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.

You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.

Sent: Saturday, January 13, 2007 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. I once shot myself in the chest with a 22 rifle. My target was a brick. Hit the thing dead center. Then it hit me dead center. It felt as though someone had poked me in the center of the chest with a stick as hard as they could. The impact left a bruise the size of a half dollar, and was sore for a week or so. The flattened bullet I found lying on the ground at my feet. Never said a word to Mom or Dad. Never shot a brick again either.

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.

Getting your license

Sent: Thursday, June 15, 2006 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. I had to take the driving part of the test twice. On my first try, I failed to run a green light. That’s right. The cop said that I was the first guy to stop on green that he had ever heard of. By the way, does a yellow light still mean go like the dickens before it turns red?

Yes, but watch out for those red light cameras!

GO STEELERS!

Sent: Saturday, January 28, 2006 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. I don’t have a terrible towel. I do have a terrible mug however, but it doesn’t really work out all that well. You get excited and start waving it around, and coffee goes flying all over the place. Maybe some day. As Annie always tells me, “You have a birthday coming up.” And then she doesn’t get me what I wanted anyway. Even so, she’s nice to have around.

Baseball, Football, and Wrestling

Sent: Saturday, January 28, 2006 – Original email edited by me to only include story content

This is me. When Clint and Justin were growing up, I went to as many baseball and football games as I could. I really enjoyed it. Except when I had to umpire a baseball game. Umping the bases wasn’t real bad, but being behind the plate was brutal. It always amazed me that someone sitting on a bench could see the action so much better than the guy that was right on top of it. I once told a lady, well she wasn’t a lady judging by her foul language, but I finally told her to shut up and sit down, and if I heard one more peep out of her, the game would be stopped until she was off the property. Our guys ended up with the win, so of course the only reason that they won was because I gave them the win. She didn’t scare me all that much. I still believe that I could have taken her in a fair fight.

And the football games were great. Enjoyed everyone of them.

But wrestling was a different matter. I didn’t go to that many matches. The last one did me in. It was an all day tournament. Justin didn’t wrestle for some reason that day. So after about 8 hours sitting on the bleachers, Clint finally got his turn. Pinned his guy in 17 seconds flat. I was dumfounded. I hollered at Annie. I said, “I SAT HERE ALL THE DAY LONG FOR 17 SECONDS!!!! I was glad that Clint won, but that was my last wrestling tournament.

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.