My Birthday

Sent Thursday, June 4, 2009 – on my birthday.  It sounds like I might be a lot like Dad when it comes to celebrating.

Dear Justin, GLAD BIRTHDAY TIDINGS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Back in ‘77, after celebrating your birth with Uncle Charlie O, Uncle Charlie R, and Uncle Barry, I remarked that “I am not responsible for anything that I say or do”.

Charlie O. said, “that’s obvious to the most casual observer”.

Not sure why I remember that, or how I remember it, for that matter.

Much Love and Always, Dad.

Well Done

Sent Saturday, Feb 28, 2009.

This is me.

Annie has several sisters, all of whom I love dearly.  However, one of them has a most grievous fault.  Huh?  No, no, much worse than that.  She likes her steak “well done”.  Whenever we happen to be out to a restaurant with her, she will usually order a steak “well done”.  Invariably when the steak arrives she will not be pleased with it.  Too dried out.  Doesn’t taste right, or something.  She will then eat small chunks of it soaked in whatever on her plate might contain some moisture.  The main portion remains uneaten.  At the end of the meal, the waitress will ask if she would like it boxed to take home.  She never does.  Now I know what you are thinking.  No, I don’t take it home for my dog, because I’m not sure she would want to eat it either.

Now I have always enjoyed cooking.  I can remember as a wee little one, dragging a kitchen chair up to the stove so I could fry my own eggs.  To this day I do most of the cooking in our house.  I had even considered going into the culinary arts in my younger days, but a problem raised it’s ugly head.  While I like to cook, it occurred to me that I like to cook what I like to cook when I like to cook it.  I was afraid that this attitude might not work out so well in the restaurant business. Besides, I really can’t stand the heat.

I have decided one thing.  If I had become a chef, and owned a restaurant, and someone ordered a steak “well done” I had the perfect plan in mind. Upon receiving the order, I would go to the cooler and select a steak. I would then go the table and enquire as to who had ordered a steak “well done”.  On being informed, I would show the selected steak to the offender and ask if it was suitable. On receiving an affirmative reply, I would then slap the customer with the steak, hand the miscreant a ten dollar bill and directions to the nearest Burger King.

Not going into the restaurant business may have worked out for the best.

Cutting Wood

Sent Sunday, January 4, 2009.  This was not written by Dad, but rather by Clint (my brother).  But it’s about Dad so I thought it would be nice to post it here.

I wanted to share a little story with you all that happened to me this weekend.

I have recently installed a fireplace in my house, and seeing how I did not do this until a month or so ago, I am a little behind on getting my firewood. So, I was out in the woods by myself cutting firewood. Now keep in mind I have been doing this all my life. As soon as I said Dada for the first time, my dad put a hat, coat, and boots on me and made me drive the old Jeep on the hill to help him with firewood.

Now I am cutting a tree up and I am sweating and my back is barking and the chain saw is getting heavier, I decided to take a break and carry the wood that I have cut to the truck. I was stacking the wood as best I could so to fit as much as I could on the truck, when I started laughing out loud.

I know you are thinking, “What is so funny in the middle of the woods by yourself?”

Well, I got thinking back to when I was young and helping Mom and Dad with firewood and as I was carrying wood to the truck thinking that all Dad had to do was cut the wood and we had to carry all the wood to the Jeep.  He kinda got off easy just cutting and we did all the heavy lifting.  I also remember thinking that when I got old and had to do firewood for myself, I would not stack the firewood, I would just throw it in the truck and when it was full I would be done for the day.

Now here I was taking a break from “just cutting the wood” to carry the wood to the truck and I wasn’t just throwing the wood in, I was stacking it! Now on my 35th birthday I am doing things the way I watched my dad do it for all those years.

I guess he wasn’t getting off easy, and there really was a good reason we had to stack the wood in the Old yella Jeep.

Christmas Eve

This is a letter that Dad sent to my cousin Michael who was born on Christmas Eve. I’m not sure of the date which is was sent, but if I find out I’ll add it here.

This is me.

Dear Michael,

As we were looking for a birthday card for you, I saw this one with the biplanes, and it took me back to a time long ago – to a good time and a bad time all in one. Perhaps your mother has told you of my years as a fighter pilot in the Great War. Now they call it World War One. But those of us who were there simply called it the War Against the Kaiser. Our airplanes were made of wood and cloth back then – a wooden frame covered with cloth which was varnished many times to make it strong and firm against the wind and weather. Some planes had but one wing, and were called monoplanes. Most had two wings, as on this card, and were called biplanes. Some, flown by our enemy, the Germans, had three wings and were called triplanes. They were fragile, and dangerous, and fun to fly. We were the fearless men in their flying machines. I was what we called an “Ace,” which means that I shot down many enemy planes. The number I will not tell, for it is not proper to brag or boast of such things.

One night, I was sent out on routine patrol, to watch for enemy troop movements, or such things as that. It was a moonlit night. It was a special night. It was a Christmas Eve night. As I flew my solitary patrol, all was calm, all was bright. It was nearly time for my return to base, as my fuel supply was getting low. It was then that I saw it. A chill went through me. There it was. That triplane that our adversary flew. But not just any triplane, for I had fought many of them over the years. This one bore the insignia of Baron Manfred von Richthofen. The Red Baron. The “Ace of Aces.” The Red Baron had shot down more planes than anyone. My little biplane was the equal of his triplane, but the Red Baron was the better pilot. We engaged in battle. We dived and climbed. We twisted and turned. The tracer rounds and the muzzle flash from our machine guns turned brilliant the night. But I was low on fuel, and this caused me to make a mistake. I took my eyes off the Red Baron long enough to glance at my fuel gauge. This was all the advantage that the Red Baron needed. Suddenly, I felt my dauntless little biplane shudder and shake. The bullets from his guns tore into the wooden frame and the motor of my little plane. I frantically worked the throttle to keep the engine running. I quickly searched for a place to land, just to find only hills and forest below. But I knew that it was over for me. I knew that the Red Baron would come back, his guns blazing, to finish off my crippled little plane. There he was, diving out of a low cloud right at me. But then an amazing thing happened. Instead of shooting me out of the night sky, he pulled his plane along side of mine, and pointed towards the ground. I looked in that direction, and there among the hills and woods was a small, level field – just big enough to land my plane. With smoke trailing behind me, I turned towards the field. Just as my engine coughed and died, I felt my wheels hit the frozen ground. My biplane bounced and landed and bounced and landed several times on the rough field before coming to a stop just a few feet from the fence row. The Red Baron circled the field a couple of times, and then he surprised me again. He, too, bounced his plane across the frozen field and came to a stop next to me. As he started to climb out of his plane, he reached down into the cockpit – I thought for a gun, to take me prisoner. But no, it was a thermos and two tin cups that he held in his hand. We shared a Holiday toast of the best hot chocolate that I have ever tasted. We shook hands and saluted, and we prayed for peace right there on that frozen field. The Red Baron then returned to his plane. His engine roared and he took off into the night. He flew back low over me, and I heard him exclaim ere he flew out of sight, “Happy Christmas to All, and to All a Good Night!”

A few months later, I heard shouts of celebration all around the air base. The road for the Red Baron had ended. One of our pilots had sent his triplane spinning and burning to the ground. I did not celebrate. I remembered that silent night, that holy night, when two men prayed for peace in a small frozen field in the middle of nowhere. What did I hear you ask? Is my story true? Well, let me say this, if it isn’t, it should be.

Christmas Eve is a special day. Every bit as special as Christmas itself. You are fortunate to have been born on such a special day as this. Happy Birthday, my fine young man.

Much Love,

Uncle Carl

The Great Watermelon Catastrophe

Sent: Tuesday, July 31, 2007

This is me. Having survived this night of “The Great Watermelon Catastrophe”, I am put to mind of a few watermelon stories from so many years ago, and being well fortified by a liberal serving of Cabernet Sauvignon, set my thoughts to print.

My earliest memories having to do with watermelon were made at the most wonderful Gilbertsville Sale. It was one of the absolute greatest places to be a kid. Full of hustle and bustle. Kind of a combination flea market, farmers market, grocery, hardware, clothing, shoe, livestock, and you name it sort of a store under a roof that must have covered 10 acres or more. Not related to the watermelons, but a beautiful memory nevertheless, has to do with the many pot belly stoves which tried and failed to heat the monstrous place in the winter. For a penny, a kid could buy a bundle of those wax tubes filled with a flavored liquid. My favorite was root beer. After drinking the root beer, and chewing the last of the flavor out of the wax, you could very casually walk past a pot belly stove and drop the ball of wax on the top of the blazing machine. Then run like the dickens, and hope the cloud of smoke would cover your escape. The grownups were not amused.

But back to the watermelon. Sometimes we had the glorious good fortune to be at the “Sale” when a truck load of watermelons was delivered. Lacking sophisticated material handling apparatus, the melons were moved from the truck to the storage area by manpower alone. Men would be stationed every 5 feet or so, and the melons would be thrown from man to man down the line until the job was complete. I once helped unload a truck load of pumpkins in this manner, and believe me, I can feel their pain. Whilst the chain gang was so occupied, there would be a collection of progeny all with one thing in common. Eyes wide and chins drooling at the sight of all those great green melons. Now somebody owned all those melons, and a profit has to be made and justly so. Waste not, want not. Even so, every now and so often, a roust-a-bout would let out with an exaggerated “OOPS”, and a watermelon would crash to the ground and break into countless pieces. And may God have mercy on the poor soul caught up in the mad stampede as the assembled host descended on the stricken watermelon. Annie asked if the busted melon didn’t get dirty when it broke asunder. I’m not sure we noticed, or cared. You got to eat a bushel of dirt before you die anyway.

Another watermelon which came to mind was set at a day camp of sorts sponsored by a church that we attended for a time. It was a one day affair with entire families in attendance. The kids were divided into 3 groups according to age. The youngest being from 8 to 11, the middle group being from 12 to 15, and the senior group being from 16 to 19 years of age, or something on that order. And we had Indian names for each team. Seneca’s, Mohawks, and Delaware’s I think. We all had a little paper badge with the Indian tribe name that was taped to our shirts. We were engaged in group contests such as finding the most 4 leaf clovers, finding the widest variety of tree leaves, and other such mundane tasks. The grand finale of the afternoon was a tug-of-war. Now the good folks who set up the days festivities may very well have been devout Christians, but they were total jackasses when it came to group activities. You guessed it. The tug-of-war pitted the 8 to 11 year olds, of which I was a member, against the 16 to 19 year olds. The prize for the members of the winning team was a big old juicy watermelon. The other 2 teams got nothing. The teams assembled on their respective ends of the rope. Muscles were drawn taunt in anticipation. Ready, Set, GO!!! My poor pathetic team of small fry was pulled through the grass and the mud quicker then you could say “Jack Robinson“. Why you might wish to say “Jack Robinson” is way beyond me, but to each his own, eh? Anyway, while walking dejectedly away from the tug-of-war pit, God or mother luck, or someone smiled on me, for there on the ground was a paper badge of the winning team. Scooping the prize off the ground, all the while expecting to get collared by the rightful owner, I made a mad dash to the watermelon bench. I stood first in line to claim my ill gotten slice of watermelon. I was in great fear that my trembling hands and shaking knees would reveal my crime. I nearly fled in horror as the man picked up a tremendous knife. In abject terror, I imagined that he would point the ghastly weapon at me and scream an accusation; “What are you doing here boy? You didn’t win no contest. God will see you damned to eternal Hell for your deceit. Off with you. NOW!!!” But he didn’t do that. Instead, he cut the melon in half. He then cut a 2 inch slice from one of the halves, and then cut that in half, and handed me a perfect half moon slice of deep red, juice dripping watermelon. Lest I be found out before I could devour my plunder, I ran and hid between a bush and the building. From my hideaway I savored the best slice of watermelon that I had ever feasted upon. To this day, no watermelon has ever come close to tasting as good as that one did. Peering trough the branches of my fortress, I noticed in satisfaction that the slices of melon given to those last in line were but little more than paper thin. Annie, ever innocent, asked in shocked amazement why I didn’t share it with the other unfortunate kids who got dragged through the mud. It just never occurred to me, I guess. I’ll have to remember to talk to God about that someday.

I have a question. Were watermelons bigger when I was a kid, or is it just my imagination? And another thing. What happened to the seeds? Half the fun of a big old piece of watermelon was sitting on the porch or the stone wall and spitting the seeds as far as possible. I miss that. And of course there are several ways of eating the watermelon. You can put a slice on a plate and use a spoon or fork, but that’s more for indoor eating I think. Some folks, mainly women, take a miniature ice cream scoop thing and make little……well, watermelon spheres, shall we say, not wishing to cause any silly smirks or giggles. Often these are thrown in a bowl with like shaped spheres of honeydew and cantaloupe, along with grapes and such. It tastes the same, but it strikes me as a bit of a pansy way to eat the stuff. Now if the melons are cut into irregular cubes, I have no problem. But the #1, best way to eat watermelon is to use the good old half moon slice. Just hold it in both hands and munch away. And don’t worry about your shirt. The juice washes out. Most of it anyway. You never learned the proper way to eat a slice of watermelon if you never got your ears sticky.

Well, that’s about all I know about watermelons. I want to thank you for…….I’m sorry. What was that? Oh, yeah. The question was: “What was ‘The Great Watermelon Catastrophe’ anyway?” You’ll have to ask Annie. I promised that I wouldn’t tell.

Once Removed

Sent: Thursday, February 15, 2007 – While this is not really a story, I thought it was useful information for anybody trying to figure out if you are second cousins or first cousins once removed with that long lost cousin of yours. I’ve included a diagram to go along with the lesson.

This is me. The “removed” thing is not all that hard to figure. Take a cousin. Any cousin. Grandpop and his brother, our Great Uncle Alfred had kids, or in Uncle Alfred’s case, a kid. So, Dad and Uncle Alfred’s kid, Martha, were first cousins. With me so far? So, Mom and Dad had Bonnie, and Martha and Rudolph had Richard. So what does that make Dad and Richard? No, not second cousins. First cousins, one generation removed from each other. Same goes with Martha and Bonnie. Now Bonnie and Richard are second cousins, right? Right. So time goes on and Bob and Bonnie have kids, Julie and David, and Richard and Susan have a kid, Valerie. So who is what to whom? Well, Martha and Julie are first cousins, two generations removed. Same goes with Dad and Valerie. Bonnie and Valerie are second cousins, one generation removed. Same goes with Richard and Julie. Julie and Valerie are what? You got it!!! Third cousins. And so it goes. To summarize, and pay attention, there will be a test at Bird-In-Hand.

If someone is your first cousin, all of their descendants are your first cousins in perpetuity, with each new generation being one more generation removed from you. Same goes with second, third, forth cousins, and so on down the generations. If there are any questions, see me after class.

Birthday cards

Sent: Thursday, November 9, 2006 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. I stopped at the store after work today for a Birthday card for our Joeie, but after 10 minutes of waiting behind someone returning this and questioning that, I set the card down and walked out. I never have been much good at waiting in line. Neither do I suffer a fool very well, and when the two are rolled into one, my patience really takes a beating.

Spaghetti

Sent: Tuesday, June 15, 2004

While Sumaya (my wife) and I were still dating, Sumaya had prepared a spaghetti dinner in anticipation of my parents’ arrival for a weekend visit (along with Clint).

Growing up, Mom made spaghetti all of the time. It was either her favorite meal, or the thing she found the easiest to cook, I’m not sure which. Somehow, I never noticed that Dad never ate the spaghetti and cooked his own meals on spaghetti nights. I suppose even if I noticed, it just never clicked. Perhaps it is because my family never “sat down for dinner” per say. We didn’t eat standing up, but more often than not, Mom, Clint and myself would eat in the living room while watching tv and Dad would eat in the kitchen reading his Newsweek. Regardless, I never made the connection. Needless to say, when Sumaya asked me if my parents liked spaghetti, I thought back to all the times we had spaghetti. I remember them because I really didn’t like it that much and thought we had it far too often. So I assured her that they did indeed like spaghetti. Not only that, I had tasted Sumaya’s spaghetti with it’s delicious homemade meat sauce and I loved it, so my parents were sure to go bananas over it.

When it came time for dinner, we were all out and about and I offered that we could go back to our place and have spaghetti. Dad, not realizing that this meant the spaghetti was already prepared, spoke up and said he did not care for spaghetti and was fine with going to a restaurant. Sumaya gave me a look that was a combination of, “YOU said they liked spaghetti!” and “Aw… but I made all that spaghetti.” I probably just returned some sort of blank dumbfounded gaze and pointed the car to the nearest restaurant.

Clint, having been apprised of the spaghetti meal before hand, some time later told Mom what had happened. He probably thought of it because she was cooking spaghetti. Mom then told Dad what happened. The rest is as follows:

This is me. This is a letter that I sent to our dear Sumaya. She has graciously allowed me to send it out on the family email.

My Dear Sumaya,
I have just learned that you had prepared a feast of spaghetti for our visit last October. Had I known, you would have seen me seem to enjoy the fruits of your labor. I have not eaten spaghetti since 1973, or there abouts. No, no, you’re wrong. It isn’t because I’m a Methodist. Not at all. It all began in that warm wonderful summer. Whilst I never was fond of spaghetti, I would partake when that was what was served, and was none the worse for it. However, that all changed, and was never to be as it was ever again.

Annie’s step sister, Annie Rudock, a young lady of 15 years or so, had prepared the dinner for the family that most tragic of days. A large family with a large appetite. As you may well have guessed by now she fixed spaghetti. Now I claim no talent as to the preparation of the dish, but I am so told that several things were done improperly. She did not drain the grease from the hamburger before adding it to the dread mixture. And for some reason not known to me, the spaghetti noodles clumped together in a gooey mass. Now Annie’s family was not one to mince words, and poor Annie Rudock was soon let to know what a turmoil she had loosed on those assembled. The day being most cordial, we ate on the front porch. Annie’s Dad, Charlie, upon forking up a rather large clump of the offensive noodle said, and I quote, “What the hell is this?” He then drew back his strong right arm and as though throwing a tomahawk or some such thing, let fly the awful mess. The unfortunate sugar maple tree in the front yard bore the brunt of his wrath. The clump of spaghetti noodles stuck to this grand old denizen of the northland. The noodles being impervious to the elements, were in evidence all the summer long, and gave up the fight only in the dead of winter.

Now as you might imagine, Annie Rudock was in tears and quite beside herself by this time. Now even in my young years of 22 or so, I had already ruined myself by excessive kindness and generosity to the gentle sex. I was thus compelled to say words to this effect, “Oh, now Annie, it isn’t all that bad. It’s really quite good. I’ll have seconds if there is any left over.” Wiping tears from her eyes and with her face full of wonder, she said “Really?” Shortly after downing the second bowl full with apparent gusto, I said to my Annie, “We have to be going now.” She said, “but we just got here.” I said, “Now.”

About a mile or so distant from the farm and the staunch old sugar maple, I suggested that we pull off the road. Unlike the old maple, I quickly shed my punishment. I tried a year or so later to eat the dire stuff again, but rather cleverly claimed an unusual allergy to pasta, if eaten in more than the smallest amount. But for you I would have waded through a proper kettle of the substance. Sorry I messed up your lovely dinner. I would not have knowingly done that for the world.

Love you much and always,
Carl

Sumaya has of course forgiven Dad. Me, on the other hand, she reminds that I didn’t even know my dad doesn’t like spaghetti, how can I be sure of (insert any family related subject here). Whatever. I’m sure it was Newsweek that he used to read, even if I don’t know what it was he was eating.

We Like It Here

Sent: Thursday, March 11, 2004

This is a portion of an email from Dad concerning the sending of care packages to my cousin-in-law while he was in Iraq. I’ve removed the portion of the email detailing the address, what to send, etc. Also, you might be interested that Robby is safely at home now after his tour of duty.

This is me. “We like it here, we like it here, you’re f—ing A, we like it here. We drink our beer without a tear, you’re f—ing A, we like it here.”

A life time ago, when I wore green clothes, we sang those words while we drank our homesickness away. And we were only in Texas. Now one of our own stands in harms way. I suppose that we all know that Robby is now in Iraq. Those of us who have not taken the oath and one step forward can not possibly know the importance of “mail call”. It is the difference between making a bad day bearable, and wondering what’s the use. Get those cards and letters going, folks. And more than that. Care packages. You can not imagine the joy of a box full of goodies. Soldiers are a caring lot. What we send to Robby will be shared with those around him. It has always been so.

Lester and the Mowing Machine

Sent: Monday, May 27, 2002

“You’ll know a hero from a coward when you see which way they run.”

That is a line from a song that I like entitled, “Don’t ever sell your saddle”. Those words put me to mind of an incident that happened back in the mid-fifties. It was a summer day on Colonial Farm when the incident, or rather, accident occurred. I was at the time 5 or 6 years old, and there are gaps and fuzz in the memories, but this is the story as I remember it.

We had what was called a gyro-mower, which now would be called a brush hog. For the sheltered city types amongst us, a brush hog is nothing more that a giant lawn mower which is pulled by a tractor, and will make splinters and mince meat of any thing that the tractor can knock down. The machine under discussion was made back in the days when it was still remembered how to make things. As I recall, the mower must have been 6 feet in width, and made of a massive casting with sidewalls of around 3/4 to 1 inch thick. I really don’t know how much it weighed, but it must have displaced a couple of tons quite easily.

Attached to the machine was a hydraulic jack used to raise or lower it as needed to adjust the cutting height. And therein lay the problem. Dad was working the jack to raise the mower, and inadvertently moved his foot under the sidewall of the thing. Suddenly there was a sickening sound. I can not put the nature of the sound to words. If you have never heard the sound of oil under great pressure bursting free, there is no way to liken it to anything which you might understand. Even so, you have most likely guessed correctly by now that the machine came tumblin’ down. Right on top of Dads’ foot. Just in front of the ankle as I recall. The stops on the lift mechanism kept the bottom of the sidewall about an inch off the ground, and what with a normal foot being 2 or 3 inches thick, depending on what point between the ankle and toes you might wish to measure, the results were predictable. Dads foot was crushed and he let out a scream of pain. As I watched in horror, Dad fell in agony with his foot firmly pinned to the ground.

Several things then happened all at once. Beverly, who had been playing nearby, came running over and decided to pull Dads’ foot out from under the mower. As she was tugging franticly on his leg, I decided to lift the thing off of him, to no avail. As Bev and I were struggling so, a great anger rose up in me. Our hired man was running away. His name was Lester Foust, although I am not sure if that is the correct spelling. As a youth, he had been run over by a car and had a broken back and who knows what internal injuries. The times being such as they were, he was carried to his bed to die. But Lester must have been made of tougher stuff, for he did not die. The injuries left him with a hunch back, and his heart and lungs and other organs being compressed by his distorted body, always gave him health problems. It is well that I did not know how to cuss back then or the air might have turned blue as Lester ran away. It seemed an eternity that Bev and I fought the great monster, but in truth it could not have been more than a minute or two.

And then I saw Lester running again. Only this time he was running back. He had a large block of wood under one arm, and a long steel pry bar in the other. What manner of lunacy possessed the man I could not imagine, as the fine points of geometry and physics were not within my grasp at the time. Not that they are now, mind you. But uneducated Lester knew something that I learned very quickly that morning. He dropped the block of wood about 18 inches or so from the mower. He then put the flat end of the pry bar under the sidewall, with the shaft on top of the block of wood. He put his hands on the end of the bar and stood still for a second or two. His eyes opened wide and he let out with a terrible groan, and then he threw himself against that steel bar. It was at that precise moment that a miracle happened. The great, heavy monster moved. Not much. Just an inch. But it was the one inch that Dad so desperately needed. Just as he pulled his foot free, gravity took over and the mower came crashing back down with an ugly thud. Lester was thrown in the air like a rag doll, but kept his grip on the bar and settled to earth with no apparent injury. As Dad started to crawl down the driveway, Lester ran away again. This time to alert the family of the accident.

I said that a miracle happened, and I really believe that to be so. Lester was a rather small man, and not physically able to lift the machine, not even an inch. Dad told me years later that Lester tried several times to duplicate the feat, and was unable to budge the thing in the least. I know what you are going to say. Adrenaline and so forth. But when using fulcrums and levers, weight matters more than strength. Lester had neither in abundance. Dad was many long months, and perhaps even years recovering from the trauma. Lester died not very long after. His family thought that the exertion of the day is what caused his death. Others thought it was the injuries of his youth that finally brought him down. Until we cross over the Jordon, we will not know the truth of the matter.

While I believe that the opening line of this narrative is generally true, we would all do well to remember that sometimes a Hero has to run both ways. As for me, I will never forget that on a summer morning so many years ago, a little hunch back man stood as straight and tall as anyone that I have ever known.