Uncle Noble

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

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

Dad and Noble in ‘41 or early ‘42.

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

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

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

Roosevelt Reviewing the 60th RCT During the Casablanca Conference

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

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

Chicago Tribune Asking for a Picture After Dad was Wounded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Noble and B Company, in Action Just Before the Bulge

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

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

The 9th at Remagen

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

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

In 1950, a minor miracle also happened. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

Tyranny at the Townhouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

D@mn. 

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

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

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

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

—Silence—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cathy Triumphantly Holding up the “No Parking Sign”!

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

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

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

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

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

Addendum:

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

Eric

On a beautiful sunny day, sixteen of us attended the funeral of our brother, Eric Franks. The service was perhaps, more poignant, as it was the Friday before Memorial Day. It’s always bittersweet when members of the West Point Proud and Great class of ‘78 gather and say goodbye to a classmate. 

At our 45th class reunion last fall, we held a memorial service for the 82 classmates who have passed away. This year, since January, at least ten additional classmates have died. The rate of our passing seems to have increased, but I suppose we are at that age. The youngest of us is 67.  The oldest, maybe 71. 

For those who pass away, a contingent of classmates typically attends the funeral services. Depending on when and where it is, there might be only one or two of us able to make it, or as at Eric’s, as many as 16 or more. It’s not only a last chance to honor a brother, but also an opportunity to spend time with each other and catch up in person. The sands drop through the hourglass more quickly these days and I think we all know it. Bittersweet indeed.

And so it was with Eric. Over the years, Cath and I saw Eric and his wife Robin at various reunions, or mini-reunions. The past few years, we also met them, along with our classmate Gus Hellzen and his wife Janice for an occasional beer or lunch on the Eastern Shore of Maryland. All three couples were married over 45 years ago in the weeks after our June, 1978 graduation. Our wives also made the journey through West Point and the Army.

B-3 Company-Mates and Wives at a Class Mini Reunion in 2022: Hellzens, Wells, Franks, Halls and Powells.

At the service, most classmates in attendance were from the MidAtlantic region, but some flew in from Alabama and Florida among other places. Classmate Brad Andrews, a close friend of Eric’s was one of two speakers giving a eulogy. He told stories of Eric from our cadet days and his time in the Army, including Panama. He talked about Eric becoming a renowned and pioneering Orthopedic Surgeon and the impact he had both on his patients and on other doctors. He also spoke of Eric having cancer and how it didn’t slow him down, even at the end of his life. At the end of his talk, he called the attending West Point graduates to attention and we rendered a final hand salute to Eric. 

After the service, we gathered outside the church and a group photo was taken, something that has become a tradition at funerals, but also other times when some of us gather together to celebrate life and each other. The photos are usually posted to our class Facebook Page, or our email server. “Yes,” we seem to say, “we are still alive, celebrating our brother, each other and The Long Grey Line. Grip Hands.” At funerals in particular, the phrase “Grip Hands”, from the song The Corps* is more real and more important. 

Class of 1978 at Dr. Eric Franks funeral in Salisbury, MD. L-R: Charlie Bartolotta, Max Hall, Bond Wells, Bob Rush, Craig College, Kevin MacCaffery, Kevin Beam, Bob Maszarose, Charlie Dixon, Adolf Ernst, Brad Andrews, Jack Paul, Hank Gillen, Chris Maxfield, Gus Hellzen & Jim Galloway.

Most of us eventually made our way to Robin and Eric’s home for lunch and libation. It was a lively time, with more laughter than tears as far as I could tell. We met with family and friends of Eric from throughout his life. At one point, Gus poured small glasses of WhistlePig** for all who wished to join us in a toast – “To Eric – Grip hands and be thou at peace. Proud & Great ‘78! Here’s to Eric.”   And then, echoing from our formal events in the military (in an Army that was still mostly male in our early days), his second toast, “To the ladies!”

Eventually Cath and I said our goodbyes and left for the drive home. Along the way, we talked of the day and what a fine tribute to Eric it was.

During the drive, I also thought of some of the words Brad used in his eulogy for Eric. He quoted Samual Johnson, saying “To my question, as to whether we might fortify our minds for the approach of death, he answered in a passion, ‘No, Sir, let it alone. It matters not how a man dies, but how he lives. The act of dying is not of importance, it lasts so short a time.’ “

Our hearts are with Robin, their children Erica and Ricky, and with their families. Here’s to you Eric – You led a life worth living. Be Thou at Peace.

Eric and Robin

Addendum:

• Here are the words to “The Corps”:

• WhistlePig Rye Whiskey holds a special place with our class. If you want to learn why, you can read more here – We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/
• Thanks to Gus Hellzen for the photo of Eric and Robin at the start of this blog. Thanks to Cathy for the photo of classmates at Eric’s service.

Mooseburgers

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.

Tim and Renee’s Wedding.

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.

Mooseburgers

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.

Tim, Howard and I Receiving our God and Country Awards.

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.

At Howard and Tim’s Apartment in Chicago in the Early ‘90s.

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…

New Year’s Eve 1978.

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:

• Earning our Boy Scout God and Country awards – https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2018/09/12/god-and-country/
• The Ottawa gluttons eating team at OHS – https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2017/04/17/the-ottawa-gluttons/
• In 1986, Tim and I found a way to ship a Keg of German bier from a Monastery, home in a transport plane: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/10/09/shipping-bier-from-germany/
• In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987 […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/09/12/tim-and-bobbys-visit/
• The night wasn’t supposed to happen. As a matter of fact, in today’s post 9-11 world, it couldn’t happen. They never would have made it through security. But in 1991? Yea, my buddies Howard and June sprung me from O’Hare Airport during a layover, and we had an unexpected night in Chicago. It was July 2nd, 1991 and I’d been in Omaha, Nebraska running tests on the President’s “other plane” for […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/30/an-accidental-night-in-chicago/
• This slightly blurry photo from New Years Eve, 1978 captures Mark, Howard, Tim and me. We are, perhaps, slightly inebriated. Our youth has passed, and our adult lives stretch in front of us. Looking at the picture now, 42 years later, I think about our friendship and the transience of […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2020/12/27/old-friends-dunny-howard-june-and-ben/

EYES … RIGHT!

Every once in a while, something happens, or somebody does something that makes the idea of “The Long Gray Line” real to us West Point graduates. Sometimes it’s an event affecting the world. Sometimes it’s a death. Sometimes it’s only something small. One of those small things happened at our recent 45th class reunion.

A month or so ago, we had our West Point 45th reunion*. It was a wonderful long-weekend seeing the Academy and more importantly, catching up with classmates. A few days after the reunion some of my classmates were exchanging stories online, when one of them asked if anyone else noticed during the parade honoring our class, one cadet staff element maintained “Eyes Right” as they passed our entire class.

• A side note for those who have not served in the military. Everyone knows what a salute is, from one soldier to a more senior officer, or soldiers saluting the flag as it passes, or is raised or lowered. When there is a parade in the military, as a unit marches past the reviewing stand while carrying their weapons, it’s impractical/impossible for the unit to salute, or present arms to the reviewing party. Instead, the commander calls out the command, “EYES…RIGHT!”, and the entire unit, except for the file of troops on the right side of the unit, turns their head at a 45 degree angle and looks at (salutes/honors) the reviewing party as they march past (the right-hand file of troops continues to look straight ahead, ensuring the unit remains on the line of march). Once the entire unit is past the reviewing party, the command “READY…FRONT!” is given and the soldiers snap their heads back to the front. This is a form of saluting (honoring) the reviewing party while on the march.

Back to the story…

During our reunion, a Saturday morning parade was held in our honor. There were about 300 or so of us who dutifully lined up to the right of the reviewing party, which consisted of the Academy Superintendent, his Command Sergeant Major, the Commander of the 7th Infantry Division, and his Command Sergeant Major. Two of the four Cadet Regiments (eighteen companies total) took part in the review. After Ruffles and Flourishes and the Star Spangled Banner played, the command “PASS…IN REVIEW!” was given and Corp of Cadets began their march past the reviewing party and then our class.

Proud and Great ‘78, Lined up for the Parade Review

By happenstance, I was near the front and left side of our class line, fairly close to where the reviewing party was. We could hear the various staff elements and companies give the command EYES RIGHT as they arrived in front of the reviewing party. Then, after the staff element or company passed completely by the reviewing party, the subsequent READY FRONT command was given. Coincidentally, the READY FRONT command was given just before or after where I was standing, depending on the timing of each commander.

My buddies, Steve, Jay, Gus and I all noticed they were doing EYES RIGHT only for the reviewing party. Someone may have even joked about us not being salute worthy, but someone else pointed out it would be pretty tough, and almost impractical to carry an EYES RIGHT for the entire length of our class, spread out over perhaps forty or fifty yards.

Cadets Passing By Us, Already at the READY FRONT

Eventually the parade ended and after pictures, we headed off for lunch and the football game, and no one thought anymore about the parade.

Well, almost no one.

Joe Mislinski and a few other classmates who were at the end of our class in the reviewing line noticed one staff element held their EYES RIGHT the entire time. It was only after they passed the last member of our class that the commander gave the READY FRONT command. Joe was intrigued and got to work trying to find out who this particular commander was.

One Staff Element Held Their Salute Until They Passed our Entire Class

Another one of our classmates, Bob Greenwalt, videoed the entire parade. Joe watched the video and eventually was able to determine the staff element who retained their salute was the commander and staff of the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Regiment. Through a chain of several cadets Joe knows, he was able to track down the 2nd Battalion Commander. It turns out, he was out that day and the cadet in charge for the parade was Cadet Lieutenant Paul Conroy, class of ‘24. Joe wrote him an email asking if he indeed was the commander for the parade that day and if so, thanked him – “I’m sure you thought it was a small thing to do, to honor us in that way, but it really meant a lot. Thank you, it really warmed our hearts. Grip Hands!”

Cadet Lieutenant Conroy and the 2nd Bn, 2nd Reg Staff holding Their Salute

A bit later, the reply came back from Cadet Conroy – “As the stand-in for the commander, I was responsible for giving the commands “Eyes Right” for my staff to salute and “Ready, Front” for them to drop it. I admit my gesture was not premeditated; it just did not seem right to order my staff to drop their salutes until we had passed all the officers, current or retired, who had served our Army. I waited to call “Ready, Front” until myself and my staff had passed the class line. I could not look behind me, but I assume my entire staff held their salutes as well.”

Cadet Conroy’s Reply

After another exchange or two, Joe and Cadet Conroy arranged to link up in person at the upcoming Army Navy Game. Unknown to Cadet Conroy, Joe had a small gift for him and the Battalion staff.

Finally, it was the day of the Army Navy game. If you ever get the chance to go to one, I urge you to do so – it’s a day of pageantry – Cadet and Midshipman march-ons, flyovers, parachute drops, and of course the game itself. No, they aren’t Michigan, Texas, Alabama or Washington vying for the National Title. But that’s OK. These two teams – the passion, the emotion, the rivalry, the ties that bind these two schools. Yes, Michigan and Ohio State have a great rivalry. But when the Army Navy game is over, and the players graduate, these men and women take on joint duties and responsibilities, risking their lives for this great nation.

West Point March-On at Gillette Stadium in Foxboro, MA.

During the game, Joe and Paul texted and arranged a location to link up at the end of the first half. The score was 10-0 Army at halftime when classmates Joe, Paul Chang and Jeff Foley made their way to the bowels of the stadium where they met with Paul, and two of the members from the Battalion Staff – Firstie (Senior) Allen Liu and Cow (Junior) Timothy Jolicoeur. Tim is who originally caught the eye of many of my classmates as he is the one in the photo holding the hand salute the entire time. Three of the cadets, Justus Gabriel, Jake Pinuelas and Wesley Anderson couldn’t make the meeting. Wesley is on the West Point Marathon team and was one of the cadets who ran a game ball from West Point to Gillette Stadium.

As my classmates spoke with the cadets, Joe mentoned how he, Jeff and Paul were there on behalf of our entire class. They gave each of the cadets a Class of ‘78 coin. “Coining” is something done in the military (and some other government organizations). When you “coin” someone outside your unit, it is considered an honor and is because they have done something of value or importance to the unit. The way it’s done is in the form of a handshake. The coining party holds the coin in their right hand and extends the hand for the handshake. The parties shake hands and the receiving party takes the coin after the handshake. For West Pointers, it’s particularly meaningful because of lines from one of our most treasured songs, “The Corps” and the act of “gripping hands”.

The Cadets were surprised and happy. My classmates discussed how meaningful their gesture was for us as a class and how many of us noticed it and remarked to each other about it. They let them know there was chatter about it on our class Facebook page and the class unanimously agreed it was a great idea to do this meetup and present them with the coins.

Class of ‘78 45th Reunion Coin.

There was a bit more small talk, and then all headed back to their respective seats for what turned out to be an exciting second half. If you didn’t see the game, Army won 17-11 after stopping Navy on the one yard line with three seconds left in the game. These games are always thrilling and you shouldn’t leave your seat until they are over. Army has won six of the last eight games between the two Academies. Their margin of victory in those six wins? 36 points. Total.

Chang ’78, Jolicoeur ’25, Mislinski ’78, Conroy ’24, Liu ’24, Foley ’78

So that’s the story. Cadet Lieutenant Conroy will graduate from the Academy in another six months and join The Long Gray Line. “The Long Gray Line” is often talked about in the abstract, but every once in a while, you experience something that makes it real and personal. In the future, I’m guessing if Paul Conroy runs into a member of our class in a bar or restaurant, or some other place in this far-flung world of ours, his money will be no good. Sometimes it’s the little things that make a difference and you notice. The Class of ‘78 noticed on this occasion.

Thanks to you Paul Conroy, and the 2nd Battalion, 2nd Regimental Staff for going out of your way recognizing the Proud and Great Class of ’78. We wish you good luck and Godspeed on your journey with the Army and throughout your life.

Addendum:

• In a side note, classmate Paul Chang has an interesting connection to Paul Conroy – “Paul Conroy and my youngest son were classmates at the same grade school in San Antonio (Keystone) before we moved to Massachusetts 13 years ago! His mom and I worked together at the Med School and they lived close by. Another classmate from that grade school also went to West Point – Isabella Sullivan, who is one of two West Point Rhodes Scholars this year!”
• Credit goes to classmate Billy Harner for the photo of our class lined up for the parade. It’s used in both the lead in to the blog, and again in the text.
• Photo of the West Point march-on at the Game was provided by my good friend, Rudy Crespin, who was in attendance at the game. Rudy is a Naval Academy graduate from the Class of ‘87.
• The two photos of the Cadet Conroy and staff were extracted by Joe Mislinski from the video provided by Bob Greenwalt.
• Thanks to classmate Rick Makowski, who provided the coins for free from his merchandising company.
• Thanks to classmates Joe Mislinski and Gus Hellzen, along with my wife Cathy for providing editing assistance with this blog.
• If interested, here is a link to Bob Greenwalt’s video of the parade. There’s a bit of chatter going on throughout the video, which is also a bit cool. Cadet Conroy and staff come into view at 21:40 and it’s clear that they didn’t do a READY FRONT when everyone else did – https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HMCKT8QXodE
• * Here’s a link to the blog about the reunion itself: It was raining as I left our West Point 45th reunion last Sunday. I took the longer, slower route home rather than drive Interstate 95. Tired and emotionally spent, I didn’t trust myself on a route that would have more traffic. I knew I would be thinking about West Point, the reunion and my classmates […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/11/01/grip-hands/

Grip Hands

It was raining as I left our West Point 45th reunion last Sunday. I took the longer, slower route home to Virginia rather than drive Interstate 95. Tired and emotionally spent, I didn’t trust myself on a route that would have more traffic. I knew I would be thinking about West Point, the reunion and my classmates.

And of course, that’s what happened. The reunion, mixed with memories of West Point and my time in the Army cycled through my brain. Was it really 45 years since we graduated? It turned out the answer was yes.

Due to health issues, Cathy didn’t make the trip (she’s OK). It was a tough choice for her not to go to this reunion, but it was the right decision. Having dated since high school, and marrying each other right after my graduation from West Point, she too made the journey through my time at the Academy and in the Army. We’ve known many of these folk for nearly fifty years and together we have attended every reunion since the fifteenth. If I were to pass away, she would be welcomed with open arms by my classmates at any event, and they would help her in any way they could.

On October 25th, the day before the official start of our reunion, someone noted online the conditions were a bit nicer than 40 years previously on the same date. That was the day Operation Urgent Fury, the United States intervention in Grenada began at dawn. Several members of our class* were in the 82D Airborne Division and a part of the operation. It was a reminder that although we were “Cold Warriors” against the Russians, many of our classmates spent time in combat around the globe.

CPT Marion Seaton in Grenada. “We Were Soldiers Once, and Young”.

I arrived early Thursday afternoon and the weekend passed in a blur. The reunion hotel was a little over an hour from West Point. With 500+ attendees, there are no hotels at West Point or in the immediate vicinity large enough to host a gathering of our class. As is always the case at these five year reunions, not unlike our days at West Point, they are jammed with activities. We joke about it of course, but it’s true. I’m doubtful many other college reunions have days starting at 6:45AM. ;-).

After arriving, I found Tony Matos, who had just arrived from New Hampshire. As importantly, Tony brought the 312 bottles of WhistlePig Whiskey we were going to distribute to classmates. Regular readers of this blog will recall that a group of us did a tasting at WhistlePig in Vermont last spring and bought two barrels (you can read about that tasting and why we did it at the link in the addendum). We dutifully transported the cases of whiskey to our distribution room and classmates started picking up their bottles. All were gone by Sunday morning.

The Successful Conclusion of Operation WhistlePig.

By Thursday night, things were in full swing. Around 300 classmates (about one third of our living class members) along with 250+ spouses, partners and family members were there. Dinner, drinks, and for some of us, cigars ensued. My time was divided between dinner with several of my company mates and then circling the rooms seeking out other old friends. Handshakes, hugs and toasts, along with conversations occurred several times – How are you? … Where’s Cathy – is she OK? … Do you remember … whatever happened to … where are you now … we have to do better at staying in touch … Eventually I made my way to bed and a restless night’s sleep.

On Friday morning, we boarded buses for West Point. Our destination was the Cadet Chapel. Our first event, and for me one that has grown increasingly important, was a memorial service honoring classmates who have passed away. At our fortieth reunion, 50 classmates were so honored. This time the number was 82, including my company mate Dan Zimmerman. At the fortieth reunion, Dan sat with Cathy and I at the memorial service. This time, his name was one of the 82 called out loud. I thought a lot about Z-Man during the service. I have to say, the meaning of “The Long Grey Line” has changed, grown and become more real with the passage of time.

Memorial Service at the Chapel.

After the service, my buddies Jay, Steve and I, along with many of our classmates, walked the half mile from the Chapel to Ike Hall, although I also noticed there were more classmates taking the provided buses. Age catches up with all of us at some point. At Ike Hall we had lunch, along with a class meeting and a presentation by the Supe (Superintendent), before eventually busing back to the hotel.

At the hotel, Tony, Gus, Bob, Bill and I resumed distributing the remaining WhistlePig bottles. Classmate Al Aycock was distributing bags of coffee – the beans spent time in one of our empty whiskey barrels before bagging. We repeatedly received thanks from classmates for the arduous journey we’d made to Vermont for the WhistlePig tasting the previous spring. ;-).

After a short fifteen minute nap, it was time to get ready for the formal dinner that evening. More good food, drinking, talking and dancing. Perhaps because this was day two, things were slightly slower than the night before. It wasn’t as rushed and more faces were familiar now.

Random Pictures From the Weekend.

Saturday morning came early. We boarded buses for West Point at, wait for it … 6:45AM. Yes, you read that right, 6:45 in the morning. It was for a good reason – Two regiments of the Corps of Cadets were having a parade at 9:00AM, and our entire class was a part of the reviewing party. I remember as a cadet having parades and passing in review for old grads during their reunions. To put things in perspective, in the fall of 1977 our Firstie (Senior) year, the class celebrating their 45th reunion was the Class of 1932. Yikes! Back then, while waiting to pass in review, we made jokes about the OLD GRADS and of course could never see ourselves on the other side of the parade ground in the future. I’m sure the same thing was happening on this Saturday, but I have to say they looked squared away when they marched past us.

The Corps of Cadets, Passing in Review.

The Army football game that afternoon was a forgettable loss, but something happened later that left a strong impression on me. After the game, Clem, one of my company mates and his wife Nancy hosted a post-game tailgate and several of us B3ers stopped by for a beer. Three Yearling (Sophomore) cadets were there as well – members of the Class of 2026. Talking with them and listening to them made me feel good about our future, and the future of this country. If they are any indication of the quality of current West Point cadets, we have nothing to worry about. The United States Army, and our Officer Corps are in good hands.

The last evening was special. There was no official event that night, and I was invited out to dinner by Jose Morales, one of the alumni from the Whistle Pig tasting in the spring. There were perhaps 18 of us at the dinner . Some I knew, some I didn’t. It didn’t matter. We were all one big happy family, talking, laughing, telling stories, eating and drinking.

One Big Happy Family at Saturday Night’s Dinner.

The next morning, I left for the drive home around 8AM. I’m not big on long goodbyes and wanted to hit the road. I spent the next six hours driving in the rain and thinking about the weekend. I wasn’t just thinking about the details of the weekend itself, as I recounted here. I was also thinking about this special brotherhood I have the great good fortune to be a member of. As time goes by, I cherish it more and more. I think we all do. It’s hard to explain to others who haven’t been a part of it.

We members of the West Point class of 1978 share a special bond that has only grown stronger with the passing of time. Yes, we still tell the old stories from cadet days, or our time in the Army, but it’s more than that. Those stories only represent the surface of our commonality. We rose to the call of Duty, Honor, Country as cadets and during our time defending this nation. Most of us have found ways to contribute to the greater good, even after our time in service to our nation ended.

As Plebes, we were required to memorize many things. Some mundane, some of no apparent use, and some that were important. One of those requirements was the song “The Corps”. As I grow older, the song’s lyrics speak to me more directly than when I was a cadet and first memorized them. We all know our time here on Earth is limited and we all need to make the most of the time we have. Grip hands indeed.

The Corps

Addendum:

• * Classmate Marion Seaton provided the photo from Grenada. In his words, “Chuck Jacoby, Brent Holmes, Dale Tatarek and I were having the time of our lives on a little spice island 40 years ago this week. We were all part of the 82nd Airborne’s mission to secure the Island of Grenada. I was the C Battery 1/320 (Airborne) Artillery Commander. We were chuted up to parachute with our equipment into Grenada. Our original plan was for the 105 howitzers to be dropped from the C141B on the first pass and we would jump on the second pass over the Drop Zone. The jump would’ve been dangerous, certainly due to the hostile fire, but more importantly, because of the dispersion of the equipment and troops onto the ground. There was a huge body of water to our left and the Ocean to our right. We would’ve lost a lot of jumpers and equipment. Lucky for us, The Rangers jumped the day before from C130s below 400 feet. They secured the Drop Zone, so we were able to fly in rather than jump. Over the course of the battle, Charlie Battery fired 152 rounds in support of the Division and Rangers.”

Marion, A Bit Before his Unit’s Jump into Grenada was Cancelled.

• Dale and Jan Hamby were in charge of this reunion overall and did a great job. While a host of people worked with and for them, our class owes them a debt for the wonderful time we enjoyed. Dale’s comments after the reunion were pretty spot on: “Personally, we are determined to do a better job staying in touch with those we were able to reconnect with this weekend. We hope you will too. The reunion reminded us how important these connections are, and life is just too short not to make them a priority. Besides that, it was so great to relive cherished memories that our kids don’t want to hear about for the 50th time!”
• Here’s the blog from our whiskey tasting at WhistlePig: “We were on a mission to the WhistlePig Distillery in Vermont. Twelve classmates gathered to taste whiskey from five barrels. We would select two for the West Point Proud and Great, Class of ‘78 45th reunion this coming fall. We didn’t want to let our classmates down” […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/05/09/__trashed-2/

Autumn Walks

As I walk and wander through the nearby woods this fall, I find my mind wandering as well. It is autumn in the autumn of my life and I feel the passage of time. Death and decline are both more evident, and not quite the strangers they once were.

A Walk in the Woods on an Autumn Day.

It is not my own death I contemplate or fear. I have made peace with who I am, what I am, and where I am. I’ve had a good and lucky life with little to complain about. When my time comes, I hope I have the courage to accept my blessings and be thankful for the life I’ve lived.

Rather, it is the death and decline of others that I’ve been dwelling on during my walks. I think of friends or family members taken too soon and though they are now at peace, those of us left behind in this world feel the sadness and emptiness of their passing. What we wouldn’t give for one more hug, one more smile, one more drink together, or one more conversation.

For some, death has come suddenly and unexpectedly. For others, we have marked their decline, whether from old age, cancer, or some other disease. Fighters all, they eventually succumb, whether after months, or a decade. And for some lucky few, they live a good life into old age before peacefully slipping away.

I’ve thought about that last paragraph a bit. How do we measure time’s passing, and how do we measure time passing in our relationships with others?

If I do die suddenly, whether tomorrow or in five years, I would tell my friends and family do not mourn me. Instead, keep my memory alive, tell stories about me or drink a toast to me. I’ve had a good life. Don’t be sad at my passing, but rejoice at the life I was able to live.

If I fall into decline, for whatever reason, I pray I have the grace to continue to love and treasure those around me, no matter my fears of what is coming, or the pain I am in. I know that caregivers often suffer as much, or more than the person they are giving care to. I hope that I am able to continue to love and appreciate those doing their best to help me. I know that is sometimes a difficult thing to do.

And if I’m one of the lucky few who live well to a ripe old age before peacefully slipping away? If my old friends, my wife, my family were to precede me in death, I would want to honor each of them and keep their memory alive. I also know I would want to continue to live, and grow, and celebrate each day. To go for walks, talk with other friends, stay active, and challenge my mind and body to the best of my abilities. I think that is how I could best honor them, until my own time here on earth ends.

Walking in the woods on an autumn day – it’s funny where your mind sometimes goes. Two thousand years ago, the Roman Emperor Marcus Aurelius* said, “Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love the people with whom fate brings you together, but do so with all your heart”. I think his words still ring true.

Addendum:

⁃ *Marcus Aurelius in current times may be best known as the Emperor in the Movie Gladiator who is killed early in the film and gives Rome to Maximus, played by Russell Crowe. If you want to know the real Marcus Aurelius, I suggest you pick up his book, Meditations. It is a short read and filled with wisdom.

Tim and Bobby’s Visit

In the ‘80s when we lived in Germany, several family members and friends visited us. To “help” them overcome jet lag, we made sure the first couple of days were action packed with eating, drinking and activities to keep them occupied. It almost proved one friend’s undoing in 1987.

Our old friend Tim visited us several times while we were stationed in Germany. In 1987, he asked if he could visit and bring his friend/work buddy Bobby along. They planned to visit us, and then tour parts of Germany, Austria and Northern Italy, eventually arriving back in Germany for Oktoberfest in Munich. We of course said yes and looked forward to their arrival.

Tim and I at a Bierfest during a different visit.

They flew to Dusseldorf one morning in September and then took the train to Worms where we picked them up. Tim recently recalled the train paralleling the Rhein River for part of the trip, when all of a sudden the train shook a bit. He looked out the window and saw two F15s flying low, following the path of the Rhein as well.

After arriving at our home in Rheindürkheim, we ate lunch. Tim and Bobby may have slept for a couple of hours, although I don’t remember for sure. Later, we gave them a tour of town and walked along the Rhein River. That night, we went out for dinner at a local Gasthaus (pub) called Sportheim. We knew the owners, Vroni and Wolfgang well, and Tim knew them from a previous visit. It’s safe to say they greeted Tim like a long lost relative. It was a great evening and Bobby joined right in. We spent several hours at Sportheim and after many biers and wines, eventually made our way home. We may have drunk a brandy or schnapps, before making our way to bed and a good night’s sleep.

The next day, amazingly, none of us were the worse for wear. After a hearty breakfast with some good German bread, sausages and cheese, we drove around to show Bobby the area. We went into Worms, the city where Martin Luther made his famous statement “Heir stehe ich” (here I stand) before the Imperial Diet in 1521. Basically, it’s where and when Protestantism started.

That evening, we had a special treat in store for the guys. The Rheindürkheim Feuerwehrfest (Fire Department Festival) was going on in town. There were about 1,000 residents in Rheindürkheim and a majority of the adults would be at the Fest. It was a classic German wein festival with a huge tent, oompah band, dance floor and lots of adult beverage.

We made our way to the fest, found some local friends and settled in. Of course we drank our share, and ate brats and other German food, such as curry wurst or roast chicken. We also listened to the music and took turns dancing with Cathy and some of the other ladies in our group. It was a great time. Eventually it was getting late, and the fest was coming to an end. We were going to head home when one of our German friends, Michael, told me several people were going to an after party at the Zenit, basically a local Navy VFW club and wanted to know if we wished to join them. I’d been to Zenit several times and immediately said yes. For Tim and Bobby, it’d be an even greater look at the local culture. Cathy, always the wisest of us two, declined and said she was going home. We left the fest and after dropping Cath at home, walked to Zenit.

Now Zenit was actually a dry-docked ship that was turned into a club. Rheindürkheim, was on the Rhein River and traditionally, most young men of the town served in the Navy instead of the Army. That’s why their “VFW” club-equivalent was in a ship.

The Zenit in Rheindürkheim

As we arrived, we made our way to the bar and bought a couple of biers. I nudged Tim and pointed out a picture hanging in Zenit. Tim’s a history major and I thought his eyes were going to bug our when he saw who it was – Admiral Karl Dönitz*, supreme commander of the German Navy during WWII. Dönitz also took over the German government after Hitler killed himself and it was he was who actually surrendered to the Allies in May of ‘45.

We had a good time at Zenit. The party was eventually winding down when our friend Hans approached me. He and his wife Inge were having an after-after party at their home and wanted to know if we wanted to stop by. Their home was actually on the way back to our house and I again immediately said yes. We joined a group of 15 or 20 people and dutifully walked or stumbled to Hans and Inge’s house.

At Hans and Inge’s there was no oompah music. What was playing on the stereo was the soundtrack from the movie “Dirty Dancing”, released earlier that year. I remember chuckling about it at the time.

I believe they served coffee and dessert for those who wanted it. I also distinctly remember Inge walking around with a bottle of homemade schnapps and pouring people small glasses/shots. Schnapps in Germany is nothing like the sweet stuff we think of as schnapps here in the States. It’s similar to Italian grappa or French marc and can definitely have a rough edge to it. She asked if we wanted some and of course we all said yes. Bobby didn’t yet know about real schnapps. We all toasted with a “Prost”. Bobby took a small sip and may have actually turned green. He looked around and saw a nearby plant, where he discretely poured the remainder of his schnapps.

A bit later, Inge came back by, saw Bobby’s empty glass and refilled. It. At that point Bobby looked at the glass and then leaned into Tim and said, “Tim, I don’t know that I can do this for the whole two weeks.” ;-).

We left a short time later and walked the 3 or 4 blocks home and immediately went to bed.

The next morning, everyone was moving a little slowly and there were probably a couple of hangovers among us, or at least there should have been. I also know this – Tim and Bobby were no longer suffering from jet lag. ;-).

They would leave us a day or two later and head south by train. We linked up with them in Munich for Oktoberfest about ten days later and they told us tales of their travels and the good times they enjoyed. At Oktoberfest itself, other than Cathy throwing her shoulder out on a rollercoaster ride with Bobby (another story, and no, alcohol wasn’t involved), we had a grand time.

Addendum:

• * Dönitz was the architect of the German U-boat campaign during WWII. He was by his own admission, a dedicated Nazi and supporter of Hitler. Following the war, he was indicted as a major war criminal at the Nuremberg trials on three counts: conspiracy to commit crimes against peace, war crimes and crimes against humanity; planning, initiating, and waging wars of aggression; and crimes against the laws of war. He was found not guilty of committing crimes against humanity, but guilty of committing crimes against peace and war crimes against the laws of war. He was sentenced to ten years’ imprisonment. After his release, he lived near Hamburg until his death in 1980.
• Here’s another story involving Tim and Germany – In 1986, we found a way to ship a Keg of German bier from a Monastery, home in a transport plane: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2019/10/09/shipping-bier-from-germany/

Rohan Farm

We have lived in our current home for 24 years. When we started looking here in Fauquier County, since I was the one who would be doing the long commute, I told Cathy the only way I would move out this far is if we found the house we were going to die in. Cath, of course, took on the challenge.

In last week’s blog I spoke about a 750+ unit housing development happening about 15 minutes from us in nearby Culpeper County. (A link to the blog is in the Addendum). It consists of cookie-cutter homes starting north of $500K, with some as high as $800K+. All are on small lots. I’m sure they are someone’s dream home, but not mine.

It did get me to thinking about our journey to Fauquier back in 1999 and our own dream home.

When Cathy and I returned from Germany in 1989, a couple things happened: first, We bought a townhome in Fairfax, Va; second, I started working a classified job with the military; and third, Cath got a job in Crystal City, AND bought a horse she was to own for the next 15 years – Arthur. After I decided to get out of the Army in ‘92, we stayed in Fairfax. I started a great job with a company called SRA and had about a 30 minute commute to work.

Our townhouse was nice, but by ‘98 we’d decided to look for a house. More specifically, a property with enough room to keep a couple of horses on it, which meant at least five acres of land. By then Cathy had her own business and was working from home, while I was still working for SRA. We looked in Fairfax County and found a few properties we liked in the Clifton and Fairfax Station areas and even put an offer on one, narrowly losing out to another couple. It was frustrating to lose out on the house, but we were also frustrated as there weren’t many properties for sale in the area that met our requirements and were in our price range.

That’s when Cathy suggested moving out farther to Fauquier County, a beautiful area. We’d spent time there over the years for various horseshows, weekend trips to B&Bs, going to a few Sunday brunches and of course visiting a couple of our favorite wineries. We loved Fauquier.

I immediately said no. Not only no, but hell no. It was not open to discussion. There was no way I was going to do that commute on a daily basis. At the time I was working in Arlington and the commute would take an hour and fifteen or twenty minutes each way.

We circled around that “discussion” for quite some time and a few weeks probably passed. I then made a mistake.

We were discussing Fauquier again, and in a weak moment I said, “I tell you what. If we find the house we are going to die in, I’ll move there.” Cathy nodded and said OK.

In the coming week or two, Cath found three country places online to look at, and with our agent, we scheduled visits to all three on the same day in February of 1999. It snowed an inch or two the evening before our visit but was sunny as we drove to view the properties.

The first place didn’t really look as it did in the photos and we spent no time there. The second place was nice, new and had a barn to die for. Some of the rooms in the home were a bit odd, but overall, we liked it. We weren’t blown away by it but might give it further consideration. We left, and then proceeded to house number three, also the farthest away.

We drove down the long driveway with snow in the field to the left and the woods to the right. It was a nice setting. You couldn’t yet see the house and then we crested a small hill for our first view. It had stone and cedar siding with two chimneys and a cedar shingled roof. How pretty in the snow! We parked outside the garage and walked to the stone porch in the back of the house. As we stood there looking at the pond and fields, three horses trotted by in the paddock between the house and the pond. I mean it was so perfect, it was almost as if they were holding the horses out of sight, and as we arrived, someone called and said, “Cue the horses.”

The Pond, on Another Winter Morning

Cathy and I didn’t say a word but looked at each other. It was one of those looks married couples have where an entire conversation takes place and no one says a word. We hadn’t entered the house yet, but pretty much knew this was our next home.

This house wasn’t new. It was about 20 years old, but built in a way to make it look much older. In the family room there was flooring and beams from a pre-Civil War warehouse near Petersburg, Virginia. One of the doors was antique and made entirely by hand with no nails involved. Most of one side of the home was glass or glass doors so there were constant views of the pond and fields. The fireplace in the family room was made with stone from the property and installed by an old stone mason who lived just up the road (and is now deceased).

The Morning Sun Streaming in on the Family Room’s Stone Fireplace.

There were things that needed updating of course. Some of the colors were straight out of the 70s. The peacock wallpaper in the dining room would have to go. Most of the carpet was old – probably from the late ‘70s as well.

We also did a tour of the barn. It was functional, although nothing special. The barn at house number two kind of blew it away, but this one was perfectly functional with 6 stalls, instead of the 4 at the previous place.

We left and drove back home with our agent. The distance didn’t seem quite so far to me now.

A few days later we called the owner directly and asked if she would give us a tour of the property itself, which she was more than happy to do. We spent a few hours walking the twenty acres and helped her feed her horses that night. As we passed by the pond, she said “I’ll even throw in the rowboat, if you decide to buy.” When our agents (both ours and hers) found out we’d met without them, they were, ummm, a bit upset, but there wasn’t anything they could do about it.

The next day we put our offer in, and after some back and forth, we signed the contract. We couldn’t actually close until the end of May, as the owner had a couple of pregnant mares and didn’t want to move them until the foals were born and old enough to travel. It made perfect sense to us.

We closed on the appointed day in May and a few days later, with our pickup truck, horse trailer and a U-Haul truck, our friends helped us move. The house was christened with a party that afternoon and evening, and on its way to becoming a home. We named it Rohan Farm*.

Our Home, Rohan Farm

Although the house was already nice, we spent a decade getting everything just the way we wanted it – repainting and recarpeting; the ‘70s look went, as did the outdated kitchen; ultimately, a wine room was added. There was lots of work outside as well – redoing things in the barn; clearing brush off of fencing and replacing the fencing; adding an outdoor riding ring; adding new paddocks; putting in automatic waterers; adding multiple gardens; and of course an endless list of smaller items.

In June it will be 25 years here. We love this place. It doesn’t have all the bells and whistles, but it’s warm and comfortable. It looks like it belongs here in Virginia and has been here forever. We love it and hope to remain here forever as well.

Addendum:

• * Rohan Farm – Yes, this is from Lord of the Rings. Rohan was the land of the horse people, so it seemed to fit. We’ve both been big fans since the ‘70s, well before the movies ever came out.
• You can find a link to last week’s blog on the housing development here – The new housing development sits in the middle of nowhere, 6 miles west of Warrenton and 12 miles north of Culpeper. Some thought it might provide “affordable housing” for the area, but with homes starting “in the low $500s”, I don’t think so. Or maybe my definition of affordable housing is […] Continue here: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2023/08/08/paving-paradise/

The Importance of Being Lucky

Cathy was thrown from her horse two months ago. While she has some lingering pain, overall, she was pretty lucky. It reminded me of the story my friend Bob Bishop told of being thrown by a horse, but unfortunately not clear, as the horse galloped away. He too was lucky as you’ll soon find out.

This is Bob’s story and it’s a good read. All I’ve added is a bit of editing.

In 1952 Crested Butte, Colorado was a bucolic place in the summer, with blue skies, white clouds and mountains surrounding the area. At the time, Crested Butte was a little town of maybe fifteen frame houses, a general store, and a post office/sheriff’s office. All were two stories high, and each had a door on the second floor. Crested Butte typically received twelve to fifteen feet of snow in the winter, and with drifts, that door became the only way people could exit their house. They would chop stairs in the snow and ice down to the street. As spring approached and the likelihood of more snow lessened, they tunneled through the snow to the front door and used that as access as the snow started to melt.

Needless to say, it was not the multimillion-dollar ski area it is today.

My father and mother were asked by our friends, the Dorsetts, if mom could help them out at the boy’s camp they had founded a few years earlier. This was mid-May, two weeks before the camp was to open for the summer, and the camp cook had just quit. The Dorsetts knew that mother was schooled as a dietician, and also knew she was a good cook. Coincidently, father had just accepted a new job with Aetna Life Insurance Company, which required him to attend a four-week school in Hartford, Connecticut. Mother and father agreed they could help the Dorsetts out and a little extra money would be welcome. My brother and I could go to the camp for free, and they waived the requirement that a camper must be at least twelve years old, for nine-year-old me.

Bob, About the Time of the Incident

The camp was three miles down a dirt road from the town of Crested Butte, at the base of Mt. Crested Butte, which rose almost three thousand feet straight up from the meadow. We kids slept in Conestoga wagons – not replicas, but real ones left there by those who rode in them to seek their fortunes in the west decades earlier. Inside the canvas covered wagons were four sets of bunk beds, two on each side. Light came from three kerosene lanterns hanging in the middle. There were six wagons with eight boys to a wagon, for a total of forty-eight campers. The only electricity in the camp was in the kitchen, the residence “hall” for the staff and counselors, and the dining hall.

One of the Conestoga Wagons They Were Using.

It was pretty idyllic, for a young lad of nine. Other than the mandatory arts and crafts sessions, we were free to go fishing, hiking, or horseback riding, or to just play. I generally chose horseback riding, and off we rode to the meadows beyond the camp for romping around, and frequently to play flag football on horseback.

Great fun, until …

One fateful day, my horse saw something. A snake? A gopher hole? I’ll never know. She reared up – I was just moseying along, reins held loosely, and then I was airborne. Spooked by whatever she had seen, the horse took off at a gallop. I was thrown off, but unfortunately, not completely. My left foot caught in the stirrup, and I was just tall enough that my head almost reached the ground. I remember fervently hoping I didn’t hit a rock with my head, although it was clearly beyond my control. My journey across the meadow continued with me hanging upside down, bouncing off the ground in synch with the horse’s gallop. The direction I faced changed with each bounce – seeing the meadow stretching endlessly behind at one moment, and next peering at the blue sky from under the horse’s belly. Although I have no exact recollection, I was later told the whole journey lasted less than a couple of minutes before my horse was pulled to a stop by one of the counselors.

The next thing I remembered was lying in my bed in our Conestoga wagon, just staring up at the canvas top. I could talk and move my arms, but I had no sensation below my waist. In time, the “local” doctor (from Gunnison, 30 miles away, the last 15 on a dirt road) came in to evaluate my condition. He reminded me of a shorter, thinner Santa Claus, with white hair and a beard. After an eternity of poking, prodding and sticking pins into me everywhere, he drew a deep breath, turned to my mother and said, “He’s paralyzed, and it’s either temporary or permanent. Either way, the only thing you can do is make him comfortable.” He said if I could ever wiggle my toes, the paralysis was probably temporary, a traumatic inflammation of the spinal cord, and I would likely become fully functional. If not, well …

What’s a nine-year-old to think? Honestly, not much. I had no idea what “permanently paralyzed” meant. It never occurred to me I wouldn’t be able to walk, bike, play baseball, or go horseback riding again. My brother and some of my wagon-mates kept me supplied with comic books, Archie and Jughead, which helped while away the time. I was not in pain, but ached all over. I slept a lot.

As time passed, I kept looking down at my toes. I concentrated as hard as I could on wiggling them, but nothing happened. Until, on the third day, I stared at my toes, willing them to move. And then I swear, my right big toe did. I swear. I saw it move just a little. Didn’t it? I thought it did. I concentrated even harder, and, sure enough, I could actually see it move. Not much, but it actually moved. Yippee!!!

A couple of hours later, Mom came in with my lunch, and I said, “Mom?! Watch this!” And I wiggled my right big toe. She looked at me and said, “What, Bobby? What do you want me to watch?” I yelled, “Mom! LOOK! Look at my right foot!” She turned to look down at my feet, I wiggled my toe, and her eyes glistened as she turned back and looked at me. She broke into a huge smile, leaned down, and gave me a BIG hug.

In a couple more days, I could wiggle all of my toes. The doctor came back to check on me a week after the accident. I recognized him as he pulled the canvas flap aside and climbed into the wagon. I said, “Hi. Watch this.” He started smiling as I performed my new trick (wiggling my toes), and said, “You sure are one lucky little boy.” Pause. “I think you’re going to be just fine.” Then he left.

A couple more days passed, and I was up and walking, although I needed help to keep my balance. Another week, and I was fine, walking and running around – just as if it never happened.

Later in life, I learned there is real value in being as good as you can be, but it is really good if you’re also very lucky.

Bob in 1952, and Again in 2020.

Postscript: I started having back problems in 2017. It began with tingling in both quadriceps, but two months later, I had a pinched nerve in my neck. The MRI showed “severe” narrowing of where the nerves go from the spinal cord out to my left at L2-3 and to my right at L3-4 (aka “spinal stenosis”). Oh, also some scoliosis, having lost 4” of height in the last twenty years. I mentioned the horse escapade to my orthopedist and asked whether it might have some bearing on the condition of my back. He looked at me over the top of his horned-rim glasses and said, “It can’t a-helped” and smiled. And so did I.

Addendum:

I should mention Bob later attended the Naval Academy at Annapolis, and served for several years in the Navy as a submariner. He’s a great storyteller and I’ve done a couple of previous blogs with him about his time in the Navy. If you would like to read them, you can do so here:

• Crazy Ivan anyone? … In 1970, our sub, the USS Finback, was helping with Anti-Submarine Warfare training for NATO aircraft. An observer on the sub said “I think I understand your plan. You alternate going to port or starboard as soon as you submerge.” I responded, “Well, not actually”, and we walked over to […]. Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2022/04/13/submarine-games
• The movie, “The Hunt for Red October” is child’s play, compared to what these submariners did on a daily basis … “The Comms Officer ran in and handed the CO the decoded message. The CO read the message, took the lanyard from his neck, unlocked the firing key cabinet, and reached in for the firing key. We were about to” […] Continue at: https://mnhallblog.wordpress.com/2021/06/23/we-knew-we-were-at-war/