We

There has been something unusual happening in our town lately.

No, the river is not flowing backwards; Lake Erie has not wandered off. Nor have we been invaded by little green men in UFOs. As noteworthy and momentous as any of those events would be, what has been occurring of late is much more profound and significant.

In order to better appreciate what is happening, a bit of background is needed.

My Lovely Bride and I are long-time residents of our town. While we agree it has been quite some time, there is a minor difference of opinion as to just how long we have lived here. My contention is we arrived in town 3 or 4 days following the cooling of the Earth’s crust. LB insists it was right after primitive vegetation burst forth.  However, bear in mind just who the historian in the family is.

The town we found was active, people took part in events and festivals. The swimming pools were open; the Recreation Department had year-round programs available.  A new city hall replaced the former old mansion modified to office use. A weekly car cruise in at the memorial to the city’s fallen and veterans.

Our local government, business community, and citizens had a spirit of cooperation, working together to get things done.

Then, due to some rather poor decisions resulting in rather unpleasant outcomes, the Administration changed.  A radically different Administration came to City Hall.  Slowly, insidiously, the former attitude of “we” was replaced by one of “us vs. them”. What began as minor breaches grew into yawning chasms between the Administration, city departments, business community, and residents.

As the economy went South, in a Draconian effort to be fiscally responsible; everything came to a grinding halt. Relations with the business community soured.

In summation; it was not a joyous time.

However, Change took place once again. A new Administration came to City Hall.

Once again, “we” began to push aside “us vs. them”. Readers may recall the June, 2013 column Swimming Pools. Our city was faced with a summer of no pool. A particular Lovely Councilperson offered to work with anyone willing to explore other avenues; be it fund-raising, corporate sponsorship, grants or what have you. The Administration at that time turned a deaf ear.

Now, as a result of a co-operative effort by the city, the local YMCA, and a new member to our business community (Best Supply); Father’s Day will be the opening of the pool.

The Lake County Captains have held an Easter egg hunt for the children of the town on the ball field this Spring, the first ever. Thanks to the generosity of Peter Carfagna, the team owner, the City’s festival will be held at the stadium this year; another first.

Yet, the most telling was this past weekend. Early on a Saturday morning, throngs of people descended upon City Hall armed with shovels, pruning shears, rakes and work gloves. The grounds around City Hall had been neglected.  Flower beds were weed filled, shrubs overgrown.

With tools, donated flowers, shrubs and trees, and a can-do approach, the city property was transformed into beds of colorful annuals, fresh mulch, and trimmed shrubbery.  Five hundred new American flags (again, donated) snapped in the fresh breeze along the Boulevard of Flags.

Has our town become perfect, a model city? No; not by any means.

But, we are a better city than before. 

Lawyers, Sushi, and Pink Slippers

One result of my Lovely Bride's activities in the community has been getting to know a lot of lawyers and judges.

Hmmm... that didn't come out quite right. Let me re-phrase...

One result of my Lovely Bride's being an elected official and active in the community has been getting to know a lot of lawyers and judges.

There, that fits.

I have come to the conclusion that lawyers are people, too. As tough as that may be to comprehend, they truly are. Although the profession of law has been maligned since at least the age of Shakespeare ( he tried to get off a driving a pony cart while impaired rap and lost due to poor legal counsel), they serve a very critical purpose.

I have a great deal of respect for the Law and legal profession. In fact, at one point, I had hoped to become an attorney. Alas, the winds of Life directed my sails on a different course setting. I don't look at “what may have been”; rather I look at “what may not have been”. While LB and I would in all likely hood have gotten married; I would not have the four wonderful children, and eight outstanding grand-children who have blessed our lives.

One would never hear me make any derogatory jokes about members of this esteemed group. Far be it from me to ever say anything like;

Q. Why don't lawyers have coronaries?

A. You gotta have a heart first.

Nor would I ever say anything like;

Q. What is an example of an oxymoron?

A. Honest lawyer

And, I would never, never tell such a besmirching joke as;

Q. What do lawyers and reptiles have in common?

A. They are both cold-blooded.

Such attacks are juvenile, insensitive, and serve solely to perpetuate biased stereo-types. They also provide a giggle now and then.

Several of our good friends are attorneys, which has resulted in some very unusual happenings as of late.

One young man is an interesting example He is truly a genius. His grasp of complex legal and political concepts is mind boggling. I can easily envision our friend John debating the finer points of Constitutional law with Thomas Jefferson and John Marshall.

John is a professor at Cleveland Marshall College of Law. His specialty is Tax Law. He has worked at large firms in New York City and in Washington D.C.. However, his family is from Northeast Ohio, and the desire to be near the home hearth outweighed the glitz and glamor of the Big Cities.

Being a professor, he is involuntarily bound by that ages-old precept of “Publish or Perish”. And, he does just that; publishes with regularity for various law reviews.

But....these publications tend to not show up on the majority of people's Top Ten “Must Read” lists. Which is where I; a some-what off plumb History major, English minor, published author comes in.

John asked if I would read some of his articles, and do a short review in Lookingbackatseveralhills.

I, not fully grasping the enormity of what I was doing, agreed.

And... I was quite pleasantly surprised. I read two articles by Prof. John Plecnik. One explored the Earned Income Credit for Federal tax-payers, the other an insightful discussion of the relative merits and short comings of a National Flat Tax.

His writings are much more than just a scholarly discourse on the whys and hows of our Federal system of taxation. They are engagingly written, sprinkled with copious doses of tongue-in-cheek humor. I would encourage my readers to visit www.plecnik.org. While there, read some of John's writings. I no longer feel quite so ignorant regarding being shaken-down.. I mean about paying my fair share to live in America.

At this time, the casual reader may be asking “Okay, that is great. What about the sushi and pink slippers.”

Ahh... patience, Grasshopper.

Another attorney friend of ours recently achieved a mile-stone. May of 1989 was her admission to the Bar Association. Joyce hosted a nice little reception to celebrate the event, and a quarter century of practicing estate and family law.

Becoming a member of the Bar Association is quite a memorable event. It is tantamount to being admitted to one's state medical board, or obtaining one's CPA certification. The recognition and reflection upon this achievement is quite well deserved.

My Lovely Bride and I found ourselves in the company of friends, acquaintances, and others all come together to share in some of the day with Joyce. While the crowd of well-wishers was a broad spectrum of people, one little detail struck us. Many attendees, including Joyce, were sporting the latest in fuzzy pink slippers.

I assumed since it was toward the end of the work day, some may have been on their feet all day in court or what have you and this was a good time to quiet the barking dogs. I did what most men would do; grabbed a plate and availed myself of the cheeses, dips, veggies, mini-wrap sandwiches, and sushi. Why trouble oneself with minor details when there is sushi, wasabi and cold beverages waiting to be consumed?

However, proving once again that females have far more different thought processes than males, LB could no longer contain herself. Sidling up to Joyce, making sure I was within ear-shot, she asks “I just have to ask; what is with the slippers?”

Joyce blushed, looked around, and then confided to us. What came forth was not what I had expected...

On May 8, 1989, a young Joyce Hribar awoke to the excitement of being sworn into the Ohio State Bar Association. She had gone shopping previously, selecting the perfect dark skirt and suit jacket, properly professional white blouse, appropriate hose, and brand new sensible female attorney power shoes.

She carefully wound her hair into a French bun, with a classy, yet understated hair pin. Grasping her briefcase, she walked from the house to her car. It is approximately a two hour drive from Cleveland to Columbus, and Joyce (wisely) opted to put her new shoes in the backseat of the car while wearing her pink house slippers to drive in.

1989 was a time before GPS, the common-use of cell phones, and navigation systems. Columbus, especially near the Statehouse, can be confusing. While searching for a reasonably convenient place to park, Joyce noted that commodity over which we have no control, Time, was slipping away. Finally finding a place to park, she grasped her things, and dashed to the Statehouse. With just a few minutes to spare, she ducked into a Ladies Room for a final check of her appearance. While standing before the mirror, she happened to glance toward the floor. There, resplendent in their fuzziness, were her feet; shod by her pink house slippers!!

A glance at her watch confirmed there was no time to dash to the car, get her proper lawyer shoes and dash back.

So, on May 8, 1989, Ohio admitted Joyce Hribar, Esq., to the Bar Association appropriately attired in a sensible dark suit, professional white blouse, perfectly coiffed hair, and pink slippers to its roll of attorneys!

She can laugh about it now. It has only taken 25 years..

Old One Hundredth*

I seem to have jinxed myself.

Discerning readers may have noted the most recent column was #99. This raises several questions, not the least of which are: how has the publisher permitted so many of these things to slip through the filter, and what am I going to write for Number One Hundred??

While dismissing the first question as a mere piffle, I began to focus upon the latter: How to be Memorable?

Well...surprise, surprise, surprise.

The more I focused, the more fuzzy things became. Have you ever tried the trick of staring at a dot in the midst of a bunch of squiggly lines? Everything merges into an indistinguishable mass.

That is how my creativity has been.

Sure, friends offered suggestions and encouraged me. My Lovely Bride would say “Don't worry, it will come to you.”, leaving me to find an empty Creativity In-box. I lifted my eyes to the hills from whence comes my help. Only this time, my help must have been enjoying a leisurely lunch.

Many times I put pen to paper; only to result in fairly nonsensical gibberish. For example:

It was a dark and stormy night and I wondered as I wandered....nah, nothing there

Four-score and seven years ago, I heard the raven say “Nevermore”...nope, that doesn't cut it either.

Zip pi-Dee-doo-dah, Zip pi-Dee-ay... my oh my, I can't write today...Good Grief!

And so on. I spent countless hours (well, maybe a few minutes) staring at a blank laptop screen; only to find myself falling prey to the subtle enticements of Solitaire. Regaining my senses, I would wrest myself from the clutches of the cards, to commence staring at a blank screen once again

I considered the significance of a century. Derived from the Latin word “centenuim”, it means simply. “one hundred years” No more, no less.

There were no coins with the Emperor’s likeness called a “c-coin”. There was no Centennial Lions vs Christians party at the 100^th meeting. Nope; it simply meant a hundred years had transpired.

I then thought about the significance of 100 years. There must be a little divot in the Time-Space Continuum which changes my perspective of 100 years. When I was small, the concept of anything being around 100 years was unfathomable. Although Mayfield Village was over 100 years old, and there are still several structures in town easily surpassing that mark, 100 years was mind boggling.

While the prospect of “being 100” was once inconceivable; achieving that milestone is no longer out of the realm of reason. Suddenly, it doesn't seem all that old. Now, 175, 200 years old... you are talking some serious age happening there!

I recall visiting several battlefields with my Dad during the Centennial of the American Civil War. We journeyed to Gettysburg, Antietam, Petersburg, Mannassas, Appomattox...I was enthralled at the history, the drama, and the age of everything. I have historical documents from that conflict which are still legible, a century and a half later.

Little did I know, fifty years later, I would be telling my grandchildren of these places.

I thought about the beginnings of this blog. Originally, my Lovely Bride and I signed up for a weight-loss contest sponsored by our local newspaper. Part of the requirements was writing a weekly blog-post about our experience.

While I didn't take to losing weight so well, (LB came in second.. I am very, very proud of her), writing is second nature for me. LB would struggle with a re-cap of her week dealing with her nutritional modifications while continuing to drop weight like a champ; I struggled with jelly doughnuts, and wrote like... well, a person who enjoys writing.

I got booted from the weight-loss contest for not making the cut. Oh well, c'est la vie. I was most bothered by not being able to write. Lo and behold, the editor of the paper at that time approached me about continuing to write. If only she had an inkling of the monster which her suggestion spawned....

From the initial posting of January 29, 2013, I am writing Number 100. What a journey it has been. The views from the hills have encompassed tremendous joys, and deep sorrows. The views have gazed into the Valley on Uncertainty in August of last year, only to gaze upon the peaks of Happiness in March of this year. The views have sometimes been funny, sometimes reflective, but always open. Ups, downs, and level happy trails; we have trod them all.

I am happy to say; I look forward to at least 100 more views across the hills.

I hope you continue to walk along with me.

 

*Title shamelessly borrowed from the hymn “Old 100th”, sometimes better known as “Doxology”

Praise God, from Whom all blessings flow;

Praise Him, all creatures here below;

Praise Him above, ye heavenly host;

Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

Gas and Good Neighbors

On my way home the other day, I was startled by Uncle Si Robertson shouting “Hey! Hey!” As I was alone in the Jeep, this was even more surprising. The greatest amazement was the fact he was yelling from my shirt pocket.

With the swiftness of a woodchuck ascending a hill, I realized my phone was receiving a call. I cannot honestly say my phone “rings”. It chirps, warbles, beeps, honks, plays music, vibrates and talks. But it doesn’t ring, unless I choose the “old phone” tone, but, that is so 20^th Century.

Seeing my Lovely Bride’s name, phone number, and photo of her with Ike on my screen, I promptly activated my turn signal, pulling safely onto the shoulder of the highway. Only after coming to a complete stop, shutting off the engine, and engaging the hazard flashers did I answer the call.

Actually, I swiped the screen, tucked the phone beneath my chin, dodged a semi, and said “Hello.”LB is quite considerate; she was letting me know her presence was required at a meeting in the middle of the county at 5:00.  She also had a meeting with some residents of her ward and others at 6:30. Therefore, dinner would be YOYO…You’re On Your Own. Which was fine; I recently successfully completed a week of bachelor-hood.

What struck my interest was the topic of the resident’s meeting; offensive smelling gas from one of their neighbors.  This promised no end of amusement to my permanently stuck  pre-teenaged brain. Eagerly, I agreed to attend this meeting in her absence. The tone of LB’s voice conveyed her slight surprise. Typically my participation in such events consists of avoiding them.  Like a root canal, I would prefer to not partake.

The sense of hilarity heightened upon learning the meeting was to be held at our local library. The irony, the juxtaposition; it was just too much!  Add the Mayor, Fire Chief, and Service Director to the mix; and I could barely contain the giggles.  All this because of someone’s olfactory assault upon the neighbors!

When LB said people were upset because of “a real bad gas smell”….well, I nearly swerved across two lanes of traffic while trying to control my laughter.

My warped little mind conjured up images of some poor soul relegated to a diet of sauerkraut, baked beans, and hard boiled eggs due to an extremely rare gastric malady. Gas-X has no effect whatsoever.
They guzzle baking soda and warm water in a vain attempt to buffer the inevitable reactions which only contributes in causing the expansive results to be more voluminous, to the chagrin of all.

It was with such anticipation that I sauntered into the meeting room.

Imagine my profound disappointment when I realized the topic of discussion centered upon an old abandoned natural gas well. Talk about a letdown.

The evening was not a total bust, however. Actually, I found it rather interesting. You must realize, though, I consider reading “Geology of the Great Lakes” to be moderately light reading. I find the antics of Pre-Cambrian and Cambrian tectonic plate shifts, the boring consistencies of glacial scouring, and the resultant topographical features quite entertaining.

The vast majority of people don’t realize the expansive geological reach of the Lakes region. Without boring everyone to tears, I will simply state Eastern Ohio is the Western edge of the Appalachian Ridge. Our lake shore consists of steep cliffs, with primarily narrow rocky beaches at their bases. And, in keeping with much of the Appalachian region, we have coal, oil, and gas. Along the eastern basin of Lake Erie, and under her waters are vast reserves of natural gas. In fact, Erie’s Canadian waters are dotted with scores of producing gas wells.

From the mid 19^th until the mid 20^th Centuries, our city was a rural township. Gas was rapidly becoming a viable heat and light source. As a result, wells were being drilled with abandon. Sadly, with the passage of time, many of those wells became just that; abandoned.

Eventually, steel and iron pipes which have been underground for decades become corroded, and ultimately fail. This was the catalyst for the meeting at the library.  Gas, from an abandoned well was seeping from a rusted pipe. As the gas percolates through the soil, there is a definite odor. The neighborhood would be permeated by the odor of gas.

The Fire Chief helped to allay fears of a cataclysmic disaster by reassuring those in attendance natural gas is flammable only in concentrations of 5 to 15% of the atmosphere. It also requires an ignition source. Essentially, the chances of a very narrow band of concentration outdoors, with an source to set it off simultaneously are rather remote.

Eventually, a plan of action was arrived at, tensions and worries were greatly reduced, the group departed, and a big stink was avoided.

All without a giggle or a guffaw.

The Bachelor

I have had a somewhat different lifestyle the past several days.

No, we have not moved into a tent, we have not hit the lottery, and I am still waiting for the Publisher's Clearing House people to show up with the big cardboard check and balloons.

However, my Lovely Bride has been in Virginia visiting our daughter and her family. Our Grand-daughter, Gwen, was to have her tonsils removed. She made it very clear this could not be done in the absence of Grandma. Heeding the Unwritten Laws of Grandmother-hood. LB headed South-east; stopping to pick up our son-in-law's Mother as well. Gwen wound up with the Grandma BOGO. 2 in the same trip.

Meanwhile, I have been living the Life of Riley.

Having never really been a bachelor ( we married between my sophomore and junior years of college), I could scarcely contain myself.
 

The first night LB was gone, I came home from work, took the dogs out, fed the dogs, took a look at the menu she had left me, and fixed myself dinner. I managed to accomplish this task without filling the house with smoke.
 

Following dinner, I wandered into the TV room to watch those programs my Lovely Bride would rather not view. You know; those guy programs; things like a bunch of goofy people trying to find Bigfoot lurking in the linen department of Wal-Mart in Northern Oregon. Or, a bunch of goofy people racing about a bunch of swamps trying to catch alligators. Of course, there is the ever popular program of a bunch of goofy people trying to cut down more trees than a second bunch of goofy people.
 

I settled in on the couch, remote in hand, anticipating an evening of mindless viewing. I awoke to the sound of Ike expressing his urgent desire to be taken outdoors. It was 10:45. I stumbled up the stairs, took the dogs out, got them fresh water, made my way to our room, and turned in from my exhausting evening of sleeping on the couch.
 

The second night, though, I was determined to really let the wild and crazy flags fly. I arrived home from work, same routine with the dogs, dinner, etc., EXCEPT... that night I grabbed my guitar and headed out the door for (wait for it).... church worship team practice! How crazy can it get?

I returned about quarter to nine, repeat routine with dogs, only now.. as well as watching TV; I also started a load of laundry! I know, I know... it is pretty hard to believe. And... I even separated the colors from the lights. Yes sirree... I know how to have fun!
 

Friday, I met some friends for a fish-fry at one of the local churches. You know what I did?

I went back for seconds on the baked cod! Oh yeah, baby!!

Then, after the fry, I came home, took care of the dogs (do you pickup a pattern here?) then changed to go up to our daughter Shannon's and Eric's home for a backyard fire with my best buddy, Jim O. I really pushed the envelope this time; I left my phone at home on the charger!! No texts or calls for me!! Take that!!

Talk about crazy times! There I was, with my daughter, son-in-law, two grand-children, and my best friend of decades; who has served on Deacon Boards with me....wow! It was so wild, we called it a night about 11!
 

The weekend arrived...certainly, this is the time for wild and off the wall stuff. Saturday morning found me arising about 6:30, in order to (guess what) take care of the dogs, have breakfast, then depart for a day of adventure and intrigue. At 8:25, the Jeep turned into Shannon's drive to rendezvous with our grandson. We were spending the morning partaking of Easter egg hunts. It doesn't get much nuttier than accompanying a four year old to one of these! And we descended upon TWO of them! I nearly burst with giddiness upon seeing the Easter Bunny!

After returning said grandson to his home a few hours later, I stopped home to …. yeah, you got it.

I also did more laundry, then off to get a birthday gift for our granddaughter Delaney who was turning 10.

Following a stop to our daughter Char's house for Delaney's birthday, I then set off for an evening of excitement and merriment. I was attending a fund-raiser for our local library system.

You have no idea the zaniness, mad-cap antics, and behavior of a roomful of librarians! It was absolutely incredible! I know this may come as a complete shock to many of you; but did you know, librarians actually partake of adult beverages? And... they even dance!
 

They danced in the most uninhibited manner to songs such as “The Chicken Dance”, and “The Hokey-Pokey”. When the Polka Pirates played “There is No Beer in Heaven”... well, the crowd went absolutely berserk! I saw one librarian, whom I have known for many years, shamelessly take off her shoes!!
 

Finally, eleven o'clock found me coming through the door. Yeah, dogs, steps, bed time. Sunday morning I awoke raring to go.... off to church. I spent Sunday afternoon hanging close to home, getting ready for work on Monday.
 

In the midst of all this ribald activity I have managed to feed the fish twice a day, water the plants, get the mail from the box, take out the garbage, pay the bills, get up for work, go to work, stay at work, come straight home from work.
 

I have discovered several interesting things as well. I have had a hard time sleeping. I miss hearing my Lovely Bride's gentle breathing beside me. I miss reaching over to stroke her side or arm; content in having her beside me . I miss giving her a hug when I come in, discussing our days, and hearing of all her many busy activities.
 

All in all, I guess I would have made a pretty lousy bachelor.
I even put the seat back down....sigh.....

Home Opener

One of the benefits of being the trophy spouse of an elected official is accompanying my Lovely Bride to various events. Typically these occasions entail fund-raisers, civic functions, or recognizing well-deserving members of the community.

The usual progression of events following our arrival soon finds LB engrossed in conversation with constituents, elected officials, or new hopefuls to the political arena. I generally become caught up in the swirling back-current and eddy of people which is observable in any such event. Eventually, I find myself in the company of the other trophy spouses.

It ain’t such a bad gig; as I am one of the few males in this select group. We commiserate with one another about the rigors of being arm-candy. Patiently, we await our cue; “I wouldn’t be here if it were not for my______.” Individually,  we set down our drink, smile and wave.  And the paparazzi…you have no idea!

However, there is one event I eagerly anticipate the entire year. I can be loud, boisterous, express my opinions, eat with my hands, and no one is appalled or offended

See, our town is home to a minor league affiliate of the Cleveland Indians. Every year, the owners of the Lake County Captains graciously invite the local city officials and others to join them in their loge for the Home Opener.

Finally, an event I can understand.

Typically, I am somewhat befuddled with usual event conversations regarding matching State grants, zoning ordinance restrictions, whom is running for what, and inter-city tax reciprocity. I listen attentively, nodding my head in assent, or frowning as if deep in thought at the appropriate times. Meanwhile, I am wondering if the clutch in my Jeep is starting to go.

I have also discovered a fun (for me, at least) interjection to these discussions. While mustering my most concerned look, I will ask “And how does that make you feel?” It is great! Most people launch into a lengthy, impassioned diatribe. Meanwhile, I am estimating how much clutch parts are going to cost me.

Opening night, however, finds me an integral part of the conversation. Batting averages, earned-run averages, strategy of the sacrifice bunt, pitching rotations, and the most recent unbelievably bone-headed, blind-as-a-bat, what-game-is-he-watching call the umpire made, I am part of them all.

Let the others find refuge in the warmth and comfort of the loge. Three of our grand-children and I came here to watch Baseball! We opt to park ourselves in the blue plastic stadium seats on the loge balcony. The back of the seat in front advises to keep your head in the game and be alert for foul balls. With a masterfully balanced plate of hot-dogs with Stadium mustard, a burger, odds and ends, and with a frosty example of the Pennsylvania brewer’s art in hand, the four of us settle in.

Being an early April evening in Northern Ohio, the weather is perfect for football. First pitch temperatures in the low 40s; augmented by 20 MPH winds whipping off Lake Erie are much more conducive to a Browns game.

Undeterred, we burrow deeper into our coats. Following the National Anthem, I was proud to pass along some time honored baseball traditions to a new generation.

They learned quaint sayings such as “Hey Batta-batta-batta! Hey Batta! Swing, Batta!” They also learned “Open yer eyes, Ump!”, and that ever popular “Hey Pitch! Try throwin’ toward the plate!”. The grands also learned “Gee, Officer…. I didn’t know dumping Cracker Jacks on the people below us was frowned upon.”

(Incidentally, did you know Baseball, and its derivatives (kickball, softball, et al) are the only sports in which the defensive team has control of the ball? Oh sure,… I know someone somewhere is proclaiming “Cricket! What about cricket?!?”  Yeah, technically, they are correct, but we are talkin’ baseball here.)

During the latter innings (as an aside, cricket also has “innings”, whether one or more, the term is plural) of the game, after the loge crowd thinned somewhat, and we could no longer feel our toes, we withdrew to the warmth. It was very fortuitous we did so.

Usually, Peter Carfagna, the owner of the team, is surrounded by friends and well-wishers; except this time. The man was alone, watching the game unfold. Seizing the opportunity, I approached to express my appreciation for thinking of us. As well as talk baseball.

More than a discussion of hits, runs, and errors; I got a rare glimpse of the heart of an owner. His face lit up when I mentioned the article highlighting the Captain’s new starting pitcher. He shrugged; “Tonight wasn’t his best outing, but that is baseball. Each new batter, each pitch can become a brand new game. Besides, we have 140 games to play yet.”

We discussed the open-endedness of baseball; there are no limitations imposed by a clock. Each play can encompass any area of the diamond; not regulated to progress toward a specific, fixed goal. The conversation wended around greats of the past, future legends starting out today. Eventually, the topic came to the topic of scouting and recruiting, the support the Indians provide, and our mutual love of the game.

Peter’s face beamed while discussing the large number of Captains who have received the call up to The Bigs.  He grew wistful looking beyond the pristine diamond and bright lights, watching games and championship victories of the past.

Peter turned toward me, a smile on his tanned face. “I am so proud of each of them. My wife and I think of these boys as family. I am proud to have been part of their development.”

Our conversation broke off as another guest came along side. We parted with a handshake.

I watched as he was steered across the room to meet another official, this time a State Representative. Peter glanced over his shoulder, to reveal the face of a man who would be perfectly content to be sitting in a stadium seat with a mustard covered dog, a cold beer, and be talkin’ baseball.

A Private Truce

Have any of you ever had seeming unrelated, random thoughts pop into your head? You know the type; while gazing at an early Spring snowfall, the memory of the grilled bologna and Swiss cheese sandwiches, with spicy brown mustard, served by the local bar back in the old college town pops up.

Where did that come from???

A similar experience took place the other day. Actually, two such experiences took place, if one counts the above bologna sandwich example. 

Many of you may be nodding your heads, thinking; “Yes...yes... this does indeed explain a lot.”

But, I digress.....

For some reason, I find myself doing some of my best thinking while in that last bastion of male-hood; the shower. I have also found this to be a wonderful time to pray, as there are no interruptions. The other day, while contemplating the immensity of God, I experienced on of those “Huh??” moments.

For some unknown reason, a completely unrelated story arose in my head. I sometimes wonder if this is not a result of being folliclely challenged. There is very little hair to serve as a filter for random thoughts bouncing around in the air.

Allow me to relate....

My Dad was a WWII veteran. He served in Europe as a tank platoon commander. (For more details about some of Dad's service, see the June 6,2013 entry “D-Day”). He was in the Third Armored Division of the First Army. He saw action from Normandy to the Netherlands to Belgium and the Battle of the Bulge.

At one point, he and his tank crew found themselves a few miles outside of Liege, Belgium. For whatever reason, there was a lull in the fighting. Having concealed their Sherman tank in a woodlot, the five crewmen were enjoying some quiet relaxation outside of their machine.

Before long, the bawling of a cow could be heard. Some of the crew advocated butchering the bovine for a supply of fresh meat. Others were noncommittal. Dad, having grown up on a farm, recognized the sound for what it was; a dairy cow in great need of milking.

Following some debate, and the fact Dad was the Commanding Officer, he and 2 others set off in search of the source of the mooing. .

Before long, the band of GIs came upon an abandoned farmstead. There, in a small barnyard, stood a lone cow, greatly engorged.

Rummaging in the small stone and beam barn, they found a bucket. Being the only farm-boy in the group, Dad crouched beside the grateful animal relieving her of her burden while the others stood guard.

That night, as darkness crept over the Belgian country-side, five American soldiers luxuriated in the heady delight of fresh milk.

Shortly after sunrise the following day, Dad sent another country boy off with the bucket for their morning treat. The man returned much sooner than he should have, with a bucketful of air. Dad asked what happened to the milk, and the man sheepishly replied; “Sir, there was a squad of Germans milkin' her.”

Incredulous to learn they had bivouacked so near the enemy, Dad and two others set off for the farm.

Creeping stealthily through the woods, weapons at the ready, the little band approached the edge of the barnyard. Through the brush and undergrowth, they saw a German infantryman crouched beside the cow, milking while two others stood watch, Mauser rifles in hand. Silently, Dad motioned for his men to withdraw. Three rather glum soldiers returned to their area. No milk with C-rations this morning.

When evening came, Dad and two of his crewmen set off once again with the bucket in hand. Seeing the barnyard vacant, the GIs approached the cow, and soon began to milk her.

For an inexplicable reason, Dad lifted his head to look across the cow's back. As he did so, a coal-scuttle helmeted head popped up above a mound of hay. Both adversaries' eyes locked upon one another. One of the tankers turned to see the German soldier. As the man was raising his M-1 carbine, Dad quietly said “No. Wait.” All the while he kept milking the cow while looking at the German.

After what seemed hours, the young German soldier raised his hand. Dad raised his hand in reply. The three Americans watched as the young man turned to walk away, empty pail swinging at his side.

The following dawn, the tankers slipped out of the tree-line to find the same German soldier and 2 friends already at work in the barnyard. Tentative, nervous waves were exchanged across the barnyard, and the Americans withdrew.

The cow, being completely unconcerned with Geo-political events, followed the twice daily course Nature had prescribed for her. When the afternoon shadows lengthened that day, once again the tankers crept toward the barnyard. The found the cow, patiently awaiting milking. The Germans had given her fresh water and feed. No where was a German soldier to be seen. Upon completion of milking, the soldiers watered and fed her, as well as rubbed her down with some old burlap sacks they had found.

The next morning found the tank crew sleeping in, allowing their recent adversaries  free access to the cow. Again, at evening, the Americans milked her in solitude.

For six days, this unspoken truce held. Then, Dad's unit was called upon to move out. The tankers would never know if they ever met their fellow dairymen upon the field of battle.

They only knew, and were eternally grateful for, a period of time when guns were silent while opposing combatants observed a private truce, built upon the daily needs of a lowly Belgian dairy cow.