KUCH' MAL!

This is a picture of my Granddaughter, Katie and my Great Grandson, Ronan.

I cannot look at this picture without smiling! 

How about you?

 

 ROOT BEER

Whenever I drove through the Amish area around Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I would stop at stands on the side of the road to sample delicious home-made root beer.  

I have always wanted to try to duplicate that great taste, but I got caught up with wine and regular beer making and forgot about it... until a week ago.

I found some root beer extract in a closet and decided that it was time to experiment.  The recipe called for over four gallons of water and I don't own any container that big.  (If I did, I might be tempted to steam a dozen crabs.) 

I adjusted the recipe so that I only could use one gallon of water and lowered the sugar intake. I also decided to add some class to the concoction by using wine yeast instead of the usual kitchen stuff.

The resulting "stew" filled my only eight empty beer bottles. I capped them by hand... not good to do.  They were starting to overflow and squeeze fluid out of the tops.

Luckily, during a basement inventory walk. I found my old bottle capper.  Now I needed to get some caps to cap.  Helper Kathy remembered seeing a box of them in the garage. Now I could do the capping job properly.

If the bottles don't explode, next Thursday I will put the bottles into the refrigerator to get them nice and cold and ready to sample.

If this all turns out successfully and the root beer tastes good, I will let you know. Otherwise, you won't hear from me.

When my ancestors moved across the bay from Provincetown to Plymouth to get better water for their "keg beer," the friendly Indians showed them how they made tasty brews from herbs and bark.   

Pharmacist Elmer Hires remembered that in 1875 when he concocted a tasty drink for the Columbian Exposition in 1876. It was made mostly from the bark of the sassafras tree and was misnamed Root Beer.

True root beer is caffeine free, naturally carbonated, very sweet, and non-alcoholic (2%). It was a big hit during Prohibition when some folks would add alcohol to it.  My Grandfather drank embalming fluid during that time. I wonder if he added it to root beer first.

By the way, if my yeast doesn't work completely, I will add a raisin to each bottle, to wake it up as I had to do with one batch of beer that I made many years ago. Unfortunately, the beer was in weak green bottles that exploded. (A story for another time.)

One of our neighbors had a dog named "Root Beer," I have always wondered why. Any ideas?

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Go, and enjoy some home-made soda.

 

 PORTUGUESE FOOD

As I constantly mention, I was brought up in New Bedford, Massachusetts, an historic city with both Mayflower descendants and folks with Portuguese blood whose ancestors came to the area through legal immigration means, or via whaleships that stopped the islands of Madeira or at Cabo Verde for provisions.  Many persons residing in these areas were known to be excellent seamen and were recruited by whaling captains as apprentice whalemen.

When the whaleships arrived back in New Bedford to unload their "catch," many of the crew "jumped ship" and began a new life in America. 

These new citizens and others who came there legally, missed the food of their original homelands, so they began to try to duplicate it in America... well, at least in the southern New England area.

In my opinion, they succeeded very well, and I think that I could survive very happily on a diet that contained delicacies such as:

Portuguese Hard Roll

For breakfast tomorrow, throw away that bagel and try a delicious "Papo Seco" with butter! It also makes a sandwich taste better than a "sandwich!"

Kale Soup

To some folks kale soup is probably thought of as the "National Soup of Portugal.  It is easily made with kale, linguica, potatoes and certain spices "known only to the Emperor."

My first Elaine made tasty kale soup and one day served some to my eight-year-old daughter, Beth. She gobbled it down and Elaine asked her if she liked the soup.

Beth said she liked it, "except for that green stuff."

Linguica

This is pork sausage like no sausage you have ever tasted.  It is doused with lots of garlic and paprika, and then is smoke-cured. If you can eat it without smoke coming out of your ears, then you must have Portuguese blood coursing through your veins.

I have had a large package of linguica in my freezer, but I haven't had courage enough to tackle it since I stopped popping Alka Seltzer pills.

Malasada

This is fried dough like a flattened doughnut, and sweetened with lemon, sugar and cinnamon.  I'm sure that in my many years in New Bedford I have tasted this delicacy, I just don't remember.

My "sweet" sister-in-law Janine mentioned on Facebook that she has found a great Portuguese deli on Nash Road, where the best malasadas in the world are given birth. She is an expert when it comes to Portuguese food.

Portuguese Wine

"Have a Madiera, my dear." A delicious wine that tingles my toes and makes me lose all inhibitions if I drink more than a couple of glasses.

Every August, descendants of Madiera residents from all over the United States congregate for four days in the North End of New Bedford to celebrate "The Feast of the Blessed Sacrament ("Festa do Santissimo Sacramento."  

To celebrate, folks march in processions, drink a lot of wine, eat a lot of linguica and dance all night.  There usually are not many brawls and everybody has a great time.

We lived in a former whaling captain's house on County Street.  Ten feet away from the side of our house was an enormous mansion contained within an encircling twelve-foot-high wooden fence. One of our side windows looked into what I learned was a nuns' convent.

The nuns didn't mind a ten-year-old boy watching them.  In fact, a couple of them waved at me once.

While the Madiera Feast was going on, the nuns would take beautiful flower petals and make an elegant walkway around their yard.  Some of the petals depicted scenes from the Bible, that even heathen children like me could understand.

A short time after the petal depiction, and before a windy day was predicted, the nuns would don ceremonial habits and carry a statue of Christ (with a beard) over the petal-filled walkway and parade round and round singing hymns. A very moving experience for a young boy.

After a while, the procession was over and an elderly nun would sweep all the petals away with a large broom.  This always made me very sad that something so beautiful could be quickly made to disappear..

But, such is life.

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Go, and enjoy a feast!

 LA DOLCE VITA !

WARNING! This might be "too much information."  

One dictionary definition for the phrase "La Dolce Vita" is "a life of indolence and self-indulgence (a sweet life)," but I have always had my own definition: "living a GOOD life to the fullest, while still having fun," sort of like Alan Alda's doctor role in "Mash."

I temporarily lost my "fun gene" and most of my "interests" while I was in the Hospice program. Although the nice Hospice personnel listening to my stories kept me kind of happy, I did feel as though a part of me was not working the way it used to work.

When I graduated from Hospice, it was as though I had been born again. My "fun gene" came out of hiding and all of my "interests" resumed.

The other day, I read where a person of my age, if relatively healthy, can look forward to five more years of life.  Bring it on!

It disturbs me when people say they are bored, with nothing to do. I would like to give them a checklist of my activity, and maybe it might give them some ideas to think about.

I live with someone I love.

A competent helper, Kathy takes care of our needs.

I pet our cat to lower my blood pressure.

I prepare Elaine's lunch.

I help with supper for Elaine. We eat together.

After supper we watch movies, mostly romantic comedies.

I try to write one "PREPOP SEZ" blog entry each day.

I listen to Podcasts I like, such as "The Rachel Maddow Show," and "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me!"

I work a puzzle each day, either a regular crossword, a cryptic crossword, or an acrostic.

I listen to "Great Courses." Two that I am following right now are:

"Forensic History, Crimes, Fraud and Scandals" taught by Elizabeth A. Murray   

"Life and Operas of Verdi" taught by an amazing "Mozart-lover" Robert Greenburg

I have a bunch of books that I am in the middle of, either as books to hold or that reside on my Kindle:

"A Choice of Days" by Baltimore's own H. L. Mencken. Curmudgeon? Bigot? Yes, but a great writer and book critic.

"American Sideshow" by Marc Hartzman.  About so-called "freaks" that were also good persons, such as "The Alligator Man" and "The Monkey Lady" who married, and the Siamese twins, Chang and Eng, who founded a dynasty in Mount Airy, North Carolina.  I've written about these folks in earlier blog entries.

"The Big Cheat" by David Cay Johnston. An expose about the efforts of an American politician to increase his wealth illegally,

"The Hidden History of Coined Words" by Ralph Keyes

"Prune" by Chef Gabriella Hamilton.  I've written about this book in a blog entry.

"The Canterbury Tales" by Chaucer, in a new translation which is poetically pure and doesn't require a PhD to read and enjoy.

"Rabbit, Run" by John Updike.  I've been plodding through this book for months. It's my Brother Joe's favorite, but not yet mine.

"Ahab's Wife" by Sena Jeter Naslund.  

I told you, TMI. But I hope that there is something in this that acts as a trigger, to get depressed people up off their dead asses and begin to live. Something... anything!

TO SEE:

Meanwhile, if I had nothing else to do, I would open my eyes wide and see:

The beautiful blue sky

The green-leaved trees filled with bird nests

The pretty flowers that bloom from seeds provided by my lovely daughter, Diane

My Garden Buddha smiling at me in an all-knowing grin

 The handsome faces of my five great-grandsons.

TO HEAR:

And I would listen to:

The sound of the Atlantic Ocean waves breaking on the shore.

The sound of the birds singing to me.

The classical, ballet, operatic and Pop music that Alexa plays for me whenever I want it.

The sound of nuns singing Christmas hymns.

TO SMELL:

And I would take the time to experience the wonderful smells of our existence.

     Steamed crabs with Old Bay seasoning

     Fish and Chips wrapped up in the New York Times.

     "Mesmerize" perfume.

      A talcum-powdered little baby.

There are so many amazing things to experience in this life!

Robert Louis Stevenson said it better:  "The world is so full of a number of things, I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

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Go, and get busy!

 BETTER ANGELS

I'm not a very religious person, but I believe that we are besieged by both angelic and evil persons, fighting each other for the hearts of mankind. (Better Angels vs. Worse Angels.)

Sometimes it seems to me that the evil guys are winning (just look at our current politicians).  But then I see, hear, or meet angelic persons.  These are people who exhibit their "Better Angels" for all to see. 

Shakespeare started the phrase "Better Angels." Check out this quote from around 1600:

Sonnet 144 

"The better angel is a man right fair,

The worser spirit a woman colored ill."

(whatever that means)  

The phrase was expanded a bit to "Our Better Angels" by Dickens in 1841 for his novel "Barnaby Ridge," which I haven't read, but clarifies things for me.

"So do the shadows of our own desires stand between us and our better angels, and thus their brightness is eclipsed."

Abraham Lincoln used the shorter phrase in the close of his 1861 Inaugural Address.

"The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave, to every heart and hearth-stone, all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union, when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature."

In 1946, Jimmie Stewart starred in the movie: It's a Wonderful Life and in 2014, Rob Morrow played in a film adaptation of Debbie Macomber's story, Mr. Miracle.

Both movies showed how trainee angels come to Earth to show humans how to cope with their problems.

I found one such angel in the human body of the Reverend Stanley Janaites. Although a Catholic priest, Stan did not mind breaking all parish rules. He even had a "lady friend."  Everyone considered him a "mensch" of the highest level.

Father Janaites ministered to the patients and staff of an 'asylum' in Sykesville, Maryland for many years and everyone loved him.

He could write and recite poetry, tell jokes, act as Santa at Christmas time, and commiserate in the time of grief. He enjoyed helping people learn how to live a meaningful life.

Unfortunately, he died at the age of 69.  All who heard about his passing were devastated.  Poems were written about him and newspaper obituaries about him appeared around the State of Maryland.  

A high-level superior wrote a paean to Stanley, comparing him to a Saint, even though he had tweaked the noses of his "handlers."

But nobody could "handle" Father Janaites.  He just continued his daily activity of loving and helping his neighbors, regardless of the rules.

I only knew Stanley for three years, but within that time I observed his overwhelming love for everybody.  It almost made me become religious.

I figure that Stanley was one of those trainee angels working on getting their wings.  I think he succeeded.

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Go, and be good to your neighbor!

 A WHALE OF A PLACE

As I have mentioned thousands of times, I grew up in an amazing place... New Bedford, Massachusetts, the former richest city in the world because of the whaling industry.

Whale oil lit the homes of the rich folks as well as the palaces of the so-called nobility. However, when oil was discovered underground and extracted rather easily, whaling died, and New Bedford had to spend more energy on its textile industry.

Some residents felt a need to remind the world about the brave men who attacked one hundred-long sea creatures with five-foot-long harpoons while trying to keep their balance in flimsy wooden vessels, while they were buffeted by giant waves. 

(Thinking about this, I can feel my blood quicken!)

If you haven't yet, check out Melville's classic, Moby Dick.

 

Wonder Books in Frederick, Maryland publicized Moby Dick on its souvenir shirts as shown above.

The residents established the world-famous New Bedford Whaling Museum, a "must see" that should be on everyone's "bucket list."

In a short period of time, the city began to love those big blubbery creatures and start to advertise whale watches and such.

Almost all Nations agreed to stop trying to catch whales.  Using high powered boats and weapons, some Nations like Japan continued the chase, hypocritically saying that whale meat was a necessary food for their populace.

Some Nations were slow in stopping the chase, including the U.S.A.  When we visited our favorite restaurant in Baltimore (Haussner's) during the 1960's you could get a whale steak (hvalstueck) for a relatively low price.  Shame on those so-called gourmands who ordered it from the menu, and shame on Haussner's for making it available.

Those of us who claim New Bedford as our ancestral home, love the whales, especially the sperm whales that lend themselves so nicely to paintings and cartoons.

Also, us New Bedford lovers like to get themed gifts, such as:

My beautiful sister, Donna, sent me this nice belt buckle.

My favorite cousins, Allen and Diana sent me this warm sweatshirt to remind me of the great Portuguese people who live in "New Beige."

This is a wind operated humpback whale, given to me by my lovely daughter-in-law, Kathleen.

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Go, and love a whale!

 

  

  

 

MEET  SU-ZEE

Recently, some folks have asked questions about our beautiful seal point Siamese cat named Su-Zee.

About twelve years ago, Elaine's Siamese named Buf-fee passed away while in Elaine's arms, on the way to the vets. As the cat was being held by Elaine, it reached its paw up, patted Elaine's cheek lovingly and died. Elaine was devastated.

A while later, as we were deciding if we could afford a very expensive Siamese replacement (up to $2,000), we saw an ad in the local newspaper:  

"FREE ,,  Siamese Kitten."

We immediately called the telephone number on the ad.  We were the first to call, so the kitten was ours.. sight unseen.

Why would anyone want to give away a very valuable animal?

They gave us the cat's background and why they wanted to get rid of it.

The kitten was found near its dead mother and its siblings.  Apparently, a "varmint" had attacked the Siamese family.  This kitten was not old enough yet to have gotten food, loving, and good manners  from its mother.

The finder had two dogs and this little creature was terrorizing them so that she could eat their food.  The finder wanted to get rid of this trouble-maker.  Hence, the newspaper ad.

When we got her home, Elaine named her Su-Zee, and gave the little thing enough baths to get rid of a universe of fleas.

 

After 1,876,453 fleas bit the dust, we discovered a white bundle of fluff, which didn't look at all Siamese, except for the ears.

As the week's progressed, little Su-Zee became cuter and cuter.

And then... she began to get stripes! We thought that she might not be Siamese, but we loved her anyway.

Then, after a few months, the stripes disappeared and she suddenly began to look like a perfect seal point Siamese cat!

I've read that Siamese cats may have been bred to alert the King of Siam when someone was trying to steal the royal jewels. Maybe. At some time every night, she places herself near Elaine's door to keep her safe. 

She is a nice kitty cat and a great addition to our family.

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 ATTACK OF THE FUZZY BUNNIES

This was published in Creative Expressions for 2018.  I'm astounded that I hadn't mentioned it in one of my blog entries, because I love the story... and it is true.

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Being a government computer programmer is a very stressful job. As a manager of government computer programmers I had to constantly think of ways to keep them from being bored or depressed.  One way I did that was to play tricks on them.  Some of these tricks worked; some did not.  Here is one that worked.

At a Carroll County auction, I purchased a large cardboard container of stuffed fuzzy bunnies.  These were rejects from a company that made novelty coin banks. Each bunny was four inches high and had a nice brown fur coat. I counted 200 of them in the box, but there were many more. I paid the grand total of one dollar for the bunch.

I decided to use the bunnies to fool my programmers. My plan was to make bunnies mysteriously appear in their lunch area on a regular basis.

Here is how it worked.  I arrived early, long before anyone else,, carrying my "bunny bag." I deposited bunnies on the luncheon table in this order:

Week One: Monday - one bunny

                   Tuesday - two bunnies

                   Wednesday - three bunnies

                   Thursday - four bunnies

                   Friday - five bunnies

Week Two:   Monday - six bunnies

                     Tuesday - seven bunnies

                     Wednesday - eight bunnies

                     Thursday - nine bunnies

                     Friday - ten bunnies

At the end of two weeks, the luncheon table had accumulated 120 fuzzy bunnies and my programmers had been busy making charts and selling lottery tickets as they tried to determine when and how many more bunnies would make an appearance.

I decided to take a week off and think about how to continue.  As I contemplated the pile of brown creatures overflowing the table, I decided to count them. I counted only 110. Ten were missing!  The next day I counted again.  Nine more were missing! And so it continued until all were gone in the order in which they appeared.

Over the years I never found anyone who figured out where the bunny attack came from, and I never found out who went along with the gag and counteracted the attack.

........................................................................

However, on sober reflection, I'm convinced that my fellow jokester was my ace programmer, Lloyd Hess. I think that Lloyd enjoyed the action as much as I did.

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Go, and be a friend to a fuzzy bunny. 

 

 MY GREATEST CHRISTMAS GIFT

I've written before about the one and only Christmas gift I ever received from my putative father.

When I was either 9, 10, or 11 years old I received a nicely wrapped box containing Mr. Stick, a 2-foot-long stick painted with vibrant colors.

I thought then and for many years that that S.O.B. had given me a cheap-skate's gift, probably at the instigation of the local child-welfare office.

What could an obviously "mature" young man do with such an item? I used it to rattle along iron fences, making people yell at me, and I used it to dig holes for games we kids played.

But, was that all that Mr. Stick was good for?

Recently I began to remember what else I used it for:

Between my legs, it became Don Quixote's beloved horse, Rocinante, and I rode her around the neighborhood, attacking large and menacing oak trees.

Under my arm pits, it became a secret document that I was saving from Hitler's Gestapo.

In my hands:

I used it in sword fights,

I used it to swat at the new villain, Lex Luthor, that appeared in my 1940's Action Comics.

I used it as a spear in the lush Caribbean, where I saved beautiful women from cannibals. 

Now, in my late years, I recognize what a great gift Mr. Stick was, because it fed my weird imagination which has stayed with me all my life and was passed on to my beautiful and creative progeny.

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Go, and enjoy your gifts.

 CHINNY CHIN CHIN

HAIRCUT TIME

I don't get around much during this pandemic, and I get my hair cut and beard trimmed by a very pleasant beautician here in my retirement community, rather than at some strip mall.

However, because of  Delta and Omicron, new restrictions have become necessary and I may not be able to get a haircut here anytime soon. That's OK.  I've been fully vaccinated, but I wouldn't want to spread the virus if it's trigger is hidden in my body, just waiting to burst forth, and I don't want to have the virus invade my body (however mild) from an unknown carrier.

I probably have not expressed myself well about my pandemic fear, but you know what I mean.

PIGGIES

A mean old wolf sees three pigs, each in a new house that they have built. One with straw, one with sticks, and one with bricks. He confronts each pig with: 

"Little pig, little pig, let me come in." and each pig replies:

"Not by the hairs on my chinny chin chin."

The wolf gets angry and says:

"Then I'll huff and I'll puff, and I'll blow your house in,"

Which the wolf does for the pig in straw and pig in sticks... and he made his supper of poor little piggies.

(I can remember my mother telling me this story when I was four years old, and this part scared me and gave me nightmares for some time.)

The wolf did not have success with the brick-house pig and got so frustrated that he climbed down the chimney to get to the pig that way.  However, the wolf didn't know about the boiling pot of water waiting for him at the chimney bottom.

The brick-house piggie had delicious wolf stew for his supper that night.

You know the moral.

(I will be living with my chinny chin chin until Covid is conquered.") 

HAIR

"When the moon is in the Seventh House

And Jupitor aligns with Mars,

Then peace will guide the planet

And love will steer the stars..."

The Age of Aquarius by Galt MacDermot.

The "American Tribal Love-rock Musical" was written by Gerome Ragni and James Rado, with music by Mr. MacDermot.  In my view, it was a "hippie" celebration of anti-war activity, with partially clothed or nude chorus-boys and girls prancing about the stage, having a great time.  I liked it.

(I will be looking like a long-haired "hippie" until Covid is conquered.)

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Go, and braid that hair.

A LITTLE CARTOON QUIZ

From the time I was seven years old, and for lots of  years later, I spent a lot of time with a pencil in my hand, copying cartoons, especially those in comic books and Sunday Funnies.

I can remember the origin cartoon strip for each of  my  individual drawings, except for these seven. I'm hoping that someone could help me on this.

01. A loveable little monk (friar) who appears to be contemplating the idiocy of the world.

 

02. A sweating/sobbing? Viking. Probably missed out on a plundering raid. 

03. Probably the Viking chief who wonders why that little Viking is so sad.

04.  I loved this character from some strip about flying, I think.  That chicken must be chock full of buttons by now.

 

05.  I haven't got a clue on this one.

 

06.  I think this is a refugee from the East End of London,

07.  Once again, no clue.

Please help me on this. Thank you!

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Go, and enjoy the funnies.

 CANNED SARDINES AND STONE SOUP

There is a sad lacking in my life's experiences.. I had never heard about "stone soup!"

Recently, The New York Times printed an interesting article about the "stone soup" story and its many variants.

The author of the article, Gabrielle Hamilton, is a chef, author, TV personality and founder/owner of the famous Prune Restaurant in New York City.

Some versions of the story concern a pot of soup that really is just a pot of hot water, persons who are denied access to the water, and who good-naturedly  donate a polished stone to the pot, after which, community members each contribute something to the pot, resulting in delicious soup. 

I guess one moral of the story is that everyone benefits if everyone contributes to the whole.

Chef Hamilton relates the story to her experience in founding a restaurant that is so good that people wait in long lines to enjoy the tasty food.  I believe the restaurant is temporarily closed. (I could be wrong about that.)

As an author, Hamilton wrote "Blood, Bones and Butter" (The inadvertent education of a restaurant chef) is a book written by a woman for women, detailing how they can be successful creators, as she has been.

(As I said, I could be wrong about some of this, but I am a man, after all.)

Remember what Mae West said to Cary Grant when he said: "My goodness!"  She said: "Goodness, my dear, has nothing to do with it."

But, I digress.  To get back on track... Chef Harrison has also authored "PRUNE, a Cookbook" that lists some of the restaurant's famous recipes, such as:

Canned sardines with Triscuits, Dijon mustard, and cornichons (crisp and crunchy cucumber pickles).

Radishes with sweet butter and Kosher salt.

Marinated white anchovies with shaved celery and almonds.

YUMMY!

I suggest that you do as I have done and will do soon.

I downloaded Prune to my Kindle, and

I plan to try some of these recipes. 

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Go, and cook some more.

 TOP OF THE MORNING TO YA!

FIRST - I NEED TO RANT

(Elaine did not feel well this morning and went to  the local hospital for observation. Because of the 58 covid patients lined up, waiting for a room or a bed to become available, the ER Doctor had to examine her and run tests on a gurney in a hallway close to a swinging door that poured an icy cold wind on her for ten hours.

Why am I telling you this?  Well, it's because I was told that almost all of these 58 covid patients had not been vaccinated. Elaine was, of course, fully vaccinated. It is a complete mystery to me that some people would take a chance on dying, rather than take an unintrusive injection which might save their lives. What the hell is wrong with such people?!

Enough of that.)

Meanwhile. let me write about a pleasant subject: TOP HATS.

Top Hats

Cylinder Hats

Toppers

Collapsible Opera Hats

Stove Pipe Hats

No matter what the hat is called, it is a stiff, high covering for the heads of "important" people, such as ambassadors, diplomats, politicians and "grifters."  The hat was popular from the 1830's to the 1930's, and is still available for "Grand Functions."  ($177.00 at Amazon)

President Abraham Lincoln wore his top hat almost continually and even used it as a filing cabinet.

With the hat on top of Lincoln's 6'4" height, he was almost 7 feet tall, an extreme height for anyone in the 1860's, when the average men's height was 5'4". Check out his picture at Mead's encampment during the Civil War.

My Great Grandfather Vaughan had an undertaking business in New Bedford, Massachusetts during the first decade of the twentieth century. Part of his funereal uniform was a conservative top hat, as shown in this picture.

 

Famous dancer Fred Astaire starred in a 1935 movie with the title: Top Hat.  A bit of "fluff," that featured the wonderful song: "Isn't it a Lovely Day."

But the song that everybody was singing after seeing the movie, had lyrics like this:

"... I'm puttin' on my top hat

Brushin' up my shirt front

Puttin' in the shirt studs

Polishin' my nails ...

For I'll be there 

Puttin' down my top hat

Mussin' up my white tie

Dancin' in my tails..."

Don't you just want to start tap dancing like Fred when you hear this "toe-tappin'" music?  I know that I do.  I was the seven-year-old "Fred Astaire" at Al Sanger's dance studio.

(My top hat was a captain's cap.)

W. C. Fields always used a top hat as part of his costume.

Capitalists are often shown wearing a top hat.

Scarecrows are often the recipients of worn-out top hats.

Famous people have been shown in cartoons wearing top hats even though contemporary pictures do not show that.

Such was the case of Giulio Gatti-Casazza (1869-1940) who was the opera manager for LaScala (Milan) from 1898 to 1908, and opera manager for the Met (NY) from 1908 to 1935.

(He was so liked that Time magazine placed him on their cover for two issues (Nov. 1923 and Nov. 1926.) He took good care of Arturo Toscanini, Enrico Caruso, and Baltimore's own Rosa Ponselle.

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Go, and tip your top hat.

 BULGE

General George Patton fought to win at the Battle of the Bulge in the Schnee Eiffel, where I was stationed at a supposedly secret RADAR site.  After that battle, the landscape, which before the war was lush with forest, now was almost empty of greenery.

My buddies and I would go for walks along trails that survived the bombing and sometimes visited the insides of devastated bomb shelters, some of which were filled with water, possibly hiding skeletons.  We did find rusted machine guns here and there.

Nobody warned us that there were still active landmines near where we walked.  We learned that later.  yes, we were lucky.

My cousin Earl survived the battle and did not like to talk about it.

Two events occurred while I was stationed on the mountain that might be of interest:

01. THE UFO. 

One of my early jobs was to operate direction finding equipment to help pilots.  I was called "Barber Foxtrot," and I was able to communicate directly with those pilots.

One night, I heard a group of guys observing some kind of vehicle circling them.  They were scared and one pilot even began to recite The Rosary.

Another pilot called me directly and told me to look up because the UFO had left them and was now hovering directly over my station.

I hurried out of my van and looked up into the amazing star-filled sky only seen from on top of a mountain.  I was disappointed for I did not see that strange vehicle.  Shortly, everything became normal again and I never heard anything more.

02.  THE SPY

One frosty afternoon, an Army Major showed up at the base gate.  This was a secret RADAR installation, and nobody was allowed on the base without a bunch of official paperwork.  The Major produced paperwork and was waved in after signing his name on the VIP roster.

The Major then went off alone, visiting places on the base that were "off limits" to everyone except those whose rating was Colonel or higher.

When the day shift was over, the new "Gate Tender" casually checked the VIP roster and saw that the Army Major had signed it: I.M.A.SPY.

The whole base was put on high alert and everybody was tasked with playing "Where's Major!"

After a couple of hours, he was found hiding behind a gigantic snow drift, happily writing in his Army-issue notebook.  He had been officially checking out our base safeguards, which we had failed to adhere to.     

Here is residue from Hitler's glorious Third Reich.

It could happen here!

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Go, and spy no more.