Post Holidays

I’m sorry that I haven’t posted a blog message in a week or so. School was out, of course, and so we got to have our youngest grandson with us for a couple days. That is more fun than sitting and typing. Then there was some post Christmas sales to be looked into and a movie to see (“Rumor Has It” Movie was good, Shirley McLain was great!). Also there was the matter of Christmas toys to learn to play with. The young grandson can entertain himself for hours with his Game Boy. Once I said to S- that I should get myself one to while away the hours we have spent waiting in doctor’s offices recently. Unbeknownst to me my wife and two of the daughters got on the computer and ordered one for me. I had to ask the 8 ½ year old to teach me how to work it, but now I look forward to sitting in offices driving the others there round the bend with the beeps and gleeps from the Game Boy.

We also got a new DVD/VCR player and recorder. The Twelve Days of Christmas are past and I still haven’t mastered the DVD recording bit. As instructions I think we were given a paper written by a barely literate engineer who was told to write down all he knew about the machine in 100 pages or more. Logical arrangement be damned, just fill the book. We’ll get it, but I’m ready to call in the Game Boy expert.

The tree and decorations are stashed away, the cookies and candy is gone, no one gave us a fruit cake this year, so there is little to stop life from returning to normal. There is the matter of the Super Bowl fuss, but we should take that in stride. Hope your holidays were fun, now go back to work or whatever.

New Year's Eve Plan

By now everyone has seen the TV pleas that people not Drink and Drive. My plea is a little different. Please do not ride with a driver who has been drinking. The passenger seat in a car has not been nicknamed the Death Seat without reason.

I want you back to read all the fascinating blogs I have planned for 2006. If you look in everyday you may see adventures like: How it felt to kiss the King’s wife, The day I had to land a crippled plane on an aircraft carrier deck – after only one lesson, Two weeks alone on the African veldt. Stay around long enough and I may recount falling over-board in the Artic Ocean.

So PLEASE, DON’T RIDE WITH A DRUNK DRIVER! Think what you will miss.



Love ya! Ralph says, "you'all come back! Ya hear?

My Unappreciated Heroism

Truly Horrific Badges


These were worn on chests and caps by the most feared, deservedly, troopers of the Nazi Armies, the SS Among the SS, those with the worst reputations were the Hungarian troops.

Now, take you mind back to the day after the Axis had surrendered. Yours truly was carrying a bunch of paperwork from our company HQ back to Battalion HQ. It was a beautiful day, but cold. In fact, we had had snow just a few days before. So I was wearing my field jacket. To be in military fashion I had it snug around the waist to cause it to flare out at the bottom. I was admiring the freshly green Bavarian hills and the farms struggling along. I whistled while I walked. I didn't carry my carbine, just a German Luger Pistol. It was in my belt under the very snug field jacket. After all, the war was over.

On my right was an open field extending up a hill to a pine forest on top. It looked just like a field I knew at home. In my euphoria, I hardly noticed the soldiers stepping out from the pines and advancing down the field. When I finally registered that their uniforms were unfamiliar, I struggled for the Luger. But my mind quickly took in the number of long rifles pointed in my direction and decided that my pulling out a tiny pistol would not clarify the situation in my favor. I really stood petrified as I realized I was out-numbered and out-gunned. As they came closer I saw they were wearing the insignia of the SS and the uniforms of Hungarians. I froze!!

Four who were clearly officers and one who clearly was not, lined up across the country road, came to attention, and saluted --- saluted ME? I nervously returned the salute. The very small bedraggled non-officer came closer and spoke - in perfect Brooklynese. He said, "Can you take us to your commanding officer?' Without a thought I said, "Sure, follow me!" and headed on to Battalion HQ. The GI Joe cartoon character walked with me and told me he had been a taxi driver in New York. He had returned to Hungary to bring his mother to the States just before the war. Too late, he was drafted there and used as an interpreter. Seemed like a nice guy. After all, I was born in Brooklyn and knew the language.

When we were close to HQ, I "SUGGESTED" they stack their rifles. I explained that we would all probably be safer. We went into town with me walking and them marching stiffly behind me. The Colonel was among those that came out to see what was going on. I saluted and said, "Messenger. Reporting with prisoners, Sir."

Expecting congratulations, his reply was instead along the lines of, "What the blankity, blanking, blank, blank, am I supposed to do with them?" I hope it was a rhetorical question, because I stayed silent. I shook the little guy's hand and waved good-bye to "my" group. They waved back (turned out there were only 37 of them) . I went about my business.

Another Story about My Life in Paris

A Disclaimer: I was in France thirty six years ago. Thus, my stories and my impressions are very old and probably bear little if any relationship to modern times. Further, in my brief time there, I made little effort to become a part of the local life. I was in effect a long-term tourist and I saw things from that viewpoint. More, I lived in a section that the American Military had just recently moved their headquarters away from. Abandoned, the locals said. This left the economy of the area in tough straits and Americans were not popular there –with good reason from their perspective.

With that introduction I will now recite a story about Americans (in France). The streets of the old suburbs of Paris are narrow – one explanation of the small cars most popular among the commuters I traveled with morning and night. There were traffic jams there daily that out jammed anything LA or NYC has ever experienced. But the French are resourceful, when they tired of blowing their horns, they bump over the curb and try to out-run the stoppage by cruising down the sidewalk. The popularity of this maneuver makes it self defeating and the sidewalk traffic moves only slightly faster than the legitimate traffic. I was in such a grid lock (in my proper lane) when in my mirror I could see an enormous vehicle inching up on me from the sidewalk. It was a big shiny, black limo with a small American flag attached to the fender and with diplomatic plates. The chauffer was trying to cut in front of me to get back on the road. I more or less “lost” it. I yelled, “I don’t give a G--- d----- tinker’s dam about your G-- d----- diplomatic plate! I want to get home and have supper as much as you do!

The fellow driving glared at me. But in the back seat a guy with a Homburg hat doffed it with a big smile, said a few words to the driver who, grudgingly it seemed, slowed down to let me pass. But he did push his way in behind me.

After I got home and had a drink with pate and crackers, it dawned on me that diplomats in official limos were probably driven by the CIA. I was glad the car I was driving wasn’t registered to me.

But several weeks later, a big monkey-monk of the embassy staff invited my wife and I to dinner at his home, ostensibly because our ten year old son was a friend of his son at the American School. I got a trifle paranoid when I imagined that he was quizzing me about details of our life before Paris and his wife was in another room quizzing my wife about the same things. I got over it after drink or two and decided he was just a nice guy. At worst, he was just trying to make sure his kid was associating with an OK kid.

Still….

Generation to Generation

Tis the season --- when generations are thrust together to make conversation while waiting for a holiday meal or holiday drinks. It is the time when you can find yourself face to face with relatives you barely remember from their last visit a year ago. It can be painful even with generous potions of eggnog or single malt. The worst situation can be the pairing of young folks with the fossils up from Florida for the holiday week.

Some young people have a hesitancy to treat the over eighty bunch as though we were real people. We are… our noses and ears may be long, but we are real people. Most of us are not former presidents, generals, nor ambassadors due any special deference. Neither are we freaks nor stumbling sufferers of severe dementia. And what if we were the latter? All the folks you know don’t qualify as brain surgeons and you talk to them like residents of this planet. Please act yourselves around us. We stopped talking to you with baby talk, please return the favor. We know we are almost historical landmarks, so if you run out of conversation, ask about our youth of many years ago. One question about Christmas before there was television will get us going and get you off the hook for long enough for the dinner bell to ring. If that doesn’t work, start recounting your recent adventure at a rap concert. That will put us old-timers to sleep.

Disney Candlelight Processional

The Disney World Candlelight Processional was again marvelous. The professional Disney singers and orchestra provided the beautiful base for the almost 300 high school chorus members from around the state and out of state. We attended the early performance which began at 5PM. There was still light at that hour so we lost the effect of the massed choirs filing in, each carrying a lighted candle. But the strength and beauty of the music soon overcame that disappointment.

Every three days there is a new narrator of the Christmas story. In the past we have heard some wonderful speakers. Perhaps surprisingly, the best we’ve heard was Phylicia Rashad. This three days Jaci Velasquez tried to do the reading. Unfortunately, she just didn’t “get” it. Her laid back, informal approach was out of phase with the nature of the music. Although she is a popular Christian singer, she was a misfit for this program.

As I sat like a slug in my wheelchair, I was touched by a young lady helped on stage in her wheelchair as a part of the processional. She sang with vigor and enthusiasm that truly reflected the meaning of “celebration of Christmas”. I thought how hard she must have worked to get to that stage. Truly inspiring.

Never before did I know that so much emotion and feeling could be expressed in sign language as was accomplished by an unnamed gentleman who stood almost silouetted in front of a lighted Christmas tree on stage. He added visual enjoyment to the evening.

God willing, we will go again next year.

Electric Parade

We are here at Disney World and it is early in the morning. S- is still asleep so Iam typing in the dark. Not very well, I must admit. Again we seem to have brought rain along on a trip. Seems to be our fate. We went over to the Magic Kingdom last night to see the evening parade. It has a new name now which I have forgottrn. It used to be called the Electric Parade, but I can't look up the new name in the dark. Quite spectacular! If I were to go several more times I might get the hang of photographing it. But fun to watch. More later

Disney Bound

If you look upstairs, it says that these are the “musings of an old goat”. Well this musing old goat is off to Disney World tomorrow for our annual (sometimes) visit to view the fabulous decorations that this display case of living creativity puts up each year. We are also will attend the annual (really) Candlelight Processional with the 400 member chorus. Originally I was not going to take the laptop, but the forecast is for three days of rain. That suggests that lolling and strolling will be impractical while people watching from a park bench will lose its charm. Sooo, there doubtlessly will be room-time and Disney has a good dsl hook-up. I sort of resent their charging for it, unlike most hotels today. But what the hey, this is the outfit that hides their 800 numbers so if you don’t use your toll free cell phone, making a reservation can cost a fortune in wait-on-hold time charges.

We have room reservations at the Beach Club and breakfast reservations at the Crystal Palace one morning. Drop in and see us. We plan to have fun!

I have been this ambitious before and didn’t succeed, but we’ll try this again.

Christmas - Gone, but not Forgotten

For years I have been on the side of preachers and others who have decried the increasing commercialization of Christmas. I was not a loud supporter, but I was standing on their side of the field. Now I have a problem. The big department stores, at least in this area, have deleted the word “Christmas” as well as angels, stars, and other reminders of the origin of Christmas from their decorations and promotions of the season. Am I to believe that they are advancing the idea that Mr. Macy started Christmas? The principal display at the Wellington Mall is an advertisement for a movie. Are kids now expected to believe that the season is a product of Hollywood?

Am I to be a victim of the old saw, “Be careful what you ask for, you might get it”?

Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Story

It was the first Christmas that we were married. We were living in half of the attic of a three story house in State College, Pa. It had started out to be a bitterly cold winter. There was already almost a foot of snow on the ground. Nonetheless, Paul, the newly-wed in the other half the attic, and I decided to drive out into the countryside to find some Christmas trees. Our wives were skeptical of our woodsman ship. The last thing they said as we headed out with our handy little saw was, “Whatever you do, don’t bring back hemlocks.”

In the car and headed toward the farm and forest land outside of town, we confessed that neither of us knew a hemlock from an oak tree. No matter, we would know a pretty Christmas tree when we saw one.

We trudged into a likely looking area. We didn’t know where we were or who owned the land, but it wasn’t our intention to get caught. We found a couple of attractive trees and labored hard with the cute little saw. On the way back to the car we found it farther than we remembered .Dragging those trees through the snow was tough, but did little for our steadily freezing toes.

When we got close to the road, our whole bodies froze. Parked seventy five feet behind our car was a State Trooper. He didn’t move or say anything but we knew he was watching us. Dropping the trees and trying to look innocent didn’t seem a helpful option.
But no useful options occurred to us, so we went ahead and stuffed the trees in the car. The Trooper did nothing as we drove away toward home. He followed us from a comfortable distance right to the house. As we started unloading the trees, he drove up beside us, leaned out the window and waved, smiled and called, “Merry Christmas!”

True story!

By the way, we decorated the trees before we went to our homes for Christmas with our families. When we got back around New Years Day --- those hemlocks had dropped every single needle leaving naked, grotesque skeletons. You knew that, didn’t you?

Army Bookkeeping

Our fine prosecutors seem to enjoy going after the book keeping bad boys like Enron, but they’d have had a real ball if they had looked at the goings on in the Army during and after WWII. Let me give you a few examples from my nefarious career as a Supply Sergeant for an infantry company right after the war.

Soon after the fighting stopped, an order came in for all the troops to turn in their gas masks. In theory, a gas mask had been carried by each GI since he first went into a combat area. If it had been lost or stolen (Ha!) the GI was responsible and had to pay. The supply sergeant had to fill out a form called a Statement of Charges, turn it into Payroll and the charge was deducted from the transgressor’s pay. In truth, our company’s gas masks littered the lands of France, Germany, Austria, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Pacific Ocean. A number of the cases were still in use for carrying candy bars, cigarettes and miscellaneous personal effects. When the order came down, I collected a woefully small number of actual masks. I scrounged for any more masks I could I find. I put all of them in a jeep trailer and headed off to Quartermaster. I did not want to undertake the paperwork for the deficiency I faced, so I offered to help the guy at Quartermaster count them. While I counted I tried to listen to his count, so that my count plus his would come close to the required number. When we were both finished, he asked my count. I took a deep breath and fibbed, “163”. He said, “I got 102. Let’s see, that adds up to exactly 199. Congratulations, Sergeant, you hit it right on the nose.” I took the paperwork, told him he was a real square shooter, and hurried back to my supply room.

Chapter 2

One day a few of us were in Manila relaxing (read: drinking.) We ran into a very drunk master sergeant crying his eyes out. He told us he was due to retire after a million years in the regular Army. BUT, a few days before he had driven a six-by-six truck into town, got drunk, and forgotten where he parked the truck. He was afraid he was going to have to pay for it before he could go home. He was in charge of a big motor pool outside of town. He had access to records. I wrote out my name, and how to reach me by phone. I wrote on the note to call me when he was sober. The net result was; he came into possession of a totaled six-by that I had already written off my books. He altered a vehicle number on his books and wrote it off again. Mysteriously, a week later a large walk-in refrigerator was delivered, complete with generator, and set up adjacent to the Co.A Day Room by some guys from the regimental motor pool. Someday, I will recount where the liquor came from to stock the refrigerator.

Chapter 3

As a supply sergeant was replaced, the newbie and the old sergeant did an inventory together. The retiring guy, my friend, I thought, showed me a long wooden crate which he identified a the company sniper rifle, he said it was full of kosmoline and it would be a horrible mess to unpack. I accepted his word and signed the inventory. A few months later a couple of us thought it would be fun, to take it up in the hills and try it out. The crate was, indeed, full of kosmoline., nothing BUT kosmoline. When it time for me to go home, I knew the script. I wonder two things; is there still a crate of kosmoline somewhere labelled "Sniper Rifle", and has the statute of limits run out yet.

The following two posts

The what and the why of the following two posts deserve an explanation. I don't understand a lot of the techniques of this blogging business. I do try and in trying sometimes get in deeper than I should. I was trying Piscara(?) as a way of getting pictures into blogs. Like most things associated with Google, the directions are in a language resistent to translation. Oh well, as a foundation for the excuse I am writing now, I have an excuse for the fact that my picture files are totally screwed up but I shan't go into that now. So it was pure luck thatI ended up using those two pictures and trying to put them in the same blog. I couldn't do it for the life of me. I tried to go back to the original files pre-Piscara, and couldn't find them. So, the expedient thing to do was to use Piscara's two posts.

Hey! Give me a break! I'm a memory-challanged, grumpy old man. Anyway, I decided to show that I can use Photoshop and when I wanted that stranger out of the picture with Stonehenge and Sally, I could do it. I even gave a rainy day a blue sky.

Question of the day -- Why do we feel we must publish everything we write?

 

Customs of the French

I seem to be on a kick of remembering commuting to work, wherever work was. I told about driving through the gypsy camp in France. I didn’t mention arriving at the plant. I went down a side street, almost an alley, to a small parking lot across from the main gate to the plant. We had assigned parking spots and once I had locked the car, I rushed into our building and up the stairs to my third floor office. I went directly to the window to watch a typically French custom. The parking lot was made with crushed blue stone, the same material used in the driveways of American suburbia back in the thirties and forties. Just inside the main gate was a tiny one story cottage with flower boxes always abloom. From the cottage would emerge two little men with long white jackets such as worn by doctors or serious scientists seeking recognition. The little men hurried across the street to the parking lot carrying large, metal leaf rakes. They would quickly and carefully erase all evidence of car tracks I had made in the blue stone on my arrival. Made me feel like a nobody until I noticed that everyone in that lot got the same treatment.

The arrival of the President of the company was a different story. His limo would stop in front of the cottage and FOUR white-coated fellows would line beside the limo. His chauffeur would come around and open the door. His Honor would step out and very formally shake hands, including a stiff little bow, to each in line. Then he was off to his office shaking hands with any workman that crossed his path.

You may wonder at my running up to the third floor instead of taking the usually crowded elevator. Thirty five years ago, the French believed religiously in Saturday night as bath night. The intimacy of an elevator verged on painful after Tuesday or Wednesday. I learned to be aware of the day of the week.

The Commuter

For perhaps twenty five years of my working days my usual procedure was to commute from this station into the Big Apple and home again at night.Legends abound about the early morning drive to the station. Most center on the housewife who lets the husband drive to the station. He rushes to the train from the car, leaving his wife sitting in the passenger seat in a dressing gown, night gown, curlers, no make-up—and a stricken look when she realizes that he took the car keys with him and she has none. (Remember this is before cell phones and OnStar.) Fortunately, for the then “desperate housewives” in Berkeley Heights, the police station was right next to the railroad station. Being a cop in Berkeley Heights wasn’t all bad.

For the hubbies the morning commute was quite dull. Mostly it was a matter of reading the NY Times or reading the stuff in your briefcase that you took home to read the night before. When the train arrived in Hoboken, we could move from train to the Hudson Tubes under the Hudson River to NYC without a conscious thought. It wasn’t time to wake up yet. Just to brag a bit, I could usually do the whole NY Times crossword puzzle in the time it took to go from Hoboken to 34th St. (Not on Thursday or Friday.)

Returning home was also an automaton’s exercise, but with a little more variety to spice things up a bit. As you came out of the Hudson Tubes tunnel, there was a fruit and vegetable stand with the specials of that day pre-weighed and pre-bagged. Just thrust a dollar bill at the guy yelling the virtues of his products and grab a bag. Then duck into the liquor store, snatch a Styrofoam cup with ice off the counter, show the clerk the canned cocktail you chose, give him the appropriate dollar or two. At the newsstand, grab a World Telegram, toss the coins on to the stack of papers, glance at the clock and depending on what it said, run or stroll to your train. It was always on the same track with the same conductor standing in front of the gate. If you didn’t recognize him, you double checked that you weren’t headed off into an unknown land.

Once settled on the train, it was simply a matter of arranging the drink and ice on the window sill. There was usually room in the briefcase for the fruit and vegetable present for your wife. Open the can of Manhattan , pour it over the ice, and let it cool while you folded the newspaper into that unique commuters’ form that allows you to read every page top half, left and right, the bottom half left and right, usually with one hand.

OK, let it ring out clear, “ALL ABOARD!” We will be home before we know it. Work today wasn’t so bad after all.

The Rest of The Story

My previous posting spoke of our visit to the World War II Memorial last month. This one will report on --- as Paul Harvey would say – the rest of the story. If it has a humorous sound, that’s what a little time will do.

We left the Memorial to start the long walk back to the tour bus stop. The rain picked up and chased most people out of the area. My legs were rapidly giving out on me. Soon, I could only go from one park bench to the next where I would have to sit and rest. Finally it was a matter of lunging at the benches to get off my legs. About three quarters of the way to the bus stop, I was in great pain and I gave one mighty lunge and dive --- and missed. I fell into a mud puddle with an earth rattling ker-plunk! I landed all 240 pounds directly on the point of the hip I had shattered just two years ago.

Sally wanted to try to lift me onto the bench, but stunned as I was, I was afraid to move for fear I had broken something again. Soon, two marines came jogging along and pretty much insisted on lifting me. Only a fool would argue with two physically fit marines. I was happy that the move didn’t leave me screaming. One marine went for help and came back with a police officer pushing a wheelchair. The officer’s radio was talking about “an elderly man lying on the ground along the mall path”. I seriously resented that elderly part, but on the other hand, it did make me feel a little famous. The officer was all for getting an ambulance. By now I had recovered my senses enough to realize that that would totally mess up our planned vacation and I wasn’t ready to quit yet. The officer had both of us write out that we were refusing medical attention before he would wheel me back to the tour stop. It was also a taxi stand and Sally wisely suggested we take a cab back to the hotel.

At that point we noticed our camera was missing. Sally volunteered to run (!) back to the crime scene to see if it was there. While she was gone, the officer said there was no chance of her finding it. “After all,” he said, “this is Washington, D.C. Cameras are never found by the people that lose them.” He was a good sport and laughed loudly when she came into sight, waving the camera.

Back at the Hyatt, I took a hot shower and felt better. We went down to the lobby bar and had two strong drinks, each. We felt very much better. Good enough to try to explain to the kids why we hadn’t called them. They had continued sightseeing after we left them at the Memorial. They were a little pissed to have missed all the excitement.

We are very grateful to the marines and the cop. Their assistance was invaluable. They were kind and efficient. Had my injury been more serious, I’m confident that they would have coped with it professionally. X-rays have since shown no breaks. Only the mother of all black and blue marks remained as evidence of a rough afternoon.

November 11, 2005

Probably the most moving sight for me on our whole trip was the World War II Memorial on the mall in Washington, D. C. It had been raining the night before and was still raining the morning we went to visit the Memorial. In one of those moments you have to believe that God arranged just for you, the sun came out briefly while we were there.


We arrived intact and browsed through the memories that were evoked. It is powerful statuary with every inch meaningful. The fountains and the flags lend movement to the grand stillness of the granite. The quotations carved in the walls are all inclusive in their tributes.

Everyone should visit and feel the enormity of the sacrifice made by all those men and women working and dying together for our country. It was both a tragic time and a glorious time in our history. While we go there to grieve, we also give honor to the spirit of patriotism that brought the country together as seldom before and never since.