MY RED CHRISTMAS SHIRT:
Some ten or fifteen years in the distant past my wife, Yvette, sewed a red shirt as a Christmas gift for me. It's a lovely shirt, made of some material that is soft, warm, and cosy. Ideal for sitting in front of a fire and drinking a beer; something I am doing right now as I am typing this message. Drinking beer, that is. I have a good doctor. She says I can drink all the beer I would like to. I usually drink only one but it's nice to know I can drink another. It's like a nice cool bubbly feeling. Getting back to the red shirt, we bring it out every year for Christmas week, then it is washed and put away until next year. There is something unique about this shirt, though. The first time I tried to button the shirt, I couldn't. Then I discovered that the buttonholes were on the wrong side. Yvette was so accustomed to making her own garments, she automatically put the buttonholes for my shirt on the wrong side.
Incidentally, do you know why buttonholes for women and men are different? In the olden days, women had maids who dressed them so the buttons were placed for someone who is facing you to button easily. There are some other explanations but this one seems to be the most acceptable.
Back to the red shirt. This morning, while my 96-year old nimble fingers were buttoning the shirt, I counted them. There are seven. This is interesting, I thought. December 7 was my birthday and this birthday shirt has seven buttons. It actually has eight counting the top button which I do not use anymore. I don't wear ties so it is just left open. I pondered this wondrous event for a few seconds and decided I would go back and review the past and select the seven most memorable events in my life. I thought about it off and on most of the day and whittled it down to the following seven in the order they occurred.
1. Graduating from knickers to full-length trousers. I was now grown-up.
2. My first solo flight in the '09. The exhilaration of being alone in the skies was indescribable.
3. Enlisting in the military. America's entry into World War II was imminent and I wanted a front row
seat in the branch of my choice.
4. Stepping off the ramp of an LCI and standing on Omaha Beach, France amidst the carnage. It must
have been Hell incarnate on D-Day.
5. Getting fired from my job at Food Fair Stores. I was free from the shackles of working for someone. It also opened up a whole new vista for fun and adventure. Now I had the time and the resources to
do whatever I wanted to. It was like grabbing the brass ring on life's merry-go-round.
6. Getting married to Yvette. It opened up a whole new world of fun and responsibility; ending 60 years
of bachelorhood. It also brought me to Tennessee.
7. Moving to Tennessee. In Nomad News No.33 I chronicled a series of events, starting in 1940, that
led me to Crossville in 1988. As I have written before, I believe that I have been blessed with a
Sheltering Angel since birth; not one that controls me, but one that guides and protects me. This
angel has revealed the reason I am in Crossville; the purpose is yet to be revealed.
8. The empty buttonhole.When the mystery of my purpose for being in Tennessee is revealed, it will be
printed here.
That's the tale of my red Christmas shirt. (Copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
P.S.: If anyone would like to see other issues of Nomad News, go to: mountainchat.blogspot.com
P.S: I don't know why the machine started printing half lines when I listed the seven events in my life. If anyone knows, I would appreciate hearing from you. (Copyright 204-Andrew M. Dolan)
1.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Friday, December 26, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.118
DID RELIGION MAKE THE GREATEST GENERATION GREAT?
Some time back, I referred to talk about the Greatest Generation as being mostly nonsense. There was nothing great about us. We just had a job to do, we went out and did it and most of us came home and went back to work. Of and on I would think about this. Maybe I was missing something. Several days ago, while laying in bed one morning, my brain was illuminated by the following memory: As kids, with few exceptions, everyone attended Sunday School until we graduated from high school. I pondered this for several days. Where did this fit in to make us the Greatest?
. I receive a lot of e-mails with videos attached. I watch very few. I don't wish to gamble five or ten minutes watching something that I might consider a waste of my time. Today, I received an e-mail and something told me to watch it. Was it my sheltering angel? In ninety seconds I found the answer to why Sunday School was what made the Greatest Generation great: In the video, the presenter has asked a Chinese economist who was coming to the end of a Fullbright Fellowship, if he had learned anything unexpected or surprising. His answer was: "Yes, religion is critical to the functioning of democracy because democracy was not designed for the government to oversee what everyone does but democracy works because most people most of the time voluntarily choose to obey the laws. In the past, most Americans attended church or synagogue every week where they learned to follow the rules because they believed they were not only accountable to Society but accountable to God. In the absence of religion, where are the institutions that are going to teach the next generation that they need to voluntarily choose to obey the laws too, because if you take away religion, you can't hire enough police."
The World's Dooms Day is not just below the eastern horizon. America's is!
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Some time back, I referred to talk about the Greatest Generation as being mostly nonsense. There was nothing great about us. We just had a job to do, we went out and did it and most of us came home and went back to work. Of and on I would think about this. Maybe I was missing something. Several days ago, while laying in bed one morning, my brain was illuminated by the following memory: As kids, with few exceptions, everyone attended Sunday School until we graduated from high school. I pondered this for several days. Where did this fit in to make us the Greatest?
. I receive a lot of e-mails with videos attached. I watch very few. I don't wish to gamble five or ten minutes watching something that I might consider a waste of my time. Today, I received an e-mail and something told me to watch it. Was it my sheltering angel? In ninety seconds I found the answer to why Sunday School was what made the Greatest Generation great: In the video, the presenter has asked a Chinese economist who was coming to the end of a Fullbright Fellowship, if he had learned anything unexpected or surprising. His answer was: "Yes, religion is critical to the functioning of democracy because democracy was not designed for the government to oversee what everyone does but democracy works because most people most of the time voluntarily choose to obey the laws. In the past, most Americans attended church or synagogue every week where they learned to follow the rules because they believed they were not only accountable to Society but accountable to God. In the absence of religion, where are the institutions that are going to teach the next generation that they need to voluntarily choose to obey the laws too, because if you take away religion, you can't hire enough police."
The World's Dooms Day is not just below the eastern horizon. America's is!
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, December 20, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.117
TERI'S POUND CAKE:
This is my Christmas present to yo'll. A French friend of ours, Teri, gave me this recipe about 30 years ago. I have made over 100 cakes and they have come perfect every time when baked for 60 minutes at 350-degrees.. I usually bake the cake in a 11-inch cake ring pan but I have used a eight-inch bundt pan on occasion. You might have to bake a few minutes longer with the bundt pan. Check with a toothpick after 60 minutes.
HERE'S THE RECIPE: 2&1/4 sticks of butter
3 cups sugar
3 cups flour
1/4 tsp baking powder
6 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
pinch salt
8 oz. evaporated milk
Melt butter, blend in sugar, add eggs one at a time, pour in milk slowly, add flour with baking powder. Mix well. slow mix for one minute, add vanilla, blend well.
I had a friend use this recipe and she said her cake didn't come out anything like mine. I'm not a baker so I don't have a clue as to what she might have done, but if I had to guess, I would say she didn't mix well all along the line. I don't understand "mix well" so I might overdo it, but they come out just fine if I do say so myself. Mix well, Andy (Andrew M. Dolan 2014)
This is my Christmas present to yo'll. A French friend of ours, Teri, gave me this recipe about 30 years ago. I have made over 100 cakes and they have come perfect every time when baked for 60 minutes at 350-degrees.. I usually bake the cake in a 11-inch cake ring pan but I have used a eight-inch bundt pan on occasion. You might have to bake a few minutes longer with the bundt pan. Check with a toothpick after 60 minutes.
HERE'S THE RECIPE: 2&1/4 sticks of butter
3 cups sugar
3 cups flour
1/4 tsp baking powder
6 eggs
1 tsp vanilla
pinch salt
8 oz. evaporated milk
Melt butter, blend in sugar, add eggs one at a time, pour in milk slowly, add flour with baking powder. Mix well. slow mix for one minute, add vanilla, blend well.
I had a friend use this recipe and she said her cake didn't come out anything like mine. I'm not a baker so I don't have a clue as to what she might have done, but if I had to guess, I would say she didn't mix well all along the line. I don't understand "mix well" so I might overdo it, but they come out just fine if I do say so myself. Mix well, Andy (Andrew M. Dolan 2014)
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Nomad News Vol.5-No.116
EVIL PERMEATES WASHINGTON:
"The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch and do nothing."-Albert Einstein Today, I see a repetition of the exact same situation that existed in the 1930s when I listened on the radio to Hitler mesmerize his adored audiences with all the good benefits he would bestow upon them. Today, I hear Obama preach the same sermon from the same pulpit and am dumbfounded that his adored audiences eat the same slop from the same plate and say "Thank You".
Yes, evil is alive and thriving in Washington DC today. Evil has infiltrated the highest levels of government, every government department, the Congress, and, yes, even the Supreme Court, not to mention the lower courts that are supposed to interpret the Constitution of the United States.
Generally speaking, I believe I lean more toward being an optimist. Where a pessimist has a glass half empty, I have a glass half full. Where a pessimist looks at December 21 being the start of cold, miserable winter; I look at December 21 as a start toward spring; each day gets a wee bit longer. Then there is the story about a young boy whose acute optimism annoyed his family. The kid's birthday was approaching and he asked for a pony. Instead of a pony, the family thought it would cure him if they deposited a large pile of manure in his bedroom. They did. When the kid came in and saw the manure pile he immediately started digging through it. When asked what he was doing he replied: "With all this manure there has to be a pony somewhere".
That said, today Washington DC is one big manure pile. I was of the opinion that America had passed the point of no return and would follow in the footsteps of Rome. Being an optimist, I'm ready to go one more round. Maybe,, just maybe, if we dig into that pile we will uncover a knight in shining armour riding a white horse who will capture the imagination of the thinking populace and lead us back to a constitutional republic in 2016. It's a long shot. It may take another Pearl Harbor or 9/11 to be the catalyst. So be it.
(Copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
"The world will not be destroyed by those who do evil, but by those who watch and do nothing."-Albert Einstein Today, I see a repetition of the exact same situation that existed in the 1930s when I listened on the radio to Hitler mesmerize his adored audiences with all the good benefits he would bestow upon them. Today, I hear Obama preach the same sermon from the same pulpit and am dumbfounded that his adored audiences eat the same slop from the same plate and say "Thank You".
Yes, evil is alive and thriving in Washington DC today. Evil has infiltrated the highest levels of government, every government department, the Congress, and, yes, even the Supreme Court, not to mention the lower courts that are supposed to interpret the Constitution of the United States.
Generally speaking, I believe I lean more toward being an optimist. Where a pessimist has a glass half empty, I have a glass half full. Where a pessimist looks at December 21 being the start of cold, miserable winter; I look at December 21 as a start toward spring; each day gets a wee bit longer. Then there is the story about a young boy whose acute optimism annoyed his family. The kid's birthday was approaching and he asked for a pony. Instead of a pony, the family thought it would cure him if they deposited a large pile of manure in his bedroom. They did. When the kid came in and saw the manure pile he immediately started digging through it. When asked what he was doing he replied: "With all this manure there has to be a pony somewhere".
That said, today Washington DC is one big manure pile. I was of the opinion that America had passed the point of no return and would follow in the footsteps of Rome. Being an optimist, I'm ready to go one more round. Maybe,, just maybe, if we dig into that pile we will uncover a knight in shining armour riding a white horse who will capture the imagination of the thinking populace and lead us back to a constitutional republic in 2016. It's a long shot. It may take another Pearl Harbor or 9/11 to be the catalyst. So be it.
(Copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Thursday, December 11, 2014
Nomad News Vol.5-No.115
SMELLEY'S STINKERS FROM BUZZ BOMB ALLEY: In the winter of 1944-45, while I was in Belgium, we were in the direct flight path for the German V-1 pulse jet powered flying bombs destined for London. We called them buzz bombs. We knew when one was coming when we heard the anti-aircraft batteries in the distance firing at one. As the next battery in line picked up the target we would soon hear the "put-put" of the engine and soon it would be in our general area and heading westward toward London. Often, one would malfunction and the engine would stop. It was then a case of waiting to see where it would land. Fortunately, none ever dropped close or I wouldn't be writing this
Our squadron was part of the 363rd Tactical Reconnaissance Group. While we already had a unit crest featuring a figure from Greek mythology, I came up with a less than classical idea for an insignia for Colonel James Smelley's Group. I wrote a letter to Len Warren, assistant political cartoonist for The Philadelphia Record, who I knew from working at the Record before the war. I asked Len if he would render his interpretation of an eager beaver with a brown nose and a red derriere riding a buzz bomb and holding a gold brick. The result was the drawing on the left. I drew a circle with the words "363rd Photo Reconnaissance Group around the circle and Len's sketch in the middle. I showed my art to Colonel Smelley during a visit he made to our squadron. It went over like a lead balloon. In fact, I nearly lost my Staff Sergeant stripes. I understand a more dignified group insignia was approved in 1952 and that Colonel Smelley officially changed his last name to "Shelley" in 1959. (Copyright-Andrew M. Dolan 2014)
(P.S.) I have the original sketch of the insignia I showed to Colonel Smelley but I can't lay my hands on it. When and if I do, I will place it next to Len Warren's art.)
Our squadron was part of the 363rd Tactical Reconnaissance Group. While we already had a unit crest featuring a figure from Greek mythology, I came up with a less than classical idea for an insignia for Colonel James Smelley's Group. I wrote a letter to Len Warren, assistant political cartoonist for The Philadelphia Record, who I knew from working at the Record before the war. I asked Len if he would render his interpretation of an eager beaver with a brown nose and a red derriere riding a buzz bomb and holding a gold brick. The result was the drawing on the left. I drew a circle with the words "363rd Photo Reconnaissance Group around the circle and Len's sketch in the middle. I showed my art to Colonel Smelley during a visit he made to our squadron. It went over like a lead balloon. In fact, I nearly lost my Staff Sergeant stripes. I understand a more dignified group insignia was approved in 1952 and that Colonel Smelley officially changed his last name to "Shelley" in 1959. (Copyright-Andrew M. Dolan 2014)
(P.S.) I have the original sketch of the insignia I showed to Colonel Smelley but I can't lay my hands on it. When and if I do, I will place it next to Len Warren's art.)
Nomad News Vol.5-No.114
MAY GOD GRANT YOU ALWAYS
To all my friends: I have received beaucoup messages with wishes for a happy 96th birthday. I appreciate and treasure every one of them. So far, I have had a wonderful and memorable life; most of it revolving around the word FUN! There is an old Irish saying that goes like this: May God grant you always; a sunbeam to warm you; a moon beam to charm you; and a sheltering angel so nothing can harm you. I believe I have had such an angel protecting me since the day I was born and when I survived the deadly 1918-1919 flu that killed millions when I was less than a year old. May God grant you always this same protection.
I have chronicled a number of incidents in my life where I escaped possible death or serious injury and some mysterious force has intervened. I have also chronicled events in my life, starting in 1940, that show positively that I was destined to come to Crossville, Tennessee and, that I am here for a purpose that has yet to be revealed. That is what keeps me going as I try to be the best I can be each day.
The Red baron, as my wife sometimes calls me. (copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
To all my friends: I have received beaucoup messages with wishes for a happy 96th birthday. I appreciate and treasure every one of them. So far, I have had a wonderful and memorable life; most of it revolving around the word FUN! There is an old Irish saying that goes like this: May God grant you always; a sunbeam to warm you; a moon beam to charm you; and a sheltering angel so nothing can harm you. I believe I have had such an angel protecting me since the day I was born and when I survived the deadly 1918-1919 flu that killed millions when I was less than a year old. May God grant you always this same protection.
I have chronicled a number of incidents in my life where I escaped possible death or serious injury and some mysterious force has intervened. I have also chronicled events in my life, starting in 1940, that show positively that I was destined to come to Crossville, Tennessee and, that I am here for a purpose that has yet to be revealed. That is what keeps me going as I try to be the best I can be each day.
The Red baron, as my wife sometimes calls me. (copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.113
OH, MY ACHING BACK:
For years, I have suffered from back discomfort. I believe the problem really started when I was eight years old. One summer, my brother picked green beans at Mr. Osler's farm. Joe was paid 50-cents a bushel or a 5/8-bushel (I forget exactly which it was). In any event, Joe paid me 10-cents a bushel to help him. At the end of the second day my back hurt and I saw that I could pick beans nearly as fast as Joe could. I asked for a pay raise. It was refused so, I quit my first job.
Now, fast forward to my middle sixties. We were still in New Jersey when I visited a neurologist. The first thing he said was: "I wouldn't suggest an operation because you don't have that much time to live." Nice fellow. He then made an appointment for me to come to his Philadelphia office. There, he hooked me up to a thousand little needle-like electrodes. At the end of the test and the results tabulated he said: "What would you think of making an appointment with Dr. I Forget His Name, a neurosurgeon, for an appointment. I replied: "Not much." and put my shirt back on and escaped from that den with my my back and my back pain still intact.
Through the years I have been able to live with the discomfort, helped considerably with Nikken magnetic products for which we were distributors. Several months ago I started waking up in the middle of the night with pain in my left foot instep. I would rub some CM Complex Cream (a Nikken product) on the area and the pain would disappear, magically, almost immediately. Over time the pain increased and the Cream became less effective. I mentioned this to my podiatrist and he told me the foot pain was coming from my back and recommended changing my sleep position and putting a pillow between my legs. This worked but I have been sleeping on my right side all my life and changing position was uncomfortable. On the next visit to to my chiropractor, he advised placing arch supports in my shoes and rolling my foot over a frozen plastic bottle of water for five to ten minutes each night before retiring. I used a combination of the two suggestions and after about a month, the report is in. I am sleeping all night without any discomfort. When I had some pain, I just rolled over on my back for a minute or so until the discomfort disappeared, roll back on my side and continue to sleep the rest of the night. As of this writing, I have slept four nights in a row, undisturbed by any pain or discomfort.
I'm just passing this along in case it might help someone in a similar situation. (Copyright 2014 by Andrew M. Dolan)
For years, I have suffered from back discomfort. I believe the problem really started when I was eight years old. One summer, my brother picked green beans at Mr. Osler's farm. Joe was paid 50-cents a bushel or a 5/8-bushel (I forget exactly which it was). In any event, Joe paid me 10-cents a bushel to help him. At the end of the second day my back hurt and I saw that I could pick beans nearly as fast as Joe could. I asked for a pay raise. It was refused so, I quit my first job.
Now, fast forward to my middle sixties. We were still in New Jersey when I visited a neurologist. The first thing he said was: "I wouldn't suggest an operation because you don't have that much time to live." Nice fellow. He then made an appointment for me to come to his Philadelphia office. There, he hooked me up to a thousand little needle-like electrodes. At the end of the test and the results tabulated he said: "What would you think of making an appointment with Dr. I Forget His Name, a neurosurgeon, for an appointment. I replied: "Not much." and put my shirt back on and escaped from that den with my my back and my back pain still intact.
Through the years I have been able to live with the discomfort, helped considerably with Nikken magnetic products for which we were distributors. Several months ago I started waking up in the middle of the night with pain in my left foot instep. I would rub some CM Complex Cream (a Nikken product) on the area and the pain would disappear, magically, almost immediately. Over time the pain increased and the Cream became less effective. I mentioned this to my podiatrist and he told me the foot pain was coming from my back and recommended changing my sleep position and putting a pillow between my legs. This worked but I have been sleeping on my right side all my life and changing position was uncomfortable. On the next visit to to my chiropractor, he advised placing arch supports in my shoes and rolling my foot over a frozen plastic bottle of water for five to ten minutes each night before retiring. I used a combination of the two suggestions and after about a month, the report is in. I am sleeping all night without any discomfort. When I had some pain, I just rolled over on my back for a minute or so until the discomfort disappeared, roll back on my side and continue to sleep the rest of the night. As of this writing, I have slept four nights in a row, undisturbed by any pain or discomfort.
I'm just passing this along in case it might help someone in a similar situation. (Copyright 2014 by Andrew M. Dolan)
Monday, November 3, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.112
ARMY AIR CORPS, FIRST IN GERMANY:
I believe I wrote about Jay Shumway, now a deceased member of VFW Post 5025, here in Crossville, but I couldn't find where. In any event, Jay was a Pearl Harbor survivor and went ashore on Omaha Beach on D-Day 1944. Jay constantly lamented that when he got to Paris, the Army Air Corps was already there. I constantly reminded him that we were tired of waiting for the ground forces to break out at St. Lo, so we just hopped over them and proceeded to Paris.
What Jay didn't know was, we bypassed him and had planes taking off and landing in Germany before the first ground units crossed the border. This came about when we departed Belgium and proceeded to Venlo, Holland. The airport at Veno straddled the border between Germany. . Maintenance and administration were located in Holland but the runways were in Germany. Consequently, our pilots were operating in Germany before the first infantry troops crossed. We never thought about it at that time but, we could have taken a stroll over at our leisure. That would have been kind of neat. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
I believe I wrote about Jay Shumway, now a deceased member of VFW Post 5025, here in Crossville, but I couldn't find where. In any event, Jay was a Pearl Harbor survivor and went ashore on Omaha Beach on D-Day 1944. Jay constantly lamented that when he got to Paris, the Army Air Corps was already there. I constantly reminded him that we were tired of waiting for the ground forces to break out at St. Lo, so we just hopped over them and proceeded to Paris.
What Jay didn't know was, we bypassed him and had planes taking off and landing in Germany before the first ground units crossed the border. This came about when we departed Belgium and proceeded to Venlo, Holland. The airport at Veno straddled the border between Germany. . Maintenance and administration were located in Holland but the runways were in Germany. Consequently, our pilots were operating in Germany before the first infantry troops crossed. We never thought about it at that time but, we could have taken a stroll over at our leisure. That would have been kind of neat. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Friday, October 17, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.111
GOOD FOLKS:
We don't usually eat breakfast out, but last week Yvette had to get a blood test and you know how that goes. No food or drink after midnight. So, we stopped at the Triple D Diner (formerly Toys). We placed our order, the food arrived along with the tab. We had nearly finished when the waitress came over and picked up the tab and took it to the register. She returned and said: "The man with the orange jacket, who just left, paid for your breakfast. He does this all the time." Here's a Good Folk who is happy and enjoys what he is doing anonymously. As Paul Harvey would say: "Now for the rest of the story": This is the third time this happened to us during the last year. We were in Cracker Barrel one evening and an anonymous party bought our dinner; another evening it was at the Gondola Restaurant. I was not wearing anything that indicated I was a veteran either, so it couldn't have been that. Just in the event this might be someone who reads what I write: "Thank You".
This started me thinking about all the wonderful Good Folks we have met since moving from New Jersey 26 years ago. I hesitate to select anyone in particular because every one deserves our appreciation but there are a couple I would like to comment on. One that came to mind immediately was Butch Burgess. Butch recently retired after 16 years as Sheriff of Cumberland County. Butch weighs in somewhere between 499 and 500 pounds. His body weight is around 250 pounds and he has a 250 pound heart to match it. Crossville is a beautiful little city located in a beautiful part of Tennessee. Unfortunately, it is also the center for many methamphetamine labs in private homes, often occupied with small children and babies. In such cases, the children are removed immediately, wrapped in clean blankets brought in by the police and taken to social services.
The children are bathed and outfitted in new garments, often provided by Butch and his wife, Vickie. The couple often keep some children in their home until a suitable location is found.
Some 15 or so years back, the Crossville Carving Cub invited Butch to speak at one of our monthly meetings. He mentioned that his dream was to have a Halfway House where these Meth children could be housed and taken care of until a suitable home was found for them. We decided we would carve a hundred Snowman Christmas Tree ornaments as a Club project. We did and the Hallmark Card Shop agreed to handle the sale of the ornaments for $10.00 each. In no time they were sold and we invited Butch back to present to him a check for $1000.00. Then, a remarkable thing happened. Butch told us that he needed exactly that mount to close on a house the next day that would turn out to be the House of Hope. He continued that he did not know where he was going to get that amount of money so it was like Dollars from Heaven. And, I know it was exactly that.
Another couple was Sam and Ethel Pugh. The Pughs were one of the first Good Folks we met when moving to Mayland. In their younger years they took in a number of foster children. Ethel related the following story to me: One of their charges was a three-year old girl and her brother, Jack. Jack was a crawler and he loved to open the lower kitchen cupboard doors and pull all the pots and pans out into the middle of the room. One day when Ethel was preoccupied with the girl, Jack was up to his usual pastime and when Ethel and the little girl returned, she said to the little girl: "What are we going to do with Jack?" The reply was: "We'll just have to keep him and love him." And, that's what they did, of course.
Another Good Folk we met before even coming to Crossville was Boyd Raper. If it wasn't for Boyd, we may never have moved to Crossville. We had purchased our previous Tennessee home in Mayland, thinking we might some day retire and move here. We were not yet ready, so we asked Mr. Raper if he would handle the rental. He agreed, but after looking at the property, he said he would have no problem renting it, but anyone he rented it to would destroy it, and he didn't want that responsibility on his shoulders. We agreed and decided we would pack up and move down as soon as possible. Who knows where we would have ended up if that decision had not been made. I know I would have missed one of he greatest joys in my life. There is no doubt that my Sheltering Angel was looking after me, as She has done during my lifetime.
I don't know how many people read what I write. It's not important. I write for my own elucidation and, it keeps me out of the barrooms. Talking about that, many years ago, before your time, there was a men's, magazine called True. In one of the editions there was a cartoon featuring two fishing buddies, in a boat, drinking beer. A case of beer was on the middle seat, and their fishing poles hanging languidly over the side. Now, that's the picture of two true fishermen. The caption, below the cartoon, read: "I went through ten doctors before I found one with the right prescription". This is important because a few days ago, the exact same thing happened to me. How lucky can one get. Only the Shadow knows.
I got a little off-subject there so, I must be running out of space and will continue with Good Folks a bit later. (Copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
We don't usually eat breakfast out, but last week Yvette had to get a blood test and you know how that goes. No food or drink after midnight. So, we stopped at the Triple D Diner (formerly Toys). We placed our order, the food arrived along with the tab. We had nearly finished when the waitress came over and picked up the tab and took it to the register. She returned and said: "The man with the orange jacket, who just left, paid for your breakfast. He does this all the time." Here's a Good Folk who is happy and enjoys what he is doing anonymously. As Paul Harvey would say: "Now for the rest of the story": This is the third time this happened to us during the last year. We were in Cracker Barrel one evening and an anonymous party bought our dinner; another evening it was at the Gondola Restaurant. I was not wearing anything that indicated I was a veteran either, so it couldn't have been that. Just in the event this might be someone who reads what I write: "Thank You".
This started me thinking about all the wonderful Good Folks we have met since moving from New Jersey 26 years ago. I hesitate to select anyone in particular because every one deserves our appreciation but there are a couple I would like to comment on. One that came to mind immediately was Butch Burgess. Butch recently retired after 16 years as Sheriff of Cumberland County. Butch weighs in somewhere between 499 and 500 pounds. His body weight is around 250 pounds and he has a 250 pound heart to match it. Crossville is a beautiful little city located in a beautiful part of Tennessee. Unfortunately, it is also the center for many methamphetamine labs in private homes, often occupied with small children and babies. In such cases, the children are removed immediately, wrapped in clean blankets brought in by the police and taken to social services.
The children are bathed and outfitted in new garments, often provided by Butch and his wife, Vickie. The couple often keep some children in their home until a suitable location is found.
Some 15 or so years back, the Crossville Carving Cub invited Butch to speak at one of our monthly meetings. He mentioned that his dream was to have a Halfway House where these Meth children could be housed and taken care of until a suitable home was found for them. We decided we would carve a hundred Snowman Christmas Tree ornaments as a Club project. We did and the Hallmark Card Shop agreed to handle the sale of the ornaments for $10.00 each. In no time they were sold and we invited Butch back to present to him a check for $1000.00. Then, a remarkable thing happened. Butch told us that he needed exactly that mount to close on a house the next day that would turn out to be the House of Hope. He continued that he did not know where he was going to get that amount of money so it was like Dollars from Heaven. And, I know it was exactly that.
Another couple was Sam and Ethel Pugh. The Pughs were one of the first Good Folks we met when moving to Mayland. In their younger years they took in a number of foster children. Ethel related the following story to me: One of their charges was a three-year old girl and her brother, Jack. Jack was a crawler and he loved to open the lower kitchen cupboard doors and pull all the pots and pans out into the middle of the room. One day when Ethel was preoccupied with the girl, Jack was up to his usual pastime and when Ethel and the little girl returned, she said to the little girl: "What are we going to do with Jack?" The reply was: "We'll just have to keep him and love him." And, that's what they did, of course.
Another Good Folk we met before even coming to Crossville was Boyd Raper. If it wasn't for Boyd, we may never have moved to Crossville. We had purchased our previous Tennessee home in Mayland, thinking we might some day retire and move here. We were not yet ready, so we asked Mr. Raper if he would handle the rental. He agreed, but after looking at the property, he said he would have no problem renting it, but anyone he rented it to would destroy it, and he didn't want that responsibility on his shoulders. We agreed and decided we would pack up and move down as soon as possible. Who knows where we would have ended up if that decision had not been made. I know I would have missed one of he greatest joys in my life. There is no doubt that my Sheltering Angel was looking after me, as She has done during my lifetime.
I don't know how many people read what I write. It's not important. I write for my own elucidation and, it keeps me out of the barrooms. Talking about that, many years ago, before your time, there was a men's, magazine called True. In one of the editions there was a cartoon featuring two fishing buddies, in a boat, drinking beer. A case of beer was on the middle seat, and their fishing poles hanging languidly over the side. Now, that's the picture of two true fishermen. The caption, below the cartoon, read: "I went through ten doctors before I found one with the right prescription". This is important because a few days ago, the exact same thing happened to me. How lucky can one get. Only the Shadow knows.
I got a little off-subject there so, I must be running out of space and will continue with Good Folks a bit later. (Copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.110
TIME FOR THE BLACK-ROBE REGIMENT TO FIGHT BACK:
Black-Robe Regiment was the name the British gave to the courageous and patriotic American clergy during the early days of the Republic's founding. Every Sunday they would stand in their pulpits wearing the long black clerical robes of that era and preach the word of God without fear. They would tell their congregations who they should or should not vote for. They would preach on current topics and explain their importance in the founding of the new nation, and above all, they would preach on the responsibility of the public to vote, because in order to have a good government there was a need for good citizens.
A notable patriot-pastor of the day was Pastor John Muhlenberg. From the pulpit of his church in Woodstock, Virginia, he would preach the word of God and, when finished, hang up his black robe to reveal the uniform of an officer in the 8th Virginia Regiment and one of General George Washington's most trusted officers. In one of Pastor Muhlenberg's famous sermons, he finished with these words: "But there is also a time to fight, and that time has now come."
" And the time has now come for today's Black-robe Regiments "to embrace the responsibilities that God has given them related to the nation and its culture, to refuse the current trend of compartmentalization and reclaim the extensive role that He has ordained for them." The last two lines are from the Black-robe Regiment website. Who will stand with Pastor Muhlenberg and say "the time has now come".
On November 4 we will be electing all 435 members of the House of Representatives and 33 Senators.
It is imperative that the Republicans hold on to control of the House and elect 6 more Republican senators to get control of the Senate. This may be the last chance we get to save America by putting the reins on Obama. In Tennessee, Lamar Alexander has a challenger. In the Primary Election it was "Joe Carr, not Lamar". Unfortunately, Carr could not compete with Lamar's warchest and Alexander was selected as the Republican candidate. Like me, whether you like Lamar or not, he has to be reelected. Don't stay home. This election is critical, as are the rest. If you live in a state where the Democrat is being challenged by a Republican, vote for the challenger. It's critical.
Remember, "Freedom isn't free. Freedom is for those who are willing to fight and die for it."
(Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Black-Robe Regiment was the name the British gave to the courageous and patriotic American clergy during the early days of the Republic's founding. Every Sunday they would stand in their pulpits wearing the long black clerical robes of that era and preach the word of God without fear. They would tell their congregations who they should or should not vote for. They would preach on current topics and explain their importance in the founding of the new nation, and above all, they would preach on the responsibility of the public to vote, because in order to have a good government there was a need for good citizens.
A notable patriot-pastor of the day was Pastor John Muhlenberg. From the pulpit of his church in Woodstock, Virginia, he would preach the word of God and, when finished, hang up his black robe to reveal the uniform of an officer in the 8th Virginia Regiment and one of General George Washington's most trusted officers. In one of Pastor Muhlenberg's famous sermons, he finished with these words: "But there is also a time to fight, and that time has now come."
" And the time has now come for today's Black-robe Regiments "to embrace the responsibilities that God has given them related to the nation and its culture, to refuse the current trend of compartmentalization and reclaim the extensive role that He has ordained for them." The last two lines are from the Black-robe Regiment website. Who will stand with Pastor Muhlenberg and say "the time has now come".
On November 4 we will be electing all 435 members of the House of Representatives and 33 Senators.
It is imperative that the Republicans hold on to control of the House and elect 6 more Republican senators to get control of the Senate. This may be the last chance we get to save America by putting the reins on Obama. In Tennessee, Lamar Alexander has a challenger. In the Primary Election it was "Joe Carr, not Lamar". Unfortunately, Carr could not compete with Lamar's warchest and Alexander was selected as the Republican candidate. Like me, whether you like Lamar or not, he has to be reelected. Don't stay home. This election is critical, as are the rest. If you live in a state where the Democrat is being challenged by a Republican, vote for the challenger. It's critical.
Remember, "Freedom isn't free. Freedom is for those who are willing to fight and die for it."
(Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Thursday, October 2, 2014
omad News-Vol.5-No.109
CLOSE CALL ABOARD THE "SNEAKY PETE":
After the war, my friend Jules "Pete" verga invited me to go fishing with him on his boat that he kept docked in Barnegat Light on Long Beach Island. We fished off-shore for Bluefish and caught quite a few. I had never salt water fished and became an instant addict. I became a weekend resident aboard the Sneaky Pete, the name of Pete's boat. We usually passed our days fishing and our evenings at Kubels Bar.
One day in late October, Pete and I were trolling for Striped Bass inside the breaker line along Island Beach, the island just north of Long Beach Island, NJ. The sun was warm for the season, the air calm, and the sea relatively calm. Pete had built an elevated seat for himself on the starboard side where he could control the throttle and steering wheel with his feet so he could cast and fish. All of a sudden, Pete hollered “Hang On” as an unexpected large wave came out of nowhere and broke against the starboard side of the boat and nearly beached her. The following happened in a second or two. Instead of standing on the deck, I was crouched down on the inside gunwale and staring at a startled surf fisherman on the beach. Pete’s legs were dangling and the Sneaky Pete was on her beam end. I figured the boat was going to capsize and I had two choices: jump out and hoped I would clear the boat or stay where I was and let her drop over me. I opted for the second one and then she righted herself. Fortunately, the wave, seeming to atone for its action, carried us out again into deeper water as it receded, leaving us quite shaken. This Sneaky Pete was a Carl Adams 26-foot sea skiff. Carl Adams was a highly respected boat builder on the Jersey coast. We decided the design of the boat saved the day from a calamity.
*for you land lubbers, starboard is the right side of a boat and port is the left side. Gunwale (pronounced gunnel) is the the side of a boat. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
After the war, my friend Jules "Pete" verga invited me to go fishing with him on his boat that he kept docked in Barnegat Light on Long Beach Island. We fished off-shore for Bluefish and caught quite a few. I had never salt water fished and became an instant addict. I became a weekend resident aboard the Sneaky Pete, the name of Pete's boat. We usually passed our days fishing and our evenings at Kubels Bar.
One day in late October, Pete and I were trolling for Striped Bass inside the breaker line along Island Beach, the island just north of Long Beach Island, NJ. The sun was warm for the season, the air calm, and the sea relatively calm. Pete had built an elevated seat for himself on the starboard side where he could control the throttle and steering wheel with his feet so he could cast and fish. All of a sudden, Pete hollered “Hang On” as an unexpected large wave came out of nowhere and broke against the starboard side of the boat and nearly beached her. The following happened in a second or two. Instead of standing on the deck, I was crouched down on the inside gunwale and staring at a startled surf fisherman on the beach. Pete’s legs were dangling and the Sneaky Pete was on her beam end. I figured the boat was going to capsize and I had two choices: jump out and hoped I would clear the boat or stay where I was and let her drop over me. I opted for the second one and then she righted herself. Fortunately, the wave, seeming to atone for its action, carried us out again into deeper water as it receded, leaving us quite shaken. This Sneaky Pete was a Carl Adams 26-foot sea skiff. Carl Adams was a highly respected boat builder on the Jersey coast. We decided the design of the boat saved the day from a calamity.
*for you land lubbers, starboard is the right side of a boat and port is the left side. Gunwale (pronounced gunnel) is the the side of a boat. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.108
A TRAGEDY THAT STARTED IN BARNEGAT LIGHT: The story I'm about to recount started in Barnegat Light NJ around 1960 as clearly as I can recall. My brother Joe was captain of a tanker and was at sea for 90 days, then off for 30. Joe purchased a cottage in Barnegat Light on 12th St., ocean side. My mother, sister Fran and I had use of the cottage when he was at sea.
It was off season, September or early October on a weekend when my mother and Fran were on the island. It was a pleasant sunny day with a bit of chill in the air. They were on the beach with their backs to a san dune watching the surf fishermen and the seagulls squawking for a hand out. One of the fishermen laid down his rod and approached Mom and Fran. He said his name was Clew and he struck up a conversation, saying he was an airline pilot and flew out of New York. He had his own private airplane that he kept at the airport and flew to Barnegat Light to fish every time he was off duty. He had a special compartment built in the wing where he stored his fishing rod. He had a red head stewardess girl friend named Susy. He was quite pleasant and impressed my mother and Fran.
As the air was a little chilly, my mother and Fran decided to pack up and return to the cottage. Clew said he was about to leave as he had to fly back to New York. He walked with them and when they reached the cottage, my mother invited him in for a cup of coffee. They chatted a bit and then he left. The following weekend I went down but my mother and Fran did not. When I went to open the screen door, there was a note stuck in it. I opened it and it read something like the following: "It's a beautiful day. I'm up on the beach. Hope to see you. Clew" When I returned home I gave Fran the note. She looked at it with a "humpth", crushed it and threw it in the waste basket.
Several days later we heard that a young girl had been murdered on the mainland opposite Long Beach Island. Fran went directly to the police and told them about the previous weekend. The police wanted that note in the worst way so Fran came home and looked in the basket but it was long gone. As I recall, the police had already arrested Clew, or did shortly. He was tried and convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. (copyright 2014 Andrew M. Dolan)
It was off season, September or early October on a weekend when my mother and Fran were on the island. It was a pleasant sunny day with a bit of chill in the air. They were on the beach with their backs to a san dune watching the surf fishermen and the seagulls squawking for a hand out. One of the fishermen laid down his rod and approached Mom and Fran. He said his name was Clew and he struck up a conversation, saying he was an airline pilot and flew out of New York. He had his own private airplane that he kept at the airport and flew to Barnegat Light to fish every time he was off duty. He had a special compartment built in the wing where he stored his fishing rod. He had a red head stewardess girl friend named Susy. He was quite pleasant and impressed my mother and Fran.
As the air was a little chilly, my mother and Fran decided to pack up and return to the cottage. Clew said he was about to leave as he had to fly back to New York. He walked with them and when they reached the cottage, my mother invited him in for a cup of coffee. They chatted a bit and then he left. The following weekend I went down but my mother and Fran did not. When I went to open the screen door, there was a note stuck in it. I opened it and it read something like the following: "It's a beautiful day. I'm up on the beach. Hope to see you. Clew" When I returned home I gave Fran the note. She looked at it with a "humpth", crushed it and threw it in the waste basket.
Several days later we heard that a young girl had been murdered on the mainland opposite Long Beach Island. Fran went directly to the police and told them about the previous weekend. The police wanted that note in the worst way so Fran came home and looked in the basket but it was long gone. As I recall, the police had already arrested Clew, or did shortly. He was tried and convicted of first degree murder and sentenced to life in prison. (copyright 2014 Andrew M. Dolan)
Monday, September 22, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.107
LONG BEACH ISLAND NJ: Long Beach Island is an 18 mile long and a few blocks wide strip of sand off the coast of New Jersey. The island is entered via a causeway from the mainland at Manahawkin. On the island end of the causeway is Surf City. At the lower end of the island is Beach Haven and at the northern end is Barnegat Light where I was a part time resident.
In Nomad News No. 71, Solitude, I wrote: "Not to be confused with loneliness or reclusion but a time to be alone because you want to be. When you can completely rest your mind and enjoy the beauty of being alive and having fun." I followed with several locations where I had enjoyed such solitude. I missed one:
Alone on the beach at Barnegat Light in the winter. While the sea sings a different verse than the forest, the melody is still the same. Stroll the beach and play tag with the incoming tide or sit with your back to a sand dune and count every fourth wave as it crashes or gently lets itself down on the preceding one. Talk to the sea and a seagull will answer because only you and nature are alone. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M.Dolan)
In Nomad News No. 71, Solitude, I wrote: "Not to be confused with loneliness or reclusion but a time to be alone because you want to be. When you can completely rest your mind and enjoy the beauty of being alive and having fun." I followed with several locations where I had enjoyed such solitude. I missed one:
Alone on the beach at Barnegat Light in the winter. While the sea sings a different verse than the forest, the melody is still the same. Stroll the beach and play tag with the incoming tide or sit with your back to a sand dune and count every fourth wave as it crashes or gently lets itself down on the preceding one. Talk to the sea and a seagull will answer because only you and nature are alone. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M.Dolan)
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.106
Paris: I can't write flowery prose about Paris. Matter of fact, I'm not even a writer. I just scribble things down as they come into my wandering mind. All I can say is, there is something about Paris that, I believe, you won't find any place else on earth. at least, it was that way. It was a feeling of freedom as you strolled along the Seine and watched artists or wood-be artists, or sat under the Eiffel Tower and looked up through the towering maze of steel structure, or my favorite, sitting under the awning of an sidewalk cafe and drinking beer. The only thing that beats drinking beer in Paris, is drinking beer on a Canadian lake while watching the sun set.
I failed on my first attempt to visit Paris. It was 1943 and we were stationed about 40 kilometers south of Paris. It was a weekend and for some reason we were not flying any missions. I decided to visit Paris so I borrowed a bicycle and headed off. After a few kilometers I approached a demolished bridge and an arrow pointed left, reading "Paris 40 kilometers. Five or so kilometers and another demolished bridge with sign "Paris 40 kilometers". This went on a couple more times as I approached a small village. This was not a former combat area so I concluded that the Germans had demolished every bridge as they retreated. It was around noon time now and I thought a cool beer was in order. There was a gendarme on the corner so I approached him and with gestures and a few words, he got the message that I was thirsty. A woman came along and with a few words, the gendarme said I should follow her. I was expecting the destination would be a cafe. Instead of that, it was her home. She invited me in and I met the LeRoux family; her husband, Maud 17, and Pierre 8. The Mrs. gave me a glass of water and proceeded to show me around their property. There were rabbit pens and Pierre went over and touched each one with a few words. I thought they were his pets. After the tour they invited me to dinner the following day around noon. The next day I visited the Mess Sergeant and he loaded me down with oranges, sugar and some other items. When I arrived at the LeRoux home, they were overjoyed with my gifts, which were scarce or unavailable. When Mrs. LeRoux served dinner, it consisted of potatoes, some vegetable and small pieces of meat I did not recognize. It then came to me: rabbit. I believed I was eating Pierre's pet. I felt a little squeazy but then realized they were not pets at all. It was their main source of meat. I made two or three more visits to the LeRoux family before departing the area. My first visit to Paris was, following the cessation of hostilities in Braunsweig, Germany, I flew to Paris in a B-17 bomber for a week's furlough. I had wanted to go to Ireland and visit some of my relatives that I had never seen but I thought a bird in the hand was better than a bird in the bush. To pass the time, I crawled around the craft, trying to visualize the activity that ensued during a bombing run. I crawled back to Tailend Charlie's rear gun position and was glad I never ended up in a bomber squadron. If so, at 130 pounds and five foot six, this is where I would have ended up. I understand the tail gunners had to remove their parachutes in order to get into firing position. It was an enjoyable week. I came out from under the awning occasionally to roam the city and visit some historical sites.
One of my buddies in the 33rd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron was Floyd McRae from Atlanta, Georgia. After the war Floyd visited us on a number of occasions in Tennessee. We visited him and his home turned out to be a virtual Civil War Museum. Floyd suffered a tragedy in his family, followed later by divorce. Floyd remarried and the second wife, who I never met, thought Atlanta was "culturally illiterate". To her, the only two places to be were New York and Paris. Back to Paris. In addition to my war time visit, Yvette and I spent three days in Paris that included their Independence Day celebration, July 14. A lot of people had large cardboard periscopes that they could look over the heads in front of them. Yvette inquired as to where they were purchased. It was a small store about a block away and we were able to obtain the last two they had. They were really neat. Without them, we would have seen very little of the parade. It was reported that there were over 3000 Americans in Paris that day. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
I failed on my first attempt to visit Paris. It was 1943 and we were stationed about 40 kilometers south of Paris. It was a weekend and for some reason we were not flying any missions. I decided to visit Paris so I borrowed a bicycle and headed off. After a few kilometers I approached a demolished bridge and an arrow pointed left, reading "Paris 40 kilometers. Five or so kilometers and another demolished bridge with sign "Paris 40 kilometers". This went on a couple more times as I approached a small village. This was not a former combat area so I concluded that the Germans had demolished every bridge as they retreated. It was around noon time now and I thought a cool beer was in order. There was a gendarme on the corner so I approached him and with gestures and a few words, he got the message that I was thirsty. A woman came along and with a few words, the gendarme said I should follow her. I was expecting the destination would be a cafe. Instead of that, it was her home. She invited me in and I met the LeRoux family; her husband, Maud 17, and Pierre 8. The Mrs. gave me a glass of water and proceeded to show me around their property. There were rabbit pens and Pierre went over and touched each one with a few words. I thought they were his pets. After the tour they invited me to dinner the following day around noon. The next day I visited the Mess Sergeant and he loaded me down with oranges, sugar and some other items. When I arrived at the LeRoux home, they were overjoyed with my gifts, which were scarce or unavailable. When Mrs. LeRoux served dinner, it consisted of potatoes, some vegetable and small pieces of meat I did not recognize. It then came to me: rabbit. I believed I was eating Pierre's pet. I felt a little squeazy but then realized they were not pets at all. It was their main source of meat. I made two or three more visits to the LeRoux family before departing the area. My first visit to Paris was, following the cessation of hostilities in Braunsweig, Germany, I flew to Paris in a B-17 bomber for a week's furlough. I had wanted to go to Ireland and visit some of my relatives that I had never seen but I thought a bird in the hand was better than a bird in the bush. To pass the time, I crawled around the craft, trying to visualize the activity that ensued during a bombing run. I crawled back to Tailend Charlie's rear gun position and was glad I never ended up in a bomber squadron. If so, at 130 pounds and five foot six, this is where I would have ended up. I understand the tail gunners had to remove their parachutes in order to get into firing position. It was an enjoyable week. I came out from under the awning occasionally to roam the city and visit some historical sites.
One of my buddies in the 33rd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron was Floyd McRae from Atlanta, Georgia. After the war Floyd visited us on a number of occasions in Tennessee. We visited him and his home turned out to be a virtual Civil War Museum. Floyd suffered a tragedy in his family, followed later by divorce. Floyd remarried and the second wife, who I never met, thought Atlanta was "culturally illiterate". To her, the only two places to be were New York and Paris. Back to Paris. In addition to my war time visit, Yvette and I spent three days in Paris that included their Independence Day celebration, July 14. A lot of people had large cardboard periscopes that they could look over the heads in front of them. Yvette inquired as to where they were purchased. It was a small store about a block away and we were able to obtain the last two they had. They were really neat. Without them, we would have seen very little of the parade. It was reported that there were over 3000 Americans in Paris that day. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.105
WORLD WAR II, MY PART:
During the course of writing my Nomad News series, I have mentioned some events or experiences. I thought I should be more explicit and a good place to start might be here in Crossville. Several years ago I was asked to speak to a group of 8th Grade students. I was warned that one of them would ask me if I ever killed anyone. I tried to explain that war was not a noble event and, unfortunately, a lot of people were killed; that out of about 16 million troops in uniform, only a small part were actually engaged in face to face battle. The rest were support troops in various ways. In my job as a photo interpreter, I selected targets and then ordered bomber or fighter squadrons to follow through. I guess that makes me an accomplice of sorts, unfortunately.
In addition to saving England and freeing the rest of the Western European continent, I always believed we freed the German people from under the hobnail boots of a ruthless dictator, too. I have no idea how many Germans would agree. In 1945, probably not very many. However, I have an intelligence bulletin on the interrogation of a 26-year old woman named Hilda Martin wherein she stated the German people would never surrender. They would fight from the hills and forests, they would sabotage, and so on. She was portrayed as being of average intelligence and representing the view of the general population. This did not materialize to a great extent according to all the intelligence I saw during that period.
Off and on, I have mentioned events or happenings during the war, so I thought I might put in print what I did ..I had ten prewar buddies that served in the military. In the Army, Marine Corps, Navy Air Corps, Merchant Marine, and I have no idea just what any of them did and they had no idea about me. We just rejoined and continued where we left off in 1941. We just never talked about it. It was something we had to do. We did it. And, fortunately, we all returned home.
For the first three years I was Headquarters Staff Sergeant in the 103rd Observation Squadron, Pennsylvania Air National Guard which had been nationalized. Year one, mostly training. Years two and three, anti-submarine patrol off the East coast. Years four and five,overseas as Photo Interpreter with the 33rd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron. The times are roughly.
Members of the Photo Intelligence Section played a major role in both the preparation for the invasion of the continent and continuing throughout the entire Western European campaign. Photo Reconnaissance had been proven to be indispensable in the planning of military strategy and seeking out the enemy's secrets since the days of the hand-held cameras but it had taken new meaning with the advent of World War II. Fast-flying aircraft, new automatic cameras and modern laboratory equipment, made it possible to turn out as many as 20,000 prints a day. In 1938, German General von Fitsch said: "The country with the best photo reconnaissance will win the next war." And, we had the best.
I has the ranking NCO in Photo Intelligence and responsible for overseeing the flow and interpretation of the prints as soon as we received them from the Lab. We had the operation so well organized that Camera Repair could remove the cameras from the returning aircraft, rush them to the Lab, and have prints under interpretation in less than an hour. We performed First Phase interpretation; looking for locomotives under steam, troop movements, changes in airfield activity and other targets of opportunity. These targets were relayed to the proper units for actions. As other areas of interpretation were completed and plotted, the information was rushed to Group Headquarters where detailed interpretation was done and the intelligence then relayed to the ground forces in the matter of a couple of hours.
At various times we were attached to the First Army and the Third Army. We landed on Omaha Beach as soon as the ground forces broke through at St. Lo and the Army Engineers could get in and prepare a temporary landing strip of interlocking steel plates.
This attests to the importance the military placed on photo intelligence. As the ground forces advanced, we advanced not far behind.
Now comes the part I have difficulty with. In a brown envelope in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet where I store my WW2 data, are the medals and awards I received. I do not display them because they are not what we fought for. I display the ribbons only on my VFW cover (cap). Because they are part of the story, I am going to enter them here: Presidential Unit Citation, Belgium Fourragere, American Defense Service Medal, American Campaign Medal, Good Conduct Medal, World War II Victory Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign with Silver Star and Bronze Star for the following campaigns: Air Offense Europe, Ardennes, Central Europe, Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland
The medals belong to my comrades who never returned.
As far as the Cumberland County Veterans Service officer can ascertain, as of this date, I am the oldest of 142 World War II veterans in the county. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
During the course of writing my Nomad News series, I have mentioned some events or experiences. I thought I should be more explicit and a good place to start might be here in Crossville. Several years ago I was asked to speak to a group of 8th Grade students. I was warned that one of them would ask me if I ever killed anyone. I tried to explain that war was not a noble event and, unfortunately, a lot of people were killed; that out of about 16 million troops in uniform, only a small part were actually engaged in face to face battle. The rest were support troops in various ways. In my job as a photo interpreter, I selected targets and then ordered bomber or fighter squadrons to follow through. I guess that makes me an accomplice of sorts, unfortunately.
In addition to saving England and freeing the rest of the Western European continent, I always believed we freed the German people from under the hobnail boots of a ruthless dictator, too. I have no idea how many Germans would agree. In 1945, probably not very many. However, I have an intelligence bulletin on the interrogation of a 26-year old woman named Hilda Martin wherein she stated the German people would never surrender. They would fight from the hills and forests, they would sabotage, and so on. She was portrayed as being of average intelligence and representing the view of the general population. This did not materialize to a great extent according to all the intelligence I saw during that period.
Off and on, I have mentioned events or happenings during the war, so I thought I might put in print what I did ..I had ten prewar buddies that served in the military. In the Army, Marine Corps, Navy Air Corps, Merchant Marine, and I have no idea just what any of them did and they had no idea about me. We just rejoined and continued where we left off in 1941. We just never talked about it. It was something we had to do. We did it. And, fortunately, we all returned home.
For the first three years I was Headquarters Staff Sergeant in the 103rd Observation Squadron, Pennsylvania Air National Guard which had been nationalized. Year one, mostly training. Years two and three, anti-submarine patrol off the East coast. Years four and five,overseas as Photo Interpreter with the 33rd Photo Reconnaissance Squadron. The times are roughly.
Members of the Photo Intelligence Section played a major role in both the preparation for the invasion of the continent and continuing throughout the entire Western European campaign. Photo Reconnaissance had been proven to be indispensable in the planning of military strategy and seeking out the enemy's secrets since the days of the hand-held cameras but it had taken new meaning with the advent of World War II. Fast-flying aircraft, new automatic cameras and modern laboratory equipment, made it possible to turn out as many as 20,000 prints a day. In 1938, German General von Fitsch said: "The country with the best photo reconnaissance will win the next war." And, we had the best.
I has the ranking NCO in Photo Intelligence and responsible for overseeing the flow and interpretation of the prints as soon as we received them from the Lab. We had the operation so well organized that Camera Repair could remove the cameras from the returning aircraft, rush them to the Lab, and have prints under interpretation in less than an hour. We performed First Phase interpretation; looking for locomotives under steam, troop movements, changes in airfield activity and other targets of opportunity. These targets were relayed to the proper units for actions. As other areas of interpretation were completed and plotted, the information was rushed to Group Headquarters where detailed interpretation was done and the intelligence then relayed to the ground forces in the matter of a couple of hours.
At various times we were attached to the First Army and the Third Army. We landed on Omaha Beach as soon as the ground forces broke through at St. Lo and the Army Engineers could get in and prepare a temporary landing strip of interlocking steel plates.
This attests to the importance the military placed on photo intelligence. As the ground forces advanced, we advanced not far behind.
Now comes the part I have difficulty with. In a brown envelope in the bottom drawer of a file cabinet where I store my WW2 data, are the medals and awards I received. I do not display them because they are not what we fought for. I display the ribbons only on my VFW cover (cap). Because they are part of the story, I am going to enter them here: Presidential Unit Citation, Belgium Fourragere, American Defense Service Medal, American Campaign Medal, Good Conduct Medal, World War II Victory Medal, European-African-Middle Eastern Campaign with Silver Star and Bronze Star for the following campaigns: Air Offense Europe, Ardennes, Central Europe, Normandy, Northern France, Rhineland
The medals belong to my comrades who never returned.
As far as the Cumberland County Veterans Service officer can ascertain, as of this date, I am the oldest of 142 World War II veterans in the county. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.104
I WAS READY TO THROW IN THE TOWEL
For the past fifty or so years I have been attempting, in my own little way, to warn the people of America about the impending disaster that was on the way that would destroy America as a republic. It has seemed to fall on deaf ears and I decided it was time to throw in the towel, watch the sun come up, and drink my daily portion of one beer. I reminisced back into the 1960s when I would have lunch on occasion, with a couple of food broker friends, at Dante & Luigi's Restaurant in South Philadelphia. Sometimes a couple of executives working for the Delaware River Port Authority (DRPA) would join. At the time, a new bridge over the Delaware River below Philadelphia was being debated. No way that traffic would warrant it. A few years prior, a new bridge had been built north of Philadelphia. One of the DRPA executives made this statement: The boys in the north got their bridge, now it's time for the boys in the south to get theirs.
I don't have to get soaked to the skin when I go out to know that its raining! This is exactly how Washington DC has operated for the past fifty or sixty years. When the Republicans are in power, they get their booty. We make a change and elect Democrats and its their turn to get the booty. The DC Republicans and Democrats have become so immersed in corruption and greed that it has flowed out of DC like molten lava from an erupting volcano into every aspect of our lives.
I decided to cut and run. As I pulled my arm back to throw in the towel, I came across the following quote from an unknown author: "The best part of anyone's day is between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. if they are blessed enough to be able to step outside and see the dawn of a new day as it happens."
As I absorbed this, I felt a surge of renewed optimism that this is about to happen in America within the next two years. It can come about in one of two ways: (1) A hostile takeover of Washington DC which will be catastrophic, and perhaps give Obama the opportunity he is looking for to declare martial law or (2) A third party; a Constitution Party. This can only occur if an Angel steps in and unites constitutional Republicans and Democrats that will be so powerful that a coalition of Progressive Democrats and Republicans cannot override their doctrine of saving America.
If you read what I write, you know I believe in angels. I have a sheltering angel that has kept me from harm my entire life. My angel doesn't control or direct my daily activities but she does control my destiny as I have written about in previous Nomad News editions. In Nomad News No. 58, titled "Close Encounters", I listed a series of close encounters with tragedy where I believe my angel intervened. In this instance, I believe I failed to mention one, which could be the the most dramatic of all. I'm going to include it now, even if it is a repeat:
I stopped driving after I had the TIA (mini-stroke). My doctor lets me drink one beer daily, which is an imposition but I obey. Yvette does not consume any alcohol when driving is related. We cannot afford to have her driving curtailed. On this occasion we departed from VFW Post 5025 on Route 127 south of Crossville after darkness had set in. I always look right for oncoming traffic while Yvette is in charge of left oncoming. I called out "All clear right". She pulled out as she uttered "Oh". I turned my vision left to be greeted by two glaring head lights from an oncoming vehicle that were within a few yards. The following happened in a split second. I turned my vision straight ahead with the thought "We're dead". Then an unearthly silence set it as we sat there in the middle of the highway. It was the same silence I had experienced years before in my encounter with the German rocket plane in Holland. Nothing passed in front of us. There wasn't room behind without scraping the guard rail. No sound of screeching brakes. Nothing but this eerie silence. Was it a UFO that pulled up and over us? Was it some powerful unknown force that lifted the vehicle up and over us? All I know for sure is, we were safe. I said: "Let's get out of the middle of the road before something hits us." We drove home in silence.
I believe in angels and I believe one will save America. (Copyright - 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
For the past fifty or so years I have been attempting, in my own little way, to warn the people of America about the impending disaster that was on the way that would destroy America as a republic. It has seemed to fall on deaf ears and I decided it was time to throw in the towel, watch the sun come up, and drink my daily portion of one beer. I reminisced back into the 1960s when I would have lunch on occasion, with a couple of food broker friends, at Dante & Luigi's Restaurant in South Philadelphia. Sometimes a couple of executives working for the Delaware River Port Authority (DRPA) would join. At the time, a new bridge over the Delaware River below Philadelphia was being debated. No way that traffic would warrant it. A few years prior, a new bridge had been built north of Philadelphia. One of the DRPA executives made this statement: The boys in the north got their bridge, now it's time for the boys in the south to get theirs.
I don't have to get soaked to the skin when I go out to know that its raining! This is exactly how Washington DC has operated for the past fifty or sixty years. When the Republicans are in power, they get their booty. We make a change and elect Democrats and its their turn to get the booty. The DC Republicans and Democrats have become so immersed in corruption and greed that it has flowed out of DC like molten lava from an erupting volcano into every aspect of our lives.
I decided to cut and run. As I pulled my arm back to throw in the towel, I came across the following quote from an unknown author: "The best part of anyone's day is between 4:30 and 5:00 a.m. if they are blessed enough to be able to step outside and see the dawn of a new day as it happens."
As I absorbed this, I felt a surge of renewed optimism that this is about to happen in America within the next two years. It can come about in one of two ways: (1) A hostile takeover of Washington DC which will be catastrophic, and perhaps give Obama the opportunity he is looking for to declare martial law or (2) A third party; a Constitution Party. This can only occur if an Angel steps in and unites constitutional Republicans and Democrats that will be so powerful that a coalition of Progressive Democrats and Republicans cannot override their doctrine of saving America.
If you read what I write, you know I believe in angels. I have a sheltering angel that has kept me from harm my entire life. My angel doesn't control or direct my daily activities but she does control my destiny as I have written about in previous Nomad News editions. In Nomad News No. 58, titled "Close Encounters", I listed a series of close encounters with tragedy where I believe my angel intervened. In this instance, I believe I failed to mention one, which could be the the most dramatic of all. I'm going to include it now, even if it is a repeat:
I stopped driving after I had the TIA (mini-stroke). My doctor lets me drink one beer daily, which is an imposition but I obey. Yvette does not consume any alcohol when driving is related. We cannot afford to have her driving curtailed. On this occasion we departed from VFW Post 5025 on Route 127 south of Crossville after darkness had set in. I always look right for oncoming traffic while Yvette is in charge of left oncoming. I called out "All clear right". She pulled out as she uttered "Oh". I turned my vision left to be greeted by two glaring head lights from an oncoming vehicle that were within a few yards. The following happened in a split second. I turned my vision straight ahead with the thought "We're dead". Then an unearthly silence set it as we sat there in the middle of the highway. It was the same silence I had experienced years before in my encounter with the German rocket plane in Holland. Nothing passed in front of us. There wasn't room behind without scraping the guard rail. No sound of screeching brakes. Nothing but this eerie silence. Was it a UFO that pulled up and over us? Was it some powerful unknown force that lifted the vehicle up and over us? All I know for sure is, we were safe. I said: "Let's get out of the middle of the road before something hits us." We drove home in silence.
I believe in angels and I believe one will save America. (Copyright - 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, June 21, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.103
ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 4 OF 4
In Nomad News No. 102 we finished in the Painted Desert so will continue from there.
Sedona, about 30 miles from Flagstaff was next on our list. Spectacular rock formations of red sandstone was the main attraction. These formations appear to glow in brilliant red when illuminated by the setting or rising sun.
It was now time to pack up and leave beautiful Arizona. Because we had arrived two days late, I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask if we could stay an extra day if no following reservation had been made. The person I spoke with said it would be alright. So, the next day, which was Saturday, we took off for some destination that I do not recall.
On the way back we passed a field of wild flowers that extended as far as the eye could see. As we passed, we heard a loud buzzing sound so we pulled off on the road shoulder. It was then that we saw the hundreds , maybe thousands, of Humming birds; again, as far as the eye could see. They were like a huge swarm of hornets.
When we returned to our quarters, a little after midday, our packed luggage was on the front porch. So much for the assurance that we could stay another day. We had to scramble for a hotel room as our flight to Boise would be the following day. After several "full house" calls we booked the last available room at the Holiday Inn.
We were of to Boise, Idaho where we spent a few days with my Air Corps buddy Mike Spero and his wife Annette. The Speros had an adopted son who they raised with their conservative beliefs and faith, who went off to college and was thoroughly indoctrinated in liberalism when he returned. When his father died at age 100, the son didn't have the respect to notify me.
In the beginning of the four series on our Western trip, I wrote that we flew to Salt Lake City and then rented a car and drove to Yellowstone. On second thought I believe we rented a car in Boise and drove to Jackson Hole, Wyoming; gateway to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Teton Mountain range. Located near Jackson Hole is the National Elk Refuge. I believe this to be home to the largest Elk herd in the country. The herd shed their antlers every year and the local park has four archway entrances made of antlers. Under the auspices of the Boy Scouts of America, nearly 14 thousand pounds of antlers are auctioned off in 2014, with 75-percent of the receipts returned to the Refuge.
We stayed overnight in Jackson Hole and then off to Yellowstone National Park, home grazing ground for about 3700 Bison. This herd was never extirpated (has never reached the point of extinction). Old Faithful Geyser is a must, even if you have to wait a half hour for the next eruption which reaches over 100-feet in the air. Yellowstone boasts of over 10,000 thermal features, over 500 of which are geysers. The rest are Mudpots, small thermal areas where water-saturated sediment is affected by super-heated steam and they burst, sending showers of mud into the air.
About ten miles south of Yellowstone is Grand Teton National Park and the 40-mile long range of sharply pointed mountains reaching 7000-feet in height. An interesting background of the name: French-speaking trappers named them Trois Tetons (three teats). Later this was anglicized and shortened to Tetons.
It was a wonderful trip and we saw a lot of the West but it was now time to head back to New Jersey.(copyright - 2014) Andrew M. Dolan
.
In Nomad News No. 102 we finished in the Painted Desert so will continue from there.
Sedona, about 30 miles from Flagstaff was next on our list. Spectacular rock formations of red sandstone was the main attraction. These formations appear to glow in brilliant red when illuminated by the setting or rising sun.
It was now time to pack up and leave beautiful Arizona. Because we had arrived two days late, I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask if we could stay an extra day if no following reservation had been made. The person I spoke with said it would be alright. So, the next day, which was Saturday, we took off for some destination that I do not recall.
On the way back we passed a field of wild flowers that extended as far as the eye could see. As we passed, we heard a loud buzzing sound so we pulled off on the road shoulder. It was then that we saw the hundreds , maybe thousands, of Humming birds; again, as far as the eye could see. They were like a huge swarm of hornets.
When we returned to our quarters, a little after midday, our packed luggage was on the front porch. So much for the assurance that we could stay another day. We had to scramble for a hotel room as our flight to Boise would be the following day. After several "full house" calls we booked the last available room at the Holiday Inn.
We were of to Boise, Idaho where we spent a few days with my Air Corps buddy Mike Spero and his wife Annette. The Speros had an adopted son who they raised with their conservative beliefs and faith, who went off to college and was thoroughly indoctrinated in liberalism when he returned. When his father died at age 100, the son didn't have the respect to notify me.
In the beginning of the four series on our Western trip, I wrote that we flew to Salt Lake City and then rented a car and drove to Yellowstone. On second thought I believe we rented a car in Boise and drove to Jackson Hole, Wyoming; gateway to Yellowstone Park and the Grand Teton Mountain range. Located near Jackson Hole is the National Elk Refuge. I believe this to be home to the largest Elk herd in the country. The herd shed their antlers every year and the local park has four archway entrances made of antlers. Under the auspices of the Boy Scouts of America, nearly 14 thousand pounds of antlers are auctioned off in 2014, with 75-percent of the receipts returned to the Refuge.
We stayed overnight in Jackson Hole and then off to Yellowstone National Park, home grazing ground for about 3700 Bison. This herd was never extirpated (has never reached the point of extinction). Old Faithful Geyser is a must, even if you have to wait a half hour for the next eruption which reaches over 100-feet in the air. Yellowstone boasts of over 10,000 thermal features, over 500 of which are geysers. The rest are Mudpots, small thermal areas where water-saturated sediment is affected by super-heated steam and they burst, sending showers of mud into the air.
About ten miles south of Yellowstone is Grand Teton National Park and the 40-mile long range of sharply pointed mountains reaching 7000-feet in height. An interesting background of the name: French-speaking trappers named them Trois Tetons (three teats). Later this was anglicized and shortened to Tetons.
It was a wonderful trip and we saw a lot of the West but it was now time to head back to New Jersey.(copyright - 2014) Andrew M. Dolan
.
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.102
ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 3 OF 4
As you probably have observed, I write about things as I think of them. That is why things are not arranged categorically. If I had kept a diary, I would remember things better and would then be able to write, well, to categorically arrange them. So, before we leave Fresno, I just remembered Big Sur, about 150 miles south of San Francisco. This is where the coastal Redwood Trees grow more than 350 feet in height. Some, they say, are 2,000 years old. No, I don't recall planting them. As a kid, I recall seeing a picture of one that had been hollowed out a ground level and a Model -T Ford was parked in it. We also visited the Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. This massive granite rock rises more than 4700-feet above ground. It's called a Half Dome because that is what it is. However, if seen from a special angle, it gives the impression of being a Full Dome. Very interesting.
OK, we're now in back in the air and headed for Phoenix, two days behind schedule. Our plan was to drive to Phoenix via the Mojave Desert but we had already used two days of our timeshare reservation and couldn't afford any more delays. When we arrived in Phoenix, the temperature was 110-degrees. We wasted no time in getting a car and heading off to Flagstaff where the 7000-foot elevation provided a more temperate atmosphere.
There is plenty of interesting things to visit in and around Flagstaff, but we only had five days so we spent them all in the "wilderness". The Grand Canyon, about 75 miles north of Flagstaff, was our first destination. The magnificence of the Canadian Rockies looking up, was reflected in the Grand Canyon looking down. We were tempted to take the trail to the bottom but decided it would take up too much time. There were signs warning visitors to keep valuables locked in their cars. We were accosted by a couple of local Indians selling silver jewelry against regulations. The pieces were all sewn on a blanket so it could be rolled up and they could scamper off at the sight of a ranger. Yvette thinks this happened at Sedona. Could be, but it doesn't' make much difference.
Walnut Canyon National Monument contains the ancient cliff dwellings of the Sinague Indians., who dug their small homes under limestone ledges. The dwellings are small, about large enough for the inhabitants to sleep and cook. Come to think about it, that's really all we need a home for. Some how we have been convinced we need a $100,000. home packed with $100,000. worth of trinkets. Oh, well. Back to more simple times. The dwellings were built some time between 125 AD and 250 AD. Plant life in the canyon is diverse with over 387 plant species.
Meteor Crater is about 40 miles east of Flagstaff. The 500-foot crater is 550-feet deep and was created 49,000 years ago. No, I don't recall seeing that rock from outer space hit either. I believe some of the astronauts trained here. There was a viewing platform built out over the edge of the crater. I had an eerie, uneasy feeling as I looked down into the crater. Like, I had to get out of there which I did. In the 1960s there was a Gyro Tower on the boardwalk in Atlantic City NJ. The tower was several hundred feet tall with an observation booth that revolved around the tower as it ascended to the top, where it made several 360-degree revolutions before revolving back to earth. I had the same feeling then but I couldn't get out
The Painted Desert and Petrified Forest is east of Flagstaff and covers a wide area. The Painted Desert gets its name from bands of red, white and yellow sediments and clay. It is spectacular. On the way we saw a Pronghorn Antelope. This animal sheds its' horns like antlers and is the sole surviving member of an ancient family dating back 20 million years. No, Im not going to say it. The Pronghorn can run at speeds up to 60 mph. We're getting a little long so will finish on Nomad News No. 103.
(Copyright - Andrew M. Dolan - 2014)
As you probably have observed, I write about things as I think of them. That is why things are not arranged categorically. If I had kept a diary, I would remember things better and would then be able to write, well, to categorically arrange them. So, before we leave Fresno, I just remembered Big Sur, about 150 miles south of San Francisco. This is where the coastal Redwood Trees grow more than 350 feet in height. Some, they say, are 2,000 years old. No, I don't recall planting them. As a kid, I recall seeing a picture of one that had been hollowed out a ground level and a Model -T Ford was parked in it. We also visited the Half Dome in Yosemite National Park. This massive granite rock rises more than 4700-feet above ground. It's called a Half Dome because that is what it is. However, if seen from a special angle, it gives the impression of being a Full Dome. Very interesting.
OK, we're now in back in the air and headed for Phoenix, two days behind schedule. Our plan was to drive to Phoenix via the Mojave Desert but we had already used two days of our timeshare reservation and couldn't afford any more delays. When we arrived in Phoenix, the temperature was 110-degrees. We wasted no time in getting a car and heading off to Flagstaff where the 7000-foot elevation provided a more temperate atmosphere.
There is plenty of interesting things to visit in and around Flagstaff, but we only had five days so we spent them all in the "wilderness". The Grand Canyon, about 75 miles north of Flagstaff, was our first destination. The magnificence of the Canadian Rockies looking up, was reflected in the Grand Canyon looking down. We were tempted to take the trail to the bottom but decided it would take up too much time. There were signs warning visitors to keep valuables locked in their cars. We were accosted by a couple of local Indians selling silver jewelry against regulations. The pieces were all sewn on a blanket so it could be rolled up and they could scamper off at the sight of a ranger. Yvette thinks this happened at Sedona. Could be, but it doesn't' make much difference.
Walnut Canyon National Monument contains the ancient cliff dwellings of the Sinague Indians., who dug their small homes under limestone ledges. The dwellings are small, about large enough for the inhabitants to sleep and cook. Come to think about it, that's really all we need a home for. Some how we have been convinced we need a $100,000. home packed with $100,000. worth of trinkets. Oh, well. Back to more simple times. The dwellings were built some time between 125 AD and 250 AD. Plant life in the canyon is diverse with over 387 plant species.
Meteor Crater is about 40 miles east of Flagstaff. The 500-foot crater is 550-feet deep and was created 49,000 years ago. No, I don't recall seeing that rock from outer space hit either. I believe some of the astronauts trained here. There was a viewing platform built out over the edge of the crater. I had an eerie, uneasy feeling as I looked down into the crater. Like, I had to get out of there which I did. In the 1960s there was a Gyro Tower on the boardwalk in Atlantic City NJ. The tower was several hundred feet tall with an observation booth that revolved around the tower as it ascended to the top, where it made several 360-degree revolutions before revolving back to earth. I had the same feeling then but I couldn't get out
The Painted Desert and Petrified Forest is east of Flagstaff and covers a wide area. The Painted Desert gets its name from bands of red, white and yellow sediments and clay. It is spectacular. On the way we saw a Pronghorn Antelope. This animal sheds its' horns like antlers and is the sole surviving member of an ancient family dating back 20 million years. No, Im not going to say it. The Pronghorn can run at speeds up to 60 mph. We're getting a little long so will finish on Nomad News No. 103.
(Copyright - Andrew M. Dolan - 2014)
Tuesday, June 3, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.101
A Day In Infamy, June 2, 2014
On June 2, 2014, the president of the United States traded five hardened terrorists for a United States Army deserter. There has been no trial or convictions but the current allegations, so far, indicate that Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl walked off his post without his rifle, after making derogatory remarks about America. At that point he walked away from America. He wasn't captured. He wasn't a prisoner of war. Obama's "sacred obligation" not to leave any American soldier behind, is nonsense. He was a deserter and renounced his citizenship as surely as Lt. Philip Nolan did when he was being tried for treason in author Edward Everett Hale's short story "The Man Without a Country".
In Hale's writing, Nolan was sentenced to spend the rest of his days at sea without a word ever said about the United States. I believe this would be a fitting sentence for Bergdahl, BUT, this would be an expense on the American taxpayers that they should not have to absorb. Next best thing would be life at Guantanamo with his buddies. Maybe then a future loyal president could trade him for a loyal American.
A day in infamy, indeed. A presidential deal to release a Army deserter for five terrorists, and then an appearance on TV in the Rose Garden when he hugs Robert Bergdahl, father of the deserter, after Robert has thanked Allah for his son's release. Disgusting gives new meaning to the word.
(copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
On June 2, 2014, the president of the United States traded five hardened terrorists for a United States Army deserter. There has been no trial or convictions but the current allegations, so far, indicate that Sergeant Bowe Bergdahl walked off his post without his rifle, after making derogatory remarks about America. At that point he walked away from America. He wasn't captured. He wasn't a prisoner of war. Obama's "sacred obligation" not to leave any American soldier behind, is nonsense. He was a deserter and renounced his citizenship as surely as Lt. Philip Nolan did when he was being tried for treason in author Edward Everett Hale's short story "The Man Without a Country".
In Hale's writing, Nolan was sentenced to spend the rest of his days at sea without a word ever said about the United States. I believe this would be a fitting sentence for Bergdahl, BUT, this would be an expense on the American taxpayers that they should not have to absorb. Next best thing would be life at Guantanamo with his buddies. Maybe then a future loyal president could trade him for a loyal American.
A day in infamy, indeed. A presidential deal to release a Army deserter for five terrorists, and then an appearance on TV in the Rose Garden when he hugs Robert Bergdahl, father of the deserter, after Robert has thanked Allah for his son's release. Disgusting gives new meaning to the word.
(copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.5-No.100
ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 2 OF 4
Arriving in Fresno, we checked in to the Holiday Inn where the convention was to be held, and then looked up Ralph Tucker who, I will mention up front, turned out to be a wind bag. The "Convention" was a joke but we did meet a couple of escargot farmers who had a lot of snails chewing on lettuce leaves. Whether they were prosperous or not I cannot say but they were enthusiastic about the prospect. The local newspaper, the "Fresno Bee", had a reporter on the scene and the next day's edition had a front page picture of Yvette with her nose about three inches from an escargot. The caption said something to the affect that this French lady had come all the way from New Jersey to inquire about the prospect of taking the business there. It didn't take long to discover that the snail business wasn't for us. Ralph did, however, have something of interest.
It was a wine bottle opener called a Corkette. Ralph had been to England the previous year and had come across this gadget. It's a pump about three inches long with a three-inch hollow needle. It works by piercing the wine cork with the needle. You then pump the handle, forcing air into the bottle via the hollow needle. When you get enough air in the bottle, the pressure pushes the cork out. Ralph claimed to have United States rights for distribution of the Corkette. In retrospect, I doubt it. I asked for exclusive rights for New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York. I ended up having the entire eastern coast from Maine to Florida. You know the axiom about poker: You have to know when to hold them and when to fold them. At this point I should have folded. I didn't.
As we discussed the proposition further, there was an upcoming Home Show in New York City. Ralph claimed he had netted $10,000. the previous year and if I wanted to have the show this year I could. The cost was $2,000. I accepted. The five-day show was a flop of major proportions. Hardly anyone attended. I couldn't believe it, in New York. I got one order for the Corkettes. Fortunately, it was large enough to cover the show and our expenses, including meals and hotel.
Ralph, who claimed he was a freelance sports correspondent, was in town to cover the U. S. Open Golf Tournament out on Long Island at Southampton. We made an appointment to meet him there and when we did, he showed up with a black eye. He claimed he had been interviewing Lee Trevino, Mexican golf pro, and was holding up a tree branch so Lee could drive out of the rough when the limb flew back and hit him in the face. We made a date to have dinner at an upscale New York restaurant that evening. He arrived, under the influence, with a friend. During the course of the evening, Ralph excused himself for a trip to the restroom. While gone, his friend told us they had been here the evening before and Ralph, drunk as a skunk had tripped and hit his face on something. So much for the swinging limb. We left for home the next day and that was the last of Ralph.
We still had the rights to the Corkette so made plans to pursue the franchise. One of my Canadian Club buddies, Bob Newsham, had retired to Deltona, Florida. I was also acquainted with a retired Philadelphia food broker, Pat McGinnis, now living in Indian Creek Village, an exclusive gated community in Miami. Pat's wife had died and he was now married to a Polish concert pianist and the widow of a Polaroid vice-president. I do not recall her name. Knowing a bit about Pat, I saw in him the possibility of being a distributor.
I called Bob, made arrangements for a visit, where we were always welcome, and hit the air. Upon arrival I called McGinnis and made an appointment for the next day. We flew out of Orlando on an Eastern Airline plane that had just arrived from Puerto Rico and there was no time between flights to clean up the plane. Apparently, some of the passengers must have carried on open crates of chickens because the plane was full of feathers, plus all sorts of trash. We were still picking bits of feathers off our clothing when we exited in Miami. The McGinnis' picked us up in her Jaguar. His Jaguar was in the shop. When we arrived at the gate of their community, Indian Creek Village, the Mrs. was poking through her handbag, looking for a five dollar bill to tip the guard. Hundred dollar bills were flying around the back seat like snow flakes in a blizzard. I thought they were chicken feathers Yvette was still picking off her clothes. We had lunch at the country club and drove by the $7 Million home of Julio Iglesias. The McGinnis' were excellent hosts and we enjoyed a gracious afternoon. However, it was apparent that Pat was not interested in peddling wine bottle openers so we took the chicken flight back to Orlando. The plane had been cleaned up by the return. We spent a couple of days with the Newshams and then headed for home. In Nomad News No. 102 we will return to Fresno and continue our trip. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Arriving in Fresno, we checked in to the Holiday Inn where the convention was to be held, and then looked up Ralph Tucker who, I will mention up front, turned out to be a wind bag. The "Convention" was a joke but we did meet a couple of escargot farmers who had a lot of snails chewing on lettuce leaves. Whether they were prosperous or not I cannot say but they were enthusiastic about the prospect. The local newspaper, the "Fresno Bee", had a reporter on the scene and the next day's edition had a front page picture of Yvette with her nose about three inches from an escargot. The caption said something to the affect that this French lady had come all the way from New Jersey to inquire about the prospect of taking the business there. It didn't take long to discover that the snail business wasn't for us. Ralph did, however, have something of interest.
It was a wine bottle opener called a Corkette. Ralph had been to England the previous year and had come across this gadget. It's a pump about three inches long with a three-inch hollow needle. It works by piercing the wine cork with the needle. You then pump the handle, forcing air into the bottle via the hollow needle. When you get enough air in the bottle, the pressure pushes the cork out. Ralph claimed to have United States rights for distribution of the Corkette. In retrospect, I doubt it. I asked for exclusive rights for New Jersey, Pennsylvania and New York. I ended up having the entire eastern coast from Maine to Florida. You know the axiom about poker: You have to know when to hold them and when to fold them. At this point I should have folded. I didn't.
As we discussed the proposition further, there was an upcoming Home Show in New York City. Ralph claimed he had netted $10,000. the previous year and if I wanted to have the show this year I could. The cost was $2,000. I accepted. The five-day show was a flop of major proportions. Hardly anyone attended. I couldn't believe it, in New York. I got one order for the Corkettes. Fortunately, it was large enough to cover the show and our expenses, including meals and hotel.
Ralph, who claimed he was a freelance sports correspondent, was in town to cover the U. S. Open Golf Tournament out on Long Island at Southampton. We made an appointment to meet him there and when we did, he showed up with a black eye. He claimed he had been interviewing Lee Trevino, Mexican golf pro, and was holding up a tree branch so Lee could drive out of the rough when the limb flew back and hit him in the face. We made a date to have dinner at an upscale New York restaurant that evening. He arrived, under the influence, with a friend. During the course of the evening, Ralph excused himself for a trip to the restroom. While gone, his friend told us they had been here the evening before and Ralph, drunk as a skunk had tripped and hit his face on something. So much for the swinging limb. We left for home the next day and that was the last of Ralph.
We still had the rights to the Corkette so made plans to pursue the franchise. One of my Canadian Club buddies, Bob Newsham, had retired to Deltona, Florida. I was also acquainted with a retired Philadelphia food broker, Pat McGinnis, now living in Indian Creek Village, an exclusive gated community in Miami. Pat's wife had died and he was now married to a Polish concert pianist and the widow of a Polaroid vice-president. I do not recall her name. Knowing a bit about Pat, I saw in him the possibility of being a distributor.
I called Bob, made arrangements for a visit, where we were always welcome, and hit the air. Upon arrival I called McGinnis and made an appointment for the next day. We flew out of Orlando on an Eastern Airline plane that had just arrived from Puerto Rico and there was no time between flights to clean up the plane. Apparently, some of the passengers must have carried on open crates of chickens because the plane was full of feathers, plus all sorts of trash. We were still picking bits of feathers off our clothing when we exited in Miami. The McGinnis' picked us up in her Jaguar. His Jaguar was in the shop. When we arrived at the gate of their community, Indian Creek Village, the Mrs. was poking through her handbag, looking for a five dollar bill to tip the guard. Hundred dollar bills were flying around the back seat like snow flakes in a blizzard. I thought they were chicken feathers Yvette was still picking off her clothes. We had lunch at the country club and drove by the $7 Million home of Julio Iglesias. The McGinnis' were excellent hosts and we enjoyed a gracious afternoon. However, it was apparent that Pat was not interested in peddling wine bottle openers so we took the chicken flight back to Orlando. The plane had been cleaned up by the return. We spent a couple of days with the Newshams and then headed for home. In Nomad News No. 102 we will return to Fresno and continue our trip. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.99
ANYONE FOR ESCARGOTS? NO. 1 OF 4
One day in the early 1980s, on the front page of the "Wall Street Journal", there was a story about Ralph Tucker in Fresno CA who was raising escargots. Oui, messieurs/madams, real snails like in Ugh! It seems that Ralph had started a flowering business and was supplying the upbeat restaurants in the Fresno area with, what some folks believed were delicacies. We were living in Haddon Township, NJ, at the time. Just across the street was a large, one-story building that apparently had been unoccupied for some time. I'm sitting on the porch, reading the "Journal", and looking at that building. Bingo! If Ralph could raise snails in California, why couldn't I do the same thing in New Jersey.
I dropped the paper, went down to our office, picked up the phone and called Ralph. The saga begins. Ralph had scheduled a Convention within the next couple of weeks and I told him we would be there. As long as we were going to the other side of he world, we decided to make the trip worthwhile. The itinerary ended up being: We would fly to San Francisco, three days there; fly to Fresno for the convention. Spend three days there. Drive to Phoenix, AZ via the Mohave Desert, take our timeshare week at Flagstaff, fly to Boise Idaho to visit my wartime buddy Mike Spero. Stay a few days there. Fly to Salt Lake City. Rent a car and drive to Yellowstone Park for a few days. Fly back to Salt Lake City for a couple of days. Then fly home.
We pretty much followed that schedule except for the leg from Fresno to Phoenix. We were delayed in Fresno for a day longer than expected and when I looked at the map, I didn't think we would have time to drive so we switched to the airplane so we would arrive in Flagstaff on schedule. We still arrived two days late.
Back to day one. San Francisco was interesting because I was advised to moved there at one time. One of the buyers at Food Fair, Dick Hooker, had spent a number of years there and had suggested that I would like Frisco because of the coast and the fishing and sailing possibilities and not too far inland, fresh water fishing and the mountains were available. After giving it some thought, and as I look back, possibly my sheltering angel nudged me in a different direction, for which I am forever grateful.
The first day we drove to Pasadena to look up someone who was an Amway distributor. I forget why, or if we ever met him. There's a highway that parallels the coast and frequently we would see the ocean and the fog bank off shore that the sunshine kept at bay. It was late in the afternoon when we returned to San Francisco. There is a ridge of mountains between the road and the coast. The sun had declined and permitted the fog to move inland and as the fog followed the contour of the mountains, it looked like a giant waterfall descending over the earth. It was magnificent. I guess that is how the plague descended on the city.
We visited Fisherman's Wharf and became acquainted with sour dough bread, took a ride on a cable car, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and took the ferry to Alcatraz. At this moment in time, I believe Alcatraz would be a wonderful place to exile all 535 members of Congress, along with Obama and his 32 czars, and the nine U. S. Supreme Court justices. Here they would have time to read the Constitution of the United States and find out what's in it.
I think this would be a good place to stop, and then proceed to Fresno and Ralph Tucker in Nomad News No. 100
One day in the early 1980s, on the front page of the "Wall Street Journal", there was a story about Ralph Tucker in Fresno CA who was raising escargots. Oui, messieurs/madams, real snails like in Ugh! It seems that Ralph had started a flowering business and was supplying the upbeat restaurants in the Fresno area with, what some folks believed were delicacies. We were living in Haddon Township, NJ, at the time. Just across the street was a large, one-story building that apparently had been unoccupied for some time. I'm sitting on the porch, reading the "Journal", and looking at that building. Bingo! If Ralph could raise snails in California, why couldn't I do the same thing in New Jersey.
I dropped the paper, went down to our office, picked up the phone and called Ralph. The saga begins. Ralph had scheduled a Convention within the next couple of weeks and I told him we would be there. As long as we were going to the other side of he world, we decided to make the trip worthwhile. The itinerary ended up being: We would fly to San Francisco, three days there; fly to Fresno for the convention. Spend three days there. Drive to Phoenix, AZ via the Mohave Desert, take our timeshare week at Flagstaff, fly to Boise Idaho to visit my wartime buddy Mike Spero. Stay a few days there. Fly to Salt Lake City. Rent a car and drive to Yellowstone Park for a few days. Fly back to Salt Lake City for a couple of days. Then fly home.
We pretty much followed that schedule except for the leg from Fresno to Phoenix. We were delayed in Fresno for a day longer than expected and when I looked at the map, I didn't think we would have time to drive so we switched to the airplane so we would arrive in Flagstaff on schedule. We still arrived two days late.
Back to day one. San Francisco was interesting because I was advised to moved there at one time. One of the buyers at Food Fair, Dick Hooker, had spent a number of years there and had suggested that I would like Frisco because of the coast and the fishing and sailing possibilities and not too far inland, fresh water fishing and the mountains were available. After giving it some thought, and as I look back, possibly my sheltering angel nudged me in a different direction, for which I am forever grateful.
The first day we drove to Pasadena to look up someone who was an Amway distributor. I forget why, or if we ever met him. There's a highway that parallels the coast and frequently we would see the ocean and the fog bank off shore that the sunshine kept at bay. It was late in the afternoon when we returned to San Francisco. There is a ridge of mountains between the road and the coast. The sun had declined and permitted the fog to move inland and as the fog followed the contour of the mountains, it looked like a giant waterfall descending over the earth. It was magnificent. I guess that is how the plague descended on the city.
We visited Fisherman's Wharf and became acquainted with sour dough bread, took a ride on a cable car, drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and took the ferry to Alcatraz. At this moment in time, I believe Alcatraz would be a wonderful place to exile all 535 members of Congress, along with Obama and his 32 czars, and the nine U. S. Supreme Court justices. Here they would have time to read the Constitution of the United States and find out what's in it.
I think this would be a good place to stop, and then proceed to Fresno and Ralph Tucker in Nomad News No. 100
Thursday, May 15, 2014
Nomad News Vol.4-No.98
ACROSS CANADA BY TRAIN NO. 2 of 2
In Nomad News No. 97, I had just arrived in Jasper after traversing the Canadian Rockies from near Lake Louise. Tremendous. Exciting. Massive. Stupendous. Words can't describe the wonders of he Rockies. I have seen the American Rockies and the Alps but nothing compares to the unending beauty of the Canadian Rockies and I still have some to go.
After a day in the Jasper area, the seemingly unending beauty continued most of the way to Vancouver. The highlight of this last lap was Mount Robson with an elevation of 12,972 feet and one of the highest peaks in the range with it's massive snow and ice-covered cap. As I recall, the train made kind of a semi-loop around the mountain as we had views from several angles. The trip from Jasper to Vancouver was overnight and for some reason I could not get a compartment. We arrived around 6 a.m. and without hardly any sleep, I was worn out. I went directly to my hotel and slept most of the day.
I was up at 6.00 a.m., had breakfast, then located the airport which was a couple of miles out of the city. I rented a Gruman American low wing airplane, and planned to fly to Mount Baker in Washington state. I forget the model but she was a four-place and turned out to be the most comfortable airplane I had ever flown. I don't know what it was but we became instant friends. She was quiet with good 360-degree visibility, and responded to the controls like we had been together for hours. She settled in the air just like a good wooden boat settles in the water. I wanted to loop her in the worst way but I had taken one of the personnel from the airport with me so I wouldn't have any problem with local flying restrictions, crossing the border, etc. and he said: "no no".
As we took off, I could see Mount Baker about fifty miles to the south. As the mountain's elevation is 10,781-feet, I started a slow climb so I would be at that elevation on arrival. As we approached, there were four o five little specks on the mountain's top. The specks turned out to be people on snow shoes. There were several active volcanic holes, emitting hot steam, that didn't look friendly. We circled the mountain a couple of times, and then headed back to Vancouver. Upon return, the airport operator told me the folks on the mountain were probably scientists checking things out as the mountain had been acting up lately.
The next day I took the ferry boat to Vancouver Island where the city of Victoria is located. The island, 290 miles in length, is the largest Pacific Island east of New Zealand. I believe the city is noted for some gardens but, if so, they didn't leave any permanent impression on my memory. The net day was more interesting. I took the Royal Hudson Steam Train to Squamich, about a two-hour ride. I had always been fascinated by train travel and the opportunity to travel in a train from the 1930s was something I couldn't pass up. The train had either been maintained in mint condition or restored. We arrived for lunch and I believe we were there for a couple of hours until it was time to return. Squamich was an old town, as well as I can recall.
The following day I departed for Ottawa, this time by the southern route. The return was straight through with no overnight stops. I had a compartment and a Dome Car so the Labatt 50 problem was taken care of. I don't recall if we spent one night or two nights on the road. All in all it was a great trip and one to be remembered, even if a bit hazy. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
In Nomad News No. 97, I had just arrived in Jasper after traversing the Canadian Rockies from near Lake Louise. Tremendous. Exciting. Massive. Stupendous. Words can't describe the wonders of he Rockies. I have seen the American Rockies and the Alps but nothing compares to the unending beauty of the Canadian Rockies and I still have some to go.
After a day in the Jasper area, the seemingly unending beauty continued most of the way to Vancouver. The highlight of this last lap was Mount Robson with an elevation of 12,972 feet and one of the highest peaks in the range with it's massive snow and ice-covered cap. As I recall, the train made kind of a semi-loop around the mountain as we had views from several angles. The trip from Jasper to Vancouver was overnight and for some reason I could not get a compartment. We arrived around 6 a.m. and without hardly any sleep, I was worn out. I went directly to my hotel and slept most of the day.
I was up at 6.00 a.m., had breakfast, then located the airport which was a couple of miles out of the city. I rented a Gruman American low wing airplane, and planned to fly to Mount Baker in Washington state. I forget the model but she was a four-place and turned out to be the most comfortable airplane I had ever flown. I don't know what it was but we became instant friends. She was quiet with good 360-degree visibility, and responded to the controls like we had been together for hours. She settled in the air just like a good wooden boat settles in the water. I wanted to loop her in the worst way but I had taken one of the personnel from the airport with me so I wouldn't have any problem with local flying restrictions, crossing the border, etc. and he said: "no no".
As we took off, I could see Mount Baker about fifty miles to the south. As the mountain's elevation is 10,781-feet, I started a slow climb so I would be at that elevation on arrival. As we approached, there were four o five little specks on the mountain's top. The specks turned out to be people on snow shoes. There were several active volcanic holes, emitting hot steam, that didn't look friendly. We circled the mountain a couple of times, and then headed back to Vancouver. Upon return, the airport operator told me the folks on the mountain were probably scientists checking things out as the mountain had been acting up lately.
The next day I took the ferry boat to Vancouver Island where the city of Victoria is located. The island, 290 miles in length, is the largest Pacific Island east of New Zealand. I believe the city is noted for some gardens but, if so, they didn't leave any permanent impression on my memory. The net day was more interesting. I took the Royal Hudson Steam Train to Squamich, about a two-hour ride. I had always been fascinated by train travel and the opportunity to travel in a train from the 1930s was something I couldn't pass up. The train had either been maintained in mint condition or restored. We arrived for lunch and I believe we were there for a couple of hours until it was time to return. Squamich was an old town, as well as I can recall.
The following day I departed for Ottawa, this time by the southern route. The return was straight through with no overnight stops. I had a compartment and a Dome Car so the Labatt 50 problem was taken care of. I don't recall if we spent one night or two nights on the road. All in all it was a great trip and one to be remembered, even if a bit hazy. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.97
ACROSS CANADA BY TRAIN -No. 1 of 2
I have mentioned a couple of times that once upon a time, I owned a plot of land on Clear Lake, Ontario along with five fishermen friends. Over the years we met a lot of "locals" and became quite friendly with a few. Two were Art and Kathy Eberhard. Art called everyone "Chicky". The Eberhards lived in Ottawa and had a summer home on Clear Lake. One year I decided to take the train from Ottawa to Vancouver. The Eberhards invited me to stay overnight with them in Ottawa, leave my car in their driveway, and then took me to the train and picked me up on my return.
I had a compartment so I could take a nap when I felt like it, the train had a Dome Car, I believe they called it, where I could sip my Labatt 50 Ale and watch the scenery go by. I also scheduled an overnight stop at Winnipeg, Edmonton and Jasper. The first day, I saw nothing but trees and more trees. From Winnipeg to Edmonton, it was sunflowers. They're still embedded in my mind. I rented a car and stayed a day in and around Winnipeg. I can't remember anything special about the area although I did visit a zoo that was quite nice.
The following morning I checked the schedule to find the train was three hours late. Today, I compare this to the European fast trains that operate on such a punctual schedule. Through the sunflowers to Edmonton where I had scheduled a day stayover.The train is four hours late in arriving. In the morning I rented a car and drove around the area. Here again, I don't recall anything outstanding except the zoo may have been in Edmonton. I was up at five the next morning and checked on the train. It will arrive six hours late. My original schedule would have given me nearly a day at Jasper, near the northern end of the Rockies. I thought this would give me enough time to ride around and sight see the Rockies at that point pretty good. With this unexpected time problem, this wasn't going to happen. I still had the car so I pulled my map out. The road south from Edmonton to Calgary, about fifty miles east of Lake Louise, was straight as an arrow. The distance was 185 miles. I figured I could drive to Lake Louise and then back up to Jasper through the Rockies and arrive about 8 p.m. The decision was made. It was "wide open" all the way with my fingers crossed that the law would not be out that early.
My sheltering angel, which I wasn't aware of at that time in my life, must have been with me as I made it without mishap. From Calgary, I could see the Rockies for the first time in my life. I stopped for a bite of breakfast, filled the gas tank, then hit the road. I bypassed Lake Louise and Banff as they were a little distance off the main road. I had a 35mm camera and every time I came to a spectacular view, I would pull off the road, place the car in neutral, leave the engine running, hop out, take the picture and then reverse the process. This went on for miles, one spectacular view followed by one even more spectacular.The Canadian Rockies are distinct from the American Rockies as glaciers have produced sharply pointed mountains and deeply gouged valleys. The American Rockies are more rounded.
Around noon I arrived at what proved to be the only emporium the entire distance. I picked up a Coke and something to eat on the road. There was a sign pointing to some water falls on the left of the highway. As they were about a hundred yards, I decided to take a look. I pulled into the parking area, following my usual process. Here, however, the falls were not visible and no one was around, I decided to lock the car and pushed down the lock button, shut the door and as I did, I realized the key was in the ignition and the engine was running. Too late. I was locked out in the middle of the Rockies. My first thought was: Break the window. Luckily, the window was down about an inch, so I decided to walk back to the store and see if they had a wire coat hanger that I could use to hook the button. The gentleman was very nice. After some rummaging around, he found one. He loaned me a pair of pliers, I fashioned the tool, and on the first try, hooked the knob and pulled it. I returned the pliers but kept the coat hanger in case I should pull that stupid stunt again. From that point on, I always kept the window open about an inch.
A short time later, I arrived at the Columbia Ice Fields; a glacier that was about fifty yards from the highway. There were several cars stopped there and the occupants were walking on the ice. I decided to take the time and join them, which I did. About four o'clock I came upon a Ranger Station. As it appeared, I wasn't going to make Jasper by 8 p.m. so I stopped to see if they had a phone that I could call the hotel and tell them I might be a little late, but that I would be there. There was no phone but the Ranger told me he would radio the information through to the hotel. I thanked him, and then hit the road. I pulled into the hotel parking lot at 8:05. How's that for planning?
This is getting a little lengthy, so I am going to sign off and continue on Nomad News No. 98(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
I have mentioned a couple of times that once upon a time, I owned a plot of land on Clear Lake, Ontario along with five fishermen friends. Over the years we met a lot of "locals" and became quite friendly with a few. Two were Art and Kathy Eberhard. Art called everyone "Chicky". The Eberhards lived in Ottawa and had a summer home on Clear Lake. One year I decided to take the train from Ottawa to Vancouver. The Eberhards invited me to stay overnight with them in Ottawa, leave my car in their driveway, and then took me to the train and picked me up on my return.
I had a compartment so I could take a nap when I felt like it, the train had a Dome Car, I believe they called it, where I could sip my Labatt 50 Ale and watch the scenery go by. I also scheduled an overnight stop at Winnipeg, Edmonton and Jasper. The first day, I saw nothing but trees and more trees. From Winnipeg to Edmonton, it was sunflowers. They're still embedded in my mind. I rented a car and stayed a day in and around Winnipeg. I can't remember anything special about the area although I did visit a zoo that was quite nice.
The following morning I checked the schedule to find the train was three hours late. Today, I compare this to the European fast trains that operate on such a punctual schedule. Through the sunflowers to Edmonton where I had scheduled a day stayover.The train is four hours late in arriving. In the morning I rented a car and drove around the area. Here again, I don't recall anything outstanding except the zoo may have been in Edmonton. I was up at five the next morning and checked on the train. It will arrive six hours late. My original schedule would have given me nearly a day at Jasper, near the northern end of the Rockies. I thought this would give me enough time to ride around and sight see the Rockies at that point pretty good. With this unexpected time problem, this wasn't going to happen. I still had the car so I pulled my map out. The road south from Edmonton to Calgary, about fifty miles east of Lake Louise, was straight as an arrow. The distance was 185 miles. I figured I could drive to Lake Louise and then back up to Jasper through the Rockies and arrive about 8 p.m. The decision was made. It was "wide open" all the way with my fingers crossed that the law would not be out that early.
My sheltering angel, which I wasn't aware of at that time in my life, must have been with me as I made it without mishap. From Calgary, I could see the Rockies for the first time in my life. I stopped for a bite of breakfast, filled the gas tank, then hit the road. I bypassed Lake Louise and Banff as they were a little distance off the main road. I had a 35mm camera and every time I came to a spectacular view, I would pull off the road, place the car in neutral, leave the engine running, hop out, take the picture and then reverse the process. This went on for miles, one spectacular view followed by one even more spectacular.The Canadian Rockies are distinct from the American Rockies as glaciers have produced sharply pointed mountains and deeply gouged valleys. The American Rockies are more rounded.
Around noon I arrived at what proved to be the only emporium the entire distance. I picked up a Coke and something to eat on the road. There was a sign pointing to some water falls on the left of the highway. As they were about a hundred yards, I decided to take a look. I pulled into the parking area, following my usual process. Here, however, the falls were not visible and no one was around, I decided to lock the car and pushed down the lock button, shut the door and as I did, I realized the key was in the ignition and the engine was running. Too late. I was locked out in the middle of the Rockies. My first thought was: Break the window. Luckily, the window was down about an inch, so I decided to walk back to the store and see if they had a wire coat hanger that I could use to hook the button. The gentleman was very nice. After some rummaging around, he found one. He loaned me a pair of pliers, I fashioned the tool, and on the first try, hooked the knob and pulled it. I returned the pliers but kept the coat hanger in case I should pull that stupid stunt again. From that point on, I always kept the window open about an inch.
A short time later, I arrived at the Columbia Ice Fields; a glacier that was about fifty yards from the highway. There were several cars stopped there and the occupants were walking on the ice. I decided to take the time and join them, which I did. About four o'clock I came upon a Ranger Station. As it appeared, I wasn't going to make Jasper by 8 p.m. so I stopped to see if they had a phone that I could call the hotel and tell them I might be a little late, but that I would be there. There was no phone but the Ranger told me he would radio the information through to the hotel. I thanked him, and then hit the road. I pulled into the hotel parking lot at 8:05. How's that for planning?
This is getting a little lengthy, so I am going to sign off and continue on Nomad News No. 98(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.96
TALES FROM MY TACKLE BOX. No.2
In poking through the remnants of my old fishing tackle box, I came across an Epperman lure, made in Atlantic City NJ. The lure is a round piece of lead about 3/16" thick, tapered and rounded of near the edge. A large hook is embedded near the top, and it is painted red and white.
It actually is a jig, dropped over the side of a boat and moved up and down to attract the fish. We used them for casting from the "Sneaky Pete", Jules "Pete" Verga's 26' Carl Adams sea skiff, for striped bass in and around the Barnegat Light inlet, New Jersey. I had my friend, Bill Priggemeier, a tool and die maker who had a machine shop in his garage, make a mold for a half-size Epperman. I would then attach a clump of bucktail to the hook's shaft. I used to make a lot of my own lures, taking all the material with me on Canadian trips so I would have something to do If the weather was too inclement to fish. I had considerable luck with this modified Epperman while trolling for Smallmouth Bass on Baptiste Lake, near Bancroft, Ontario.
I forget how I became acquainted with Rangers Lodge on Baptiste Lake. I don't believe it was on one of my nomad wanderings; maybe I will recall later on. Baptiste is about 5000 acres with a median depth of 17-feet, deep, but has plenty of shallow bays along the shoreline where we trolled for Smallmouth Bass that ran around two-pounds each. Deeper areas were great for Walleyes which ran around two to three pounds, also. Both fish are great eating at that weight. The lake also contains great Catfish, The site consisted of a Main Lodge and a series of small log cabins.
I always rented a small cabin. I visited Rangers, a week at a time, for seven or eight years. On my first visit, the cabin next to mine was occupied by two men from New Jersey; Hap Mills, an insurance agent, and Bill Forget His Name. Two men, from Olean, New York, who had been guests for years were called "Mr. Back to Back. They fished mid-boat back to back. Early each morning they were on the lake fishing for catfish. Meals were family-style and Mr. Back to Back insisted on a bowl of fried catfish, three meals a day. That is, along with the regular menu. You could eat them or leave them. I was never strong on catfish, but I ate some three times a day.
Getting back to Hap Millls and Bill, we all fished every morning, came in for lunch, ate it and then fished to around 4 o'clock. Then it was Happy Hour with Hap and Bill. I had my ever-present Labatt 50 Ale. Hap and Bill sipped Scotch along with those little red-skinned peanuts. I joined in the peanuts which they had an unlimited supply of. One day a chipmunk showed up and Hap threw him a peanut which he put in one jaw, waited for another peanut for the other jaw, then took off for his lair. This process was repeated until he had enough stored peanuts. It was a daily ritual. On the third day, Hap said: "I wonder if we could get him drunk." He then dipped a peanut in his Scotch which the chipmunk placed in his jaw. After the next peanut, he took off as usual. I forgot to mention, there were two low steps up to the porch. On the third trip back he was walking slightly sideways. He picked up his cargo and left. On the next trip, he was definitely walking sideways. He jumped off the second step to the first, and then rolled off to the ground and staggered off. We didn't see him the couple days remaining. Before you say we were cruel, maybe we were but we knew you could recover from a hangover. And, he was there the following year but we didn't give him any spiked peanuts. (Copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
In poking through the remnants of my old fishing tackle box, I came across an Epperman lure, made in Atlantic City NJ. The lure is a round piece of lead about 3/16" thick, tapered and rounded of near the edge. A large hook is embedded near the top, and it is painted red and white.
It actually is a jig, dropped over the side of a boat and moved up and down to attract the fish. We used them for casting from the "Sneaky Pete", Jules "Pete" Verga's 26' Carl Adams sea skiff, for striped bass in and around the Barnegat Light inlet, New Jersey. I had my friend, Bill Priggemeier, a tool and die maker who had a machine shop in his garage, make a mold for a half-size Epperman. I would then attach a clump of bucktail to the hook's shaft. I used to make a lot of my own lures, taking all the material with me on Canadian trips so I would have something to do If the weather was too inclement to fish. I had considerable luck with this modified Epperman while trolling for Smallmouth Bass on Baptiste Lake, near Bancroft, Ontario.
I forget how I became acquainted with Rangers Lodge on Baptiste Lake. I don't believe it was on one of my nomad wanderings; maybe I will recall later on. Baptiste is about 5000 acres with a median depth of 17-feet, deep, but has plenty of shallow bays along the shoreline where we trolled for Smallmouth Bass that ran around two-pounds each. Deeper areas were great for Walleyes which ran around two to three pounds, also. Both fish are great eating at that weight. The lake also contains great Catfish, The site consisted of a Main Lodge and a series of small log cabins.
I always rented a small cabin. I visited Rangers, a week at a time, for seven or eight years. On my first visit, the cabin next to mine was occupied by two men from New Jersey; Hap Mills, an insurance agent, and Bill Forget His Name. Two men, from Olean, New York, who had been guests for years were called "Mr. Back to Back. They fished mid-boat back to back. Early each morning they were on the lake fishing for catfish. Meals were family-style and Mr. Back to Back insisted on a bowl of fried catfish, three meals a day. That is, along with the regular menu. You could eat them or leave them. I was never strong on catfish, but I ate some three times a day.
Getting back to Hap Millls and Bill, we all fished every morning, came in for lunch, ate it and then fished to around 4 o'clock. Then it was Happy Hour with Hap and Bill. I had my ever-present Labatt 50 Ale. Hap and Bill sipped Scotch along with those little red-skinned peanuts. I joined in the peanuts which they had an unlimited supply of. One day a chipmunk showed up and Hap threw him a peanut which he put in one jaw, waited for another peanut for the other jaw, then took off for his lair. This process was repeated until he had enough stored peanuts. It was a daily ritual. On the third day, Hap said: "I wonder if we could get him drunk." He then dipped a peanut in his Scotch which the chipmunk placed in his jaw. After the next peanut, he took off as usual. I forgot to mention, there were two low steps up to the porch. On the third trip back he was walking slightly sideways. He picked up his cargo and left. On the next trip, he was definitely walking sideways. He jumped off the second step to the first, and then rolled off to the ground and staggered off. We didn't see him the couple days remaining. Before you say we were cruel, maybe we were but we knew you could recover from a hangover. And, he was there the following year but we didn't give him any spiked peanuts. (Copyright 2014- Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.95
TALES FROM MY TACKLE BOX NO.1
When we lived in Mayland, about 15 miles west of Crossville, our barn burned down and I lost most of my fishing tackle. What I salvaged, I placed in another box and it has been gathering dust in my workshop. I pulled it out the other day and as I surveyed the little that was remaining of my years on the lakes of fun, I picked up my favorite lure, a lure called a Flatfish, and the one I caught more bass with than any of the other lures. The Flatfish is a slightly curved lure, slim and sleek; something like a pretty lady. This brought to mind, one of my Canadian trips. Not the pretty lady, the Flatfish.
I believe I mentioned in another Nomad News that I had acquired, with five other friends, a plot of land on Clear Lake in the Rideau chain and had a small cabin built. One year I went up Labor Day weekend and stayed for the remainder of the week. At the end of the week, I decided to stay over and just follow the road west to no place in particular. Just see where the road would take me. I traveled to near noon and a sign appeared reading"Round Lake Lodge" and an arrow pointing north. I turned and followed the road for about 50 miles, as I recall, to the lodge. The place looked deserted. A row of boats, turned upside down, lined the shoreline and there was no sign of life. As long as I was there, I decided to ring the lodge doorbell. The door was opened by a young woman and a young child, seven or eight years old. When I inquired about lodging, she replied they were closed for the season. I told her I just wanted to fish that evening and stay overnight, she accented. She was very pleasant and fixed me some lunch and then I headed for my usual nap.
When I awoke and looked out my bedroom window that had a view of the lake, the woman and her daughter were righting two of the overturned boats.
I picked up my rod and gear from the car and headed for the beach where Mrs. Pleasant indicated which boat was mine. I opened my tackle box and looked at the double tray of lures, deciding which I would need that evening. The little girl came over, clutching a nondescript fishing rod in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. I watched with kind of pride as she perused my hundred dollars worth of lures. After a thoughtful look, she said: "You don't have anything good there." Talk about deflated pride, I replied: "What's good." She leaned her rod against the boat, took the paper bag and turned it upside down. Out popped three or four silver-colored lures that remotely resembled my faithful Flatfish, but they were bulky and fat. I said: What do you call those? "Canadian Wiggler." "That's what good, eh." With a "Yep", she put the ugly lures back in the paper bag, picked up her rod, and haughtily skipped off to join her mother. We were to rejoin at 7 o'clock. I fished without getting so much as a tap until it was time to return. Mother and daughter returned ten minutes later with half a dozen Walleyes weighing about a pound and a half to two pounds each; perfect for filleting. The Walleye, sometimes called Walleyed Pike, is a member of the Perch family and most delicious when fried, especially in an old frying pan with a chunk of fat to grease the pan, over a camp fire. That is how we devoured them that evening.
I blamed my lack of luck on not having any knowledge of the lake. Well, you have to blame it on something when a seven-year old kid with a brown paper bag can out fish Hawkeye
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
When we lived in Mayland, about 15 miles west of Crossville, our barn burned down and I lost most of my fishing tackle. What I salvaged, I placed in another box and it has been gathering dust in my workshop. I pulled it out the other day and as I surveyed the little that was remaining of my years on the lakes of fun, I picked up my favorite lure, a lure called a Flatfish, and the one I caught more bass with than any of the other lures. The Flatfish is a slightly curved lure, slim and sleek; something like a pretty lady. This brought to mind, one of my Canadian trips. Not the pretty lady, the Flatfish.
I believe I mentioned in another Nomad News that I had acquired, with five other friends, a plot of land on Clear Lake in the Rideau chain and had a small cabin built. One year I went up Labor Day weekend and stayed for the remainder of the week. At the end of the week, I decided to stay over and just follow the road west to no place in particular. Just see where the road would take me. I traveled to near noon and a sign appeared reading"Round Lake Lodge" and an arrow pointing north. I turned and followed the road for about 50 miles, as I recall, to the lodge. The place looked deserted. A row of boats, turned upside down, lined the shoreline and there was no sign of life. As long as I was there, I decided to ring the lodge doorbell. The door was opened by a young woman and a young child, seven or eight years old. When I inquired about lodging, she replied they were closed for the season. I told her I just wanted to fish that evening and stay overnight, she accented. She was very pleasant and fixed me some lunch and then I headed for my usual nap.
When I awoke and looked out my bedroom window that had a view of the lake, the woman and her daughter were righting two of the overturned boats.
I picked up my rod and gear from the car and headed for the beach where Mrs. Pleasant indicated which boat was mine. I opened my tackle box and looked at the double tray of lures, deciding which I would need that evening. The little girl came over, clutching a nondescript fishing rod in one hand and a small brown paper bag in the other. I watched with kind of pride as she perused my hundred dollars worth of lures. After a thoughtful look, she said: "You don't have anything good there." Talk about deflated pride, I replied: "What's good." She leaned her rod against the boat, took the paper bag and turned it upside down. Out popped three or four silver-colored lures that remotely resembled my faithful Flatfish, but they were bulky and fat. I said: What do you call those? "Canadian Wiggler." "That's what good, eh." With a "Yep", she put the ugly lures back in the paper bag, picked up her rod, and haughtily skipped off to join her mother. We were to rejoin at 7 o'clock. I fished without getting so much as a tap until it was time to return. Mother and daughter returned ten minutes later with half a dozen Walleyes weighing about a pound and a half to two pounds each; perfect for filleting. The Walleye, sometimes called Walleyed Pike, is a member of the Perch family and most delicious when fried, especially in an old frying pan with a chunk of fat to grease the pan, over a camp fire. That is how we devoured them that evening.
I blamed my lack of luck on not having any knowledge of the lake. Well, you have to blame it on something when a seven-year old kid with a brown paper bag can out fish Hawkeye
(copyright 2014-Andrew M. Dolan)
Saturday, April 26, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.94
THE ELECTRIC GRID IS VULNERABLE: (The following letter to the Editor, was published in the Crossville Chronicle on April 25, 2014. It was submitted by the writer.)
Dear Chronicle:
The State Department wants $400,000 to purchase a fiberglass sculpture of a camel looking at a needle. The Obamas kept the tab under $500,000 for a week at the Villa Padierna. U.S.Ambassador to NATO needs$700,000 for landscaping. Christmas in Hawaii for the Obamas, $4 million. National Science Foundation wants $700,000 to put on a theatrical production. The Obamas vacation on Martha's Vineyard, $1.1 million. Senate staffers need $1.9 million for lifestyle coaching. Obama's speech at the Mandela memorial, $5. million. Yale University wants $384,000. to study the odd corkscrew shape of a duck's penis. That should have you laughing in the aisle if it wasn't so serious. Annual cost to taxpayers for the Obamas' indulgence in Air Force One travel is $1.4 billion. Yes, that's a B. On and on it goes with no end in sight.
On April 16, near San Jose CA, one of more "vandals" (that is what they were first called) attacked a transmission substation, aimed at knocking out a part of America's electrical infrastructure. They attacked with military precision, cutting underground fiber optic cables, disabling security systems. For the next 20 minutes, using high-powered weapons, they disabled seven large transformers. I understand these transformers weigh up to a hundred tons and are manufactured in South Korea and will take months to replace. These "vandals" knew exactly where to disable the units. No fingerprints on ejected shell casings. The culprits disappeared into the darkness a minute before the police arrived. A real military-style attack by terrorists, not vandals.
Was this a test run? Was it a warning? Who knows. What seems certain is, an attack on a small number of key transformers throughout the electrical grid could cause a catastrophic blackout of the United States. Pull the master switch on your home electric box and lock your car keys in a drawer for twenty-four hours if you need a test run. The federal government seems to have a bottomless piggy bank to waste on frivolity and self-indulgence, while the electrical grid is vulnerable. Do something.
Andy Dolan
(This was originally addressed to the Congress of the United States with copies sent to our two Senators and Congressman. As soon as I find out which committees this would come under, I will send them the message, too. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Dear Chronicle:
The State Department wants $400,000 to purchase a fiberglass sculpture of a camel looking at a needle. The Obamas kept the tab under $500,000 for a week at the Villa Padierna. U.S.Ambassador to NATO needs$700,000 for landscaping. Christmas in Hawaii for the Obamas, $4 million. National Science Foundation wants $700,000 to put on a theatrical production. The Obamas vacation on Martha's Vineyard, $1.1 million. Senate staffers need $1.9 million for lifestyle coaching. Obama's speech at the Mandela memorial, $5. million. Yale University wants $384,000. to study the odd corkscrew shape of a duck's penis. That should have you laughing in the aisle if it wasn't so serious. Annual cost to taxpayers for the Obamas' indulgence in Air Force One travel is $1.4 billion. Yes, that's a B. On and on it goes with no end in sight.
On April 16, near San Jose CA, one of more "vandals" (that is what they were first called) attacked a transmission substation, aimed at knocking out a part of America's electrical infrastructure. They attacked with military precision, cutting underground fiber optic cables, disabling security systems. For the next 20 minutes, using high-powered weapons, they disabled seven large transformers. I understand these transformers weigh up to a hundred tons and are manufactured in South Korea and will take months to replace. These "vandals" knew exactly where to disable the units. No fingerprints on ejected shell casings. The culprits disappeared into the darkness a minute before the police arrived. A real military-style attack by terrorists, not vandals.
Was this a test run? Was it a warning? Who knows. What seems certain is, an attack on a small number of key transformers throughout the electrical grid could cause a catastrophic blackout of the United States. Pull the master switch on your home electric box and lock your car keys in a drawer for twenty-four hours if you need a test run. The federal government seems to have a bottomless piggy bank to waste on frivolity and self-indulgence, while the electrical grid is vulnerable. Do something.
Andy Dolan
(This was originally addressed to the Congress of the United States with copies sent to our two Senators and Congressman. As soon as I find out which committees this would come under, I will send them the message, too. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.93
HOW NOT TO HANDLE A PERSONNEL MATTER: In Nomad News No. 92, I mentioned three things that got my Irish up. The third one was an incident at Al Paul Lefton Advertising. To place things in perspective, I am going back to the end of WW2. When I returned to the Philadelphia Record, a couple of my friends there had been working to have me placed in a better position. The production manager in the Sales Promotion department was Mrs. Virginia Wilton. I learned later on that she was reluctant to take me; fearing that I would not take orders from a woman after being in the army for five years. We didn't have minute one of a problem. I knew nothing. She knew everything. I wanted to learn. She was willing to teach. We got along wonderfully.
After about a year, Mrs. Wilton called me in one day and asked if I would like to work for an advertising agency. Her husband worked at Al Paul Lefton Advertising and they were going to take on a production trainee under the Veterans GI Bill. She told me I would advance quicker there than I would in my current position at the Record. There was only one answer I could give: Yes. My supervisor at Al Paul was Ralph Powell, a chubby jovial character. Fun was written all over him and that is what we had. The boss of the department was Miss Harbison, a dour spinster. Five words was a long-winded conversation with her. She had the reputation of being the best production person in the business in Philadelphia. Her personality stopped at that point. All the production men had secretaries. With me, I was secretary/trainee for Ralph. Ralph was a great teacher and spent a lot of time with me.
After a little over a year, one of the secretaries asked for a $2.00 a week raise and was refused. She quit. That left the production man without a secretary. Ralph was out of the office that day when one of the secretaries, Nancy Sprout, came to my desk with a handful of bills to be typed. She said Miss Harbison told her to give them to me. I got the pick because I could type faster and better than any of the secretaries. I told Nancy I had plenty of my own work to complete and when I finished, I had plans to visit one of the engraving firms, which was part of my training program. Nancy left and was back in a couple of minutes with the bills still in her hand, with this comment: "Miss Harbison said you had to do them, whether you liked it or not." Wrong words. I took the wad of bills, placed them on a corner of my desk, placed a piece of paper in my typewriter and typed out my resignation, two weeks hence. I took the resignation to Miss Harbison, handed it to her. She placed the paper on her desk without comment. I typed the bills. When Ralph returned, I explained what had transpired. His words: "You did the proper thing, although I will miss you."
A week went by and no word from anyone. Then I got a call to come to Vice-President Henry Locheim's office. He had a piece of paper, face down, on his desk and proceeded to tell me how
impressed they were with my progress and were ready to turn over some accounts that I would control personally. The training was over and I would be on my own. He turned the paper over and read off five or six clients I would control. One was a division of Pennsylvania Railroad, one of their largest clients. I thanked him and told him how much I appreciated working for the firm and giving me an opportunity to move upward, but, No Thanks. We shook hands and I walked back to my office desk. A week later I left with not so much as a glance from Miss Harbison in her glass enclosed cubicle.
This is how it should have been handled: All Miss Harbison had to do was, call me into her office; explain that they were in a present jam and would appreciate it if I would help get them over the hump until they hired a new secretary. There was no way I could have refused and gotten my Irish up. What kind of respect would I have had if I had accepted an executive's order from a secretary? Nothing against the secretary, having been one, but you just don't do business in that manner.
I got a job working at Charlie Williamson"s Texaco station, while looking for another position. I was out of work for five weeks and was hired at Food Fair the day before I would receive my first unemployment check. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
After about a year, Mrs. Wilton called me in one day and asked if I would like to work for an advertising agency. Her husband worked at Al Paul Lefton Advertising and they were going to take on a production trainee under the Veterans GI Bill. She told me I would advance quicker there than I would in my current position at the Record. There was only one answer I could give: Yes. My supervisor at Al Paul was Ralph Powell, a chubby jovial character. Fun was written all over him and that is what we had. The boss of the department was Miss Harbison, a dour spinster. Five words was a long-winded conversation with her. She had the reputation of being the best production person in the business in Philadelphia. Her personality stopped at that point. All the production men had secretaries. With me, I was secretary/trainee for Ralph. Ralph was a great teacher and spent a lot of time with me.
After a little over a year, one of the secretaries asked for a $2.00 a week raise and was refused. She quit. That left the production man without a secretary. Ralph was out of the office that day when one of the secretaries, Nancy Sprout, came to my desk with a handful of bills to be typed. She said Miss Harbison told her to give them to me. I got the pick because I could type faster and better than any of the secretaries. I told Nancy I had plenty of my own work to complete and when I finished, I had plans to visit one of the engraving firms, which was part of my training program. Nancy left and was back in a couple of minutes with the bills still in her hand, with this comment: "Miss Harbison said you had to do them, whether you liked it or not." Wrong words. I took the wad of bills, placed them on a corner of my desk, placed a piece of paper in my typewriter and typed out my resignation, two weeks hence. I took the resignation to Miss Harbison, handed it to her. She placed the paper on her desk without comment. I typed the bills. When Ralph returned, I explained what had transpired. His words: "You did the proper thing, although I will miss you."
A week went by and no word from anyone. Then I got a call to come to Vice-President Henry Locheim's office. He had a piece of paper, face down, on his desk and proceeded to tell me how
impressed they were with my progress and were ready to turn over some accounts that I would control personally. The training was over and I would be on my own. He turned the paper over and read off five or six clients I would control. One was a division of Pennsylvania Railroad, one of their largest clients. I thanked him and told him how much I appreciated working for the firm and giving me an opportunity to move upward, but, No Thanks. We shook hands and I walked back to my office desk. A week later I left with not so much as a glance from Miss Harbison in her glass enclosed cubicle.
This is how it should have been handled: All Miss Harbison had to do was, call me into her office; explain that they were in a present jam and would appreciate it if I would help get them over the hump until they hired a new secretary. There was no way I could have refused and gotten my Irish up. What kind of respect would I have had if I had accepted an executive's order from a secretary? Nothing against the secretary, having been one, but you just don't do business in that manner.
I got a job working at Charlie Williamson"s Texaco station, while looking for another position. I was out of work for five weeks and was hired at Food Fair the day before I would receive my first unemployment check. (Copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Monday, April 21, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.92
ITS A FUN LIFE: Some time back, a very pleasant woman who attends the same church we do, Shepherd of the Hills Lutheran, made the following comment: "You must have had an interesting life." At one time, but several years apart, this person and I lived at opposite ends of Long Beach Island , NJ. LBI is an 18-mile sand sprit off the New Jersey coast. She lived in Beach Haven and I, in Barnegat Light. I had not thought of this, but now I did. She is correct. But, in place of "interesting" I inserted "fun". Instead of "had", I inserted "having".
I have had a fun life through bright days and dreary days. It was always fun. I don't mean laughing fun but, enjoying everything. If you're not happy in your job, get a different job. I once met a man who was one of the airport traffic controllers fired by President Reagan. He reminded me of Joe Btfsplk, a comic book character in the Joe Palooka strip who always had a black rain cloud over his head. This man was so despondent, I couldn't wait to get away from him. I was fired, and walked out the door humming Happy days Are Here Again. I was happy as a lark. I now had the resources and, more importantly, the time to follow my pursuits: Airplanes, Boats, Fishing; and women as long as they did not interfere with the other three. A month or more in Canada every year fishing, flying when I wanted to, on my sailboat when I wanted to be there. I was 46-years old, single, in the prime time of my life. I wasn't thinking of mid-life crisis, I was thinking fun. I was not happy -go- lucky, Just having fun, but serious when necessary.
My sixty years of bachelorhood came to a sudden halt when a little French immigrant appeared on the scene. The fun didn't stop. Just changed direction, which included a move to Tennessee. I wrote in another Nomad News why I believe I was destined to move to Tennessee. Without Yvette, that destiny would not have been fulfilled. Why I'm here, as yet to be fulfilled. As a matter of fact, I was always sort of reserved, as I am today. But, I was always having fun and continue to do so. Life's not as buoyant, but is still fun. I can recall only three times when I wasn't having fun. One was when they told me I "couldn't" do something or "had" to do something. That got my Irish up. They told me I couldn't dump a Timeshare contract. I did. I can't tell you how as I had to sign a confidentially agreement. Another time, a fast-talking telephone solicitor convinced Yvette she needed to take a $4000.00 self-improvement course. Our lawyer told us our chance of getting a refund was nil to none. I got it. I can tell you how if you are interested. My boss at Al Paul Lefton Advertising told me I had to do something whether I liked it or not. (Details on this last comment are rather long so I will follow with Nomad News No.93) In any event, if you wish to have a long happy life, have fun. Don't hang out with the Joe Btfsplks of this world. Hang out with fun people. There are beaucoup out there. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
I have had a fun life through bright days and dreary days. It was always fun. I don't mean laughing fun but, enjoying everything. If you're not happy in your job, get a different job. I once met a man who was one of the airport traffic controllers fired by President Reagan. He reminded me of Joe Btfsplk, a comic book character in the Joe Palooka strip who always had a black rain cloud over his head. This man was so despondent, I couldn't wait to get away from him. I was fired, and walked out the door humming Happy days Are Here Again. I was happy as a lark. I now had the resources and, more importantly, the time to follow my pursuits: Airplanes, Boats, Fishing; and women as long as they did not interfere with the other three. A month or more in Canada every year fishing, flying when I wanted to, on my sailboat when I wanted to be there. I was 46-years old, single, in the prime time of my life. I wasn't thinking of mid-life crisis, I was thinking fun. I was not happy -go- lucky, Just having fun, but serious when necessary.
My sixty years of bachelorhood came to a sudden halt when a little French immigrant appeared on the scene. The fun didn't stop. Just changed direction, which included a move to Tennessee. I wrote in another Nomad News why I believe I was destined to move to Tennessee. Without Yvette, that destiny would not have been fulfilled. Why I'm here, as yet to be fulfilled. As a matter of fact, I was always sort of reserved, as I am today. But, I was always having fun and continue to do so. Life's not as buoyant, but is still fun. I can recall only three times when I wasn't having fun. One was when they told me I "couldn't" do something or "had" to do something. That got my Irish up. They told me I couldn't dump a Timeshare contract. I did. I can't tell you how as I had to sign a confidentially agreement. Another time, a fast-talking telephone solicitor convinced Yvette she needed to take a $4000.00 self-improvement course. Our lawyer told us our chance of getting a refund was nil to none. I got it. I can tell you how if you are interested. My boss at Al Paul Lefton Advertising told me I had to do something whether I liked it or not. (Details on this last comment are rather long so I will follow with Nomad News No.93) In any event, if you wish to have a long happy life, have fun. Don't hang out with the Joe Btfsplks of this world. Hang out with fun people. There are beaucoup out there. (copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan
Sunday, April 20, 2014
Nomad News-Vol.4-No.91
WHY I WAS FIRED: With you folks not knowing the personnel involved, I will attempt to outline the facts involved when I was fired at Food Fair Stores, the fourth largest food chain at that time, with over 400 stores. I was Advertising/Sales Promotion Manager for the Philadelphia branch with about 100 stores. My boss was Branch Manager Morris Marcus, bother of Executive Vice-President Meyer Marcus. Morris was as stupid as Meyer was brilliant, in so far as the food business. The company decided to open some low-cost markets called Pantry Pride. Morris' son, Aubie, who worked in my department, was placed in charge for advertising. He moved uptown to the corporate headquarters. They wanted to hire another person to work for Aubie but, he would be in my department physically. I objected because I knew they would hire someone who would be making more money than my personnel. I didn't care if they hired 100 people, as long as they were elsewhere. I spoke to Harry Pripstein, Vice-President over Buying and Advertising. He reported back that he had "taken care" of the situation. Looking back, I may have misread "taken care".
Anyway, shortly thereafter, the company hired an Efficiency Expert, Jerry Rosen, to streamline the company. When you hear "efficiency", the first thing that comes to mind is "firing". Naturally, Jerry was disliked. I had a meeting with the department and brought them up to date. I told everyone to anwer Jerry's questions, honestly and to the best of their knowledge but, not to volunteer any information. Further, I told them I did not believe anyone's job was in jeopardy. A couple of days later, Jerry appeared and we went over what he would be looking for. I introduced him to the team, and returned to my office. Several hours later, Jerry came back and reviewed what he had done. He then commenced to talk about something that had no connection with his job. This happened the next and the next. I started to like Jerry because he had a touch job, and he just wanted someone to talk to. I felt sorry for him and we became friends. I had forgotten about the dispute with my boss, but on a Monday Morning, Jerry came in and told me Morris was looking for some reason to fire me. He couldn't find anything, so was making things up.
I didn't have to be hit with a bat before I got the picture. As soon as Jerry left, I started making calls. That evening that was a farewell dinner for Larry Ellis, Head Bakery Merchandiser, who was retiring . That day, I drove to work with Mike Morosec and accompanied him to the restaurant where the dinner was taking place. We arrived a little late and quite a number were already there. One of the first persons I spotted was Dave Friedland, Vice-President for Store Operations. Dave always had something stupid to say or ask me to do. This night, he obviously ignored me. Then, Myer Marcus, who seldom recognized me at such functions, came out of his way to discuss the opening of a new store. I smelled a rat. I don't have to get soaked to the skin when I go out to know its raining. Dinner over, I' waiting for Mike next to an entrance door. The light is subdued. Meyer comes by, acknowledges me, and says 'good evening'. As Meyer goes through the doorway, a few feet behind comes Morris, well oiled from the free booze. He doesn't see me and blurts out What are we going to do with Dolan". I told you he was stupid. Before lunchtime the next day, I had an offer to go into business as a partner with my first boss out of high school, and an appointment at Weis Markets, a small but highly reputable chain with headquarters in Northampton PA.
On Wednesday, Morris' secretary came in and told me he wanted to see me Friday morning. The first thing the idiot told me was, that "uptown" they were not satisfied with my performance. I asked: "If they are not satisfied with my performance, why did I receive a ten percent raise last month? The answer: "I had to fight for it and that's why we are giving you an opportunity to resign." I replied: "You know that's not true and I'm not resigning. Furthermore, I'm going to walk out that door, knowing that I can walk down any street in this country and look anyone I meet, straight in the eye. Something you will never be able to do." I turned an walked out, to a tearful departure from my team. That told me everything I needed to know. I received a bunch of gratifying calls from store managers and merchandisers, expressing their disdain with the way I was treated. One merchandiser said: "If they can do that to you, they can do it to anybody." Another one said: "Don't worry Dolan, you'll live to pee on all their graves." I have. In a little over a year, the company filed for Chapter 8 Bankruptcy. Is that what they call poetic justice? I think so.
(copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
Anyway, shortly thereafter, the company hired an Efficiency Expert, Jerry Rosen, to streamline the company. When you hear "efficiency", the first thing that comes to mind is "firing". Naturally, Jerry was disliked. I had a meeting with the department and brought them up to date. I told everyone to anwer Jerry's questions, honestly and to the best of their knowledge but, not to volunteer any information. Further, I told them I did not believe anyone's job was in jeopardy. A couple of days later, Jerry appeared and we went over what he would be looking for. I introduced him to the team, and returned to my office. Several hours later, Jerry came back and reviewed what he had done. He then commenced to talk about something that had no connection with his job. This happened the next and the next. I started to like Jerry because he had a touch job, and he just wanted someone to talk to. I felt sorry for him and we became friends. I had forgotten about the dispute with my boss, but on a Monday Morning, Jerry came in and told me Morris was looking for some reason to fire me. He couldn't find anything, so was making things up.
I didn't have to be hit with a bat before I got the picture. As soon as Jerry left, I started making calls. That evening that was a farewell dinner for Larry Ellis, Head Bakery Merchandiser, who was retiring . That day, I drove to work with Mike Morosec and accompanied him to the restaurant where the dinner was taking place. We arrived a little late and quite a number were already there. One of the first persons I spotted was Dave Friedland, Vice-President for Store Operations. Dave always had something stupid to say or ask me to do. This night, he obviously ignored me. Then, Myer Marcus, who seldom recognized me at such functions, came out of his way to discuss the opening of a new store. I smelled a rat. I don't have to get soaked to the skin when I go out to know its raining. Dinner over, I' waiting for Mike next to an entrance door. The light is subdued. Meyer comes by, acknowledges me, and says 'good evening'. As Meyer goes through the doorway, a few feet behind comes Morris, well oiled from the free booze. He doesn't see me and blurts out What are we going to do with Dolan". I told you he was stupid. Before lunchtime the next day, I had an offer to go into business as a partner with my first boss out of high school, and an appointment at Weis Markets, a small but highly reputable chain with headquarters in Northampton PA.
On Wednesday, Morris' secretary came in and told me he wanted to see me Friday morning. The first thing the idiot told me was, that "uptown" they were not satisfied with my performance. I asked: "If they are not satisfied with my performance, why did I receive a ten percent raise last month? The answer: "I had to fight for it and that's why we are giving you an opportunity to resign." I replied: "You know that's not true and I'm not resigning. Furthermore, I'm going to walk out that door, knowing that I can walk down any street in this country and look anyone I meet, straight in the eye. Something you will never be able to do." I turned an walked out, to a tearful departure from my team. That told me everything I needed to know. I received a bunch of gratifying calls from store managers and merchandisers, expressing their disdain with the way I was treated. One merchandiser said: "If they can do that to you, they can do it to anybody." Another one said: "Don't worry Dolan, you'll live to pee on all their graves." I have. In a little over a year, the company filed for Chapter 8 Bankruptcy. Is that what they call poetic justice? I think so.
(copyright 2014 - Andrew M. Dolan)
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