On the shore a soft northerly breeze barely ripples the charcoal gray water at half tide. The air is heavy with the coming snow. Behind the ledge that is Martha’s Island I can hear the honk of a Canada goose. Somewhere in the growing dark small sea ducks squeak as they skitter across the surface of the water, but I cannot see them. Then a pair of black ducks flies by the outer ledge. Most of the houses along the shore are dark. Just above the black horizon are the blinking red lights of communications towers scattered around the area.
When my girls were very small, we would go down to the shore on Christmas Eve to determine if one of those beacons might not, in fact, be Rudolph’s red nose. The lights from the naval air station to the north no longer flash across the night sky, a reminder that the planes that came and went for many years, will come no more.
Coming up the hill, I can see the lights from my aunt’s house next door through the trees. It has been rented now, and it is good to see them again.
Then I come into the light and the warmth of the wood stove.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Thursday, January 7, 2010
That Awful English Spelling or, I Live In A Ghotiing Community
Most of us remember the joys of spelling class, and how we succeeded or failed at learning to cope with the oddities of the English language. My oldest daughter was a whiz in the first grade but by her second year we realized she was dyslexic and couldn’t spell. Her early success: The teacher always stood over her holding the list, and she could see the words through the backlit paper, and could write the letters in appropriate order even though she was seeing them backwards.
If you look at our spelling, it’s a wonder any of us learn it well enough to pass. Take the word ghoti. It’s a simple word we use almost daily: “Fish.” Take the GH from “cough,” the O from “women,” and the TI from “nation” and there you have it: Fish.
How about Ghoughpteighbteau. Another common word. Take the GH from “hiccough” the OUGH from “through,” the PT from “ptomaine,” the EIGH from “neigh,” the BT from “debt,” and the EAU from “bureau,” you have….. POTATO.
So you see, back in those distant school days, it really wasn’t your fault.
If you look at our spelling, it’s a wonder any of us learn it well enough to pass. Take the word ghoti. It’s a simple word we use almost daily: “Fish.” Take the GH from “cough,” the O from “women,” and the TI from “nation” and there you have it: Fish.
How about Ghoughpteighbteau. Another common word. Take the GH from “hiccough” the OUGH from “through,” the PT from “ptomaine,” the EIGH from “neigh,” the BT from “debt,” and the EAU from “bureau,” you have….. POTATO.
So you see, back in those distant school days, it really wasn’t your fault.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Christmas 1944
My family gathered together this Christmas for my father, now 90 years old, to read the Christmas stories he has been reading for 62 years now. Every year we get out the 1947 Giant Golden Book with the beautiful illustrations by Corrine Malvern and his once strong voice falters over the words to “The Cobbler and His Sons”, “The Peterkins’ Christmas” “The Harper”, and finally “The Night Before Christmas.” In recent years we have discussed having one of us younger people read the stories, but his is the voice of them, and sadly will be extinguished sometime in the future.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Christmas Pageant
In those days a decree went out for children third grade and above, who wished to participate in the annual church pageant, should gather at the church vestry at the appointed afternoon in early December. I do not remember which afternoon, but it was probably a Saturday. Gangs of us showed up, as the prospect of being a shepherd, wise man or angel was as much of a part of getting to Christmas as opening another window of an advent calendar, which, at the time, we did not have.
The annual director was Mrs. Leighton, a woman short in stature, but a giant in spirit and patience. The younger boys were automatically assigned roles as shepherds, the girls as angels. For the latter, the only other option fell to one anointed older girl, that being the part of Mary. For the older boys there was the opportunity to be a wise man or Joseph, but the former was the role to which I aspired because of the cool costumes available.
Along the north wall of the vestry was a bench, which unknown to those of us participating for the first time, opened to reveal a wonderment of costumes made from old curtains and bathrobes, pie tin halos, and interesting things like a brass lamp that appeared to have escaped from Aladdin, a brass incense burner, small jewelry box, two crowns and a fez, probably from antique lodge paraphernalia.
Once a week, we trekked down to the church, each rehearsal a step closer to the great day.
The final product was extremely simple: there were no speaking parts for us. The church, a unique wooden structure from the late 1840’s built in the self-supporting Gothic style, was lined with fir garlands and behind the pulpit a large tree with white decorations. Candles were placed in holders at the end of each pew and lit by the ushers. Then, the Dean of Bowdoin College would climb into the pulpit and the voice of Christmas would resonate throughout the church as he read from the King James bible, with the “lo’s” “Fear not’s,” and “swaddling clothes,” now eliminated from the modern, “relevant” story.
He would begin with the decree from Caesar Augustus, at which point, Mary and Joseph would take places in the front while the congregation sang “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he came to the shepherds and the visitation of the angels, we would all take our places in the front along with singing of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
During the latter, we shepherds would scurry down the side aisles to the back of the church only to troop back up the center aisle to adore the Baby, with the singing of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then it was the turn of the three older boys who played the kings. Each would solemnly pace down the aisle, one to each of the verses. When all the players were in place, the other children in church were invited to bring their gifts down front to place in front of the manger. In my early days, these were still gifts of items like warm socks and small toys which were sent to the recovering countries of Europe. (That’s how old I am.)
The lights would then be dimmed, the church illuminated only by candle light, and we would finish with “Silent Night.” As the last verses fell away, we would put on our coats and head for home, for whatever traditions our families had, darkness would take its deep winter hold, and we would sleep, awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
The annual director was Mrs. Leighton, a woman short in stature, but a giant in spirit and patience. The younger boys were automatically assigned roles as shepherds, the girls as angels. For the latter, the only other option fell to one anointed older girl, that being the part of Mary. For the older boys there was the opportunity to be a wise man or Joseph, but the former was the role to which I aspired because of the cool costumes available.
Along the north wall of the vestry was a bench, which unknown to those of us participating for the first time, opened to reveal a wonderment of costumes made from old curtains and bathrobes, pie tin halos, and interesting things like a brass lamp that appeared to have escaped from Aladdin, a brass incense burner, small jewelry box, two crowns and a fez, probably from antique lodge paraphernalia.
Once a week, we trekked down to the church, each rehearsal a step closer to the great day.
The final product was extremely simple: there were no speaking parts for us. The church, a unique wooden structure from the late 1840’s built in the self-supporting Gothic style, was lined with fir garlands and behind the pulpit a large tree with white decorations. Candles were placed in holders at the end of each pew and lit by the ushers. Then, the Dean of Bowdoin College would climb into the pulpit and the voice of Christmas would resonate throughout the church as he read from the King James bible, with the “lo’s” “Fear not’s,” and “swaddling clothes,” now eliminated from the modern, “relevant” story.
He would begin with the decree from Caesar Augustus, at which point, Mary and Joseph would take places in the front while the congregation sang “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he came to the shepherds and the visitation of the angels, we would all take our places in the front along with singing of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
During the latter, we shepherds would scurry down the side aisles to the back of the church only to troop back up the center aisle to adore the Baby, with the singing of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then it was the turn of the three older boys who played the kings. Each would solemnly pace down the aisle, one to each of the verses. When all the players were in place, the other children in church were invited to bring their gifts down front to place in front of the manger. In my early days, these were still gifts of items like warm socks and small toys which were sent to the recovering countries of Europe. (That’s how old I am.)
The lights would then be dimmed, the church illuminated only by candle light, and we would finish with “Silent Night.” As the last verses fell away, we would put on our coats and head for home, for whatever traditions our families had, darkness would take its deep winter hold, and we would sleep, awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Christmas 1952
The graying December sky and a rare trip to church this morning bring to mind Christmases so long ago to me now that they are almost just a whisper in time.
By December 12 (today) we would be well into the gathering excitement of the season.
The big Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs arrived early with a hint of what was on the horizon.
Coming home from my cousins’ on Thanksgiving Day in the late afternoon, would find the fire department in Brunswick, Maine stringing fir garlands woven with colored lights across the width of Maine St. Santa Claus would have already made an appearance, standing in a cardboard chimney mounted on the back of a Treworgy’s furniture store pick-up truck, as he cruised the streets of town, tossing candy to the kids who lined the way. The store itself would have been transformed. The basement would have found the customary beds and mattresses hidden away to replaced by a toy department with the Big Guy himself sitting on an elevated chair at the far end, awaiting the horde of over-stimulated, runny nosed kids standing in line out onto the sidewalk. Christmas was here!
On Maine Street, the windows were decorated with ornaments, merchandize and snowflakes stenciled from Glass Wax window cleaner. Woolworth’s and Grant’s expanded their toy departments to include anything any kid could want, and the Firestone Store at the end of the street advertised new, shiny bicycles, Flexible Flyers, and sports equipment.
Early in the season we would drive down to Harpswell, which in those days, was driving out into the country and hike through the dense thickets off High Head Road (now Mountain Road) and drag out of the frozen low grounds a spindly fir tree which we would take home and store in the garage. To be Christmas, it could only be balsam fir.
We decorated our classrooms at Longfellow School with paper chains, and snowflakes had drawn names for the party, and soon a Christmas tree would appear in the back corner of each room.
In the afternoon we all gathered around frozen puddles and stumbled between the tufts of grass on our skates or ran and belly flopped onto our sleds to slide across the ice. The sky would become a deep purple as lights came on up and down the street. I used to think of the verse in the Bible about the lion and the lamb lying down together as even the neighborhood bullies became decent for the time, as even the skeptics wanted to make sure they didn’t blow it with Santa Claus.
My first memory of church on Christmas Eve was the candlelight service held at the First Parish Church in Brunswick in 1952. My father had just returned from Germany and his active duty during the Korean War. The church was actually lit by real candles in an event that insurance and fire codes have long since ended. The “big kids” put on the pageant with a reading of the appropriate Bible verses by the dean from Bowdoin College, whose voice, for years, was the sound of Christmas in Brunswick, ME. At the end of the service everyone, even this six year old, was given a candle, with the flame passed from person to person. The congregation filed out to the front of the church and stood on the sidewalk in the lightly falling snow (I remember snow, whether from reality or nostalgia) and sang “Silent Night.” I could not wait until I was old enough to participate in the service.
When the last notes died away, with much “Merry Christmasing,” we all dispersed and came back to our own Christmas tree, with the lights glowing in the darkened room, my father reading the Christmas stories he still reads to his grown grandchildren today, hanging a stocking my mother had dyed red and affixed our names with Elmer’s glue and glitter dust, and wondering if I would ever fall asleep.
Sleep would eventually come and Christmas would pass into another memory.
By December 12 (today) we would be well into the gathering excitement of the season.
The big Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs arrived early with a hint of what was on the horizon.
Coming home from my cousins’ on Thanksgiving Day in the late afternoon, would find the fire department in Brunswick, Maine stringing fir garlands woven with colored lights across the width of Maine St. Santa Claus would have already made an appearance, standing in a cardboard chimney mounted on the back of a Treworgy’s furniture store pick-up truck, as he cruised the streets of town, tossing candy to the kids who lined the way. The store itself would have been transformed. The basement would have found the customary beds and mattresses hidden away to replaced by a toy department with the Big Guy himself sitting on an elevated chair at the far end, awaiting the horde of over-stimulated, runny nosed kids standing in line out onto the sidewalk. Christmas was here!
On Maine Street, the windows were decorated with ornaments, merchandize and snowflakes stenciled from Glass Wax window cleaner. Woolworth’s and Grant’s expanded their toy departments to include anything any kid could want, and the Firestone Store at the end of the street advertised new, shiny bicycles, Flexible Flyers, and sports equipment.
Early in the season we would drive down to Harpswell, which in those days, was driving out into the country and hike through the dense thickets off High Head Road (now Mountain Road) and drag out of the frozen low grounds a spindly fir tree which we would take home and store in the garage. To be Christmas, it could only be balsam fir.
We decorated our classrooms at Longfellow School with paper chains, and snowflakes had drawn names for the party, and soon a Christmas tree would appear in the back corner of each room.
In the afternoon we all gathered around frozen puddles and stumbled between the tufts of grass on our skates or ran and belly flopped onto our sleds to slide across the ice. The sky would become a deep purple as lights came on up and down the street. I used to think of the verse in the Bible about the lion and the lamb lying down together as even the neighborhood bullies became decent for the time, as even the skeptics wanted to make sure they didn’t blow it with Santa Claus.
My first memory of church on Christmas Eve was the candlelight service held at the First Parish Church in Brunswick in 1952. My father had just returned from Germany and his active duty during the Korean War. The church was actually lit by real candles in an event that insurance and fire codes have long since ended. The “big kids” put on the pageant with a reading of the appropriate Bible verses by the dean from Bowdoin College, whose voice, for years, was the sound of Christmas in Brunswick, ME. At the end of the service everyone, even this six year old, was given a candle, with the flame passed from person to person. The congregation filed out to the front of the church and stood on the sidewalk in the lightly falling snow (I remember snow, whether from reality or nostalgia) and sang “Silent Night.” I could not wait until I was old enough to participate in the service.
When the last notes died away, with much “Merry Christmasing,” we all dispersed and came back to our own Christmas tree, with the lights glowing in the darkened room, my father reading the Christmas stories he still reads to his grown grandchildren today, hanging a stocking my mother had dyed red and affixed our names with Elmer’s glue and glitter dust, and wondering if I would ever fall asleep.
Sleep would eventually come and Christmas would pass into another memory.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Political Correctness Run Amok
I’ve waited a few weeks to comment on the events at Ft. Hood in which Maj Nadil Hasan gunned down his fellow soldiers in a processing center there. The inevitable gnashing of teeth, finger pointing and the “how could this have happened?”elicit a big “Duh” from me. For anyone who has served not only in the military but in any other public/governmental agency, it is no surprise: political correctness.
Personnel in Maj Hasan’s chain of command were aware of his radical Islamic leanings, but no one did anything. Why? Simple, it was a matter of self preservation. Had anyone complained about him, his career would have been over. He/she would have been branded racist and if not summarily dismissed, would have been referred to sensitivity training and the resulting comment on their records would have prevented any further advancement.
In the American military, one cannot remain, say, at the rank of captain even if that is the level he or she is most comfortable or competent. All must stand for promotion and if not selected, they are removed from active duty. So absurd is the system that promotions are often based on a mandatory full length picture of the applicant. If one “does not look like a major,” that person can be denied promotion. Thus a comment on one efficiency report can finish a person who has rendered good and faithful service for many years. The easiest way to kill a person’s career, it is said, is to “condemn with faint praise.” Only water walkers need apply.
And what about Maj. Hasan himself? His performance had been described as “inadequate” but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of major. There are many former officers not promoted thus, simply because it was noted that 12 years before as a brand new lieutenant, their uniforms did not fit exactly as the rater wanted. This in spite of the fact that their service had been exemplary. Again to not promote someone in a minority group would be career suicide for someone.
I often wonder what has happened to our meritocracy, when promotions can be made based on racial quotas rather than skill and quality of performance. Discrimination against any group is wrong. In this case the political correcting of our society has ended the lives of 14 good people and ruined the lives of many more.
Personnel in Maj Hasan’s chain of command were aware of his radical Islamic leanings, but no one did anything. Why? Simple, it was a matter of self preservation. Had anyone complained about him, his career would have been over. He/she would have been branded racist and if not summarily dismissed, would have been referred to sensitivity training and the resulting comment on their records would have prevented any further advancement.
In the American military, one cannot remain, say, at the rank of captain even if that is the level he or she is most comfortable or competent. All must stand for promotion and if not selected, they are removed from active duty. So absurd is the system that promotions are often based on a mandatory full length picture of the applicant. If one “does not look like a major,” that person can be denied promotion. Thus a comment on one efficiency report can finish a person who has rendered good and faithful service for many years. The easiest way to kill a person’s career, it is said, is to “condemn with faint praise.” Only water walkers need apply.
And what about Maj. Hasan himself? His performance had been described as “inadequate” but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of major. There are many former officers not promoted thus, simply because it was noted that 12 years before as a brand new lieutenant, their uniforms did not fit exactly as the rater wanted. This in spite of the fact that their service had been exemplary. Again to not promote someone in a minority group would be career suicide for someone.
I often wonder what has happened to our meritocracy, when promotions can be made based on racial quotas rather than skill and quality of performance. Discrimination against any group is wrong. In this case the political correcting of our society has ended the lives of 14 good people and ruined the lives of many more.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Thoughts Of An Old Army Friend
I thought I would share the kind words of an old Army friend, with whom I was stationed at Ft. Hood and after our tours in Vietnam at the Army Intelligence School at Ft. Holabird, MD. I received it in an email a week or so ago. I am humbled.
"…when I read it, I went into an unusual (for me) slow-down mode. As agonizing as it was to read your experiences (much worse than my being a REMF who only spent about 12 days and nights with ground-pounding units), I needed to read every line carefully to get the full flavor… I loved the book and only wonder why you didn’t call it a memoir rather than a novel. Even though I knew the author had survived, my heart was in my throat every time I started a new chapter. I agonized over every firefight, even every decision you had to make. I had fewer worries about my ability to function under fire, which I had to do a few times. I was less confident of my ability to lead troops without getting anyone killed unnecessarily. I would have been glad to have been led by a leader like you developed into. I know command is not a popularity contest, but I enjoyed the interaction of you and your men. There seemed to be a far smaller asshole quotient in the field, even with your first six, than what you faced in the rear. I anguished over your plight with the 191st and grieved when some soldiers I’d come to respect in your old unit were killed. I share your feeling of helplessness and rage at the injustice…
Your book has inspired me to dig out the series of taped messages I sent my parents during my year in the Nam. Not to write a memoir, but to see what I had to say at that time and recall some names of people I admired as well as those I didn’t."
"…when I read it, I went into an unusual (for me) slow-down mode. As agonizing as it was to read your experiences (much worse than my being a REMF who only spent about 12 days and nights with ground-pounding units), I needed to read every line carefully to get the full flavor… I loved the book and only wonder why you didn’t call it a memoir rather than a novel. Even though I knew the author had survived, my heart was in my throat every time I started a new chapter. I agonized over every firefight, even every decision you had to make. I had fewer worries about my ability to function under fire, which I had to do a few times. I was less confident of my ability to lead troops without getting anyone killed unnecessarily. I would have been glad to have been led by a leader like you developed into. I know command is not a popularity contest, but I enjoyed the interaction of you and your men. There seemed to be a far smaller asshole quotient in the field, even with your first six, than what you faced in the rear. I anguished over your plight with the 191st and grieved when some soldiers I’d come to respect in your old unit were killed. I share your feeling of helplessness and rage at the injustice…
Your book has inspired me to dig out the series of taped messages I sent my parents during my year in the Nam. Not to write a memoir, but to see what I had to say at that time and recall some names of people I admired as well as those I didn’t."
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