. Mark drove north to Wisconsin, while Howard and I headed south. It was the last time all of us were together.
Tim and I continued to text almost daily after that. The last one from him was on November 8th, when he congratulated me on the Virginia election results. After that, the link went silent. Cath and I stayed in contact with Renee and others, and knew Tim’s condition was worsening. Late on the night of December 4th, Renee called and let us know Tim passed away. After talking a while longer, I sent our love her way and hung up the phone. I silently cried dry tears.
I’ve known Tim for about 65 of my 68 years. Tim…June…Junebug… There are so many stories. Although I know there are groans in some quarters when we re-tell them for the 1,000th time, they still bring a smile to my face. In my mind, rather than a film, I see thousands of snapshots of our times together. The number of actual photos is more limited. Unlike now, back in the day we didn’t have the technology, or the desire, to capture everything going on. I think our lives are a little richer for that.
The “snapshots” of those times blur together. Some of the memories are blurry as well, while others are crystal clear. They span two continents, several states and seven decades.
I can turn the kaleidoscope of those decades in my mind and several pictures emerge – earning my God And Country Scout award in ‘68 with Tim and Howard; Tim, Howard and Mark serving as groomsmen for Cathy’s and my wedding in ‘78; multiple visits by Tim and Howard to our home in Germany in the ‘80s; introducing Tim and Renee in the ‘90s and then they married; ski trips to West Virginia in the ‘90s and 2000s with Tim never leaving the cabin; wonderful Bordeaux Dinners at Tim and Renee’s home near Chicago in the 201Xs; all four couples together at Camp Kishauwa in ‘22.
I turn the kaleidoscope a second time and different pictures emerge – in the 60s, Tim and I in Boy Scouts sharing a tent at Camp Kishauwa; the Ottawa Gluttons eating team at OHS in ‘73; shipping a keg of bier from Germany to Tim in Chicago in ‘86; visiting Tim and Howard at their iconic Chicago apartment on numerous occasions in the ‘90s; New Year’s Eve dinners at the farm with Tim and Renee in ‘99 and the 2000s; Cath and I visiting Tim and Renee’s beloved Maine for a vacation; endlessly talking and texting about politics and history during Covid.
I rotate the kaleidoscope again and more memories race through my mind – Mrs Finkeldye’s first grade class; drinking biers at the Butler’s House in our high school years; church youth fellowship; Tim saving me from the MPs in Germany; Tim sleeping on the couch with our dog, Top; Tim and Renee with Cath and I skinny dipping in Lost River; Tim and Renee at the Hash; Tim, Howard, Mark and I decades ago on a New Year’s Eve at 3AM in a picture forever frozen in time – all of us young, with our whole lives in front of us…
There were no photos taken of us at the Mooseburger lunch. We didn’t need or want any. What I’ll remember is the fellowship and love of old friends spending a few hours together. I’ll always remember that lunch. Always. The memory of it will spark a kaleidoscope of images – an endless stream of snapshots in an infinite number of combinations.
Rest in peace Tim. I love you.
Addendum:
Here are some previous blogs featuring Tim:
The Bears Den in Naplate, Illinois is a great little dive bar. I mean that in the best sense of the word. It’s an older place and hasn’t been updated in years. On a recent trip back home to Ottawa, we stopped in on a Sunday afternoon for lunch and Bloody Marys. We all should have such a good local place.
Naplate, a town of just over 400 people, probably has more restaurants and bars per capita than any town in America*. They are all small local places. Some more bar oriented, and some more food oriented. All have their devoted fans and regulars from Naplate, or the surrounding area. Over the years we’ve enjoyed several of them, including Casa Mia, Annie’s Hideaway, and of course, The Bears Den.
A few years ago, a really bad tornado ripped through Naplate and parts of Ottawa and Naplate were destroyed. Although Naplate restaurants were ordered closed in the immediate aftermath, The Bears Den stayed open providing food for the folk doing the cleanup and damage control. They were giving back to the community in a big way.
A couple of weeks ago we were back in Ottawa to see family and go to a reunion. We spent Saturday night with my sister Tanya and Brother-in-Law Shawn and on Sunday morning were discussing what to do. Cath previously mentioned possibly going to The Bears Den for Bloodies, and we all quickly agreed that was a great idea. It had been a few years since we were able to stop in there and we were looking forward to a good time. Shawn, the smart one among us, checked to see what time the Bears were playing that day. When they are on TV, it’s standing room only at the Den, and we wanted to avoid that. Fortunately, the game didn’t start until 3PM.
We arrived just after noon and easily grabbed a table. Several people were there, but it wasn’t crowded. The Packers were on TV, so there were both cheers and catcalls, depending on what was going on. The waitress came over and we ordered our Bloodies with sidecars. In Illinois (and maybe across the Midwest) a sidecar is a small beer, typically 7 ounces, to go with your Bloody Mary. At the Bears Den, they brought you a can of beer, and a 7 ounce glass. On Sundays, they have “build your own Bloody Mary” for $3, but we opted for the bartender to make ours.
Drinks arrived and the Bloodies were as good as we remembered. Our waitress asked what we would like to eat. For me, there was only one thing to order – their Sausage Sandwich. You can have it with peppers, or cheese, or any number of other combinations, but I just ordered it with pickles and onions. It’s like a burger, but made with 1/2 pound of sausage instead. As my buddy Howard says “It rivals the pork tenderloin**as the best area sandwich. The difference? You can order the tenderloin at lots of places, but only The Bears Den has the sausage sandwich.” Shawn also ordered one, while the ladies opted for a BLT and a ribeye sandwich. One of the great things about The Bears Den is they have a decent menu, especially considering the small size of the place and the size of the kitchen.
The food came, and all I can say is, man, I love that sandwich. It was sooooo good. Yea, it didn’t help my cholesterol any, but that’s OK. In fact everyone’s sandwich was good. I think Cath’s BLT was the biggest I’d ever seen, and Tanya’s Ribeye sandwich was great. The table grew quiet for a while as we concentrated on our food. Eventually, we ordered a second round of Bloodies and Shawn had another beer.
At some point, our nephew and niece Casey and Ann stopped by with their kids and we were able to catch up with them for a bit, but eventually, it was time to go. Hugs all around in the parking lot, lots of I love you’s, and we headed south to my sister Berta and her husband Jack’s place.
I know it’s a bit crazy to write about a dive bar in the middle of Illinois, when we don’t even live there anymore. Still, it’s good to have things and places you know you can count on. The Bears Den is one of those places. If you are ever near Naplate, I highly recommend it.
Addendum:
In 1984, Cath and I were back home in Ottawa for her 10-year high school reunion. I was waiting in line for a drink when a guy approached me. “Hey, aren’t you Max Hall? Didn’t you go to West Point?” I answered, “I am and I did. Why do you ask?” “I’m Joe xxx. We would love to have you come talk with our local militia.” What?
I was a Captain in the Army at the time and had recently returned from four and a half years in Germany with 3ID and VII Corps. Cath and I were stationed in Ohio and returned to Ottawa for the weekend of the reunion.
Me: “Sure. Where’s the National Guard meeting these days, and what kind of unit is it?”
Joe: “Oh no. We aren’t with the National Guard. We started a private group as a militia. We fire our guns on weekends and do some tactical training. We want to be ready to fight the communists.”
Me:
Joe: “It would be great if you came out to meet with us and give us a talk. I think you could provide some real inspiration!”
Me: “Really?! Where do you all meet?”
He gives me a location south of town in the country.
Me: “Hmmmm. That’s great, but rather than meet there, I think we should meet on LaSalle Street, not far from Bianchi’s Pizza.”
Joe: “Really? Why there?”
Me: “We could go the Army recruiter’s office on LaSalle Street and get you guys signed up. We are always looking for a few good men!”
Joe: “What?!”
Me: “We could meet at the Army recruiter’s office. We are always looking for a few good men to enlist. If you really want to fight the communists, we could use you. I’ll be deploying back to Germany in a year. We could probably even work it out for you to join my unit!”
Joe:
Me: “That’s what I thought. See you later and quit bothering me… Bartender – I’ll have a gin and tonic please.”
Yep. Those militia toy-soldiers who always say they are going to defend our country were around 40 years ago as well. They are still eager to play soldier these days, as long as they don’t have to do anything to, you know, actually defend our country as a soldier.
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Addendum:
The surgery went well. As far as cancers go, squamous cell carcinoma (a type of skin cancer) is usually pretty minor, but it was still good to have the surgery over and done with. Cancer is one of those words that draws your attention, or at least it draws my attention.
It all started late last winter when I noticed a scaly spot on my forehead. I didn’t think much about it at first. Due to my AFIB, I take Eliquis, a blood thinner. One of the results of blood thinners is scrapes, cuts and wounds sometimes heal a bit weirdly. The blood doesn’t clot quite the same way it does for a normal person and as a result, minor scrapes or cuts can take a while to heal. That’s what I thought was going on with this scrape.
Unfortunately, it didn’t disappear and I mentioned it to Cathy. She looked and recommended I consult a doctor, so I called the Warrenton Dermatology and Skin Therapy Center at the end of April. They were a bit backed up and scheduled an appointment for me on May 9th.
On May 9th, I arrived at the Center and explained why I was there. They examined the spot and thought it looked OK, but there was something right next to the spot that concerned them. After numbing my forehead, they took a biopsy and told me the results would be back in ten days to two weeks and they would call me.
10 days came and went, then 11, then 12, then 13 days and still no word. Finally on Day 14 I called them. The results had just arrived, but hadn’t yet been reviewed by a doctor. And… They couldn’t release the results until a doctor reviewed them.
The next day, May 23d, I received a call from Danielle at the center. The biopsy came back positive for squamous cell carcinoma. What? What did you say? Squamous Cell Carcinoma.
Danelle continued to speak, and after a few seconds, I started listening again. They recommended the removal of the cancer with Mohs Surgery. They could do it there, or if I wanted to go with another dermatologist, I could. Another dermatologist? Until two weeks ago, I didn’t know any dermatologists… I told them their office was fine. After consulting calendars, the first available date was Saturday, June 3rd – 8AM and 12 noon were available. Was there nothing in between? Well, no, Danelle informed me – the surgery could take one to four hours, I should wear comfortable clothes, and bring something to read or pass the time.
What!?!
It turns out the surgery, while relatively simple, can take some time. Here’s how Mohs surgery works (according to the Mayo Clinic):
You are given a local anesthetic. After the anesthetic takes effect, the surgeon uses a scalpel to remove the visible portion of the cancer. The surgeon also takes a thin layer of tissue underneath and around the cancer. A temporary bandage is placed where the skin was removed. This takes only a few minutes.
The tissue is then taken to the lab for analysis. This part of the procedure usually takes the longest time and you'll wait about an hour in a waiting room.
In the lab, the surgeon cuts the tissue sample into sections and looks at them with a microscope. If there is more cancer, your Mohs surgery continues.
The surgeon removes an additional layer of tissue from the affected area. Again, you'll wait while the surgeon looks at the tissue in the lab.
This process continues until the last tissue sample removed is cancer-free. During the procedure, you may receive another shot of local anesthetic if necessary.
I chose the 8AM slot and the appointment was in the book. Of course after that, I did more research, and came to realize I was pretty lucky.
According to the Mayo Clinic, there are three major types of skin cancer – basal cell carcinoma, squamous cell carcinoma and melanoma. While squamous cell is considered relatively “mild”, if left untreated it can destroy nearby healthy tissue, spread to the lymph nodes or other organs, and may be fatal, although this is uncommon.
I also learned skin cancers are caused by many things, but most often are the result of overexposure to the sun. I guess my days of lifeguarding back in the early ‘70s may have had something to do with it. Not only did we not use any type of sunscreen, we used baby oil to tan more quickly. Whoops.
Time passed and I spoke with others. It turns out I’m actually a bit late to the skin cancer party. I learned numerous friends and acquaintances around my age have developed skin cancer. Many had the Mohs procedure, and all said it wasn’t a big deal.
On the 2nd of June, I made a big steak dinner with a salad. I mean, what the hell, if you are having a cancerous growth removed, it seemed a reasonable thing to do. A couple of glasses of wine, and a couple of hours of bad TV later, I went to bed and slept like a rock.
The next morning, after having some coffee and a small breakfast, I drove to the Center in Warrenton. On the way there, Taj Mahal and Keb’ Mo’ were singing “Waiting on the World to Change” on the radio and while I’m not sure why, it seemed to fit somehow.
I arrived at the center just before 8AM that Saturday. Doctor Dolan and his assistant, Amanda started their work just after 8:00. After Amanda put about 5 shots in my forehead to numb it, the Doctor came in. He was retired Navy, which for some strange reason gave me comfort. By 8:20, DR Dolan had taken the first cuttings and Amanda was cauterizing the one-inch wound. I recognized that peculiar smell of burning flesh from a previous surgery, but didn’t feel anything, as the anesthetic was still doing its job. Amanda escorted me to the waiting room where I did some reading while waiting for the results.
Thirty minutes later, Amanda came and gave me the good news. I was clear after the first pass. She said I was probably the easiest and shortest surgery the doctor would have all day. We went back to one of the rooms where the good doctor stitched me up. Seven or eight stitches I think but if you look at the picture, they’re big stitches. That’s fine with me. Just a little more character added to my forehead, and vitamin E should make it disappear over the course of the next year.
There was a headache for a day or two, and a slight black eye in my future, but that was alright. Things were OK, at least for now.
In 1964, actor John Wayne was diagnosed with lung cancer. Some people recommended he hide the diagnosis due to concerns about his image – they thought it might make him look weak. At the time, many public figures hid illnesses they had for image reasons. He chose the opposite path. During a press conference after the surgery the Duke said “They told me to withhold my cancer operation from the public because it would hurt my image. Isn’t there a good image in John Wayne beating cancer? Sure, I licked the Big C.”
Squamous Cell Carcinoma isn’t the “Big C”. We have friends and family who are dealing with, or have dealt with breast cancer, lung cancer, pancreatic cancer, brain cancer, prostate cancer, melanomas… there’s a lot of bad stuff falling into the “Big C” category. I know I’m quite lucky and this is fairly minor, so let’s just call it the “little c”.
One of the things for people to remember is that any cancer, even something relatively minor like my “little c” squamous cell carcinoma can kill you if left untreated. If you see something that doesn’t quite look right on your skin, have it checked out. If everything is fine, all you did was lose an hour of time. And if it turns out to be a cancer of some sort, you did the right thing and can have it treated.
No need to be macho. No need to be stoic. Just get the damned thing checked out.
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Addendum:
– If you live in the Warrenton/western DC suburbs area, I highly recommend the Warrenton Dermatology and Skin Therapy Center. They are great, and take care of you. You can find more about them here: https://www.warrentondermatology.com/
When discharged from the Army on August 24th, 1945, dad was 21 years old and had been in for nearly five years. His WWII service included time in Algeria, Tunisia, French Morocco and lastly, Sicily, where he was wounded. His discharge papers tell the intriguing story of those five years in one page.
This is the second of a two-part blog. Last week, I told the story of how I received dad’s enlistment and discharge paperwork from the National Archives. I then explored several interesting observations from his enlistment form, including the fact that he lied about his age in order to enlist. He claimed he was almost 19 years old, when in fact he was still two months shy of his 17th birthday. You will find a link to the first blog in the Addendum to this one.
Today’s blog explores his discharge paperwork, and briefly tells the story of his five years in the service. Dad was with B Company 1/60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division from September 1940 until he was wounded and almost died in Sicily in August of 1943. Although his original enlistment in 1940 was for three years, when the war started all enlistments were extended for the duration.
As with his enlistment papers, dad’s discharge paperwork was discolored, creased and yellow, perhaps from the fire at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC). A few parts were unreadable, but most of it was legible.
I’ll magnify and expand a couple sections to talk about some of the details.
At the top of the form, there are a couple of interesting items.
Now we move on to the Middle section of his discharge paper, dad’s “Military History”. This is the meat of the discharge, and paints the real story of his time in the service. I’ve again magnified the view so you can better read the form. In order to tell dad’s history in a linear fashion, I will sometimes go out of order in discussing what is in the blocks in this section.
Finally we come to the bottom of the discharge paperwork and block 55. There are three items noted here, although not all are readable.
After his discharge, dad returned to Ottawa, Illinois in September and lived there for the next 65 years. In Ottawa he met mom, and had us three kids, six grandchildren and 13 great grandchildren. He retired from the railroad in 1985, and passed away in 2010.
For those of you who know me, or who have followed this blog for any length of time, I’m pretty sure you are aware of how much I admired my father. An embodiment of “The Greatest Generation”, dad was always one of my heroes. This was true certainly for his actions during WWII, but also for how he lived his life, and how he took care of our family.
I’ve probably written more blogs about him than any other subject. The blog last week about his enlistment and this one about his discharge file are special to me. It’s somehow reassuring that his enlistment and discharge paperwork confirm the outline of the oral histories we heard from dad growing up. I wish I had discovered this paperwork while he was still alive, just so we could have one more conversation about it over a coffee or a beer. “Dad, tell me again about the time …”, or “Dad, about those lost AW 107 days…”.
I love him and miss him.
Addendum:
– Here are a selection of other WWII blogs that I’ve alluded to in this blog. There may be some minor discrepancies in them, based on the availability of the new information in his paperwork:
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