I see that look you are giving me. A slight sneer? A touch of disappointment? Or maybe from a few of you, with a knowing smile, “Ah yes, you too.” OK. I admit it. There is almost always a block of Velveeta Cheese in our fridge and it’s the secret ingredient for a couple of Cathy’s key recipes.
Yes, There is Almost Always a Block of Velveeta in our Fridge.
I love cheese. And there are so many good ones available. As a kid, we were a bit limited, but I remember eating Swiss, cheddar and of course American. My sisters and I agreed a block of Velveeta was kept around the house – possibly for mac ‘n cheese, or the occasional grilled cheese sandwich. Memories are a bit fuzzy on the subject.
When Cath and I moved to Germany, my cheese world expanded. Brie. Camembert. Quark. Limburger. Obazda. Roquefort. Stilton. Gorgonzola. Pecorino Romano. Asiago. Gruyère and Raclette. Mascarpone and Tiramisu. And many, many more. It was seventh heaven for me. I literally didn’t know such a world existed.
Eventually we moved back to the States, and I learned that across the US, not just in the state of Wisconsin, wonderful cheeses were being made. Maytag Blue from Iowa. Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove in California. Grayson from Meadow Creek Dairy here in Virginia. And maybe my favorite, Mount Tam from Cowgirl Creamery in Point Reyes, California. Oh. My. God. It doesn’t get any better.
But … Sometimes, you crave comfort. Sometimes, you want a gooey, melty cheese that makes everything around it better. Sometimes, a cheese that isn’t technically a cheese, is exactly what you need. Enter Velveeta.
Velveeta actually started in the 1920s. You may be surprised to learn in the 1930s, Velveeta became the first cheese product to gain the American Medical Association’s seal of approval. Since then, Velveeta continued to evolve and at various times was called a cheese, a cheese spread, a pasturized processed cheese spread, and since 2002, a “pasteurized prepared cheese product”, a term for which the FDA does not maintain a standard of identity. It is currently sold only in the United States, Canada, Panama, Hong Kong, the Philippines and South Korea.
If it’s not really cheese, why use it at all? The answer is simple – it’s ability to melt and almost become “velvety” (hence the name). It’s consistency when melted is better than most real cheeses. The reason? It contains the emulsifiers, sodium citrate and sodium alginate, which allow the cheese to melt without becoming greasy by stopping the fats from separating. Those emulsifiers provide the magic that is Velveeta.
I doubt there is anyone in America who hasn’t eaten chili con queso, or queso dip made with Velveeta. It’s been a staple at Super Bowl (and other) parties and gatherings for decades. At its most basic, you combine a slab of Velveeta and a can of Rotel tomatoes in a crock pot. You can jazz it up with other tomatoes, real hot peppers, ground sausage and any number of other items, but the base remains Velveeta. And of course, Mac ‘n cheese with Velveeta has made an appearance in many a household here in the US. It became so popular, they started selling it as a combined product – “Velveeta Shells and Cheese” so you didn’t have to buy the macaroni and cheese separate.
Is There Anyone who HASN’T Eaten Chili con Queso with Velveeta at a Super Bowl Party!?!
We don’t have children, so never went down the Velveeta Mac n’ cheese route. We also haven’t made chili con queso in years, so why is the box of Velveeta in our fridge? Two dishes. First, there’s Cathy’s meatloaf. She dots the inside of the entire meatloaf with little pieces of Velveeta. It is delicious.
The second dish? The best scalloped potatoes in the world. Yep, Cathy’s “secret ingredient” is Velveeta. Over the years, she, and we, have made several versions of au gratin potatoes, hasselback potatoes, scalloped potatoes and cheesy potatoes. The one that’s the best? The one people always ask for the recipe? Her scalloped potatoes with Velveeta. When she tells people what’s in it, or perhaps it’s just people not from the midwest, they are always a bit shocked. Some then decide they don’t really want the recipe. Go figure.
As I’ve grown older, I’ve needed to reduce the amount of dairy in my diet. That means cheese is not around the house as much as it was previously. We still buy some, and if having guests over for dinner, will often offer cheese as an appetizer, or as a separate cheese course later in the meal. I think my life would be pretty meager with no cheese at all. I also know my life would be poor indeed if I could never have Cath’s scalloped potatoes with Velveeta again.
Addendum:
– There will be no scalloped potatoes recipe published with the blog. It is secreted away in Cathy’s head, and as with her Lasagna recipe, will not be publicly published. ;-).
My weather apps warned me about the coming high wind – The wind that would blow for the next twenty hours. What it didn’t do was warn me about how that wind would affect me, how it would play with my mind, how it would invade my sleep and my dreams.
The first of three warnings came in the morning and called for sustained winds of 25-30 miles/hour with gusts up to 50 miles/hour. We had certainly seen much worse at the farm, and I wasn’t concerned.
The Wind Stayed with us for Over Twenty Hours
When the wind arrived in the late afternoon, it started slow enough and mild enough, but as daylight faded, it picked up speed and didn’t let up. It was constant and the sound, while not loud, seemingly surrounded the house, whirling, gusting and then returning to a constant blow. It stayed with us for the evening while we ate dinner and later when we were watching TV. A low and plaintive howl, it was the backdrop for the entire evening.
Eventually it was bedtime and I took Carmen outside one last time. Usually, she runs around, checks out the barn, does her last potty, and then ambles back to the house, in no hurry. This night? She took off like a bat out of hell running for the barn, barking with her big girl voice the whole way. She stood near the fence by the barn with her hackles up, barking madly into the dark and against the wind. I could hear our neighbors’ dogs barking in return from a quarter mile away. The wind had all of us on edge and a little uneasy I guess. Eventually I grabbed Carmen and we returned to the house.
My sleep, such as it was, was unsettled. We always keep at least one window open in our bedroom and that night as I lay in bed, I felt the wind mockingly caress my face, while infiltrating my mind. In the distance, I heard a tree crash to the ground. There were voices in the night air – groans, moans, creaks, cries and mutterings. Human or animal, real or imagined I cannot say. The hours passed with my mind in a fog between wakefulness and shallow sleep. Throughout, the wind was there with me. It inhabited my dreams, and made them restless. Not quite nightmares, they were nonetheless uneasy and agitated. I remembered them distinctly during the night, but by dawn they were gone, as if the wind itself blew them away.
It was a bad night’s sleep. When dawn was just breaking, I got up. Although I’d slept horribly, there was no reason to stay in bed. The wind was still blowing and I knew no better sleep was coming my way. Carmen and I fed the horses, then I fed Carmen. Finally, I turned on the coffee pot.
I sat at our kitchen island drinking my coffee. Looking out the window, I could see the wind rippling across the pond in the early light. I sighed, and knew It would continue to blow for several more hours. Taking another sip, I tried to clear the cobwebs that occupied my mind.
“Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.” – Yogi Berra.
I’ve loved baseball since I was a kid. Unfortunately, it’s probably going to be a long season for our No Name Gnats this year. Still, I love live baseball and I’m happy Opening Day is finally here this week. A beer and a brat will be a fine way to start the year, and we’ll see what develops.
2019 and the Nats World Series win was eons ago now. Since then, it’s been three straight last place finishes. Many of the heroes of ‘19 are scattered around the league – Scherzer, Turner, Soto and Rendon to name a few. Zim, Baby Shark, Eaton, and Kendrick are all retired. Robles is still here in the outfield, but hasn’t put up great (or even good) numbers. And of course, we still have Strasburg and Corbin here in DC. Those two sure helped us win in ‘19, but have been a disaster ever since. Stras has pitched a total of just over 30 innings since ‘19 and Corbin was the worst pitcher in all of baseball last year.
Posing with the Nats’ 2019 World Series Trophy. Great, but Old Memories Now.
Ownership is up in the air – will they or won’t they sell the team? Or will they bring in another partner? Or do nothing? Nobody knows.
Fans are, well, fans. You can tell the ones that jumped on the bandwagon in 2019 – most of those are long gone … after whining incessantly and displaying their lack of knowledge. Among the real fans, the long term fans, there is grumbling as well. But it’s a different type of grumbling. It comes with an understanding of the ups and downs and the fickleness of baseball. Everyone is unhappy about the ownership situation (will they or won’t they). People understood trading Scherzer two years ago, and even Turner, who had a year left on his contract. Soto? That one hurt.
I remind folk that we’ve been through nothing. You want long term suffering? Be a Cubs or Red Sox fan – they went 80 to 100 years between World Series wins. Cleveland is currently sitting on a 75 year streak with no World Series. Three last place finishes after winning the World Series? No, I’m not happy about it, but please, get some perspective people.
And so we come to the ‘23 season. A probable opening day lineup of players most people outside of DC have never heard of – Thomas, Smith, Menenes, Garcia, Ruiz, Abrams, Robles, Dickerson and Candelario. Pitchers will include the previously mentioned Corbin, along with Gray, Gore and a couple of others TBD. Seriously, how many of those names do you know? Hell, most fans in DC don’t know several of those names either.
It’s generally a young line up, and I’m particularly excited to see what Garcia, Ruiz and Abrams can do in the field, and Gray and Gore on the mound. With luck, we will see a couple of bright spots.
For this year, the team will be what it will be and I’ve made my peace with that. I’m just happy to get back to the park, as sure a sign of spring as anything I know. As the great Hall of Famer and Saint Louis Cardinal 2nd basemen Rogers Hornsby once said – “People ask me what I do in the winter when there is no baseball. I’ll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring.”
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.
Dad’s Honorable Discharge Paperwork – it Suffered in the Fire at the Archives.
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.
The Top of the Discharge Form – Magnified
Block 3 confirms his last duty station as Camp Butner, NC. This is where dad returned to the States in 1944 after recovering from his wounds. Camp Butner was both a troop training center, and a Prisoner of War camp. Dad told us stories later about helping train troops there (and about performing KP).
We see in block 4 his actual discharge date is August 24th, 1945. This was two weeks after the atom bomb was dropped on Nagasaki, Japan, and one week before the official surrender of the Japanese on September 2nd. The army was already discharging soldiers as the war was winding down, based on how many “points” they had (more on “points” later).
Block 7 still shows the birth date he lied about to enlist – Oct 12, 1921, as opposed to his real birth date of Oct 22, 1923. And amazingly, dad’s height, 5’ 6” and weight, 128 pounds haven’t changed at all from when he enlisted. Me thinks, someone was probably just copying from other forms to put this info in.
Block 21 shows his civilian employment as “Usher”, so maybe not everything was copied over. His enlistment paperwork showed him as a “Laborer”.
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.
Dad’s “Military History” in His Discharge Paperwork.
Block 31 shows dad qualified as an expert both on the Machine Gun, and the M1 Garand rifle. It also notes he was awarded the Combat Infantryman Badge. You could only earn the CIB if you were in the Infantry (not in Field Artillery, or Armor, or Signal Corps etc), AND you were in actual active combat with the enemy.
I’m going to skip to block 36 – “Service Outside the Continental United State” for just a minute . Note here that he arrived overseas on November 8th, 1942. What it doesn’t say is he arrived with the 60th Regimental Combat Team of the 9th Infantry Division at around 5AM under gunfire on the beach near Port-Lyautey, French Morocco. This was as a part of Operation Torch, the invasion of North Africa. Torch was (next to D-Day) the second largest amphibious assault ever attempted.
Now back to block 32, where we see in addition to French Morocco, dad also took part in battles in Algeria and Tunisia in North Africa where they defeated Rommel and the Africa Korps. Those battles took place between November 8th of 1942 and May 10th of 1943. Then in July of 1943, dad participated in the invasion of Sicily.
Skipping back down to block 34, we learn dad was wounded on August 8th, 1943. What it doesn’t mention is he was shot three times by the Germans in the mountains of Sicily and it took over a day to evacuate him by hand to an aid station. It also doesn’t say he almost died due to the combination of his wounds and the Malaria he contracted. His time with the 9th Infantry Division ended here.
Returning to block 36, we see dad arrived back in the States on May 15th, 1944, three weeks before D-Day. This was after he recovered from his wounds (he was evacuated to North Africa to fully recover). Due to the severity of those wounds, he didn’t return to combat – the war was over for him, although he remained in the service for another 15 months.
Block 37 “Foreign Service”, shows that of dad’s almost five years in the service, one year, six months and twenty-one days were spent overseas. Approximately eight of those months were in near continuous combat.
Finally, we return to block 33, “Decorations and Citations”. In addition to his Good Conduct Medal and Purple Heart (for being wounded), he was awarded: the American Defense Service Ribbon (awarded to troops on active duty prior to Pearl Harbor); the European African Middle Eastern Theatre Ribbon with three bronze stars (this was for participating in the campaign in French Morocco, and the subsequent campaigns in Algeria, Tunisia and Sicily); three Overseas Service Bars (one for each six month period in a theater of war) and finally a Service Stripe (one for each three year period of service). It’s worth noting dad also earned a Bronze Star (for exemplary conduct in ground combat against an armed enemy), which didn’t catch up with him until after he was already discharged, and is not reflected in this paperwork.
Finally we come to the bottom of the discharge paperwork and block 55. There are three items noted here, although not all are readable.
Block 55 – Points and Other Things
First, dad, along with all other honorably discharged service members, was issued a lapel button to be worn on civilian clothing. At the end of the war, it was particularly useful for those traveling home so they were quickly identified as service members and received priority for buses and trains.
Next we see dad’s ASR score was 95. ASR stood for Adjusted Service Rating and is what was used to determine the priority for discharging soldiers at the end of the war. The rules were simple in principle: “Those who had fought longest and hardest should be returned home and discharged first.” Points were given for length of time in the service, length of time overseas, combat campaigns, combat awards, being wounded and so on. At the time, “the points” required for discharge were 85. Dad, with his nearly five years of service, his 1 1/2 years overseas, his Purple Heart, and his four campaigns was at, or near the top of the heap. His 95 points reflect that, and was why he was discharged so quickly as the war was winding down. If you have ever watched the show “Band of Brothers” there is a great section in the last show focusing on this. Points were on everyone’s mind.
Finally, there’s the cryptic last line “xx days lost under AW 107”. What the hell is that? AW 107 stood for Articles of War (the forerunner of today’s Uniform Code of Military Justice). Article 107 refers to docking the soldier credit for days of active duty that they didn’t earn. Typical examples were for going AWOL, being too drunk to report for duty, or getting in trouble for other minor offenses and confined to the barracks. Since the service member was not performing his or her duties during those periods, they didn’t receive time in grade or retirement credit for those periods. It turns out many/most enlisted soldiers during WWII had AW107 scores higher than zero. During my research, I’ve found cases with numbers from 1 to over 200. I’ve tried like hell to read the smudged number here but can’t quite make it out. It might be a 5? It might be a 3? I don’t think we’ll ever know. What I do know is dad was busted from Sergeant to Private in June of 1943 for getting caught in, and subsequently kicked out of, a walled city twice in one night after missing the last truck back to his unit. Perhaps he was confined for some period of time in conjunction with this “incident”.
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.
A Banner Honoring Dad in Ottawa, Illinois on Veteran’s Day Last Year.
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:
I apologize for the length of this and last week’s blogs, but I was trying to give some context to the cold and straightforward words in the paperwork.
– 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:
Mar 1943. “Maknassy” – The battle, 79 years ago in March of 1943, was vicious. On the 12th of March, as a part of operations at El Guettar, General Patton detached the 60th Combat Team, Dad’s unit, from the 9th Infantry Division and attached it to […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/03/22/the-twenty-days-of-maknassy/
May 1943. It was in May of 1943 in Tunisia, Dad looked at the German soldier and said “Chicago”. The German answered “Chicago?” Dad stared back. “Chicago … Al Capone”. Now the German’s eyes’ widened. Everyone knew who […] continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/05/08/dad-and-al-capone/
On the 11th day of September, 1940, just over 14 months before Pearl Harbor, my dad, William Iber Hall, enlisted in the United States Army for a 3 year stint. His enlistment paperwork showed him to be 18 years and 11 months of age. In reality, he was 16 years and 11 months old.
Our family history always said dad lied about his age when he joined the Army. Still, it was pretty cool to receive some official corroboration.
A couple of years ago in the middle of COVID, I was doing some research and learned I could access dad’s military records. The only catch? On July 12th of 1973, a fire occurred at the National Personnel Records Center (NPRC) and destroyed between 16 and 18 million Official Military Personnel Files, including 80% of those who were discharged between 1912 and 1960. I said a prayer, held my breath, and sent a letter to the National Archives, and more specifically, the NPRC, asking for dad’s service and medical records.
Months passed. A year passed. A second year passed, and then I finally received an email from the NPRC. Dad’s records existed, but were located in the area where the worst part of the fire was. They were damaged and incomplete. They did have his enlistment and separation paperwork, but nothing else. Nothing from his medical records, and nothing else about his time in the service. They did forward copies of the enlistment and separation papers.
The NPRC’s Response to My Request for Information About Dad.
I looked at both documents. They are discolored, scarred and blurry in places. There are brown marks, including outlines of paper clips – perhaps from the heat of the fire. Here’s a photo of the enlistment documents – note there are actually three pages.
Dad’s Enlistment Papers – Apparently Damaged some by the Fire.
There is some fascinating information, particularly in the top half of the first page of the enlistment form. I’ve blown it up here so you can better read the form.
A Magnified View of the Top of Page One of Dad’s Enlistment, With Some Key Items Circled in Red.
Here are a few items of interest:
Dad enlisted in Peoria, Illinois – I’d always assumed in Ottawa, but there probably wasn’t a recruiting station there yet. His enlistment was for three years, and was directly to the 60th Infantry Regiment of the 9th Infantry Division. Three years later in September of 1943 when his enlistment was originally to end, dad was in a hospital in Sicily, recovering from being shot three times by the Germans. He was still serving with the 60th. By then, all enlistments were for the duration.
We see in his answer to question 1, that yes, dad did lie about his birth date – by over two years. His actual birthday was Oct 22, 1923, which means on the date of his enlistment, Sept 10, 1940, he was actually 16 years and 11 months old. You were required to be 18 years old to join and Dad lied big time, claiming a birth date of Oct 12, 1921, making himself 18 years and 11 months old.
His answer to question 3 shows he completed 7th Grade, and nothing more. This was interesting as well – dad always told us he graduated from 8th grade. (In a side note, Dad did graduate from high school in 2002, when he and other veterans who didn’t graduate were made honorary members and graduates of the OHS class of 2002.)
For question 4, he lists his work as Laborer for the past year, at $10/week. This was at least a partial lie. Dad joined the Civilian Conservation Corps (CCC) for two six month enlistments in 1939 when he was 15 years old (the legal age for the CCCs was 17). He may have worked as a laborer when he returned from the CCCs, but it certainly wasn’t for a year, as he joined the Army not long after his return. My guess is he was probably out of work at the time and didn’t want to admit it.
I’m betting dad didn’t know the “s” in Illinois is silent, as he spelled it Illinoise in his answer to question no. 1. ;-).
Dad in ‘39 or Early ‘40 in the CCCs, and Then Later in Early ‘41 with the 60th Infantry
On the second page of his enlistment, there are a couple of additional parts of his life we can confirm from the information provided. First, dad is listed at 5’ 6” and 128 lbs. That corresponds pretty well with the above CCC photo of him. It’s hard to see how the recruiter actually thought he was 18.
Also of interest is that my Grandma, Alberta Hall, is listed as his nearest relative, and the person to be notified in case of emergency. This aligns with other parts of our family history that aren’t always talked about as much. My Grandpa Hall was something of a ne’r-do-well for much of his life, and probably an alcoholic. He sometimes disappeared for days or weeks at a time. Evidently Dad wasn’t taking any chances on him as his emergency point of contact and named Grandma instead. It makes sense to me now that when the telegram came to the family in 1943 informing them of dad’s wounding, it was sent to Grandma, not Grandpa.
A Magnified View of Page 2 of Dad’s Enlistment.
Receiving his enlistment papers was an amazing find to me. I never doubted dad, or any of his stories, but finding actual documents confirming his history is incredible. Knowing how lucky we are they didn’t burn along with the 18 million other military personnel records, only makes the story more fascinating. Luck is sometimes a wonderful thing.
We’d always been told that dad enlisted in 1940, and knew he had to have lied about his age. My Aunt Ellen, his older sister by several years, went to the recruiting station with him to verify his age to the recruiter. Life at that point in time, at the tail end of the depression was tough, or at least tough for the Hall family. Grandma was supporting the family with her work, and Grandpa was only a part time presence at home. There was no money, and probably not many jobs, at least not for a 16 year old. The pay in the Army was $21/month at the time, plus food and housing. I think it looked pretty good to someone who had a fairly rough life to that point.
Today, I’m thinking about 16 year old William Iber Hall going to the recruiting station in Peoria Illinois and signing up to an unknown fate. Unbeknownst to him, Pearl Harbor would happen 14 months later. Thank God for dad, and others like him, who did the right thing and stood by our country in it’s time of need.
— This is the first of two blogs about the documents I received from the NPRC. Next week’s blog will cover dad’s discharge paperwork. It tells the story about his time in the service from 1940 – 1945 in just one page, and is an equally amazing document.
Addendum:
You can read more about dad’s and the CCCs here: It was 1939 and dad and Uncle George were on a train, bound for the CCCs in Wyoming. Growing up in Illinois during the Great Depression was tough. Their family was poor before the Depression, and things got worse […] continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/12/13/dad-uncle-george-and-the-cccs-in-1939%EF%BB%BF
Here’s more on the fire at the NPRC from the Archives themselves: “Shortly after midnight on July 12, 1973, a fire was reported at the NPRC’s military personnel records building in St. Louis, MO. Firefighters arrived on the scene only 4 minutes and 20 seconds after the first alarm sounded and entered the building. While they were able to reach the burning sixth floor, the heat and the smoke forced the firefighters to withdraw at 3:15am. In order to combat and contain the flames, firefighters were forced to pour great quantities of water onto the exterior of the building and inside through broken windows. The fire burned out of control for 22 hours; it took two days before firefighters were able to re-enter the building. The blaze was so intense that local Overland residents had to remain indoors, due to the heavy acrid smoke. It was not until July 16, nearly four and a half days after the first reports, that the local fire department called the fire officially out. The fire destroyed approximately 16-18 million Official Military Personnel Files (OMPF). No duplicate copies of these records were ever maintained, nor were microfilm copies produced. Neither were any indexes created prior to the fire. In addition, millions of documents had been lent to the Department of Veterans Affairs before the fire occurred. Therefore, a complete listing of the records that were lost is not available. In terms of loss to the cultural heritage of our nation, the 1973 NPRC Fire was an unparalleled disaster.”
“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I finished the Plebe indoor mile run in under 5:30! As I slowed, my stomach suddenly double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.
During my time at West Point, the Academy frequently talked about developing the “whole man” (with the admission of women in 1976, this changed to the “whole person”). We cadets were always being tested and evaluated. It was true about leadership, about academics, and was certainly true about physical fitness. For most of us, somewhere in all that testing was an Achilles Heel. With some it was a particular academic course, for others, some physical education test or class.
Plebe Year at West Point.
As Plebes, there were four required gym classes: Swimming, Wrestling, Boxing, and Gymnastics. For me, I’d been a swimmer all my life and a lifeguard for a few years, so the swimming class was easy, and I earned the equivalent of an A. Wrestling? I made West Point’s intercollegiate wrestling team as a freshman walk on, so I validated wrestling and took handball as an elective instead. Boxing was a challenge at first, but once I learned the basics, AND learned getting punched in the nose wasn’t a showstopper, I did OK. Gymnastics was a different beast.
The pommel horse, the rings, the vault, parallel bars, the trampoline, mats for tumbling … I forget what other torture devices were there, but it was like I was in a cursed land. My two sisters would tell you I wasn’t particularly coordinated as a kid. As a matter of fact, they would say I was a bit of a klutz. It all came home to roost in Gymnastics class. I was passing, but just barely.
At some point during the class, I learned we would do a timed mile run as a part of the course. Running of course has nothing to do with gymnastics, but those things happened at West Point. Just another chance to excel. Now, I had never been a runner, but since it was wrestling season, I was in great shape. Probably the best shape of my brief life up to that point. I started thinking I might be able to earn a good score on the mile run and improve my overall Gymnastics grade.
Hayes Gym* is where we practiced Gymnastics. It was “a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling and hardwood floors.” Above the gym floor, an elevated track rings the room. It takes 11.7 laps to run a mile on that track and that’s where we would complete the mile run.
Hayes Gym in 1910, the Year it was Built, and Again in 2009. Note the Elevated Track.
My personal view at the time (and that of at least a few of my classmates) was that many of the instructors in the Department of Physical Education (DPE) had a bit of a sadistic streak in them. One of our instructors was Army’s gymnastic coach, Ned Crossley and some classmates recall his scoring as particularly brutal. Looking back now, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t true. Having said that, all of the DPE instructors had ways of questioning you, challenging you, or prodding you that often seemed to taunt you a bit as well.
The instructor who spoke with us about the mile run was a little like that. To receive a max score, you needed to run under 5:30. The instructor explained what we needed to do to run a 5:30 mile. At 11.7 laps per mile, “all” you needed was to run each lap at a 28 seconds per lap pace, and then run like hell for the last half lap. Simple. Easy Peasy. Any cadet could do it. And so on. Of course the vast majority of us could run no where near that fast.
At the time, I don’t believe I’d ever run a mile (or any other distance) for time. I’d certainly run laps in High School sports, run in formation at West Point for Company morning runs during Beast, and we ran our asses off in wrestling practice. But none of this was ever done for time. That was about to change.
My pea brain went to work. 28 seconds was two seconds less than 30 seconds for each lap. 28 seconds for the first lap… 56 seconds for two laps … 1:24 for three laps … 1:52 for four laps and so on. I’d do the math in my head on the run. As long as I could keep the pace going, I had a shot.
A couple days later, it was my turn to do the run. As I recall, there were a few of us running it at the same time, although I don’t recall exactly how many. What I do remember was taking off when “go” was called. The first lap – 27 seconds! The next couple of laps I was under the pace. After that, I was a bit erratic, with some over and some under, but the average was OK and at the half mile mark, I was on pace. The final few laps? I’m not sure I was really paying attention any longer. The air was stale. The air was acrid. 3/4 of a mile and still on pace. My lungs were burning. I was sucking in as much oxygen as I could. 11 laps done. My legs were lead. It was down to just over half a lap left. I didn’t see anything other than the track in front of me. I don’t know if the other Plebes were in front of me, or behind me. All I know is I ran as hard as could. I rounded the final curve.
“5:25 … 5:26 … 5:27 … Hall – 5:28 … 5:29 … 5:30 …” I did it! I beat 5:30. I slowed down and suddenly my stomach double clutched and I ran to a nearby trash can, where I promptly threw up.
Recovery took me a while. I may have heaved a second time, and certainly had the dry heaves. Eventually I made my way to the shower, and then to whatever my next class was that day.
A couple weeks later, I passed gymnastics with some room to spare.
In my remaining years at West Point, I never ran that fast again. Not even close. We had PT tests on an annual basis with a two mile run next to the Hudson River. I never approached anything close to that time, even when adjusted for a slower time due to the extra distance. The two miler was always a challenge for me and I was always nervous about failing it. The thought of maxing out my run score never entered my head.
Years later, I took up running on my own for fun and to stay in shape. I became a decent runner, and clocked several personal bests – an 11:44 two mile ( a sub six minute/mile pace); a 39:58 10K (a sub 6:30/mile pace) and a 68 minute and change 10 mile race (a sub 7 min/mile pace). I remember all of those. The one I still marvel at? The 5:28 mile on the indoor track at West Point. I had no business running that fast. How the hell did I ever do it?
Addendum:
* Some info on Hayes Gym from the Academy itself: Hayes Gym was built in 1910. The second level of Hayes is what most cadets and USMA graduates think of as “Hayes Gym”. It is a large open gym with a vaulted ceiling, hardwood floor, and elevated track (11.7 laps to a mile) that rings the room. The Department of Physical Education (DPE), teaches applied gymnastics (now called “Military Movement”) in Hayes, taking advantage of its historical and unusual support structures. The gym has eighteen 21′ vertical ropes and two 60′ horizontal ropes (suspended 12′ from the floor). There are also 10 pull-up bars that are each 5′ wide and are suspended from the ceiling with vertical supports in such a manner that they can be “run across” (with proper technique), as is done during the Indoor Obstacle Course. The gym’s floor space is filled with gymnastic’s apparatus and pads, such as vaults, bars, and rings as well as 1″ and 4″ tumbling mats. Nowadays, the military movement equipment remains in place year-round.
The Indoor Obstacle Course is another “fond” memory of Hayes Gym for most West Point Grads, as it was also known to induce retching at it’s completion. I may do a blog on it in the future, but it’s hard to describe to those who haven’t experienced it. To get a flavor for it, here’s a YouTube video of Cadet Elizabeth Bradley completing it just a couple of years ago and breaking the female record while doing so. For all my macho buddies out there, I would love to see you try to beat her time. Good luck on that unlikely event. GO ARMY! https://youtu.be/Dw5rR1yqyp8 .
Thanks to classmates Gus Hellzen and Jerome Butler for their contributions to this blog.
This February, we had visitors on the farm. While it took a bit of time to confirm their identity, we eventually did. Two river otters took up residence at our pond and provided great entertainment, along with both joy and sadness.
Cathy was the first to see them. She saw something moving across the pond and then disappear below the surface for a period of time. At first she thought it was a turtle, as we do have snappers in the pond, but this was moving too fast. Then she saw a second fast moving object. It came towards her, and suddenly “stood up”* in the water and looked at her! What?!
She told me about it later that evening and we discussed the possibilities. Beavers are what first came to mind, although it seemed strange they would establish a home in a pond – I’d presumed they needed more moving water than our small streams. We did some research online and three other options popped up – muskrats, mink and river otters.
Cath saw them again the next day, and then I did too. They were definitely not beavers – their tails were wrong. And then due to size, we eliminated mink and muskrats. They were probably somewhere between 15-25 pounds, much larger than mink or muskrat. Plus they were definitely staying in the water for long periods, which eliminated the mink, and were eating fish, which pretty much eliminated the muskrat. River otters had taken up residence in the pond.
One of the River Otters at Our Pond.
We started watching for them on a daily basis. Cathy would see them while crossing the berm at one end of the pond to go horse riding. I’d see them in the morning while putting the horses out. Swimming, diving, eating fish, appearing, disappearing and reappearing. Ripples on the pond when there was no wind. They were quite entertaining.
Ripples With No Wind.
It looked as if they set up a dwelling under a fallen tree on the pond’s edge. It was one of several large trees we lost last June during a major wind storm that passed through the area.** I marveled at Mother Nature taking away several large trees and an unknown number of bird nests last summer, only to give the otters a home with one of those trees this winter.
The Fallen Tree that is Probably Their Home.
Cathy talks about our pond acting as the center of life on the farm and she’s right. There are of course fish, turtles, frogs and snakes in the pond but it attracts so much more. We’ve seen deer and raccoon on the banks, and a bear stopping in for a drink, before meandering on it’s way. There is amazing bird life – in addition to small birds, we have observed a couple types of duck, geese, owls, hawks and even an eagle. Often, there are blue heron standing silently in the water while fishing. If you watch for even a few quiet minutes you are likely to see some gift from Mother Nature. The pond is certainly what brought the gift of the otters to us.
After they arrived, I was blessed early one morning with a memory I won’t forget. I had already fed the horses, and was back in the kitchen drinking my coffee. Using a pair of binoculars, I tracked the otters moving around the pond, diving and resurfacing. As I watched, a pair of geese were swimming in the shallows closest to me. Two heron were flying back and forth overhead, possibly irritated by the presence of the otters. I sat mesmerized for five or ten minutes, taking in all of the activity on our pond. It wasn’t yet 8AM.
Cath and I developed a daily habit of asking each other if we’d seen the otters and what they were doing. It was fun and also renewing. These two small creatures brought wonder and marvel to Rohan Farm.
Perhaps seven or ten days after they first arrived, the otters disappeared. We didn’t think too much about it the first day. Then a second day passed with no sightings. After a week with no viewings, we assumed they were gone.
We didn’t know what happened, but had so many questions. Where did they come from to begin with? Were they just passing through and stopping to eat for a few days? Did they start to make a home, and then with us, the horses and the dog in the area, decide there was too much activity here? Did they fish the pond for a while and decide there wasn’t enough food to support them long term? Did something kill them? We didn’t know.
Eight or nine days after their departure, I happened to look out the bedroom window in the morning, as I was preparing to start the day. There was no wind and there were no geese in sight, but there were ripples on the pond. I hurriedly finished dressing and went to feed the horses. I didn’t want to break my routine, rush straight to the pond and scare any potential visitors.
I fed the cats and then walked from the barn to the feed room to get the horse’s grain. I could see part of the pond, but trees blocked a total view. Finally, as I was carrying hay from the barn to the paddock, I saw a head above the water moving quickly, and creating ripples in it’s wake. I watched for a couple of seconds, and then it must have seen me as well – it “stood up” in the water, looked at me, and then continued about it’s business. The otters were back.
Now of course there were a whole new set of questions. Were they here the whole time, but becoming more nocturnal? Were they moving between the several ponds in our area? How long would they stay? How do we not waste this wonderful opportunity to watch them?
We’ve lived here for almost twenty-five years and have never before seen an otter. It never even occurred to me to look for a river otter. And then this small miracle occurred. I know this is how that strange and wonderful thing we call life works some times, but it still amazes me.
I will remember this winter and the pure joy the otters have brought us. I will also remember the sadness I felt when I thought they departed. We don’t now know their future plans and their time with us may still be fleeting. I feel lucky to have had the experience with them at all – and I am grateful for both the delight, and the sadness I have felt. I promise myself I will continue to enjoy them, and marvel at them, for as long as they allow it.
The Otters Weren’t Just a Dream.
Addendum:
* I later learned that what we called “standing up” in the water is referred to as periscoping. Otters “periscope,” meaning raise their necks far out of the water, to see farther. They also do this to identify each other.
** I mentioned the storm from last June knocking down the tree that apparently has become the home for the otters. Here’s a blog about the storm event. Eight months later, I can still hear the sound of the crying birds in my head – “When I went outside to assess the damage after the storm passed, the first thing I thought of was the musician Prince. There were probably no doves, but as I stood on the porch, I could hear hundreds (thousands?) of birds plaintively crying out, over and over and over. This wasn’t good” […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/06/23/when-birds-cry/
Honorable mentions went to Miller Lite and Natty Light. Second placewent to Coors Light. And, drum roll please … Bud Light won First place. What – The best light beer in America? No. This was a judgment based on litter pick up at Black Walnut Point on Tilghman Island, Md. There were more Bud Light cans left among the trash than any other brand.
We are fortunate enough to own a small second home on Tilghman Island. Tilghman is in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay, about twenty minutes from Saint Michaels. The island, reached by a short draw bridge, is beautiful and remains a rural area. Working fishermen, oyster men and crabbers still practice their craft and usually depart on their boats in the early morning hours six days a week from the various harbors and docks.
The very end of Tilghman Island is known as Black Walnut Point. We live close by in the “village” of Fairbank, a collection of thirty-five or so older homes. It’s a great little community with a combination of original Tilghman Islanders, folk who have moved or retired here full time, and part timers like ourselves. Everyone is friendly and gets along. When you go for a walk, it’s more of a stroll and chat. People are always stopping, talking with others and catching up on the local news.
Tilghman Island and Black Walnut Point
Black Walnut Point itself has a small Inn at the end of the road. Before you arrive at the Inn, the road passes a quarter mile of public access to the Chesapeake. It’s a paved area, and they have reenforced this small split of land with boulders and riprap to keep it from washing away into the Bay. The area attracts folk who like to fish, or come to see a gorgeous sunset, or just hang out and take a couple of photos. The Chesapeake doesn’t have lots of public access on much of it’s shoreline, so where there is a public spot, people tend to gather.
The Afternoon View From Black Walnut Point Road.
And gather they do, at all times of the year, but particularly in the warmer months. That’s when the trash problem is the worst. While I’m sure most visitors are good people, there are a number who have evidently never heard of taking their trash with them. During summer on a busy weekend, it’s not unusual to walk the area on a Monday morning and find actual bags of trash visitors have left behind. It’s evidently too much trouble to haul it back home. And then of course there are the bottles, cans, sandwich packages, cigarette packs and cigarette butts, not to mention fishing line, hooks and weights left among the rocks. Or crammed between the rocks. Or crushed and pushed down lower in the rocks.
Tilghman Island and our Fairbank community have organized trash pick-up events over the years. During summer, neighbors would go out a couple of times as a group and pick up several large bags of trash. Gary, the unofficial “Mayor” (or ambassador) of Fairbank helped organize many of these events via email before he passed away a few years ago. As importantly, people would sometimes go out on their own to pick up trash.
After Gary passed away, our friend Darren has taken on some of the role of community organizer. As an example, just this past December around Christmas time there was a huge storm with high winds on the Bay, resulting in large amounts of trash, debris, flotsam and jetsam washing up on Black Walnut Point. Darren put out the call to help clean up and the community responded. When we arrived a few days later on Dec 29th, I made a pass and collected a couple bags of trash and recyclables, but most was already gone, thanks to our neighbors.
Last week, Cath and I were at the Bayhouse again. As I took our dog, Carmen, for a walk towards Black Walnut Point, I noticed the trash was starting to pile up. It wasn’t bad, considering we’d cleaned the area up a little over a month before, but there was enough to be noticeable, and I decided I’d do a trash-pickup-pass the next day.
The next afternoon, as I was about to start, I ran into our neighbors John and Lea out for a walk with their dog. As we were talking, John told me he’d been out the week before and picked up two bags of recyclables. That was a bit of a surprise, as it meant the trash I was seeing was just from the past week.
Later, as I finished collecting my bag and a half of trash, a few things became apparent. The majority of smokers littering the area were Marlboro fans, with a couple of Pall Mall smokers thrown in. Among the recyclables, I found a few plastic water bottles, a couple of diet Pepsi cans and two empty pints of Lord Calvert Canadian Whiskey. The rest of it? Beer cans. And not just any beer cans. There were no IPAs, no Guinness Stout, no German pils or Mexican lagers. There was no Nanticoke Nectar from RAR brewery just down the road in Cambridge. While I found a few Budweisers, most were Light cans. There were a couple of Miller Lites and a few Natty Lights, but the vast majority were Coors Light and 10 ounce cans of Bud Light.
Coors Light and Bud Light – Both are Evidently a Favorite of Litterers.
The Coors Light cans were found in just a couple of concentrated areas. You could almost see a couple of fishermen standing or sitting there, working their way through a twelve pack over the course of an afternoon. Finish one beer, throw it among the rocks and grab another one from the cooler. Did they catch any fish? We’ll never know, but it appears they enjoyed themselves.
The Bud Lights? They were scattered up and down the shoreline in ones or twos. In fact, several were also scattered in the grass and woods on the drive into the area. These brought a different vision to my head. One or two guys, maybe kids, maybe not, having a beer in their truck and chucking it onto the rocks, or as they were driving home, throwing it out the window onto the side of the road. The Bud Light drinkers also threw out the boxes those 10 ounce beers came in. No evidence was going to remain in their cars.
As I mentioned a couple of times, the Bud Lights were all 10 ounce cans. Why does that matter? 10 ounce beers are an Eastern Shore thing*. Look in your hometown store and see if you can find 10 oz Buds. The answer is probably no, unless you live on certain parts of the Eastern Shore of Maryland.
My guess on our litterers? The Coors guys were from somewhere else and came for an afternoon of fishing on the Bay. The Bud Light drinkers? I’d bet they are from somewhere nearby on the the Eastern Shore of Maryland – probably somewhere between here and Easton. Maybe they are high school kids sneaking their beers; maybe they are bored young guys; or maybe they are older guys getting away from home for awhile.
I could be wrong. Maybe they are from somewhere else, forgot to bring beer, and decided to buy some here locally. At the store they looked around saw the 10 ounce cans, and said, “Those beers are for me. I want beers in cans that are two ounces smaller than what I normally drink.” Maybe.
What I do know is whoever they are, they are trashing the area.
I can’t say this is a typical mix of trash, only that it is what I found on this particular visit. It’s unfortunate. I guarantee both the Coors and Bud Light drinkers would tell you they love this area. It has everything they want – open access to the Bay, beautiful views and occasionally good fishing. But you can’t profess to love something and trash it at the same time. All that does is make you a hypocrite. In this case, hypocrites who don’t respect Mother Nature, Tilghman Island or those around them.
Addendum:
* 10 Ounce cans of Bud and Bud Light are a big thing in parts of the Eastern Shore of Maryland. I particularly enjoy them on a hot summer day – you finish your beer beer before it gets warm. You find them in the counties of Caroline, Dorchester, Kent, Queen Anne’s and Talbot (our county), but not in places such as Salisbury and Ocean City. You can read more about them here: https://wtop.com/maryland/2020/09/uncanny-why-10-ounce-cans-of-budweiser-are-popular-in-parts-of-maryland/
The title of this blog is a word play on “Judgement of Paris”, the 1976 blind wine tasting in Paris that elevated the status of American wines. Never heard of it? You can read more here: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Judgment_of_Paris_(wine) . The wine “Judgement of Paris” itself was a twist on The “Judgement of Paris” in Greek Mythology, which was a contest between the three most beautiful goddesses of Olympos – Aphrodite, Hera and Athena for the prize of a golden apple addressed “To the Fairest.” The original Judgement in Paris eventually led to the Trojan War and the destruction of Troy.
Here’s a bit of a more complete history of trash pick up on Tilghman from Darren. I shortened it a bit for the blog: Gary and Larry were the original two people who picked up trash. People saw Gary and Larry doing it and joined in. It organically became a Fairbank community effort. Gary then made it more formal through his newsletters. When The Phillips Wharf Environmental Center was under Kelly Cox, they held a trash pick-up day called “Tidy up Tilghman.” People picked up trash across the entire island on that day. Gary was on the PWEC Board of Directors, so I think they got the idea from him. The tradition has always been strong and remains in place in Fairbank. There’s another trash pick up for the entire Island taking place on April 1st of this year.
Thanks to friends Darren and Veronica who both took a look at this blog for accuracy and editing purposes!
A few weeks ago Cathy and I spent a Saturday seeing the full circle of life. The day started at a brewery, attending a Celebration of Life for a friend who passed away three months ago. It ended at a winery where another friend was celebrating her seventieth birthday. The two events were surprisingly similar.
Our old friend Davie passed away last October at the age of 67. His death was unexpected and hit many of us hard. We were a part of the same running group since the early ‘90s and became good friends over the years. Another friend, Tia, and I talked and decided to host a Celebration of Life for Davie, but after some time went by – time enough for the rawness of his death to pass. We eventually decided on a Saturday in mid-January.
On the appointed day, a wonderful and diverse crowd of seventy five or so came together and after a short run, gathered at a local brewery. Five of us brought in homemade food for a buffet lunch with BBQ, coleslaw, mac n’ cheese and other goodies. Beer and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. The decision Tia and I made to delay for three months was a good one. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories of Davie were told – some poignant, some bawdy. At the end of the “formal” part of the Celebration, we sang the old spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” as a final send off (an off-color version of the song is usually sung at the end of our weekly runs).
Friends at Davie’s Celebration of Life at the Brewery
We left the brewery while the party was still roaring, to make our way to our friend Kathy’s 70th birthday party. We arrived at home, let Carmen out and changed clothes. From there, we drove the twenty minutes to the winery where Kathy’s birthday party was being held.
Upon arriving, we found the party and joined in with the other 20 or 25 guests. A friend of Kathy’s made delicious homemade appetizers. Wine and other beverages were flowing. The crowd was loud and in a good mood. Friends ate and drank and laughed. Stories and jokes were told and Kathy’s husband mentioned a couple of times that he was lucky to have married an older woman (I should point out he is only 18 months younger than Kathy). At the end of the “formal” part of the celebration, we sang “Happy Birthday ” to Kathy as a final tribute.
Friends at Kathy’s Birthday Party at the Winery.
Speaking with Kathy later, she mentioned she wanted to celebrate her life while she was “still vertical”. The guests represented different aspects of her life and what held meaning for her — old friendships formed in her youth, friendships from her days in community theater, friendships formed in pursuit of change in our social and political systems and those she partnered with while strengthening her health and fitness levels. It was a diverse and wonderful group of people. After the party, she and Steve stayed up late into the night talking about how lucky they were. Her comment to me – “Why wait to gather together and celebrate life?”
I’ve spent the last month or so thinking about the juxtaposition of those two gatherings. They were sooooo similar to each other. Friends gathered. Good homemade food was served at both. Excellent local adult beverages were available for consumption. There was lots of laughter, with jokes and stories being told. Even a song was sung at both to end the formal part of the festivities. The only real difference between the two events was the guest of honor attended one in person, but not the other.
Kathy being Roasted at her Birthday Celebration. I Like to Think Davie Attended his Celebration of Life in Spirit.
Yes, there’s a fine edge between life and death, between living and dying, between celebrating a life, and a Celebration of Life. That Saturday and those two gatherings brought it home to me.
Celebrating life, and Celebrations of Life are both important. None of us knows how much time we, our family, or our friends have left and we should take advantage of celebrating not just birthdays, but every part of life we can, while we are alive.
I’m glad we were able to celebrate Davie’s life. He wasn’t physically with us, but I know he would have enjoyed the party. I like to think he was looking on us from somewhere on high with a glass of champagne or a mimosa in his hand.
I’m even happier we were able to celebrate Kathy’s 70th with her in the room, and I’m pretty sure she did enjoy the party. As Fitzgerald stated in The Great Gatsby, “Let us learn to show our friendship for a man when he is alive and not after he is dead.“
Celebrating life while living, seems an important part of having a good Celebration of Life later. At my Celebration of Life, I hope there will be jokes and stories and snorts of laughter. In a corner of the room, maybe loud guffaws and then someone will say, “What a great story! I didn’t know that about Max. Did I ever tell you about the time he and I…”
When I started thinking about this blog, I thought the song “The Circle of Life” from The Lion KIng might be nice for an ending with it’s lyrics about despair and hope, and faith and love. It’s a fine song, and I suppose makes people feel warm and fuzzy. Personally, I think Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life” is more relevant for me, and has a better take on all of it:
Well, I'm just a modern guy Of course, I've had it in the ear before* And I've a lust for life (lust for life) 'Cause I've a lust for life (lust for life) Got a lust for life Yeah, a lust for life…
I’m going to continue to honor and celebrate those around me, both alive and dead. I think about that Saturday and those two events. Like my friends Davie and Kathy, a lust for life is what I have. I’m taking Iggy’s advice, and plan to continue to live life exuberantly. I’m going to celebrate life and all it throws at me. If you happen to make my Celebration of Life down the road, eat some fine food, have a drink, laugh and tell a good story about the times we shared together. Hopefully, it starts out something like this, “There Max and I were. It was crazy, but…”
Addendum:
I encourage you to listen to Elton John’s “Circle of Life”, and then Iggy Pop’s “Lust for Life”. Both of them are fine songs. One of them will get you up, moving, and ready to engage life to the utmost.
Thanks to our friend Tia Perry for leading the effort on Davie’s Celebration of Life – It was a great event. Special thanks to our friend Kathy Kadilak for allowing me to talk about her milestone birthday and the impact it had on me. Both Tia and Kathy were a part of writing this blog.
* The phrase “I’ve had it in the ear before” isn’t sexual and it’s not drug related. It means someone’s given you a hard time or screwed you over.
It was strange. It was simple. It was visceral. One moment I was taking a bite of a tuna salad sandwich made with Julia Child’s recipe. The next instant I was a little boy sitting with Grandma Grubaugh at her kitchen table having lunch. It hit me like a bolt out of the blue.
A couple of my favorite benefits of our New York Times subscription are the food and cooking articles. The columns tell great stories, and the recipes are usually pretty manageable. A while back, chef, James Beard Award winning author and former New York Times food columnist Dorie Greenspan wrote a great column “This Tuna-Salad Sandwich Is Julia Child-Approved Lunch”. She was working with Julia at the time on an upcoming book and recounted a day spent in her kitchen. Here’s a partial extract:
“We were working around the kitchen table when Julia declared, “Dorie, let’s make lunch.” I saw Stephanie smile — clearly, she knew what was coming — and then I was at the counter with Julia, doing as I was told, which was cutting celery. While it might not seem like much of a job, I was cutting celery for Julia Child, and I was going to do it right: I trimmed the celery, I peeled it (because I learned to do that in Paris, I thought it was important to do it for the woman who wrote “Mastering the Art of French Cooking”) and I cut the celery into minuscule cubes that were all the same size. I’m only exaggerating a smidge when I say it took me so long that when I put down my knife, Julia had finished everything else, and we were ready to sit down to one of her favorite lunches: tuna salad on an English muffin.”
The article was about nothing and about everything. I love writing like that. I mean, how can you possibly write an entire article about a tuna salad sandwich? And yet Greenspan wrote a great one and I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Julia Childs in the Kitchen.
The list of ingredients in the actual sandwich intrigued me. We’ve all made tuna salad – tuna, mayo, celery and maybe onion and a boiled egg, but this one was a bit different. Yea, there was tuna (packed in oil), mayo (always Hellman’s), celery and onion, but it also included capers, cornichons (small French pickles) and lemon juice. Hmmmm. I was going to have to try this. Some of you know of my aversion to pickles in potato salad, but with tuna salad, why not give it a shot?
I had everything on hand, with the exception of the Cornichons. After doing a little online research, I figured the baby dills in our fridge were a suitable substitute.
I dutifully chopped the celery (sorry, no peeling), onion, capers and pickles. After emptying the tuna in a bowl, I added all of the chopped ingredients. In went the mayo, and the parsley and I combined everything. Finally, I squeezed the lemon juice in, added salt and pepper, and combined it all again. I did a small taste, and of course because of who I am, added a bit more mayo. Another small taste, and then I put the bowl in the fridge to chill for a couple of hours.
Tuna Salad Heading to the Fridge.
At last it was lunch time and I made my sandwich. More mayo on the bread, the tuna salad itself, some lettuce, tomato and a small slice of onion. Another slice of bread, and then I cut the whole thing in half.
Tuna Salad Sammich. It Doesn’t Get Any Better.
I took the first bite, waiting to be transformed in my mind to Julia Child’s kitchen, and … wait! What!? Was that Grandma Grubaugh sitting next to me? Where in the hell did that come from?! It was a visceral reaction – I was a young boy back in Ottawa, sitting at the kitchen table at Grandma’s house having a tuna sandwich with her.
Grandma Grubaugh and I in 1957.
After rejoining the present, I sat there eating my sandwich trying to figure out what brought on those feelings. Grandma, to my knowledge, never cooked anything from Julia Child. Besides, my flashback would have been some time in the ‘60s, well before Julia became popular in America.
I thought through the ingredients. I don’t really remember grandma keeping fresh lemons, or capers around the house, although I suppose she might have. Grandma putting either in tuna salad seemed a pure fantasy. It had to be the pickles, although I didn’t remember mom putting pickles in tuna at our house.
At this point in time, mom had already passed away. Uncle Don, her younger brother was still alive, and I gave him a call. After catching up for a few minutes, I explained why I was calling, asked about grandma’s tuna salad, and whether she put pickles in it. He immediately answered “No, there were no pickles”, and my heart sank. Then he quickly added – “No, no pickles. She used a couple big spoonfuls of pickle relish.” And it all connected.
We talked a bit more and I eventually hung up. As I thought about Grandma and her pickle relish, it made sense. The relish certainly would account for the pickle flavor and maybe some of the brightness. In a subsequent conversation with my cousin Dawn, she reminded me that while Grandma didn’t really keep fresh lemons around the house (who did in midwest America in the ‘60s?), there was always a bottle of Real Lemon Juice in the fridge – for lemon cake, lemon pie, maybe a spoonful in cobblers. Who’s to say she didn’t add a spoonful to her tuna salad? While it doesn’t all add up perfectly, it made sense to me.
Since then, I’ve continued to make my tuna salad with pickles, capers and lemon juice. I have to admit Julia’s is better than what I’d made before. It’s also a nice lunchtime bonus – remembering Grandma Grubaugh on a day when you are “only” having tuna salad is pretty special.
Addendum:
• Thanks to my sister Roberta, and cousin Dawn (one of Uncle Don’s Daughters – also a flower girl at our wedding) for their contributions to this blog – both had distinct memories of Grandma’s tuna salad and some of grandma’s habits at the time. Dawn was also quite emphatic Grandma used sweet pickle relish in her Tuna salad. We also had a great conversation about foods triggering happy family memories – Thanksgiving at mom and dad’s house (Uncle Don, Aunt Diane and family were almost always in attendance as well), potato salad, Aunt Diane’s cherry pies and cobblers, watermelon outside on the picnic table, and Grandma Grubaugh expertly spitting her seeds across the yard, to the delight of her grandchildren.
Live Life Exuberantly 