A series of strange events Part 1

As my senior year of college began to come to its close and we could finally see what was outside in the world for us, those of us enrolled in Army ROTC were faced with the choice of what branch or specialty we wished to serve in, and where we might want to do that. Being somewhat naïve, we did not see the absurdity of asking for a place of duty assignment at a time when most were going pretty much directly to Vietnam. But I was told that, as one majoring in German, who had just returned from a year at a German university, if I were to request a commission in the Regular Army (RA) I would be guaranteed my choice of first duty assignment, and branch. It was recommended to me that I try for the military intelligence.
That all seemed exciting. I could see myself flying down the Autobahn in a new Porsche and being assigned secret duties, most of which, I was sure, would involve beautiful foreign women. After all, I had seen the James Bond movies. So, I did what they suggested, and what to my surprise, it was all granted, a military intelligence assignment in Germany. My friends were amazed and jealous. Most of them were going to places like Fort Lost in the Woods and Fort Puke as signal people or engineers. But I…..
Then the shoe dropped: all RA officers who were not in a combat arms, would be detailed to one of the three branches, and mine would be the infantry. Ah, but not to worry, I was still guaranteed my first duty assignment, and upon graduation was given vague orders to USAREUR.
But first I would have to travel to the Infantry School at Ft. Benning, aka the Benning School for Boys or the Trade School on the Chattahoochie, assigned to a company of 200 RA infantry types, half of whom were straight from airborne school, or obnoxious, gung-ho graduates of Texas A&M, or both. The West Pointers, I’m happy to say, were pretty low key about the whole thing.
So, whenever an instructor started his pitch with, “Gentlemen, if you don’t learn what I’m going to teach you today, you will die in Vietnam,” I knew that was my cue to drift off to someplace else, almost anyplace else.
To make a long story short, Germany did not happen, and I ended up as one of two German speaking lieutenants in an infantry battalion in Vietnam, while those of my class who went to Germany, could not utter a sentence in German if the entire group were put together to do it.
Finally after surviving a year in Vietnam, and deciding I really didn’t care for the Army all that much, I was sent to the Military Intelligence School at Fort Holabird, an enclosed are of Baltimore, near or in Dundalk, that consisted of boring, windowless buildings in an area the size of several blocks, close enough to a brewery, and there I embarked upon my training to learn all kinds of “special” things that I can’t talk about, and really don’t have any desire to do so. I had always wondered what “Top Secret” material consisted of, and found to my surprise, most of it was boring. One of the most exciting classes we attended was on the capabilities of the Soviet Navy. So secret was this lecture, that we were frisked for pencils and pens prior to entering the lecture hall. When the instructor mounted the podium to begin his talk, he informed us, in a most embarrassed voice, that the source of most of what he was going to say, came from a recent issue of Time magazine.
And so, because I have been told people who read blogs have short attention spans, I am going to end here and put the rest in a second part. You probably feel like the person who has been put in a round room and has been told to pee in the corner. My conscience is clear…. Until next time!

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This is the advertisement to be featured in the May addition of “The Harpswell Anchor.”

Time

I have been listening to some music from the late ’50s a time when I was first becoming interested in what was on the radio, and realizing that I was beginning to lose something in the process. Childhood and all the things I held dear about it were fast disappearing, and many of those I still clung to, I kept secret so I wouldn’t be ridiculed as “being a baby.” The wonders of Christmas, for example, I could only live vicariously through the eyes of my younger siblings. Junior High no longer held the fun of Valentine’s Day parties, or the local firemen giving us red, cellophane fire helmets for Fire Prevention Week. In their places we had a fossilized shop teacher, who admonished us that when we applied for jobs, we would all be ordered to demonstrate our ability to sweep floors, ignoring the fact that the entire class was bound for the college course. Other teachers began to threaten us with the “If you don’t pass this class, you’ll end up working in the shoe factory.” I eventually did that for a while, and despite the fact that the pay was abysmal, the work really wasn’t as unpleasant as some things I would later be faced with.
My grandmother was no longer able to pack up a lunch and walk my cousins and me down the road, across the low grounds to the shore, where we could splash in the icy, cold water of the Fore Shore, before coming back, gathering blueberries and wild strawberries as we came.
The toy soldiers and toy dump trucks became no longer cool, and even though I still wanted to play with them, I feared being seen doing so, so I didn’t.
Other friends were growing up at a faster rate, and were drifting off, becoming people I didn’t know any more.
I was also beginning to see the world through my parents’ eyes. I could see what they saw, memories of living on the edge of financial ruin in the depression, the uncertainty of even the next hour during the war, and I could not see in them the great optimism that was supposed to abound in the post-war time. Most of the people we knew had little money, and the only ones that did, were those few with dual incomes. The threat of a coming war with Russia lay heavy, not just that we lived in a Navy town with a big target painted on it, but my father had been called back to active duty during the Korean War, sent to Germany, and told stories or how close we were to another war in Central Europe.
I had vague dreams about what I would like to do, but didn’t know if they would come true. Childhood had been a reality, and not a bad one. I didn’t want to lose it, and didn’t want to lose the old folk, who were starting to go.
Those songs take me back to that time. I can still see the colors of the days, see the people and places that were so familiar to me, but it seems out of time, as if it had never happened. Is there a time when we will be able to go back and see the old places and the old friends again?
There are times in my past that are like that, and others that feel like yesterday. The smell of a passing diesel, the slap of certain helicopter blades, gritty sweat on a humid day that can bring my mind to Vietnam as if it were yesterday, even though it is 40 years in the past. Other years closer in time, also feel like they never happened. Time, or our memory of it, is a fluid thing, apparently, not running in a straight line.

Tribute To My Father

On Apirl 3, 2009, the Maine Health Care Association awarded its seventh annual Remember ME awards in the Hall of Flags in the State House in Augusta, ME to residents of assisted living homes in Maine, who have shown a lifetime of achievement. My father, William K. Millar, was one of this year's recipients. We drove him to Augusta for the ceremony, where he met, and shook hands with Governor Baldacci, and remarked that he "Was probably one of the only ones who could stand up to receive the award."
My father, a quiet man, usually the straight man for all our humor, has always reminded me of George Bailey in "It's A Wonderful Life." The opportunities he desired always seemed to be preempted by things beyond his control or his unwillingness to give up a principle. For that he is one of the richest men in town.
Below is the biography I was asked to write for his nomination. It is the biography of a person so typical of what Tom Brokaw calls, "the greatest generation."
"After graduating as president of his high school class, Mr. Millar had to pass up full tuition scholarships to both Bates and Middlebury Colleges to work to help his father support his mother and three younger siblings. After working for a year, he attended the University of New Hampshire.
In 1942, two weeks shy of his graduation, he was drafted, sent to Ft. Devens, MA and given a 24 pass to come back and graduate with his class where he had been a member of the track and cross country teams, Senior Skull, Inter-fraternity Council and President of Tau Kappa Epsilon fraternity.
He applied for and was accepted into one of the first Officer Candidate School “90 day wonder classes” and was commissioned as a 2LT in the infantry. He was sent to Ft. Leonard Wood, MO where he acted as a cadre member in training the 97th Infantry Division. In 1944 he was sent to the European Theater and was assigned as a platoon leader in the 104th “Timberwolf” Division.
He was wounded in action on December 11, 1944 and evacuated for emergency surgery to a MASH. For this action he was awarded the Bronze Star Medal for Valor and the Purple Heart. From the MASH he was returned to England for therapy, and was able to meet aunts and cousins, whom he had never seen before.
On his birthday, April 27, 1945, he rejoined his division for the liberation of Nordhausen Concentration Camp. It was this experience, which brought him to be one of the early members of the Maine Holocaust Commission. In working with this group, he traveled throughout the state speaking to high schools, colleges and universities.
In 1951, he was again called to active duty for the Korean conflict and was sent to Army Headquarters in Heidelberg, Germany.
After release from Active Duty, he became employed as an accountant at Bath Iron works, a position he held until he retired.
As a community member he was active in the First Parish Church, serving as a Sunday School teacher, superintendent of the Sunday School, deacon, treasurer and many other committees. When the vestry needed painting, he formed a group called the “Michaelangelo Society,” and urged prospective members to show up with paint brushes. Not a few were surprised to find out they had volunteered to paint the church, not join and art club.
On the state level he was the director of the UCC family camp at Pilgrim Lodge in Litchfield for three years.
He served the Town of Brunswick on the Property Tax Review Committee and taught bookkeeping for adult education.
He also served as the President of the Longfellow School PTA in Brunswick, broke tradition by being a “den mother” for his son’s Cub Scout Pack and was a referee for the Pee Wee Hockey program when it started.
He also served as a fundraiser during the building and development of Parkview Hospital.
In addition to all of these activities, he built his own summer home in Harpswell. At that time, there was no electricity, so he carried all the sand, cement and water for the foundation in 5 gallon pails and cut all the framing and paneling by hand.
He is currently a charter member of American Legion Post 171 in Harpswell along with his son and granddaughter, a captain serving in the Air Force. He was recently awarded a Silver Star by the state of Maine for his service and a second Bronze Star by the US Army for his Meritorious Service in WW II and during the Korean Conflict.
On April 27, 2009, William Millar will turn 90 years old."

Important Annoucement for CMP Customers

Central Maine Power will be purging its power lines on April 1, 2009. All CMP customers are advised to unplug all electrical appliances between 1030 and 1035 AM to avoid possible damage from power surges as the old electricity is forced out.
CMP advises that this is an annual event, occurring every April 1, and is necessitated by the changeover from heavier weight winter electricity to lighter weight summer electricity.
All customers are being thanked in advance for their cooperation.
“Flip a switch, and we’re there.”

Gleaning, or How I Heat for Free

When my wife and I first moved into our house in July 1979, it was not finished. The electrical system consisted of one socket. One half of it was occupied by a string of Romex wire, into which was spliced, at intervals, several light bulbs which ran from the kitchen up the ladder where the stairs would eventually be to the bedroom. The other half powered an ancient refrigerator, a donation from a former selectman of the town. Plumbing was a few months away from complete, and where there is a flower garden today, stood a small, plain outhouse. It could be illuminated at night, if need be, by a kerosene lamp. Insulation and sheet rock was non-existent. With a six-week old daughter, we knew there would be a race to beat winter.
We had both quit our teaching jobs to make the move. I was going to be the oyster baron of Casco Bay with my brother-in-law and another partner, and as soon as Heather was old enough to be left with a sitter, Susan would resume nursing. The oyster farm could pay us in nothing but sweat, and the $260 per month I earned as a captain in the Army Reserve, commanding a combat support company in New Hampshire, didn’t stretch very far.
We were entering the time we now refer to as “The Winter of Ham Hocks and Beans.” Each week we would make up a new soup, first pinto beans, then yellow eyes, peas, and lentils, which would be enriched with a ham hock and rice. Our diet was rounded out with dairy products and cereals we bought with W.I.C (Women, Infants, Children) coupons and sometimes augmented with a huge brick of government issue cheese my father-in-law would score at the senior center he attended. Store bought beer, or anything like that was out of the question, and so I brewed, from a recipe in a prohibition era book, a beverage called “molasses beer.” That rates its own story later, but anyone who drank it felt pity on us, and would bring enough real beer to leave behind a bottle or two.
Heat was a wood stove. Fortunately, we had the foresight to purchase five cords of hardwood before we left our jobs, but being neophytes, we had no idea how long that would last or how warm it would keep us. It was then I started gleaning. At the end of each day, I would go down to the shore to pick up drift wood and lug it back up the steep bank to the house. Most of it was punky soft wood, but sometimes the sea gods would give me a break and cough up a nice piece of oak or better an oak plank that had been part of a commercial wharf. Soaked with years of fish and engine oil, they burned really well.
We don’t eat bean soup as much as we used to, and the smell of molasses beer will never permeate the house again, but I still glean. People call me crazy for spending the year, when the bay isn’t ice-bound, hauling pieces of wood much to heavy for me to be carrying, up a steep bank to cut up with an electric chain saw. Soft wood, they say, is lousy firewood. Well, I have to disagree; free wood makes great heat, no matter what it is, oak, birch, spruce or poplar. True, softwood doesn’t build up a bed of coals, but I use it when we don’t need a fire all night. I figure I can heat my house for free, right into December, although the free wood usually lasts until about the end of November. And no, I don’t burn pressure treated wood. I save that for projects, such as the platform my rain barrel sits on.
Most of the shore ice is gone, so I went down to glean today. I got a piece of oak, about 4’ long. I figure, cut, split and dried, will last me a cold January night. I retrieved some stray pine and poplar, which will probably keep me warm for two nights in the late fall.
Maybe I am crazy or cheap as many tell me, although I prefer to think of myself as parsimonious, but when those first sharp nights of October come in, I’ll go to my wood pile, bring in an armload of free wood, and sit back with a beer not made from molasses and stay warm.

The Value of Cooking

My road to becoming a self sufficient cook has come by many stages. After leaving college and joining the Army, instead of a promised trip to Germany, I was sent to the back of the beyond at Fort Hood, Texas. There I was installed in the Bachelor Officers’ Quarters, which at the time offered a square, cinderblock room painted institutional green and furnished with a chair and bed, upon which were generations of cigarette burns reaching back to the Korean War. A common refrigerator in the hall was placed for the convenience of the BOQ rats, who stole everything desirable, someone else placed in it, such as beer. So I purchased a toaster oven in the exchange and stocked up on the cheap TV dinners available in the commissary at a cost of four for a dollar. Each of them consisted of a dollop of wall paper paste, three or four pathetic, dried kernels of frozen corn and something that was supposed to resemble either a piece of fried chicken or beef something or other.
As soon as I could, I made the acquaintance of some other single lieutenants in my battalion, and we rented a house. Those who cooked were exempt from doing the dishes, and so I learned to prepare my first delicacy: French fries. I made these by cutting up potatoes and throwing them into a pan of boiling vegetable oil, and served with some sort of fried or broiled meat, and, of course, beer.
Tours at Fort Hood for second lieutenants were mercifully brief, it being situated in the middle of the dry belt of Texas with no social life within a four hour drive. The buildings at the time were still WWII vintage yellow wooden structures which stretched out for miles. I was told Vietnam would be an improvement, and in some ways it was. At least the married guys couldn’t get any either.
Being in the infantry we subsisted on C-rations, various meals served in olive drab cans, with a fairly decent variety. One can consisted of the main meal such as “Ham and Eggs, chopped.” In the field cooking was accomplished with small bits of C-4, which we all carried. That’s right, the very C-4 which is still very much a part of the Al Qaeda basic supplies. It has the consistency of dried up marshmallows and is safe unless mashed into a combined space and ignited quickly. In the open it burns at a temperature about three times the surface of the sun. This was proven by one, who, after heating his coffee water, decided the right thing to do would be to douse the flame, and stepped on it. The result was that it melted a hole through the bottom of his boot. Since re-supplying the infantry with footgear was of rather low priority with the rear echelon folks, he stomped around the jungle with a hole the size of a fifty cent piece (ever seen one of them?) in the bottom of his boot.
My favorite recipe, taught to me by a self proclaimed Hill Billy from Kentucky was to take the can of beans and franks and the can of cheese, something akin to Cheez-whiz and melt the latter into the beans. The water crackers which accompanied the cheese were broken up into the mess, and as with all recipes, anointed with hot sauce. I still make it, only my wife makes us eat it off dishes, and not out of cans, the way it is supposed to be consumed.
Ham and Eggs, chopped, combat quiche, were generally eaten cold. That was a meal you either liked or detested. On one occasion, as a reservist, I was assigned to a regular army battalion at Ft. Knox. Trying to be a good guy, I volunteered to take them. The response was quick: “Get in line, bucko.” I happened to get into a unit of Ham &Eggs, chopped aficionados.
Stationed in Germany, I learned to make French onion soup from the French wife of a fellow unit member, and to cook chicken in beer from a civilian military intelligence officer. I kept all this knowledge, because I knew that a man, who can cook, is sexy…Even if he is a dork.
On our first date, I cooked my wife an eclectic mix of kilbasa soup, potato pancakes and shoo-fly pie. It was love at first bite. It certainly wasn’t my looks or money.
I have since learned that cookbooks are only guides and after a while you learn that you can mix things like ground chicken and nutmeg. And as my favorite painter, the late Bob Ross, used to say, “Let’s get crazy.”
Tonight my wife said she was going to cook pork chops in barbecue sauce. She said I didn’t sound excited. I replied her cooking was predictable.
Mine evokes fear. When my girls would come home from school and ask, “What are we having?” Heather, the oldest, would tiptoe into the kitchen and report back, “One of Dad’s creations.” They would look at each other with wide eyes and very uneasy faces.
Now, Heather eats sushi, that which commercial fishermen would refer to here in Maine as “bait,” or “gurry.” She recently offered me a piece, and said, “Try this, it tastes like the smell of Dick’s Lobster Wharf.
Yup, it did.