Category Archives: History

December 22, 2012 · 0:00

Bloggin’ Buddy Birthday

Rumor has it, that today is my bloggin’ buddy John Erickson’s birthday. You know John, of Commentality. Approximately 60 seconds after I first “met” John, he became the top commenter on my blog. He is interested in a million things, particularly history, space travel and sci-fi movies, TV and likely books. John is quite well versed on stuff. All kinds of stuff. He is smart, funny, and sweet. Not necessarily all at the same time though. He spreads it out.

I will admit that John’s comments don’t necessarily make sense, but they are great for your statistics. So encourage John. Really. You’ll be glad you did.

Now Ill tell you a secret. Unlike most folks approaching the half-way mark, John has been a wee bit apprehensive about this birthday, because it is a biggie. The Big 5-0.

Fifty. Yup.

To welcome John into the Old-timers Blogging Group, I will play age appropriate music:

Still, I am pretty sure that John won’t go down without a fight. Not a guy who has spent nearly 50 years studying military history. He knows the details of every battle fought between 1412 and 1945, and just exactly how to load a flintlock. Nope, John will never give up; he’ll never surrender. (He could use a Coke and a couple of Advil, though.) Here is a clip of a younger John taken from some important “Historical Documents.” Only they couldn’t get the goat in the picture.

By Grapthar’s Hammer, John, I’m wishing you the Happiest of Birthdays. And I am wishing you health, wealth and good cheer for all the years to come.

But just like me, you ARE gettin’ gross. But I’m pretty sure you can deal with it! But to soften the blow, if it’s OK with Frank of AFrankAngle I will be happy to use my newly acquired Queenly powers to knight you.

Arise, Sir John. I command you to celebrate!

* * *

Other bloggers joining the love fest: Visit these other birthday tributes: Fasab, Frank, Gaupo, Weebs, Doggy, Jamie, Brainrants, Benzeknees, Archon

List cheerfully stolen from Frank.

41 Comments

Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Criminal Activity, Dogs, History, Humor, Word Press

Tagged as Crazy people, Humor

December 17, 2012 · 0:00

Home for Christmas

She told the story every year with a warm smile on her face. Sometimes her eyes got a little bit misty.

“It was 1943, and the War was on, and your father was in the Navy, on a ship somewhere in the Pacific. We never knew where he was. Like all the other boys I knew, he was in danger every day. We lived for the mail, we were terrified of unfamiliar visitors in uniform. A telegram sent us into a panic. And ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ had just been recorded by Bing Crosby. It was Number One on the Hit Parade.”

That’s how Mom started the story every time.

Of course I’ll Be Home For Christmas was Number One that year. Everyone, or just about, was hoping that someone they loved would, in fact, be home for Christmas. That all the boys would be home for good. But all too many people were disappointed. I doubt there were many dry eyes when that song came on the radio that year or for the next few.

Mom and Dad got engaged right around Pearl Harbor Day, but the War lengthened their courtship significantly because Dad enlisted shortly after the attack. It was to be a long war, and a long engagement. But Mom was in love with her handsome man. If possible, I think that Dad was even more so.

Mom, Circa 1943

My Dad was drop-dead gorgeous, and I have heard that in his single days, he was a bit of a ladies’ man. Every girl in town, it seemed, had a crush on Dad.

Dad, Circa 1943

In fact, my Aunt Sally once told me that she had been manning a booth at a church bizarre one Saturday in about 1995, when an elderly woman came up to talk to her.

“Are you Freddie E’s sister?” the woman asked Aunt Sal.

“Yes I am. Do you know my brother?” Aunt Sal responded.

“I did,” she sighed. “I haven’t seen him since we graduated from high school in 1935. Sixty years ago. He was,” she stopped to think of just the right word, “… He was dream-my.”

“He still is,” Sally quipped.

One day not long after after Mom had passed, Dad and I were looking at some pictures I hadn’t seen before.

“Dad,” I told him with wonder looking at a particularly good shot, “You should have gone to Hollywood. You’d have been a star.”

“Nah,” Dad said. “Mom would never have gone with me. And once the war was over, well, I wasn’t going anywhere else without her.”

Dad circa 1935

Dad never quite got over feeling lucky that he had Mom. And he never stopped loving her.

But back to Mom’s story.

“It was Christmas morning, 1943, and I went over to visit Dad’s mom and dad. Grammy E’d had symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease for seven or eight years at that point. She could still move around (she was later, when I knew her, almost completely paralyzed), but she could barely talk.”

Mom continued. “But your Dad’s mom was singing ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ Well, she was trying to sing it, any how. She kept repeating that one line, over and over again. ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas.’ I thought she was crazy.”

“You see,” Mom would say, “Your father had somehow managed to get Christmas leave – he was coming home! He wanted to surprise me and wouldn’t let anyone tell me he was coming. He was expected any minute, and there I was, trying to leave. But I couldn’t stay. That song made me cry; Freddie was so far away, and in so much danger. I couldn’t bear hearing it.”

So Mom left after a while, she had other people and her own family to see. Later Dad caught up with her and they spent most of Christmas together. Both of them always smiled at the memory. Dad was home for Christmas that year, just like in the song. It was a magical year for them both.

Mom was always touched by Dad’s surprise and by his mother’s loving gesture in fighting back the paralysis that was taking over her body to try to get her son’s girl to stay. To sing when she could barely speak.

“I’ve always wished I’d stayed.”

We lost Mom on Easter of 1997, and Dad really never got over her passing.

The song and Mom’s story took on an even more poignant meaning in 2000. Because on Christmas of that year, Dad joined Mom again for the holiday. He went “home” to Mom for Christmas again, joining her in the afterlife.

Even through the sadness of losing Dad on Christmas, I always have to smile when I hear that song. Because I can just see the warmth in Mom’s eyes now as she welcomed Dad home. This time, I’m sure she was waiting for him with open arms.

100 Comments

Filed under Family, History, Humor, Mom, Music

Tagged as Family, Love stories, Mom stories

December 13, 2012 · 0:00

Babes in Toyland – Angie and Me

Angie and I came up to the knees of these guys

We did it! Angie of Childhood Relived and I met for lunch! It was memorable. Sadly, though, we did stay in this decade, the 2010s (which sounds really weird). We simply couldn’t work in time travel back to the 1980s. Traffic congestion, you see.

We had wonderful plans, Angie and I. Tours. Nostalgia. Archie Bunker and the Smithsonian’s American Museum that contains just the right tidbits of crap from TV Land as brilliantly suggested by Darla of She’s a Maineiac.

But there was one thing that we didn’t factor in ahead of time. Now, what do you suppose that might be.

If you’re guessing that it’s the fact that neither Angie nor I knows how to shut up, “Come On Down.” Yup, we spent a 2 hour lunch fighting for air time. I had my stories; Angie had hers. It was close, but I think Angie won. I want a re-match.

Still, we did do a tour of DC. Sort of.

First of all, none of the restaurants I’d suggested in my earlier post um, worked out. Still, the restaurant we went to is a Washington landmark: The Old Ebbitt Grill. The restaurant has been there for centuries! Famous people have eaten there – Lincoln! Grant! Wilson! FDR! Checkers! It is a piece of Washington history that is seriously cool. Except that it didn’t happen at the place where we had lunch. Yup, we had lunch at the new Old Ebbitt Grill. The OLD Old Ebbitt Grill was torn down not long after I got to DC in 1979. I’m sure there is no connection. And I did tell Angie that we were having an expensive lunch in a fraudulent facility. That’s our nation’s capital for you.

Still, we had a great lunch. Of course, neither of us would stop talking. As a result, the food wasn’t as hot as it might have been. Perhaps we should have sent it back. A good restaurant should factor conversation in.

Anyway after our long lunch, we realized that we really didn’t have time for much else, so we decided to walk around the White House and gloat about Obama’s re-election. Of course, we didn’t know that that night Barack, Michelle and the girls were going to light the White House Christmas Tree. In public. With thousands of folks in attendance. Apparently, everybody in DC, VA and MD was there. So Angie and I, still never pausing our conversation, swam upstream against thousands of folks determined to see the festivities.

Here are the pictures. Angie did her best Angie-1980s in front of some of Washington’s most impressive tourist destinations.

OK, I can’t be that mean. Here she is — and really, she doesn’t often let her mouth hang open like that. It was done only by request.

And here is the picture she took of me!

But the single best moment was when I drove Angie in my car out of a Washington, DC parking lot where we had left my car for 3 hours.

“Twenty Dollars?” she said. “It cost $20 to park for three hours!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Angie, you’re not in Kansas any more. Or one of those other fly-over states, either. Whichever one you come from.

Come back soon!

124 Comments

Filed under Bloggin' Buddies, Campaigning, Conspicuous consumption, Criminal Activity, Driving, Elections, History, Humor, Mental Health, Politics

Tagged as Crazy people, Humor, Politics, Washington

December 2, 2012 · 0:00

For Medicinal Purposes Only

It wasn’t my fault that my dog developed a drinking problem. Really. It was the vet’s.

First of all, it is WAY too late to call the ASPCA on me. The dog and my liver are both gone. So is the vet. And the neighborhood where this takes place is totally yuppified. There are no witnesses. Except me, and I ain’t talking. Oh, actually, yes I am.

Anyway, like all drinking problems, Goliath’s started gently, innocently.

But I guess I’d better back up.

You see, if I’d had any sense, I wouldn’t have taken that psycho puppy home. He was past the cute stage, and had clearly been abused. He didn’t like me when I went to the door of the house where he had a short-term reprieve from the dog pound. Jeff, the man who advertised the puppy in the Washington Post, had taken the dog away from his friend who was abusing the dog, but Jeff couldn’t keep him. He was going to be taken to the shelter the next day to be put down unless a home was found. For $15, I got a teenage psycho dog, a leash and half a bag of dog food.

It was the best money I ever spent.

But still, I was stupid to do it. Totally out of my mind. He had greeted me at the door when we first met with aggression. Nasty, scary barking and growling. But as soon as he was in my car he loved me. He was never cross with me again. If you’ve never had a truly devoted dog, you won’t understand this; if you have you will nod your head in agreement. No one has ever or will ever love me as much as that dog did. Did he somehow realize that he owed me his life, or did he like the brand of dog food I bought? Hard to know for sure.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t equally devoted to other folks. Or they to him. It was way closer to oil and water.

He loved my roommate, Keily, too, which was convenient since she lived there with us. My mother, when she stayed with us later that year, became a favorite. But everybody else was greeted at the door by a growing maniac of a dog who didn’t want them inside his house. I would hold him firmly and assure my (gullible) friend(s) that Goliath would calm down once they were inside. But I lied.

He didn’t calm down. Not exactly. Once he accepted that it was OK for them to be there, Goliath assumed that they had come to visit him and that the reason they had come was to play with him. So he would bring his toys to them. Each and every one he owned (including his Ronald Reagan and Mikael Gorbachev squeak toys.) He would put his head on their lap and bounce his head up and down until they played — a particular favorite of visiting men. He would put one paw on them, then the other, then the top of his torso. He wanted to play. Period. And saying no to an ever larger German Shepherd that my friends were actually terrified of was generally not something any of them were really willing to do. So they played.

I have incredibly good friends, in case you can’t tell. Personally I have no idea why they came back. The dog drove many of them crazy.

Before you say it, Goliath got plenty of exercise. I took him on long walks morning, after work and often late at night. At night I would drive him to the grounds of the US Capitol where we’d walk around the buildings, he’d swim in the fountains, he’d be off the leash and had a great time. I threw sticks, I exercised him. He would pick up huge branches and ram them into me for fun. I was bruised from head to toe. And something story-worthy always happened.

For instance, one night we were on the Capitol grounds a few days after the Labor Day concert was held. It was lucky for me that there was a line of port-a-potties, because I was having GI problems that night and needed to go. I tied Goliath to a tree branch and went inside to use the potty, something I’d never done before. Goliath went out of his mind because he couldn’t see me. He broke free and started jumping up and down on the front of my port-a-potty, rocking it back and forth. I was terrified that he was going to up-end the thing. He didn’t calm down until I came out, which was hard to do as he was jumping against the damn door. The next day at the office where I worked as a paralegal, I regaled my friends about the Washington Post headline that almost was:

Paralegal Perishes in Port-a-Potty

Anyway, as Goliath grew into his name, it became obvious that something had to be done. I took him to training which was great for sitting, staying, laying down, heeling and the like, but my $200 fee didn’t cover rules for inside playing. Nor did it cover how to keep him from killing my friends who had the temerity to knock on the door.

And then it happened. When he was about seven months, I mentioned the situation to Goliath’s vet.

“Give him a tiny bit of beer,” she said. “It’ll calm him right down, and he’ll go to sleep and leave you and your friends in peace.”

It was brilliant; it worked like a charm. And it hardly took any beer at all for him to nod off, and he was content with the cheapest variety (as was I – hey, I was young and poor). It was the most cost-effective remedy I have ever seen.

For a while.

The trouble was, he liked beer. No, he loved beer. He was GERMAN for cryin’ out loud, of course he liked beer.

So instead of wanting to play with my friends, he wanted to drink with them. (Yes, he matured quite quickly.) And just as he refused to take “no” for an answer when he wanted to play, well, he was even more insistent when he wanted to drink. Every alcoholic beverage that was opened in my house for years required a “dog tax” – Goliath got a sip. And there was no way you were going to get away without paying. He was bigger than all of us.

If you read My Silver Lining, you know that my mother spent 2-1/2 months with me helping me recuperate from surgery. Well, Mom adored Goliath, and loved nothing better than to sit with me and him and have a beer. For Christmas that year, Mom gave him a special bowl. A red plastic, heart-shaped bowl that immediately became Goliath’s beer bowl. Using his feet to flip it up, he could pick up his beer bowl in his mouth, and thrust it at anyone who had an open bottle or a can. It was impossible to say no. And it was always just a sip.

Goliath played a huge part in my life in the 1980s, and was the most incredible dog. He had a brilliant sense of humor, and did so many crazy things that I always had a Goliath story to tell to divert my mind from the fact that I was then a very sick young woman. Amazingly, Goliath could always tell when I was really sick and couldn’t walk him from when I was feeling lazy. He never let me get away with laziness, but was gracious if I was really sick.

When my now-husband John arrived on the scene, Goliath loved him immediately. After our first date, Goliath and I walked John to his car, and Goliath, so intent on watching John, walked smack into a street sign, a complete Wile E. Coyote move. Goliath was hooked. So I had to be too, didn’t I?

John and I had known each other for years and had many mutual friends. When they heard we were going to move in together they all said “What about the dog?”

“Of course he’s coming,” said John. “It’s a package deal.” Goliath and I chose wisely.

Goliath lived until 1992. Interestingly, our two subsequent dogs, Charlie and Cooper, have both had liver problems, but neither of them were drinkers. Goliath’s? His liver was just fine.

Goliath’s Twin*

* * *

Goliath was a wonderful dog and a great drinking buddy. This is not an actual photo of him — this dog is actually a breed called a King Shepherd (the photo is from here: http://www.kingshepherd.com/) The breed didn’t exist when Goliath was around, but it is exactly what he looked like. As it turned out he was a cross between a German Shepherd and an Alaskan Malamute. He had longer hair than most Shepherds, thicker fur, and a straight back.

This dog is Goliath’s twin, except that Goliath had one ear that flopped over, making him look completely ridiculous.

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Filed under Criminal Activity, Dogs, Family, Goliath Stories, Health and Medicine, History, Humor, Pets, Stupidity

Tagged as Crazy people, Dogs, Drinking Buddies, Family, Humor, Pets, Stupidity

November 30, 2012 · 0:00

Angie’s Visit

My bloggin’ buddy Angie of Childhood Relived is coming to DC next month, and we are going to get together for lunch! I’m so excited – she will be the first blogging buddy I’ll get to meet. The thing is, though, that I just can’t decide where to take her for our rendezvous.

Angie, as you may know, writes extensively about her childhood in the 1980s. She remembers everything that happened during that decade. Angie has a photographic memory for every single TV show and every bit of food she consumed during that decade. It’s awesome. Or terrifying. Or both. And while I was not a child in the 1980s, her posts always make me nostalgic for that time in my life. Back when I was young, single, sick and poor. Ah yes, the 1980s.

I am pretty sure that Angie is (1) Superhuman; (2) will remember each and every detail about the restaurant I choose; and (3) remember every single fact I tell her about Washington, DC, whether it is in fact, fact or not. I can’t believe I even agreed to meet her. Can’t I be out of town that day?

Oh, yeah. I will be out of town that day. Out of my town. You see, I hardly ever go into DC any more. I work across the river in Virginia; I live in the Virginia sticks with the deer. In fact, I do everything south of our nation’s Capitol, you know, where the Rebs lived (and seceded). (We will not comment on how a nice Connecticut Yankee like me ended up here. Please. It’s painful.)

The tour I can handle. Buildings are buildings and Angie won’t know if I’m right or wrong when I tell her which is which. The hard part is deciding where to have lunch. It used to be that this wouldn’t have been a problem. Yup, I used to really know the city. I lived in DC; I worked downtown. I hung out on Capitol Hill. In fact, I used to work really close to the hotel where Angie is staying. But my familiarity with DC restaurants is current only up to 1989, when I moved away.

So rather than sweating it, I decided to give Angie a 1980s tour of Washington! That’s the Washington I know. Knew. Whatever. Wouldn’t that be appropriate? I’ll start with a 1980s restaurant! I figured I’d see which of my favorite restaurants of the 1980s were still open and take her to one of them. Brilliant, right? Because after all, a trip to our nation’s capital requires a bit of history. For US history, well, Angie’s on her own. I’m going to give her some of my history. Yes Angie, I am going to treat you to a dose of “This is Your Life,” DC Restaurant version.

Of course, there aren’t too many of my favorites left. In fact, there are only three. Which do you think she’d like best?

Health Hazard of Hunan: This restaurant is where I learned to eat interesting spicy foods. I went there all the time. Whenever we worked late at the office our clients would buy us wonderful Chinese food from Hunan. Better still, one night I organized an incredibly fun birthday dinner there for a friend. A total of about 20 of us had a wonderful meal, where the staff gave us tastes of everything on the menu. Exotic, delicious Chinese delicacies. The next day the restaurant was closed for health violations. Don’t worry though, Angie. It’s back in business.

Rumors: Rumors was a meat-market when I was still single, a place to go to pick up men/women for one night stands. That’s not why I went, actually, because I never was that kind of girl. Besides, at the time I was attached. But it had great food and a different ambiance at lunch time. It’s not at all far from where Angie and I are meeting.

The last time I went to Rumors was at nighttime, though, when the meat-market was in full swing. At the time I was dating Erik, who at the time (1980), I fully expected to marry, and he and I were there with some friends. That night began the process that led me to a much better mate. That’s because Erik excused himself to go to the restroom and came back quite quickly looking rather confused. He couldn’t figure out which bathroom to use. “Ummm, Elyse?” he asked quietly. “Am I a ‘tweeter’ or a ‘woofer’?” I decided that perhaps I wanted more of a woofer in my life.

The Sex Change: Actually, the restaurant is called “The Exchange” – but our name was much more fun. I worked in an office upstairs from the Sex Change. We actually had a convenient back door into the place that we used when we were supposed to be working. My friends and I spent many, many lunch times, work afternoons and evenings there. The Sex Change is possibly the first place where I was ever publicly drunk, although I don’t really remember.

The Sex Change was actually the site of my first foray into public storytelling. Yes, it was at the Sex Change one winter night, where I stood on a table in the most crowded part of the bar, my third or fourth or fifth beer of the evening in hand. I told the world of my most shameful, completely embarrassing, life changing childhood trauma. I stood on a table and told how I ruined my life in 2^nd Grade by wetting my pants during Show & Tell, one week after moving to a new town. It was the story I had never admitted had happened. Not to anyone. It was the story I feared would one day come out when someone from my past appeared unexpectedly and let it slip. And the bar patrons loved it, and me for telling it. They were there with me, in 2nd Grade. Of course, they were drunk too.

In fact, it was this story that brought Angie and I together, because it was the heart of the comment I left Angie about a year ago when she wrote this post about embarrassing childhood birthday parties. The full story, including my revenge on the kid who bullied me in grammar school, is here. Because there is a god.

So as you can see, it’s a tough choice. Food poisoning, sexual confusion, or humiliation. I think that sums up my life pretty nicely. Which would you choose?

And after lunch, I’ll take her on a driving tour. I’ll drive her past the White House and we will wave (or gesture in an altogether different manner) to Ron and Nancy. We’ll drive up to Capitol Hill walk right in to her Congressman and Senators’ offices. We’ll climb to the top of the Washington Monument, get into the museums without waiting through endless security lines.