Category Archives: Uncategorized

Last night Loi and I sat around the fireplace trying to figure out what we were going to do to celebrate Christmas. The kids with our encouragement are spending the holidays with their own families and building their own traditions. So, we’re back to celebrating alone, just like we did 42 Christmases ago. (Both our parents passed long ago so they won’t be joining us).

Since we’ve moved some 14 times in our marriage, remembering where we were and what we did for those 41 holidays is no easy task…. especially for me! You have to kick yourself for not writing this stuff down. Eventually we sorted it out and were reminded that on many of those Christmas mornings the pickings under the tree were pretty slim. If Santa stopped by our house, he didn’t leave much behind. On the other hand, I don’t recall any of those lean Christmases being unhappy times. We had each other and later three great kids. We laughed a lot and Loi always managed to pull it together no matter the circumstances. On one particularly difficult holiday season Loi managed to cook a full on turkey dinner with stuffing, potatoes, peas, cranberries… the works…. All on a two burner hot plate! We didn’t have a refrigerator at the time either, but a garage is cold in Minnesota in winter. Medals should be awarded for this kind of effort.

Loi and I met during the Christmas holidays on December 27th, 1958 (49 years ago for those slow in math) in the basement of St. Peter and Paul’s Church in Hamburg, NY. The village of Hamburg was the home the Hamburg High School Bulldogs, the archrival of my own Frontier High Falcons. Generally speaking, it was unwise to attend dances in rival territory. However, the Township, which encompassed both schools, had a public beach on Lake Erie and the lifeguards for the beach were selected equally from the swim teams of both schools. Inevitably interschool friendships developed. Generally I attended Hamburg dances in the company of my HHS friend and fellow lifeguard, Bob, who at 6’4” pretty much eliminated any problems for me.

On the fateful night Bob and I walked into the freezing basement of the church and surveyed the talent. I immediately noticed a pretty, dark haired lass standing in a group of girls at the far end of the hall. She was the only person in the place with the good sense to be wearing a pair of woolen mittens. I said to Bob, “I’ve got to dance with that girl!” I did and the rest, as they say, is history.

That dark haired lass has gotten prettier over the years while I…. well, never mind. We’ll be spending a quiet Christmas together as we had 41 years previous. Not entirely alone though. We will have in our hearts our family and friends. We have been truly blessed and we wish the blessings of the Season on one and all.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

I just finished reading a book called “The Battle of the Somme” by Gilbert. I confess I have not been a great student of WWI, although I have read several novels about the war in the last year or two.

It is very difficult to get your mind to comprehend the magnitude of the destruction and loss of life that occurred in that war.

In the battle of Verdun which took place just down the road from the Somme, some 650,000 French and German troops were killed in five months. When this total is added to the battle of the Somme, 960,459 Allied and German soldiers were killed. Or,6,600 men each day for the five month period. When you think that in Iraq less than 4,000 American and British soldiers have been killed in five years, you get some perspective.

It is also interesting to note that 22 years after the end of WWI German troops once again swept across the same battle fields and cemeteries in yet another war. World War I was the “war to end all wars.” Yeah, right. Don’t forget to count the 30 million or so Chinese that died.

On one hand you can sympathize with the anti-war people. It does not seem to accomplish much and it surely causes uncountable misery and suffering. On the other hand, there have always been despots determined to conquer the World and turn everyone into their slaves. Or, war like tribes that want to destroy civilization. (Like the Germanic tribes that destroyed the Roman Empire and gave us several hundred years of the Dark Ages). It seems to me that the radical Muslims are reminiscent of those warlike tribes. They would like to set us back to the 12th century but see no irony in utilizing modern technology to accomplish their task.

My concern is that students in modern societies are not being taught history. As Santayana said, “Those who do not learn from the past are compelled to repeat it.” Politicians blow with the wind. If the public does not recognize the threat and insist that the politicians act, we may well find ourselves in the midst of another great war. Exhibit A in this argument is Iran. While the the World’s politicians play with their balls, the fanatics that control Iran are busily building nuclear weapons. Does any serious person doubt that these nut bags will hesitate to use them? Then what?

Sorry. A book like the Somme makes you think dark thoughts. Was it Einstein who said the definition of madness “…is trying the same thing over and over and expecting a different result”?

I cannot imagine anyone who has gone to sea not having some storm experiences to talk about. These generally fall into the category of “Sea stories” which as a group may or may not be true. They also may or may not have anything to do with sea water.

In my time in the Navy I spent about 12 months at sea in an LSD (Landing Ship Dock). These 450’ ships act like mother ships to landing craft carried inside in their well decks. The stern can be flooded and with the tail gate down, allow landing craft to ferry men and equipment ashore during amphibious landings. During my days in the Navy these were the HQ ships for the SEALS attached to squadrons of five ships of an Amphibious Group on constant deployment throughout the world.

I made three North Atlantic crossings in one of these ships…. all in winter. Consequently, I saw some nasty storms during these crossings. One that is especially memorable kept us from having a sit down meal for three days. The waves were over 60’ high …. So high that the other ships in the squadron disappeared in the troughs of the adjacent waves. Needless-to-say, waves that big can be a bit unnerving although, I can honestly say, that I was never really concerned. Mostly, you just get tired. You’re hanging on constantly, even when you’re trying to sleep and you get beat up banging into things all the time.

The scariest experience I ever had was when I was working on the Brigantine Yankee in the Bahamas during my year leave of absence. ( I just consulted the journal I kept that year (1960-61) for verifying my memories.) We had ducked into Freeport harbor to escape a hurricane and waited it out for two days. Freeport was nothing at that time, except one of the only safe anchorages in the Bahamas with a very tiny entrance, and one bar, pool hall, dance hall, and general store… all in one. Despite the weather, we had to get the passengers back to Miami so we set out in the afternoon, pretty much running with the wind with only the staysails set.

We got to the Gulf Stream in the dark and it was impossible to see what we were facing when the following sea ran into the flow of the Gulf Stream, but we could tell by the violent reaction of the Yankee that it was awesome. There was a lot of green water coming over the bow and lee rail and spray everywhere as we crashed along. I always had the watch with the skipper, but this night we were together on deck all night. I was at the wheel two hours on and two off. When the big gusts came, because the sails were unbalanced fore and aft, the Yankee wanted to run up into the wind on the gusts. It took everything two guys could do to prevent us from broaching (running up into the winds and therefore getting crossways to the waves in the process) which would likely have rolled us over. During this struggle with the wheel, we were often standing in solid green water up to our knees as it surged across the deck. We were really too busy to be scared and besides it was dark so we couldn’t see the waves. As it got light… the sun never did quite come up that day… we could see the enormous waves marching up behind us. I was surprised that the Yankee would rise up each time and let them slide beneath her stern and then we would race down the slope with the wind stretching the sails and rigging to their limit. The canvas of the sails was all blown out of the bolt ropes so great was the stress.

We arrived in Miami wet, cold and with salt encrusted in our ears, hair and the corners of our eyes. The rigging, sails and crew were all a little beat up but happy when we sailed into the shelter of Government Cut and Miami harbor. So were the passengers, who had gotten a little more sea adventure than they bargained for, I bet.

Birthday Ducks

Hunting and fishing is not for pessimists. Only an optimist can sit hour after hour freezing in a deer stand seeing nothing or cast a fly endlessly with no results. We optimistically believe that in the next moment game will magically appear or that a heavy trout will rise to our fly. People who grow up watching televised basketball on wet, cold and windy days regard people like me who prefer to be out duck hunting on those nasty days as more than a little insane. Of course, we in the Brotherhood know full well that the ducks fly best when the weather is worst. But, even that knowledge often isn’t enough to motivate the most ardent out of a warm snug bed at 0 dark 30 on a miserable morning.

It took a lot of optimism to pry my arse out of my warm comfortable nest when the alarm went off at 5 am on a Sunday in early November. It was tempting to roll over for some more blissful sleep before a nice brunch and the early NFL game on TV. But, I could hear the wind in the trees outside the bedroom and the rain on the window sounded like the ticking of a spasmodic clock. It then occurred to me that this was my 65 birthday. What better present could I give myself than a day of duck hunting? With a “What the Hell” I threw off the covers and stumbled down to the coffee pot.

After a hasty breakfast I tossed my trusty Remington, a bag of decoys and the rest of my gear into the Durango and headed off to the Club. The traffic was non-existent on this wet morning and the wipers beat a steady rhythm with my headlights boring into the murk. As I drove I realized that our season thus far had been a bust…. the worst in anyone’s memory. The weather had been hot and dry with clear calm days. The golfers, bikers and beach goers of Vancouver were happy but the members of our Club were not smiling. The opener and the subsequent weeks had produced more mosquitoes than ducks and the only good news was that I had missed most of it. I was out of town. My first outing had been a sunny Wednesday (we shoot Sat., Sunday and Wednesdays) and it had been painfully slow. A lot of hours for a couple of birds. I was beginning to wonder if the bird flu scare might be real after all.

When I arrived at the Club I was surprised to find I was alone. No one else had showed up, a highly unusual circumstance this early in the season. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. No matter. I slid into four-wheel drive and slowly negotiated the deeply rutted road out to the West side of the large paddy. After dumping my gear in one of the blinds and ditching the truck out of sight, I waded into the paddy and started tossing out the decoys. A few mallards had noisily exited the paddy when I waded out. Not enough birds to generate great optimism but, something. Our Club has two large paddies, flooded oat fields surrounded by low dykes. The water varies from knee to gonad deep and the big one is about 350 yds long and 150 yds. wide. The other that we flood later in the year is slightly smaller. Permanent covered blinds are built into the dykes on the east and west sides. It is, without a doubt, a great set up.

The rain had subsided into a steady drizzle driven by a brisk North wind… definitely a lousy day for golf. The sky began to brighten a bit as I settled into the blind and organized my gear… load the 870, dump some shells into my pockets, hang my duck calls around my neck and pour a cup of coffee from my thermos. I zipped up my hunting jacket and sat back to await the dawn. I kept expecting to see the headlights of someone else bouncing their way out to join me, being grateful I’d already put out the decoys. But, nothing. Just the wet, windy predawn and me.

Out of nowhere two mallards plopped into the convenient hole I left between the two pods of decoys (just like it’s drawn up in the “how to” books). I ignored them. Too early. I took a sip of my coffee and a puff on the first cigar of the day. Looking up I spotted a flock of a half dozen ducks ghosting over the decoys and with wings whistling they accelerated out of sight. Getting a bit anxious now, I stared at my watch. Five more minutes. Finishing my coffee I groped for my duck call as another flock hove into view. I could see the far side of the paddy now and my watch said it was time. I gave a hail call and a couple of quacks, twisting around to figure out where they had gone. Suddenly they were right over the decoys with wings set. Surprised, I jumped up, fired too quickly and missed. My second shot collapsed a mallard in the decoys.

As I retrieved the duck I looked back at my blind. The large bush on the right side of the blind blocked my view from that side. The ducks were landing into the north wind but they were not circling and checking things out as they usually do, they were diving straight in. Well, if they kept that up I wouldn’t see them until they were over the decoys. So be it.

In the next half hour I put four more ducks in the bag, three of them mallards and one pintail. Ducks were pouring into the paddy with the wind under their tails. I’d be watching one flock and another would dive into the decoys. I didn’t have enough eyeballs to keep up with the action. I was still alone and wishing someone else had shown up. With only three birds to go to my limit, I decided to shoot only mallards. That resolution lasted only five minutes until three widgeons came in perfectly. Right down the chute they came three abreast with wings set in a picture pretty enough to be in a duck painting. I rose to take the easy triple and call it a day. Two came down cleanly and I missed the third…. Cleanly. It was like blowing a two-foot birdie putt. Oh well, five minutes later I made a nice shot on a passing mallard and my bag was full.

I unloaded the shotgun, poured myself another coffee and lit a fresh cigar. With the rain pattering on the plywood roof of the blind and the mountains shrouded in mist in the distance, I watched flock after flock of ducks wheeling and landing in the paddy. “Not a bad birthday” I mused. I thought of all the friends, some duck hunters, some not who were no longer with me in this life. I thought of the young ones who had left their blood on the soil of Southeast Asia and the others taken too soon by cancer.

I remembered all the dogs that had graced my hunting days. How they would have loved this wet morning. Zeke was the best of them. An English setter and highly intelligent with an exceptional nose, he was incredible on pheasants. Zeke went duck hunting with me often. He liked the action but didn’t much care for the taste of ducks. A pheasant or grouse he would bring to my hand, but a duck was a different matter. Oddly enough, he would swim out to retrieve a duck but when his feet were on shore he would drop the duck at the waters edge and refused to pick it up again. It was a compromise I could live with. It was easy to imagine him sitting next to me in the blind, wet and shivering with his keen eyes scanning the sky. He would have loved this day.

I laughed as a flock of teal buzzed the decoys like a squadron of F-4s and wheeled in perfect formation at the far end of the paddy. I shook like a spaniel to chase the ghosts of old friends and dogs away. I dug a dry rag out of my pack and carefully wiped the rain from my 870. I had purchased the gun in the Navy Exchange in Little Creek, VA in 1965 when I was assigned to an outfit now called SEAL Team Four. The gun was like me, old and worn with quite a few dings, but still functioning. I slipped the 870 into the case, dumped the dregs of the coffee and tossed the butt into the bushes. I stood and stretched the stiffness out of my bum knee. “Happy Birthday you old fart” I mumbled. “Quit bitching. You’re on the right side of the grass. Go pick up the decoys”.

Birthday Ducks

Hunting and fishing is not for pessimists. Only an optimist can sit hour after hour freezing in a deer stand seeing nothing or cast a fly endlessly with no results. We optimistically believe that in the next moment game will magically appear or that a heavy trout will rise to our fly. People who grow up watching televised basketball on wet, cold and windy days regard people like me who prefer to be out duck hunting on those nasty days as more than a little insane. Of course, we in the Brotherhood know full well that the ducks fly best when the weather is worst. But, even that knowledge often isn’t enough to motivate the most ardent out of a warm snug bed at 0 dark 30 on a miserable morning.

It took a lot of optimism to pry my arse out of my warm comfortable nest when the alarm went off at 5 am on a Sunday in early November. It was tempting to roll over for some more blissful sleep before a nice brunch and the early NFL game on TV. But, I could hear the wind in the trees outside the bedroom and the rain on the window sounded like the ticking of a spasmodic clock. It then occurred to me that this was my 65 birthday. What better present could I give myself than a day of duck hunting? With a “What the Hell” I threw off the covers and stumbled down to the coffee pot.

After a hasty breakfast I tossed my trusty Remington, a bag of decoys and the rest of my gear into the Durango and headed off to the Club. The traffic was non-existent on this wet morning and the wipers beat a steady rhythm with my headlights boring into the murk. As I drove I realized that our season thus far had been a bust…. the worst in anyone’s memory. The weather had been hot and dry with clear calm days. The golfers, bikers and beach goers of Vancouver were happy but the members of our Club were not smiling. The opener and the subsequent weeks had produced more mosquitoes than ducks and the only good news was that I had missed most of it. I was out of town. My first outing had been a sunny Wednesday (we shoot Sat., Sunday and Wednesdays) and it had been painfully slow. A lot of hours for a couple of birds. I was beginning to wonder if the bird flu scare might be real after all.

When I arrived at the Club I was surprised to find I was alone. No one else had showed up, a highly unusual circumstance this early in the season. Maybe they knew something I didn’t. No matter. I slid into four-wheel drive and slowly negotiated the deeply rutted road out to the West side of the large paddy. After dumping my gear in one of the blinds and ditching the truck out of sight, I waded into the paddy and started tossing out the decoys. A few mallards had noisily exited the paddy when I waded out. Not enough birds to generate great optimism but, something. Our Club has two large paddies, flooded oat fields surrounded by low dykes. The water varies from knee to gonad deep and the big one is about 350 yds long and 150 yds. wide. The other that we flood later in the year is slightly smaller. Permanent covered blinds are built into the dykes on the east and west sides. It is, without a doubt, a great set up.

The rain had subsided into a steady drizzle driven by a brisk North wind… definitely a lousy day for golf. The sky began to brighten a bit as I settled into the blind and organized my gear… load the 870, dump some shells into my pockets, hang my duck calls around my neck and pour a cup of coffee from my thermos. I zipped up my hunting jacket and sat back to await the dawn. I kept expecting to see the headlights of someone else bouncing their way out to join me, being grateful I’d already put out the decoys. But, nothing. Just the wet, windy predawn and me.

Out of nowhere two mallards plopped into the convenient hole I left between the two pods of decoys (just like it’s drawn up in the “how to” books). I ignored them. Too early. I took a sip of my coffee and a puff on the first cigar of the day. Looking up I spotted a flock of a half dozen ducks ghosting over the decoys and with wings whistling they accelerated out of sight. Getting a bit anxious now, I stared at my watch. Five more minutes. Finishing my coffee I groped for my duck call as another flock hove into view. I could see the far side of the paddy now and my watch said it was time. I gave a hail call and a couple of quacks, twisting around to figure out where they had gone. Suddenly they were right over the decoys with wings set. Surprised, I jumped up, fired too quickly and missed. My second shot collapsed a mallard in the decoys.

As I retrieved the duck I looked back at my blind. The large bush on the right side of the blind blocked my view from that side. The ducks were landing into the north wind but they were not circling and checking things out as they usually do, they were diving straight in. Well, if they kept that up I wouldn’t see them until they were over the decoys. So be it.

In the next half hour I put four more ducks in the bag, three of them mallards and one pintail. Ducks were pouring into the paddy with the wind under their tails. I’d be watching one flock and another would dive into the decoys. I didn’t have enough eyeballs to keep up with the action. I was still alone and wishing someone else had shown up. With only three birds to go to my limit, I decided to shoot only mallards. That resolution lasted only five minutes until three widgeons came in perfectly. Right down the chute they came three abreast with wings set in a picture pretty enough to be in a duck painting. I rose to take the easy triple and call it a day. Two came down cleanly and I missed the third…. Cleanly. It was like blowing a two-foot birdie putt. Oh well, five minutes later I made a nice shot on a passing mallard and my bag was full.

I unloaded the shotgun, poured myself another coffee and lit a fresh cigar. With the rain pattering on the plywood roof of the blind and the mountains shrouded in mist in the distance, I watched flock after flock of ducks wheeling and landing in the paddy. “Not a bad birthday” I mused. I thought of all the friends, some duck hunters, some not who were no longer with me in this life. I thought of the young ones who had left their blood on the soil of Southeast Asia and the others taken too soon by cancer.

I remembered all the dogs that had graced my hunting days. How they would have loved this wet morning. Zeke was the best of them. An English setter and highly intelligent with an exceptional nose, he was incredible on pheasants. Zeke went duck hunting with me often. He liked the action but didn’t much care for the taste of ducks. A pheasant or grouse he would bring to my hand, but a duck was a different matter. Oddly enough, he would swim out to retrieve a duck but when his feet were on shore he would drop the duck at the waters edge and refused to pick it up again. It was a compromise I could live with. It was easy to imagine him sitting next to me in the blind, wet and shivering with his keen eyes scanning the sky. He would have loved this day.

I laughed as a flock of teal buzzed the decoys like a squadron of F-4s and wheeled in perfect formation at the far end of the paddy. I shook like a spaniel to chase the ghosts of old friends and dogs away. I dug a dry rag out of my pack and carefully wiped the rain from my 870. I had purchased the gun in the Navy Exchange in Little Creek, VA in 1965 when I was assigned to an outfit now called SEAL Team Four. The gun was like me, old and worn with quite a few dings, but still functioning. I slipped the 870 into the case, dumped the dregs of the coffee and tossed the butt into the bushes. I stood and stretched the stiffness out of my bum knee. “Happy Birthday you old fart” I mumbled. “Quit bitching. You’re on the right side of the grass. Go pick up the decoys”.