Whimsy 5

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Mental Health

Out of clutter, find simplicity. From discord, find harmony. In the middle of difficulty, lies opportunity -- Albert Einstein

The Games We Played

I once read that if you want to know the person you really are, you should examine yourself as a pre-teenager. That is the last time in our lives that social and academic pressures, desire to excel, and the need to find our place in the world don’t rule our activities.

The world was still new and exciting and we were curious to discover it in our own way.

I realized recently, when I designated every Thursday as my day to play, that I had lost the ability to do that. When I was young, toys were precious and rare. Now I can buy any toy I want, but no longer know how to just let go and have fun.

When I was growing up with my five younger sisters in Rogers we knew how to have fun. My dad had a good job, and we were by no means poor, but we didn’t have much money to spend on toys and games. So we made them up.

Most of the outdoor games were some version of tag. We played hide-and-seek, capture the flag, and kick-the-can. Our favorite was Around the House, where whoever was IT would tag to freeze the others, who could in turn be freed by being tagged by the non-“IT’s.” Only IT could run and the others had to walk around the perimeter of the house. Sounds simple, but we played for hours. We also played tag with polyethylene bowling pins, two to a person, and when hit you had to give up the pins to the person who got you. Heavy on strategy! Do you go after the weaker players to accumulate pins, or go after the better players to eliminate the competition while the others ganged up on you?

Other games were “May I?” and move-up, where IT sat at one end of the yard watching the non-IT’s through an empty cardboard tube while they tried to sneak up to the finish line. If you were caught moving you had to go back to the start. A little more physical was statues, where IT would swing the others around, fling them free and say “freeze,” and they had to hold their last position.

One porch game was golf, where a complete 18-hole course would be laid out with rolled clay on the concrete floor with tinker toy clubs and marble golf balls. More sedate was the construction of a covered maze made up of leftover tiny bathroom tiles. Each contestant caught their own roly-poly, inserted it into the maze, and timed it to the exit, fastest time wins.

Summer was filled with card and board games. We discovered Clue and couldn’t afford to buy it, so we made the entire set out of cardboard, paper, and leftover pieces of other games. It didn’t occur to us not to play Clue just because we didn’t own the game.

Indoor versions of tag included Sardines, where IT hid somewhere in the house. The non-IT’s would search him out, and when discovered instead of becoming IT right away, would quietly slip into the hiding place, followed by the others until only one person was left searching the house for the hiding place containing everyone else. Another version was to hide an alarm clock set for five minutes. All the non-IT’s would place themselves strategically around the house to be the first to find the clock when it went off and be the next to hide it.

The one game we could only play when the parents were away was rosary tag. We pulled out the two double beds in my little sisters’ bedroom to make a figure-eight racecourse, and then made the room completely dark. IT wore a glow-in-the-dark rosary around their neck as we all crawled around the beds and through the closets to avoid being tagged. A little sacrilegious I guess, but great fun.

Later in my life I heard someone at the Air Force Academy say, “Give a cadet a rock and a piece of string and he’ll make a game out of it.” I realized then that I had been well prepared.

Health

The surgeon general has determined that excessive concern about your health can be hazardous to your health.

Philosophy

Live like you mean it
Play like you mean it
-- Cherokee Casino

Whimsy 4

Sacramento, California

Bacterium

This must be one heck of a germ if a single one can infect so many people and shut down a hospital. They'd better hope it doesn't reproduce!

Ordinary 1

Savor the Wonder of the Ordinary

English Walnuts

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas from Mr. & Mrs. Claus.

Christmas Letter

Christmas 2006

Dear Friends and Family,

It’s been a busy, but rather uneventful year at Maguire House. The highlights have been, as usual, family get-togethers, visits from grandchildren, our wonderful guests, and our too-infrequent travels.

We are victims of our own success. Last year we made a profit of $51, but that was OK since we run the B&B as a hobby and as a way to host family and guests. This year we have been much busier, so we checked into getting proper insurance, and found the cheapest policy is $3800. We were booked almost every weekend and some weeks in between. Maureen was spending all her free time cleaning house; Mike was getting overwhelmed by cooking and maintenance. So we decided that we would no longer take paying guests after the end of this year.

After our initial disappointment we realized that we would now have more time for family and friends, travel and sailing, and all the activities on Mike’s list when he “retired” fifteen years ago. We’ll also be able to host any of you who can come to visit.

Maureen went to her Mother’s family reunion in Missouri, then brought back twelve of her relatives for a visit. It was a wonderful experience for all of us. Oktoberfest was a great family get-together until Mike’s mother fell out of bed and broke her hip. She’s mending well, but won’t climb into that bed again.

Our two-week trip to Switzerland and Bavaria was our best yet. We did lots of hiking and sightseeing around Lauterbrunnen at the foot of the Swiss Alps, opened Oktoberfest in Munich, and relaxed in Partenkirchen, Germany. A one-week trip to Texas in June let us explore San Antonio and it’s wonderful riverwalk, then enjoy gracious hospitality in Austin from Mike's U-2 buddy, Billy Ely. We highly recommend those two cities.

The best parts of our year were the times we spent at Maguire House. We hope to enjoy it more as we wind down a little and work on some of our projects (greenhouse, chicken coop, garden, tree house) that have been neglected. Come stay with us and check out our progress.

Merry Christmas,
Mike & Maureen

Whimsy 3

Great Abaco Island, Bahamas

Happiness

Happiness often sneaks in through a door you didn't know you left open -- John Barrymore

Henryetta

I grew up on West Walnut Street in Rogers, just about where Backyard Barbecue is now. My five sisters were, fortunately, all younger than I. Friends still remark on seeing the six of us sitting up in the wild cherry tree along Highway 71 watching the traffic go by.

Some of the vehicles were Tyson trucks, hauling chickens to market. There always seemed to be a few escapees riding on top of the wooden crates, and I used to wonder what happened to them. I was to learn the fate of one particular hen that fell from the truck in our front ditch and was adopted by my sister, who named her Henryetta.

When I turned 14 my parents decided that I was old enough to care for my sisters without parental supervision. The weekend they had to go to St. Louis was to be my first test.

My mother is so organized she alphabetizes her spices. Although we all knew how to cook from our weekly night on kitchen duty, she prepared all the meals for the weekend, wrapped and labeled them, and put them in chronological order in the freezer. All we had to do was thaw, heat, and serve, and spend the rest of the time trying to stay out of trouble.

Home alone, we soon tired of our made-up games and looked around for adventure. For some unknown reason we decided that we would have Henryetta for Saturday night supper. The six of us agreed that we were all in it together, and would share responsibility.

We knew from cartoons that the proper way to dispatch the bird was to lay its neck across a stump and cut off the head with a sharp ax. So we did it, or rather, I did. The cartoons didn’t show that the headless chicken would run around the yard, spewing blood and running into everything it its path, including us. She did.

We looked up chicken butchering in an old encyclopedia, which gave us the information on scalding, plucking, and gutting. It took what seemed like hours of heating water, dunking the chicken (we no longer referred to her by her proper name), and pulling thousands of feathers. Finally she looked something like the birds at Foodtown, mostly naked and cut into proper serving pieces.

So, we fried her up in a big skillet, served her with mashed potatoes and green beans, said grace, and dug in. Suddenly no one was hungry any more, even for the mashed potatoes.

Sunday evening our parents returned and questioned us about the weekend. Mother looked in the freezer and saw that the container of beef stew was still there. She asked, “What did you have for Saturday night supper?” We proudly exclaimed in unison, “Henryetta.” To this day I still don’t think she believes us, except that at family get-togethers I am accused of making my sisters eat their pets.

Flip This House!

As if we didn't have enough trouble in our lives, we decided to form a limited liability corporation, Maguire Homes, and build or fix up houses for Christa to sell. Our first project is a nice starter home in the country. We added a new bathroom, kitchen cabinets and appliances, and had the whole thing painted and carpeted. Of course, everything takes twice as long and costs twice as much as expected, when we are lucky. We hope to have it on the market soon. If it doesn't sell I may have to move in after Christmas.

Religions of the World

TAOISM -- Stuff Happens

HARE KRISHINA -- Stuff Happens Rama Rama Ding Ding

HINDUISM -- This Stuff Happened Before

ISLAM -- If Stuff Happens, Take A Hostage

ZEN -- What Is The Sound Of Stuff Happening?

BUDDHISM -- When Stuff Happens, Is It Really Stuff?

CONFUCIANISM -- Confucias Say, "Stuff Happens"

7TH DAY ADVENTIST -- Stuff Happens On Saturdays

PROTESTANTISM -- Stuff Won't Happen If I Work Harder

CATHOLICISM -- If Stuff Happens I Deserve It

JEHOVAH'S WITNESS -- Knock, Knock, "Stuff Happens"

UNITARIAN -- What Is This Stuff?

MORMON -- Stuff Happens Again & Again & Again...

JUDAISM -- Why Does This Stuff Always Happen To Us?

RASTAFARIANISM -- Let's Smoke This Stuff

The No Book Book Drop

Prairie Grove Public Library

Whimsy 2

Milwaukee, Wisconsin

Berlin

My Piece of the Wall

The mission for the U-2’s flying out of England in the mid-1980’s was simple – border patrol. If the Warsaw Pact countries were to attack Europe, which was the fear, they would have to prepare for battle, upgrading equipment and practicing tactics. From our perch above 70,000’ we could look well into the Eastern bloc countries, monitoring the state of readiness in the Communist countries. We flew nine-hour missions daily along the West and East German border, carrying a variety of sensors, acting as a trip-wire to catch the bad guys in the act of being bad guys.

The West German government, in recognition of our role in protecting their country, paid for each U-2 pilot to visit Berlin. At that time Berlin was an occupied city, governed by the four conquering powers of WW II. The French, British, and American sectors quickly combined to form West Berlin, an island of freedom surrounded by Communist East Germany. The Soviet sector became East Berlin, supposedly the showcase of all that is good about Communism.

I arrived in West Berlin for the weekend visit with Jan, another U-2 pilot, and his wife Sarah. We traveled by military transport, as commercial airline travel into Berlin was not allowed. Friday’s schedule was filled with tours of West Berlin and lectures about the history of the two Germanys and the two Berlins since the war. That night we were turned loose on the city to sample the cabarets, the bright lights and incredible shopping along the Kurfurstendam, the city’s main street. Highlights included the KDV, the world’s largest department store whose food court put even London’s Herrod’s to shame, the Kaiser Willhelm memorial, the bombed-out shell of the city’s cathedral, left as a memorial to the horrors of war, the inscription saying, “Never Again!”, and the city’s parks full of happy, healthy, joyful people.

Saturday morning we met for the visit’s real purpose, a bus tour of East Berlin. Jan and I, as part of the occupying forces, had to wear our class A uniforms. Sarah was allowed to accompany us.

First stop was Checkpoint Charlie, a border crossing point and site of a museum full of artifacts left by East Germans making successful and unsuccessful attempts to escape Communism. Some methods were very clever, like hiding a person as the upholstery stuffing in an automobile seat or under a car. Some used brute force, ramming border gates with trucks, crossing the Berlin Wall on a wire strung between buildings, or swimming the River Spree, though mined and strung with barbed wire. Small memorials along the Berlin Wall gave testimony to the many that tried to escape and failed.

Back on the bus, we crossed the bridge into East Berlin and took a driving tour of the city. The many massive memorials were impressive. The ramshackle apartment buildings with gaps between the sections and blocks of rooms tilting slightly, were not.

We stopped at one memorial, and our American guide pointed out all the video security cameras following our every move. The bus passed yet another checkpoint and, as predicted, Stazi guards radioed in our progress.

Finally we arrived at the shopping area in the center of the city, and were told to return in four hours. We were free to explore on our own, to see and feel for ourselves the “enemy,” the feared and hated Communism.

The department store windows were full of goods, the shelves inside empty. The few things available were cheaply made and shoddy, many of our souvenirs falling apart before we could even get them home. One pilot bought a set of Mariachi dolls, the kind that nest inside each other, and they almost disintegrated in his hands. In the Russian goods store, where access was limited to foreigners and politicians, the shelves were full. What l remember most was the pretty Russian clerk. I gave her my most seductive smile. She smiled back until her gaze took in my American uniform; her jaw dropped and the color drained from her face.

Jan and Sarah and I decided to have lunch at the base of the TV tower, the symbol of East Berlin. We went into what I called the Stadt Café, got a plateful of basic German peasant food, potato dumplings, a sausage, and sauerkraut, for the equivalent of 25 cents, with a beer for another quarter. Great! Carrying our trays, we looked for a place to sit at the high-school type folding tables for eight. Not finding an empty table, we went to one with just one little old lady at the end. We sat at the end of the table, after asking permission in our limited German. The lady promptly got up and moved to another table.

What I remember most about the meal, and East Berlin, and the people, was the quiet. The diners in the cafeteria did not carry on conversations; the loudest noise was the rattling of the dishes in the kitchen. The people in general appeared in good health and wore nice clothing, but they walked around with their heads down and would not make eye contact. When children laughed or a baby cried it seemed out of place.

Everyone arrived well early at the rendezvous point. Back on the bus, the guide offered to take us to a few more sights. We’d seen enough, and demanded to go home, to the West, now! Crossing back through Checkpoint Charlie, it was like a great weight had been lifted from our shoulders, that we could talk and laugh again, that the oppression that we had felt just visiting a Communist country was palpable.

The West German government got its money worth sponsoring our trip. We went back to our jobs observing the governments across the Iron Curtain with a renewed sense of purpose, that we must keep Communism under control until it collapses of its own weight, which was exactly what happened.

How Does It Know?

This Christmas cactus blooms every year at this time. It must have quite a calendar.

Happiness

If only we'd stop trying to be happy we'd have a pretty good time. -- Edith Wharton

Men ~ Women

Make sure you have plenty of time and money when Christmas shopping with your wife. I always take a digital music player and a good book!

Whimsy 1

Garmish, Bavaria, Germany

Logos

We took Jordan and Braden to the Walton Arts Center to see the Nutcracker. I'm always amazed to see the similarity between their logo, W's in a circle to form a star, and mine, hearts in a circle to form a flower.

The Night I Made Supper

“Hey, boss when are we having jambalaya?” “What?” I had just started a one-year tour of duty as commander of the U-2 detachment on a British Air Base on the island of Cyprus in the Eastern Mediterranean. “Mike, when are you fixing jambalaya?” “Huh?” Finally someone clued me in. The U-2 wives had put together a cookbook years earlier, and not knowing any recipes, I had submitted a jambalaya recipe straight from Playboy magazine. The locals had awaited my arrival to meet the American who makes jambalaya.

The only thing to do was gather up my courage and try to fix jambalaya. Fortunately, the quarters I shared with my deputy had a small kitchen and large patio for entertaining. I invited my nine officers and as many English friends over to supper Friday night at my little bungalow.

Not having a clue what went into jambalaya, I got a copy of the cookbook and looked up the recipe. Ham, chicken, rice, shrimp, peppers, spices, nothing unusual. But not only did I not know how to cook, I didn’t know how or where to find the ingredients. So, I borrowed the wife of the weather forecaster to help me put the meal together. Ann and I decided on cole slaw and bread to go with the main course, and apple crisp for dessert.

We went to the base commissary, which was limited to canned goods and things like New Zealand lamb and butter and the strangest assortment of English cleaning soaps and powders. We bought Fairy Washing Fluid to clean the dishes. Not much in the way of fresh ingredients, so we went off base to the nearest roadside produce stand. There we encountered marvelous displays of local citrus fruits, homemade yogurts and cheeses, smoked sausages, washtubs full of every kind of olive imaginable, and fresh vegetables. Nothing as unusual as an apple or fresh meat. We bought what we could and headed downtown.

The port of Limissol is an exotic mix of Greek and Turkish cultures. We headed for the Turkish bazaar, an open-air market in the middle of town. We could smell it blocks before our arrival, with all the pungent spices and also in-view butcheries and fish stalls. We needed apples, chicken, and shrimp. Of all things, the greengrocer had Bromley apples from England, perfect for the apple crisp.

We followed our noses to the butcher shop, which was easy because there was no refrigeration. But this was no problem because our chicken was fresh, so fresh that it was still alive in a cage and butchered to order. I’m not sure I could have eaten any of the other delicacies on offer. On to the fish section.

I have never seen such an array of seafood on tables of ice, everything that swam or crawled or slithered in the Mediterranean. It was a better display of biology than anything in a natural history museum. We selected a couple of pounds of Egyptian shrimp and now had everything I needed for my supper.

I was determined to do this myself. So, I shredded the cabbage and vegetables and mixed them with the dressing in a big bowl and put the slaw in the ‘fridge. I peeled and sliced the apples, covered them in a big casserole with the topping. The jambalaya was surprisingly easy, everything put in a big pot on the stove and simmered all afternoon.

As my eighteen guests arrived I put the apple crisp in the oven and set out the simple meal. It was incredible. The English got a taste of American food. The Americans got a taste of home. The food was a great hit, especially the hot apple crisp straight from the oven. Everyone lingered, sharing the local wine and international companionship as the stars came out. My reputation was not only saved, but enhanced.

The evening was so successful that we established a tradition that the first Friday of every month was supper at the Commander’s. I learned to cook and entertain and to this day look forward to being the chef for groups of guests.

Bad News/Good News

The bad news is that the pumpkins won't make it through many more freeze/thaw cycles. The good news is that the chickens like pumpkin, especially the seeds.

Mystery Solved

The power company, Ozarks Electric Cooperative, finally came and installed the pole (see Power Pole, 26 Nov). In the process they left behind a wooden stake, marker flag, cardboard boxes, a piece of guy wire, section of T-post, and the limb they cut off my plum tree. They expected me to clean up after them?! Nice work, guys!

Give It To Me Straight

The Brits, and particularly the Scots, prefer to drink their whiskey neat, that is, without water or mixers or ice. I learned this lesson the hard way on a RAF base on the island of Cyprus. I was with the U-2 detachment, a small minority of Americans among the British.

The RAF had established many little clubs on this base. They provided for morale, recreation, and welfare and lessened the presence of the troops in the local community. I remember an angling club, go-kart club, sailing club, drama club, and a music society whose only purpose was to pick the classical music played at the Roman amphitheatre.

Less than half the people in the angling club ever put a line in the water. They joined, not to catch fish, but to have a kabob and a Carlsburg at the beach on Sunday afternoon. Every club had a facility with clubhouse and bar.

One of the English schoolteachers, Jan, invited me to participate in a play at the Drama Club. I had once been interviewed by the Air Force for a movie on U-2 pilots. I was so terrible they had to throw the film away. So, I was not interested in acting, but I was fascinated by the process of starting with a raw script and turning it into a drama, complete with stage directions and scenery. And Jan was pretty.

The first night we went to practice everyone worked diligently on the stage to organize the play. After about an hour we adjourned to the bar. When asked my preference I said, “Scotch on the rocks, please.” The bartender took my glass, disappeared into the back, and came out about ten minutes later with my drink. Jan clued me in that they did not normally have ice, and that the bartender had walked several buildings away to the American officers’ quarters to get ice for my drink. I felt like the Ugly American.

A week later at the next play practice when we broke for drinks I ordered a whiskey neat. The same bartender asked, “Don’t you want any ice in it?” I said, “No, thanks, I always have my whiskey straight.” Jan again clued me in; the bartender, knowing that I would be there that evening, had already gone to the ice machine so he could serve me a Scotch on the rocks. The Even Uglier American! To this day I always drink my whiskey neat.

I was told about an American couple at a bar in Scotland. The wife, drinking a Collins with only one ice cube, asked her husband, “Honey, would you please get some more ice for my drink?” The husband dutifully went up the bartender and asked, “Could I please have another ice cube for my wife’s drink?” He replied, “Certainly, sir,” took the ice tongs, carefully removed the ice cube from the drink, and replaced it with a fresh one. The bartender could not imagine that anyone would want more than one ice cube in their drink.

Men ~ Women

The difference between men and women.

Where Did Fall Go?

Over the last two days I watched the thermometer drop from 71 degrees to below freezing. Eighteen hours of rain turned to sleet, then to snow. This morning we woke to about two inches of snow over the frozen ground. Driving conditions aren't bad, but Maureen says it's too dangerous to drive to work :-) .

Despite the cold weather the indoor plants are thriving. The cyclamen and Christmas cactus are blooming. This is my favorite orchid, given to me by Christa when I was in the hospital for my broken ankle. It only blooms about once a year, but when it does the blossoms are spectacular!

How I Make Bread

It took years for me to learn to make a loaf of bread. I consider myself a pretty good cook, and have received many compliments for my breakfasts at Maguire House. Yet every time I tried to make bread it came out like a doorstop or a brickbat. I had given up, then when shopping at Wal*Mart I found a loaf of frozen bread dough on sale. I took it home, thawed it out in a bread pan, baked it according to the instructions, and produced a wonderful loaf of bread. I figured that if the computerized machine could make good dough, I would try again. After many failures, my trial-and-error method works for me.

My secrets are a twelve-quart bowl that makes enough dough for four loaves, and a proofing method that tells me that the yeast is good and will make the dough rise properly.

Ingredients:
4 tsp yeast
4 tsp sugar
1 1/2 cups warm water
12 cups flour
1 Tbsp salt
1 stick (1/2 cup) margerine
4 cups buttermilk
1 Tbsp oil

Add the yeast and sugar to the water. I found that yeast in packets is the most expensive part of baking, and now buy bulk yeast at Sam's. The sugar is food for the yeast. The water should be barely warm to the touch. Let the mixture sit 5 - 15 minutes until it forms a foam collar.



Put the flour and salt into the bowl, make a well in the center, and add the yeast mixture. Pull the flour at the sides of the bowl over the liquid until it is covered. As the yeast proofs it will bubble up through the flour.


Melt the margerine in a quart measuring cup. Add buttermilk (or any milk/sour milk/water combination) to the cup. Warm 2 minutes (just warm) in the microwave to avoid shocking the yeast, then add to the bowl and mix thoroughly until well blended.


Dump the dough onto a floured counter or breadboard, cover with the inverted bowl, and let rest fifteen minutes. Remove, clean, and oil the bowl. Knead the dough for about five minutes, turn the ball of dough out into the bowl, rotate to cover with oil, cover with a dishcloth, and let rise until doubled, 1-2 hours depending on conditions.

Punch the dough down, divide into four equal parts, form into long balls, and punch down into four loaf pans. Let rise until it is almost bread-sized (it will rise slightly more while baking).


Bake at 425 degrees for 15 minutes, then 350 degrees for 30 minutes. Remove baked bread from pans and let cool on a rack so the bottoms don't get soggy. I wrap bread in Wal*Mart bags and freeze until needed.


Not many people bake their own bread these days, and most of the people who do use bread machines. This bread is easy to make, very tasty, and makes wonderful toast. It is my "trade goods," excellent barter for fresh vegetables, as thank-you's, or as gifts any time. It's nice to bring a smile to someone's face with something that costs a quarter and a little effort to make.

Making bread is therapy. The yeast makes the dough a living organism and it is a joy to work with. You can take out all your frustrations and aggression by kneading the dough. And the baked bread makes the house smell wonderful for the rest of the day!

Maguire House Sign

After the end of the year we will no longer take in paying guests. So what do we do with the sign? Take it down? Cover over the "Bed & Breakfast" part? Attach a "No Vacancy" sign? Guess you'll have to drive by to find out!

The Bird

After almost two months living in England I was beginning to feel at home. When the Air Force opened a new Wing to fly the European U-2 mission, housing was scarce, but I managed to find a place to rent in the tiny village of Sudborough, Northamptonshire, right in the middle of the country.

My little house was called Brewery Cottage, so-named because it was part of a defunct brewery yard. The courtyard behind me contained a malting house, cooperage, brewing house, and cottages for the workers. Next door was Brewery House where the beer was stored in the basement and the pub was located on the ground floor. The brewmaster had lived in my cottage.

My landlord and landlady lived in Brewery House. Lovel was a proper English gentleman, a retired English literature professor who had been an infantry officer and POW in WW II. Lettice was his perfect partner as a slightly aristocratic and reserved country lady who nevertheless took very good care of me.

Sudborough contained about 100 people, a post office that also sold snacks and a few groceries, a riding stable, and, of course, a pub. Most of the younger generation had gone off to the big city to make their way. I was a big hit as the first American to live there since WWII among the population that was still fighting the War. I felt right at home among the thatch-roofed houses and the farm buildings and animals and fields. My 1700’s house was the new place in a village where my neighbor’s toll house was restored in 1620 and the church was dedicated in the 1180’s. I felt even more at home when I was greeted at the pub with “The usual, Mike?" which in my case was a pint of Ruddle’s County ale.

Thanksgiving was fast approaching, and, being on my own and in a foreign country, I was determined to have a traditional holiday meal. I went to the base commissary to buy a turkey, only to discover that the smallest birds weighed about 25 pounds. Since Brewery House still contained lots of beer, I went next door for advice.

Of course, the English know little to nothing about Thanksgiving. When Lettice heard that I was going to have cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie and actually eat a turkey, she was astounded, but interested. Lovel said that I could not get a turkey, but that the local butcher shops sold all kinds of game, and pheasant was abundant.

In fact, Chinese ringneck pheasants were everywhere. On my walks and drives through the countryside I would see them darting among the hedgerows and hear them calling to each other. They were actually a hazard as they ran across the roads.


My informally adopted parents, my “landparents” as I called them, invited me to Sunday dinner, provided that I would bring some cranberry sauce and a pumpkin pie to share with my explanation of the traditions of Thanksgiving. Wanting to make a real pie from a real pumpkin, I consulted my 1938 copy of The American Woman’s Cookbook for a recipe. It began, “Take one #2 can of pumpkin. . .” I gave up on scratch pie and made it from a can. I was still determined to fix a Thanksgiving dinner for myself, though.

On the way home from the base I drove slowly past the butcher shop in Thrapston, the only town large enough to have real stores. Sure enough, they had pheasants hanging in a row in the window. Just the thing. As soon as I got to Brewery Cottage I changed out of my uniform, jumped in my Austin Mini, and headed back to Thrapston. The drive took me through the countryside between tall hedgerows. I had not gone a mile from Sudborough, when a pheasant darted across the road and I hit it.

Now, Lovel had told me that if you hit any game with your car it is considered hunting without a license, and you can’t take it, though the person behind you can. I stopped the car, and went back to look the pheasant over, which was laying beside the road with scarcely a mark on it. Well, since I was on my way to buy a pheasant anyway, and since no one was looking, I considered it a Thanksgiving gift from Mother Nature, threw it in the back seat, and headed for home.

The pheasant was easy to pluck and dress in my tiny scullery, fit just right roasting in my apartment-sized stove, and as delicious as it was as part of my Thanksgiving dinner, tasted even better for being poached illegally. I felt a little like Robin Hood, except that I wasn’t stealing from the rich, but I was feeding the poor -- me.

Happiness

Happiness is as a butterfly which, when pursued is always beyond our grasp, but which if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you. -- Nathaniel Hawthorne

End of Summer

There is nothing like the fall garden to confirm the end of summer, unless it's the hammock that is no longer being used.

However, in the dark recesses of the spice cabinet there is hope that spring will come again soon.

Power Pole

Does anyone know who dumped this pole in my front yard six weeks ago? The power company? Ok, does anyone know why? If you do, please contact me at BR-549.

Air Show

I was stationed at RAF Alconbury, England, in the early 1980’s flying the U-2 reconnaissance aircraft. Our usual mission was to patrol the borders of East and West Germany and Czechoslovakia to keep an eye on the Warsaw Pact countries. The nine-hour missions flying above 70,000’ could be tedious and boring except that we had the best seat in the world for viewing the incredibly beautiful countryside below.

One summer we were tasked to take a U-2 to Ramstein AB to participate in the airshow at Frankfurt, Germany. Since it was weekend duty it was voluntary (in the military it is “I need volunteers -- you, you, and you!), and when I signed up I was selected to fly the airplane over.

Any time we flew at altitudes above 45,000 feet we had to wear a pressure suit. That was complicated, as it took a whole team of physiological support personnel to care for the suit, dress the pilot, transport the equipment, etc. So it was decided that we’d fly at a low altitude. What I flight! The course took me from England, over the English channel, and across the Netherlands, Belgium, France, and into Germany. I normally flew this route at a much higher altitude, but this time I had a scenic tour of the European countryside, all the picturesque farms and villages, each town with its cathedral and market square. The best part of the flight was descending through the Alsatiatian wine country, across the Rhine, and on to a landing at the airport.

While all the maintenance airmen were off during the airshow, it was the duty of the pilots to stand in front of the airplane and answer questions from the crowd. The airplane was still highly classified, and the area was roped off into a security zone with armed guards, which only added to its mystique. The spectators were very knowledgeable about the U-2 and asked some penetrating questions, not all of which could be answered. When I told one guy that it was OK to take a picture of the airplane, he said, “Yeah, I know, it is painted with that special paint and the picture won’t come out,” and walked off. It was fun being a celebrity of sorts, especially when the people asking for our autographs were pretty young frauleins.

The thing I remember most about that day was buying a beer. I took a break from airplane-sitting duty to get a beer and get out of the hot sun. At the beer tent I saw a buxom blond serving wench in a dirndl, who immediately caught my eye. I ordered a liter of doppelbach, and when she handed it over I saw a big patch of blond hair growing from her armpit. I almost dropped the beer. After the shock I decided that it was kind of sexy, but it sure got my attention!

The airshow was Saturday and Sunday, with all kinds of flying demonstrations and wonderful static displays of every imaginable kind of airplane. It was heaven for any aviation enthusiast, and especially for a participating pilot. We were treated like royalty, much different than our lives back home as “pompous pressure-breathing prima donnas.”

For some reason we were scheduled to return home on Tuesday, rather than Monday. That was a real bonus for me, as my sister was at the base, married to an Air Force Captain stationed there. They both got Monday off, and treated me to a tour of that section of Germany. It was a short drive down into the Mosel Valley to the village of Bernkastel. Bern is German for bear, so everywhere in the village were statues and murals of bears. Very quaint and very beautiful.

Since this was special duty we were on a travel allowance of sorts, $10 a day, I believe, to cover our extra expenses. The high point of the airshow weekend for me was sitting in a biergarten overlooking the Mosel river with my sister and her husband, enjoying a glass of Reisling, thinking, “The Air Force is paying me extra to do this!”

Ageing

You're only young once, but it makes you tired for the rest of your life -- Frank & Ernest

Horoscope

PISCES (Feb 19 - Mar 20): The music of the spheres is a grand orchestra, but the melody is a simple one, heard in the smallest details of nature -- a leaf, the buzz of a bee, the lapping tide. Likewise, you communicate to the world in big and small ways.

A Letter to My Grandson

10 Dec 2001

Hi David,

I was rummaging through the basement and found this picture. Because of all the bombing in Afghanistan I have been thinking a lot about my time flying the B-52. The picture also takes me back to those times, especially since I flew this time of year on Linebacker II missions. The photo was taken of my crew on 27 December 1972 after we landed from a sortie over North Vietnam.

We were flying bombing missions every other day to targets in North and South Vietnam, and occasionally Laos and Cambodia. They were not particularly dangerous, but quite a contrast from the forward air controller missions I had been flying in the south less than a year earlier in an O-2. I went from one of the smallest airplanes in the inventory to the biggest. We flew from Guam in three-ship cells on a flight that normally lasted about 12 hours with one refuelling. Ironically all B-52's flying into Vietnam came inbound to a common point located over the province where I had flown for a year as a FAC. From 41,000 feet I could put my thumb on the windscreen and cover the place I knew like the back of my hand.

In December the Paris peace process stalled and someone decided we should quit piddling around hitting targets of no consequence and bomb the North Vietnamese to the conference table. The result was Operation Linebacker II, which started on the 18th. We started bombing Hanoi and Haiphong in earnest. Our crew flew on the 19th, and the campaign was going very well. However, the mission planners weren't changing the flight plans. As the bombers came in on the same headings at the same times losses started to mount. We had nineteen crews from Blytheville, and lost three in the first few days. It got so bad that the last few sorties were recalled on the way to their targets.

We had a stand down for Christmas. Late that day we received a message to report early the next day for a high protein breakfast. Of course, we knew that meant we were flying. Sure enough we got to our mission briefing on the 26th to find that we were bombing Haiphong. First we got general absolution from the Catholic chaplain, so if we died we'd go straight to heaven. That'll get your attention!

This time things would be different. We were flying with 80 other B-52's from Guam. But instead of flying in formations of three, all 81 airplanes would be in one formation. Not only that, but there were five other waves of B-52's from other bases, and all waves would be bombing at the same time. No longer would we be marching over the targets in single file like a row of sitting ducks. After the briefing the three-star general in charge read us a good-luck message. He was shaking so hard he could hardly read it, and he wasn't even going! Not very inspiring. We were probably too nervous to hear it anyway.

I was a copilot with a senior aircraft commander, so we were the wave lead for all 81 aircraft. We did all the navigating and communications for the entire formation. The B-52's took off one minute apart from Guam, flew over the Philippines, refuelled, then went on to Laos, where for two hours we flew around a big "compression box" so all the aircraft could join up in a tight formation. Then it was up through Laos, across North Vietnam, then south along the coast to Haiphong, our target.

As we approached the target we could see the opposite wave of B-52's on radar coming the other way. The SAM's started coming up, but most of them were shot at the airplanes behind us, as the ground crews would sight in on the lead aircraft and shoot at those following. I counted about 60 SAM's coming up before we dropped our bombs and turned out to sea. Most of the SA-2's would pass through our altitude and arc over as their motors burned out, then explode in a big orange doughnut. It would be a pretty sight if they weren't so deadly. The number three aircraft, two behind us, was turning off target when a SAM went off under him, The pilot had to continue his roll all the way around until the airplane was upright again. I think he was the only pilot to ever roll a B-52.

I don't remember how many B-52's we lost that night, but the wave formations and simultaneous target times worked so well that a few days later the North Vietnamese called a cease fire, and soon after that the war was over. For most of us the primary motivation for flying these missions was to get our prisoners of war back. It worked, but in the process some of our guys became POW's. Strangely, out of the three crews and nineteen crewmembers shot down from Blytheville AFB, we got one guy back from each crew. They all saw fellow crewmates alive on the ground, who were never accounted for.

The missions were scary, in part because they were dangerous, but mostly because you had eight hours on the way to the target to think about dying. Because I had already had a tour in-country, I wasn't as nervous as the rest of my crew who had only been in B-52's. One thing though, there is nothing like facing death to make you feel alive. It was a nice ride home, watching the meteors, then the sun come up, then landing on a South Pacific island and knowing you can spend a couple of days on the beach.

We were the first airplane to land, with the shortest flying time, 14 hrs 10 min after takeoff, and had this picture taken. I did a lot of exciting things in my Air Force career, but this was probably the most intense.

Cheers,

Your Grandfather,

{signed}

Life as a Spectator Sport

This is the same mindset that brought us professional bass fishing.

The Two Princesses

The Princess at leisure.

The other Princess, also at leisure. We got her from Jordan's mother when she was born to a stray in their neighborhood. She walks with me to the highway each morning to fetch the newspaper, then on the way back flops on her back in the driveway to get her morning belly rub. Shamless hussy!