Uncle Herschel's Bayonet

The day I helped pick out what I wanted from Pop's basement was full of surprises. Pop loves his tools; where one wrench existed, there were at least five "just in case" ones. X-Acto knives. Screwdrivers. Vice grips. Scissors. Swiss army knives, one actually purchased in Switzerland, which came home with me.

My Uncle John presided over the offerings; I asked him, right away, if there was anything I could not have.

"You can take anything but Uncle Herschel's bayonet."

Huh?

Pop apparently had this piece of WWII history in his basement, since his brother Herschel's death. I suppose it's not something you think of when you're displaying your genius for your grandkids to remember you by.

"May I see it?"

"I think it's on that shelf over there," my uncle replied.

I found it under a cigar box full of bolts. I picked it up reverently. Over time, the carbine darkened, but the bayonet itself held its edge remarkably well. I called Adonis over for his purview. I showed him where it attached to the rifle, and explained its use.

I looked hesitantly at my uncle. "Did it get used?" I asked.

He shrugged. "Uncle Herschel never talked about the war."

I handed it back. That sounded too much like a "yes" to me.

You see, my idea of war was the surgical war first fought in the first Desert Storm. Impersonal. Precise.

The bayonet? It brought the wars of our past uncomfortably near.

In World War II, 446,000 American soldiers lost their lives. The overwhelming majority were foot soldiers, who used these up-close-and-personal weapons. They attached to guns about 45 inches in length.

In the forest, out in the cold, in a jungle, or in a pit dug for protection. The attack launches in waves. Ammo is low; it's hand-to-hand fighting.

I have trouble watching violent movies. With today's amazing computer rendering, special effects, and other props, it's too darn real. Full Metal Jacket now looks like a ketchup fight compared to some of the newer movies available.

Don't shoot until you see the whites of their eyes.

But the ammo is gone.

I suppose a long arm reach was something to thank God for. Pushing through the lines, trying to take the hill, trying to fight your way through to safety?

No wonder Uncle Herschel never wanted to talk about it.

Perhaps America reaches its long arms and sticks it's nose into international business but, you know what? Unlike European war veterans, they left war-torn countries and nobody drove past battlefields on their way back home. Nobody, with the exception of those stationed in Hawaii, really had to contend with a constant reminder of what they did to serve their country. America acts proactively, and we don't have to fight on our own soil. I looked up the numbers for civilian WWII casualties. About 41 million in civilian deaths. Japanese civilian deaths, even with Hiroshima and Nagasaki, totaled 580,000.

Staggering.

So, with a burst of American pride, I'd like to point out to all of those Europeans who look down their noses at us, that after you get up and brush your somewhat crooked teeth, put contacts in you brown eyes, and brush your brown locks, please note that you will go outside and wave casually to your neighbor instead of proclaiming "Heil Hitler" and goose stepping to the nearest transport, while patting the head of the child of your neighbor who has Down's Syndrome.

My Uncle Herschel wouldn't talk about it, but he fought, with a bayonet, to secure your freedom. He, a gentle man of respectable roots, put his life on his line to keep his country safe, and kept a lot of people for being a poster child, a "perfect specimen," for Hitler and his cronies. Given Hitler's obsession with the master race, do you really think he would've stopped with Europe? Come on, Asian features just don't match up with his idea of the master race, so you think he would've stopped there? Look at the numbers for the "imperfect" Soviet army, a blend of some 180 nationalities, from Caucasian to Mongol, who lost over 13% of their population, an overwhelming 23 MILLION people, both soldiers and civilians.

To my Great Uncle Herschel, WWII soldier, to my father, C-130 pilot and logistics specialist, and to my brother, F-18 pilot, thank you for serving an American military who thinks ahead and keeps the war from hitting to close to home. I don't want another 9/11.

Thanks to all our men and women in military service. May you come home.

The Sapphire Gazette

The Spumoni ice cream is in memory of a great woman, my Aunt Mildred, who would have been 97 years old in a month. You can read a bit more about her here.

Pop is in the hospital, and it's not exactly wonderful news. He seems to crest, plateau, and then plummet, rising up again to drop once more. There's a blood clot in his leg. There's an IV in his arm. He's not eating well or drinking much.

I'm behind on e-mails, so apologies to all. Things are kind of cluttered right now. I did manage to get out of jury duty. Tiger's Eye is going to be fine, we think. The lesion they found is a benign one and is filling in with the right stuff now that he's getting older. The meniscus separation didn't correlate to his pain, so they're a bit cautious that he doesn't disrupt more ligaments, because he's done this once and it really didn't affect him and we can't pinpoint when it occurred. He's wearing a brace on alternating legs, and that's the best we can do until I convince our FSA people that we can justify our medical spending with our receipts, which they can't seem to read no matter how much I blow up the receipt size and enhance the darkness. Frustrating. I'm still trying to get physical therapy set up in order to get his legs stronger where they need to be to keep pressure off his knees. There's a problem with his patellae tracking like they should, so that means strengthening his muscles in his thighs. I can't do it for him, so I hope he cooperates for his own sake.

I did get a new window unit for our room. My fingers no longer look like they came from a Jimmy Dean box, and my typing speed is up. It's nice to have it too cold and shut if off, even in weather with 105 degree heat index. Oh, yeah. It's some wonderful stuff.

Freezing pizza dough, Pop's b-day, and school projects.

My pizza dough freezes, but there's a trick to it! This is great, because I can take it out right before I go to bed in the morning and it's ready to make when I wake up! Have to make sure it's in a warm part of the house while it's thawing/rising.

I've been toying with this recipe for a long time, since we lived in Turkey from 1980 to 1982 and pizza was hard to come by, so Mom helped me out by giving me a recipe. The hard part about bread is that you see the recipe, but you don't know the *why* to the chemical process involved. Here's a basic pizza dough recipe. The kneading is important. Why? It determines the density and consistency of your bread. This basic pizza dough recipe can be tampered with and used to make monkey bread (more sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla), bread sticks (little dough balls kneaded a tad longer), braided bread (strips and painted with egg), or even loaf bread. Someone asked me about special flour, and I've never used any. I suppose you could, but what's the point? I've done bread with rye, whole wheat, and plain flour from the store, so that's the limits of my experience, but here goes the pizza recipe I use:

When cooking with whole wheat flour, it's a necessity to mix it half and half with white flour, because I haven't figured out to make it come out lighter than lead otherwise.

I'm going for enough for a big regular cookie sheet (no air-bake pans). The big thing is: No metal used in preparation, including spoons, bowls, or covering the dough during rising.

1 cup hot water (just a little uncomfortable for your finger)

1 package yeast or enough yeast to almost cover the water in the bowl

Proof yeast: Stir yeast with one tsp of sugar, let sit until bubbles form or a light froth covers the surface. If it does not proof, your yeast won't make anything rise.

1 tsp salt or a bit more, add spices (basil, oregano, pepper flakes) at this stage, if desired. If using dried parmesan or onions, add a bit more water to accommodate the way those items will soak up some water.

3 tsp oil (optional - I usually leave out and use olive oil for when I spread the dough on the pan).

Flour - no real measure, here, but probably 2-1/2 cups. You want to add half and half of wheat/white or all white until you stir and the whole ball wants to wrap around the spoon and it's all mixed together. It will be very, very gummy at this stage, but no liquid at all.

Kneading/adding more flour: This is where you can start making it more whole wheat. How much you knead will make your dough:

Cake-like, still just a bit tacky, about two minutes

Very firm and pliable, four minutes or more. Not tacky at all, very elastic. Good for calzones.

Let rise in a warm place, covered, for at least 45 minutes. I've been stuck out of the house for more than 2 hours while the dough was rising, and it didn't affect the quality of the dough.

Put some olive oil on the hands and spread, spread, spread. Make a bit more dough for cheese in the crust and push the dough out over the edge of the pan and fold over a slice of cheese.

Preheat oven to 375 and that's about 35 to 40 minutes. The cheese melting is usually a very good gauge, no matter the thickness of your pizza.

This doubles like a dream. I do all my mixing to kneading in a big plastic 99-cent bowl from Wal-Mart so I don't have to deal with the mess on my counter.

FREEZING (here's the "trick to it" from above): If you want to freeze it, separate the dough at the end of the kneading process, wrap generously and loosely in plastic wrap or put in a baggie. MAKE SURE TO LEAVE SOME SPACE for it to have room to expand, or else you get your corn smashed between big hard rocks of pizza dough that have conformed to the shape of your wire freezer shelf, and the kids WILL laugh at you while you wrestle pizza dough. To thaw, put it out at 7:00 a.m. in a warm place, cover, and should be good to go by 5:00, then just spread and decorate, same cooking time.



In other news, I'll be glad when the end-of-the year flurry for final projects in our school system is over. So far this week, I've made a how-to project from polymer clay (it looks so good, though, and KitKat and I had a blast--pictures to follow), made a guessing game out of the T.V. show "Lost" in Spanish, and put together a folder for the state and US constitution. Oh, we also did a family history thing for extra credit because someone's got a C in social studies and she just won't stand for it. I wonder where she got that anal tendency? Hm? She did five reports on family members, and I had to track down/scan pictures for some of it. Mom, big public thank you and smoochies for the rest. Oh, we did something on Sputnik in there, too. I'm thinking ManCub must be hiding some project from me, because I'm just waiting. I keep asking, but he's denying, and if he's got a brain block, someone will pay dearly in services around the house.

Joni's here! Kaplan loves my gerbils and my bunny got mad when Joni put him away, and he thumped his little foot against the bottom of the cage. My niece likes to touch faces and, if you're in range, she'll suck on your nose or chin. Hers is a sweetie, and here she is bestowing 93rd birthday blessings on Pop:

Why I love my mommy...and the rest of 'em.

My mom is ultra cool. Bet not a lot of people think that. I reflected on several things over Christmas today with her:

1. She raised kids in the 70s and 80s, and then got my kids to tinker with in the 90s and 00s. The woman has coolness down from every era. Why? One of my 23-year-old sisters said something and she whipped out that arm and snapped her fingers like a major pro. I'd never seen her do that! Apparently, Ash hadn't either, and commented on "da mom wid da snap."

2. The girls lamented about how they couldn't get away with anything (talking about the 23-year-olds here again). I looked at them, very directly, and said, "Hey! I broke her in!" Mom said, "You just broke me." Heh.

3. Mom despises Doris Day's singing, and isn't too big on her acting, either. My sisters know this, so guess what Ash picked up at a yard sale a few months ago? With a lot of drama and suspense, the present got, well, presented as the last one. Mom opened it up, the girls bust out laughing and, for a moment, Mom hesitated, really not wanting to say it, but finally blurted, "But I don't like her!" to which the girls promptly replied they knew. What did we do with the record, you ask? The girls put it on the turntable and messed with the speeds to the timing of her sliding vocals, adding to the octave spreads with each line of "Over the Rainbow." I don't know if you had to be there, but it was good. All good.

4. Mom likes "thought that counts" gifts. I asked my little neighbor/frequent guest to "cartoonify" my mom's dog, Herky. Here is the result, which went on the front of a card:
My little buddy E has met Herky, being concurrent house guests, and the dawg has bling, a hoody, and shades. This little guy has some serious talent, so give him props!

5. My mom gets just as frustrated with Tiger's Eye (usually) lazy bones. My biggest beef is that I work nights. I put Alex out before I go to bed, usually, but with the kids out of school for the holidays, I have the freedom to put him out at midnight and my son put him out when he gets up, right? Wrong. This is the first thing I ask as I stumble around when I awaken:

"Please tell me the dog's been out."

"I didn't put him out."

"Why not?"

"I can't find my shoes."

NO longer a problem, my son. Knowing this battle, my mother bought him a pair of slip-on Croc-like-but-not-as-ugly shoes for his big ol' feet. Pop? "You can wear those in the snow." Me? I looked dead-eye at my eldest child, and said, "Exactly."

My mom rocks.

Now, onto the other peeps: My pop attended today's festivities. He's weakening. He's been very, very deaf for a very, very long time (childhood), and he's got the beginnings of Alzheimer's, but I overheard him on a Christmas call with my aunt (his daughter), and heard the following:

"So, you've got a bad cold? I ain't never heard of a good one."

:) He also takes his pocketknife wherever he goes. I took one from his house for a momento, and we launched into a discussion about how every boy needs a pocketknife, and he just couldn't believe that if Tiger's Eye went to school with one, he'd face arrest and expulsion--zero tolerance stuff. Pop's take? "How's he going to carve his girl's initials on a tree?"

My sisters: We had our big Christmas earlier this year, but the Dance Dance Revolution pads didn't come in time for the big Christmas. Tiger's Eye got them later, and now, "Can you come over? Will you bring the Playstation?" Did I mention they're 23? Crack me up. The two of them follow each other around the house. They started out eggs together, so I suppose it's only natural, especially that they've spent the better part of two years away from one another. They're not allowed to be on the same team in any game, it's so freaky. They're just, well, them. The best thing that ever happened to our family. Shiny stars, ultimate in positivity and cuteness, and just astounded that they finally developed hips last year. They're funny, and they keep Mom at her peak of performance, or she them. I think it's a mutual thing. Yes, they're old enough to live on their own, and yes, they're kind of freeloading, kinda, but they are looking for gainful employment and intend to pay Mom rent. She does have that huge house and none of us want her to be alone, but I'm sure she'd like a break :)

The kids...wow. What a Christmas. I deceived the poor children for months. I have earned serious cool mom pointage. We don't usually buy new gaming systems. Playstation has the Final Fantasy franchise, and Gamecube has the Zelda and Mario. Playstation was the last bought, and they still play the old, old, games, like SNES old. They'd given up hope of ever having a Gamecube, especially when KitKat asked specifically for more Zelda games, and I told her to go tally up the total for the 'Cube and the games, to which I told her precisely how many hours (uninterrupted) I'd have to work. Truth? It had been sitting in my husband's office for 2-1/2 months. MONTHS. Yeah. They went ape. Two Zelda games and one Mario game. KitKat's face turned beet red. She jumped up and down and said, "You got us! You SO got us!"

Yeah. That's why I bought it. I like having them and having them happy. Rarely does anyone play a RPG alone. They all sit and watch and read and collaborate on how to beat the bosses or their opinions on what's coming up. I'm very liberal with the games, because it promotes bonding between the three of them, and they're actually very good at limiting themselves, although KitKat whined about having only 5 minutes to play. I heard that many times today. The girls are keeping her tonight and they're going to watch a chick flick and keep the DDR for another day!

Merry Christmas, one and all. Herky's in the hood, Pop's got a reply for everything, the girls just bounce, and my Club Nimrod thinks we are such awesome parents. I got a good kitchen cleaning out of it, anyway.

It felt wrong, even though it's supposed to be done

My grandmother died in 2000. Her husband, my Pop, is now living in a retirement apartment. Today, I went into the house to take things to remember them by.

The house still has things in it, but it’s empty. There’s no life. There’s no Pop telling me to watch my step or Grandmom to ask me if I need something quick to eat. All Grandmom’s pretty things she collected over the years, minus some pieces taken by other family members, sat in various places throughout the house.

I raided her kitchen and Pop’s huge, huge, huge tool collection. Homeowner and mom stuff.

I did okay, except in the kitchen. Grandmom not standing there with her favorite knife just hurt. There are two microwaves in there. I remember the first one being bought, and all their kids pooling their money for something so fancy that she rarely used. It’s in excellent shape, and it will come home with me soon. At the sink, though, the knickknacks above the sink gone, it felt wrong. It just felt wrong. Horribly, hurtfully wrong. Does the stuff you get help you deal with the loss? I know I can’t use anything from my other grandmother’s place without thinking of her.

I guess this is the way it will be here, too. Grandmom crafted a lot, and some of her folded-star pillows came home with me. My uncle and I just joked about Pop’s tools. I told him I needed a few screwdrivers and other things; he kept tossing more and more at me, and my brother-in-law already took some! I found a beautiful mother-of-pearl light switch frame, which kept me from unscrewing the one in their guest bedroom. My uncle took some Genie lamps from some cabooses before they went to caboose heaven, and those interested me. They work on kerosene, and they’ll look nice whenever I put them on the mantle.

It’s just stuff, you know? I keep thinking about it, watching my grandmother move around it or watching Pop tinker with things around the house or agreeing out loud with a high-volume deaf-hearing Rush Limbaugh. It hurts to have it; it hurts not to have it. They’re symbols of love, though.

We found things we’d never seen. I couldn’t help but wonder if my grandparents, at one time, went through a relative’s house, just like we did today, and pulled things out, their specialness only known to them, and we picked it up today and put a label on it, “wanted” or “not wanted.”

It’s the people I want most. The doilies are nice; the pillows are beautiful; the ashtray I always feared I would drop on the glass coffee table is still just as heavy. The house is empty, though. The stuff can be replaced; the people can’t.

Heavy stuff for a Chrismtasy time, but I’ll miss them being with us then, too.

My Pop

I showed you a pic of my father down below (his handle used to be Flying Tiger--get it? He was a pilot). This is his father, my grandfather, the amazing phenom whom we call "Pop. "

Pop made his grand entrance into the world in May of 1915. He came from a long line of coalminers (after his ancestors from the UK came over as indentured servants. Yeah, there's a long history of losers in my fam). They used to get on ropes and actually chip the coal from the mines.

Okay, dangerous work. Pop had oodles of siblings and his dad had several wives. They all pretty much stuck down in the southern part of Illinois, but Pop decided railroadin' was his thing.
Engineer, no less, and my uncle followed in his footsteps. I, however, really only remember him as a retired old coot with butterscotches in his pockets and a constant supply of candy. In fact, I never remembering hugging Pop whenever I saw him; instead, I ran up to him and patted him down, ready and willing for a butterscotch and, never fail, one was always there! He used to keep his 5 o'clock shadow waiting for us to come to town. Then, he'd chase all over the place and give us whisker burns. Yes, this is my Pop. This is the entire epitome of his personality--thinking ahead to make life interesting.

I think I was 10. See, one set of grandparents lived about 45 minutes away from the other, so they took turns driving us back and forth. Pop always bought Caddies. Awesome cars, and, from a youngster's standpoint, there ain't a better ride from the back seat point of view. We drove over a road under repairs, and gravel comprised most of it, save those little pop-up road dividers. Pretty soon, Pop drove almost down the middle of the road, with Grandmom asking,
"Charley?" in the most patient tone.

"Hey, kids!" Pop exclaimed, verifying his find in the rear-view mirror. "You run over these things and they pop right back up!" Sure enough, every time he hit a divider, the thing sprang back into place.

Trips to the park to catch fireflies. A camper for us to sleep in for the summer, and then selling it. Riding in the back of his truck and on the back of his motorcycle.

Yes, motorcycle.

Pop and his buddies rode through the bluffs in their houndstooth pants, but, one by one, Pop outlived them. Then, the time came renew his license. At almost 80, Pop couldn't quite pass the exam. "There ain't no damn cones on the highway," he said, and put his motorcycle in the shed forever.

Bicycling, though, became a popular pastime. And it still was, until very, very recently, but we'll get to that soon enough.

#

I gave Pop his three first great grandchildren. Tiger's Eye made him proud, KitKat made him ecstatic and Man Cub just brought his wallet out even more to flash photos. "I love them kids," he likes to tell me. "They're my own."

We always go to his house for Halloween and the 4th of July. It's just tradition. He loves to see the cubs all dressed up or waiting for the fireworks. Now that he's getting older, though, they make him nervous, especially when they head down the steep stairs to the basement, but the boys love his punching bag in the basement. Yes, a punching bag. It still gets used, and Pop still likes to show off his prowess. It hangs from one of the joists in the floor and, quite honestly, the floor shakes like crazy no matter whose turn it is at the bag. He loves to tinker with things. Last year, we popped in for a visit while he trimmed hedges, and he chased us with the hedge trimmer, reminding us how dangerous and sharp the teeth were. Go, Pop.

The man had a tumor removed from his colon while Dad was still with us, so I think that was in 2002. That's when his girlfriend found out she was quite younger than he. :) Grandmom passed on in 2000, and when Alma walked into his life, he knew a good thing when he saw one, and we soon came to realize what a prize she truly is. Even if she is, as Pop says, Catholic. Pop got the nurse's call button mixed up with the morphine PCA button. I know there is only so much he could give himself, but considering he really required none, he got a little goofy while punching the button without getting the nurse and then pressing it again.

Alma helped sit on him during his recovery. She had to. Three days postop, he insisted that his yard needed cutting, and it took a LOT to keep him from sneaking out and getting out the mower. The Energizer Bunny took lessons, folks, from my paternal grandfather!

Pop does have some minor health problems, and just as you pinpoint him as eccentric, he does something totally and completely rational. Then, there's this:

This is Pop after he had two accidents in two hours with two different modes of transportation. I seriously enjoyed testing out my new cell phone for this awesome shot of the maniac at his finest. He took his bike into the back of a parked car. The Hog-heads at the biker bar rushed out to his aid, and bandaged him up. I don't know how he got home, but the bike was there. So, what does he do? He needs to take the Caddy out for groceries. This time, his target was a defenseless boat hooked to the back of a 4x4 pick-up truck. We are very grateful no one got hurt, but it's just too funny. Of course, he no longer has the bicycle or the car, and he swears he's going to St. Louis to get a new license (across the state line) but, as we tell him, "Well, Pop, who's going to take you?" His only injury was a bump on the noggin, and they kept him overnight for surveillance, but there really wasn't any need.

Okay, flash forward to age 91: Pop has a new invention--91 years old and still thinking' like a maniac. It seems as though age even makes your poor schnoz droop, so he has found a way to circumvent that and get a restful night's sleep.

All it takes is--get this--a plain drinking straw and medical tape.

In case you haven't figured it out yet, he cuts the straw into nostril-length pieces plus 1/2" and wraps the end with medical tape, which he places in his nares for optimal nighttime breathing.
Pop-suckles? What do we call these things? His ENT CRIED laughing so hard, but he couldn't argue with Pop's genius-like logic. It's to the point now where we can't wait to see what he does next!

Well, we didn't have to wait long to see what he did next. A nice big tornadic storm blew through his town, dropping a tree branch on his detached garage. Mind you, with the temperature at 100+, no one was in any big rush to get that branch down for him. So, one of my relatives drives up and...guess who's on the roof with a hacksaw???? Sigh. She yelled at him for that. Bigtime. Later on that 100+ day, she called the house and did not reach him. That's not too surprising, because what hearing his brother didn't take when he punctured his eardrum with an awl, the trains did. Just in case, though, knowing that my Pop is Pop, she drove over to his house anyway. Guess who she spotted waltzing down Main Street under a banana-yellow umbrella?

He's a tightwad. My mother is his primary caretaker, which is surprising to some people, because she's in-law. My family's good people, though, so it does not surprise us. Mom is great to him, although he's a little crusty and cranky with her. She says he's gone to stooping over in public places, looking for change on the floor.

I guess, though, when you're 91, you can pretty much do what the heck you want. You've paid your dues. I need to bump up my time spent with him, but I just love to talk about him.