Today would have been my brother’s 75th birthday, so to remember him on this day I solicited excellent stories from his immediate and extended family members.
Ruth Major:
Dedicated to my husband Jim
on his 75th birthday
as he rests in peace.
I believe he would have enjoyed the thoughts.
Su Major:
A Horse called . . .
Once upon a time (as all good stories began) and ever so long ago I was a tiny little girl. From what I’ve been told my stubbornness, mischievousness, and love for words has only become stronger over the years. As all tiny little girls should, I had a rocking horse. I loved riding back and forth and back and forth. My horse and I traveled over the rainbow to cloudland, through a deep and scary forest – making friends with an ogre or two along the way, and across the burning Sahara – assisting Aladin and his many, many friends. We were best buds – my horse and I! Quite often my horse found his way across my room during the dark hours of the night and Daddy would find me asleep in the morning – exhausted from the excursions through dreamland – with my hand resting upon the mane of my trusty stead. Our adventures were many and I knew my friend well.
“Your horse might sleep better in his stall rather than leaning against your bedrails,” Daddy reported to the tiny little girl.
“Cow,” she returned mischievously.
“Horse.” Daddy played the game well.
“Cow.”
“Horse.”
“Cow.” Horse snickered at my silliness. We had just returned from a thunderous night capturing a band of cattle rustlers. Singlehandedly, we had saved the herd!
“Pig.” Daddy grinned.
“Pig . . .” the tiny little girl agreed, wondering where Daddy’s new story was going to lead.
“Horse,” Daddy grinned. The tiny little girl had agreed!
I heard the beautiful pink curtain rustle in the breeze.
I rolled out from underneath my rose-covered comforter, climbed onto Daddy’s pajamaed lap, wrapped my tiny little arms around his neck, cuddled into his chin stubble, and whispered into his ear . . .
“Cow.”
And they lived happily ever after.
Happy Birthday Daddy! I love you!
Shirley Marks:
I think that we all heard the story of our Dad lecturing him on the way to the
Girl Scout camp to pick me up. It seems that Dad thought that he would try to
convince him that he should try to not fight with me--that it would be an
honorable thing to do. They picked me up and were on their back home and after
only a few minutes we were fighting again. When he realized that he had not
kept his part of the bargain he had a huge guilt attack.
When he was about 2 years old I saw him drinking from a container of nail
polish remover. I told on him and he ended up going to the hospital to have
his stomach pumped. I may have saved his life.
We were so very competitive, and it seemed to lead to arguments and even
physical fighting. If I had it to do over I would try to have a better
relationship with him as a child. He was a fun brother. We did grow to
appreciate each other after we had become adults...I truly miss him!
Myself:
Those early years together were marked by annoying little brother driving big brother to distraction. Then one day he asked for my help in removing the summer screens from the porch of our home so as to replace them with the winter storm windows. I relished the task because now I could help instead of hinder. I did help with the lighter screens, the much heavier storm windows I had to leave to big brother to handle.
We had fun too. My mother gave a small party for my birthday and one of the presents was a small horseshoe shaped magnet. My brother grabbed it up and began demonstrating to all gathered there some of the remarkable properties of magnetism. My mother became agitated at my brother’s antics and scolded him by saying, “Jim, You are going to use up all the magnet if you keep up what you are doing.” Already demonstrating his electrical prowess he gleefully replied, “ Mom, the more you use a magnet the stronger it becomes.” Crestfallen, my mother beat a hasty retreat.
Time, events and distance later eroded our connection. Then one day he called to wish me a happy birthday. I happened to be looking at a calendar when he called and noted that day was also Rosh Hasanah. I said to him, “Are you sure you are not calling me to wish me a happy Rosh Hasanah.” We had a good laugh over that and it was like the connection was made again, brother to brother.
The intervening years were good. We visited often and Ruth and my brother even visited with Patty and me here in Florida. It seems the most memorable time for me was the climb up Longs Peak with my brother and Aaron (Jim's grandson.) The going was slow for this flatlander, but we were doing okay until about 11,000 feet and them Aaron’s breathing became labored, but we rested and noted that Aaron was still breathing. Then we arrived at 12,000 and now Aaron is gaping for a breath. Then the discussion centered around the fact that since he may stop breathing altogether we should go back. The next day my the calves in my legs hurt so bad I was unable to walk up the stairs in Ruth and Jim’s home. I had to crawl up the stairs on my hands and knees. Aaron, you may have saved my legs.
Thanks to all that contributed. If anyone else has a Jim Major excellent adventure I would be happy to post that on my blog
Scott Major
Lorraine Estelle Bridges
I noticed in a birthday reminder book I have that it was Uncle Jim's birthday today...I paused and reflected on Jim for a moment. What do I remember most about him...his laugh. That laugh was so infectious and full of joy. That laugh was scheming with my brothers Ron & Ken to tease me somehow with ice, cold water or watermelon seeds. That laugh was produced when I said something funny. That laugh reminded me of how he interacted with my mom his older sister and how he would lovingly "kid" her about things. That laugh was produced with his love for his wife Ruth and 2 children Bob & Su. I'm sure we'd find plenty to laugh & tease our family about today! Yep, I miss your laugh Uncle Jim but we'll have plenty of time in eternity for laughing later.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Dancing with the Bees
Monday morning I started out early to mow the front lawn and as I usually do I pushed my mower along my neighbors fence to just where the grass starts to get high.
My mower is old and cranky so it takes more than a few pulls to get it going. Finally I get it going. Suddenly I am attacked by ground bees (wasps) and I get bit all over. I start to run and these little bustards are getting me good. I run into the garage, but this is not the place to stop. Then I run into the house slamming the door behind me. Now I am mad and in pain from about seven or eight stings.
At this time my brain quits working and I am a body in motion with no abillity to reason. The body with no working brain rummages under the kitchen sink and comes up with a can of wasp spray. This can of wasp spray promises wonderful things. It will kill those little bustards on contact and will put out a 20ft spray.
Now my spouse urges this body with no working brain not to go back out there. Of course this falls on deaf ears. There is no reasoning with a brain that has gone far, far away.
Back outside I go to do battle with my trusty spray in hand. Now one might assume that 20 feet would be a safe distance, but the non-working brain doesn't realize that these little bustards can travel that far in about one/eighth of a second. Of course my trusty spray can is old and only puts out only a small spray and I get nailed on the hand. Now all the fight is gone out of me and I retreat to the house.
Now any sympathy that I might have engendered from spouse is gone as she marvels at my disheveled appearance and the fact that I got bit again, also she brings up the old, "I told you not to go back out there." Later on there will be peels of hysterical laughter on her part as I don two pairs of pants, two pair of socks, long-sleeved shirt, leather coat and two pairs of gloves as I go out for the final annihilation of the nest. You have got to understand, this is a cruel woman. Ok, for her part she did doctor me up with various potions, but it was really hard for me to get past the hysterical laughter I have had to put up in the last few days.
My mower is old and cranky so it takes more than a few pulls to get it going. Finally I get it going. Suddenly I am attacked by ground bees (wasps) and I get bit all over. I start to run and these little bustards are getting me good. I run into the garage, but this is not the place to stop. Then I run into the house slamming the door behind me. Now I am mad and in pain from about seven or eight stings.
At this time my brain quits working and I am a body in motion with no abillity to reason. The body with no working brain rummages under the kitchen sink and comes up with a can of wasp spray. This can of wasp spray promises wonderful things. It will kill those little bustards on contact and will put out a 20ft spray.
Now my spouse urges this body with no working brain not to go back out there. Of course this falls on deaf ears. There is no reasoning with a brain that has gone far, far away.
Back outside I go to do battle with my trusty spray in hand. Now one might assume that 20 feet would be a safe distance, but the non-working brain doesn't realize that these little bustards can travel that far in about one/eighth of a second. Of course my trusty spray can is old and only puts out only a small spray and I get nailed on the hand. Now all the fight is gone out of me and I retreat to the house.
Now any sympathy that I might have engendered from spouse is gone as she marvels at my disheveled appearance and the fact that I got bit again, also she brings up the old, "I told you not to go back out there." Later on there will be peels of hysterical laughter on her part as I don two pairs of pants, two pair of socks, long-sleeved shirt, leather coat and two pairs of gloves as I go out for the final annihilation of the nest. You have got to understand, this is a cruel woman. Ok, for her part she did doctor me up with various potions, but it was really hard for me to get past the hysterical laughter I have had to put up in the last few days.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
My Testimony
Those of you who know me know that I rarely do testimonies. ( a failing that I will have to deal with when I get to heaven)
The call came in late in the afternoon as Patty and I were preparing dinner. The caller said, "Your son, Michael has been hit by a car." Michael was on his bicycle on his way home from USF.
At that instant all the car vs. bicycle and car vs. motercycle incidents that I had responded to as a firefighter for the City of Tampa came flooding into my head. Many of these incidents did not turn out well for the bicyclist or the motorcyclist.
Having these thoughts in my head, I did not dare to even ask the caller if Michael was ok. I just got the location and turned to Patty and said, lets go.
The accident scene was about eight miles from our house and for the first four miles I tried to handle it myself and then finally I said to God I can't handle this on my own. At this time a peace came over me and I knew instantly that whatever had happend is out of my control, but I now have the peace of mind to cope with it. God gave that to me.
When Patty and I arrived at the accident scene Michael was sitting in the back of the ambulance, a little worse for the wear, but he was ok. It seems he turned in front of a slow moving car.
I have all these memories of what happens when there is an accident such as what happened to Michael and Erik so I have have come to the conclusion that God does perform miracles and the miracle is that when misfortune does occur we get this great ability, from God, to cope with that misfortune.
Whenever our crew respnded to an bicycle or motorcycle accident scene and there was head trauma the protocol was to get the cyclist quickly to the nearest trauma center so the organs could be harvested. There may have been other injuries, but I never saw head trauma when there was a helmet worn by the rider. Erik and Michael both wore helmets and they were survivors.
Yesterday two Tampa police officers were gunned down and both passed away. When we come into this lfe, kicking and screaming, naked and unashamed we get no guarantee that no misfortune will befall us. The miracle here is that God gives us and our loved ones ( and it bears repeating ) the ability to cope with that misfortune.
The call came in late in the afternoon as Patty and I were preparing dinner. The caller said, "Your son, Michael has been hit by a car." Michael was on his bicycle on his way home from USF.
At that instant all the car vs. bicycle and car vs. motercycle incidents that I had responded to as a firefighter for the City of Tampa came flooding into my head. Many of these incidents did not turn out well for the bicyclist or the motorcyclist.
Having these thoughts in my head, I did not dare to even ask the caller if Michael was ok. I just got the location and turned to Patty and said, lets go.
The accident scene was about eight miles from our house and for the first four miles I tried to handle it myself and then finally I said to God I can't handle this on my own. At this time a peace came over me and I knew instantly that whatever had happend is out of my control, but I now have the peace of mind to cope with it. God gave that to me.
When Patty and I arrived at the accident scene Michael was sitting in the back of the ambulance, a little worse for the wear, but he was ok. It seems he turned in front of a slow moving car.
I have all these memories of what happens when there is an accident such as what happened to Michael and Erik so I have have come to the conclusion that God does perform miracles and the miracle is that when misfortune does occur we get this great ability, from God, to cope with that misfortune.
Whenever our crew respnded to an bicycle or motorcycle accident scene and there was head trauma the protocol was to get the cyclist quickly to the nearest trauma center so the organs could be harvested. There may have been other injuries, but I never saw head trauma when there was a helmet worn by the rider. Erik and Michael both wore helmets and they were survivors.
Yesterday two Tampa police officers were gunned down and both passed away. When we come into this lfe, kicking and screaming, naked and unashamed we get no guarantee that no misfortune will befall us. The miracle here is that God gives us and our loved ones ( and it bears repeating ) the ability to cope with that misfortune.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Captain, There is smoke rising due south of us.
Michael...Here is a litte story I dashed off just the other day
Shadyside Retirement Home
Shadyside, FL
March 11, 2073
Dear Grandsons, Albemarle and Manfred,
I was overjoyed to hear of your appointments to the ranks of the Tampa Fire and Rescue Service. Your employment with this organization will continue a long-standing tradition of service to the people of the city of Tampa by our family. That tradition began many years ago with the appointment over a hundred years ago of my grandfather, your great-great grandfather, Scott, to the then, Tampa Fire Department in1967. The tradition of service to the community skipped a generation and then at age 32 in the year 2035 I joined the Tampa Fire and Rescue Service.
That summer of ’36 was my rookie year and I spent it with Captain Amos Brigand tooling around the Seminole Heights area with our red pushcart. Captain Brigand was one of the last of the firefighters that had commanded the big pumpers. Oh, there was a pumper at the firefighter museum downtown, but hardly anyone cared any more. It was covered with dust and debris. The tires had gone flat so heavy wooden blocks were placed under the axels to hold it up.
Captain Brigand and I had our window washing equipment piled in our pushcart. We had an assortment of ladders, squeegees, a bundle of rags and soap powder. The pushcart was outfitted with a small water pump that enabled us to wash second story windows. We also had an assortment of home safety equipment such as smoke detectors and fire extinguishers. It was my job to walk up to each residence to solicit window-washing jobs and to try to peddle our smoke detectors and home safety equipment.
You may wonder what in the world I am talking about, but you will soon enough hear the stories of that time. During President Bush’s (Jeb) last term in office another great depression similar to the one back in the 1930’s began. As a result of the hard times many cities across the land could no longer afford to buy fire engines. Instead fire inspectors were hired from the ranks of the unemployed. These inspectors were given a lot of power. They could even come into your home and look for violations of the fire code.
Our city declared that the fire department must be self-supporting so those firefighters not participating in the inspections and the new hires had to go out and drum up money by washing windows and peddling fire safety equipment.
Captain Brigand and I worked out of the fire station in Seminole Heights. This area was hard hit by the depression and the inhabitants were not inclined to purchase our products. On this particular Thursday we were having a particularly bad day. When 5:00 pm rolled around we had only one window washing job and two smoke detectors sold for the whole day. Captain Brigand said that was it for the day and we turned our pushcart around and headed for station.
Chief Inspector Checko was waiting for us when we got back to the station.
“What have you brought in today, Brigand. I hope it is more than what you brought in yesterday,” Inspector Checko sneered.
Captain Brigand handed him our log and the money that went with it. Inspector Checko looked at the money and the log for a moment and then launched into a tirade. “You think you can coast because you will be eligible to draw your pension in three weeks. If you do you have another think coming. Tomorrow is your last day unless you produce. This city is not going to give a pension to a slacker like you.” He then stomped off to his office.
I turned to Captain Brigand and asked, “What are you going to do, Captain?”
He put his big hand on my shoulder and said with a big smile, “When the time comes I will deal with Inspector Checko. Let’s head for home.”
The next day things were going better for us as we had two window washing jobs completed, sold three smoke detectors, and were just setting up the ladder for another window washing. I climbed the ladder and began to squeegee the window in front of me when I noticed smoke rising from the downtown area. I called out to Captain Brigand who was sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette. “Captain, there is smoke due south of us.”
He got up from the curb and threw his cigarette away and said, “Come down here and let me take a look.”
I quickly came down and we repositioned the ladder so he could get a better look at the column of smoke. He ascended the ladder and then yelled down to me while still at the top of the ladder, “Get all our stuff together. We have to go back to the station.”
I got behind the pushcart, but Captain Brigand shouted, “Leave it. We only need the ladder. We hoisted the ladder onto our shoulders and as fast as we could, headed for the station. When we got there Captain Brigand spied Inspector Checko’s city owned sedan and without a moments hesitation took the ladder from me and rammed it through the back window of Inspector Checko’s city owned sedan.
Inspector Checko upon hearing the sound of breaking glass bolted out of his office and nearly fainted when he saw what Captain Brigand had done. Captain Brigand slipped past him, grabbed the sedan keys off the desk in Inspector Checko’s office and ran past the now turning-purple-with-rage Inspector Checko to where I was standing.
Captain Brigand motioned me to get in the passenger seat and we drove off leaving the now completely purple Inspector Checko yelling at the top of his lungs, “You are fired, Brigand. You are fired, Brigand.”
The fire was raging in a warehouse close to the docks. Right next to the fire was a cruise ship loaded with tourists. The fire was closing in on the main entrance to the ship making it impossible to get off the ship. Most of the passengers were able to get off the ship before the fire got too bad, but now several hundred of the passengers and crew were trapped. Preparations were being made to get the ship under way, but it was feared that would take too long and the smoke and heat would take its toll on the remaining passengers and crew.
Captain Brigand quickly saw what was happening and we drove around to the bow of the ship. We quickly pulled our ladder out the back window of the sedan and hoisted it to where the tip of the ladder rested on the railing of the bow. Almost at once the passengers and crew huddled on the deck began to scamper down to safety. By this time engine companies and ladder trucks began arriving from the county and began to set up to combat this fire.
Inspector Checko arrived a bit later and began to complain to the fire chief about what Captain Brigand and I had done. I heard the chief tell him that he couldn’t very well fire us because over two hundred lives had been saved because of what we had done.
When the fire was out and the Inspectors were able to get into the burned out warehouse it was discovered that there were numerous violations of the fire code. The owner of the warehouse was arrested on the spot and he immediately began to sing like a little canary. It seems like Inspector Checko and some of his cohorts were soliciting payoffs to look the other way when there was a violation of the fire code. Inspector Checko was arrested later that same day.
As a result of this fire the city managed to find the funds to buy new fire engines, Captain Amos Brigand got his pension and I didn’t get fired.
I hope you enjoy this look back at the “old days” of your fire department.
Your Grandfather,
Eric “Batka” Major
Shadyside Retirement Home
Shadyside, FL
March 11, 2073
Dear Grandsons, Albemarle and Manfred,
I was overjoyed to hear of your appointments to the ranks of the Tampa Fire and Rescue Service. Your employment with this organization will continue a long-standing tradition of service to the people of the city of Tampa by our family. That tradition began many years ago with the appointment over a hundred years ago of my grandfather, your great-great grandfather, Scott, to the then, Tampa Fire Department in1967. The tradition of service to the community skipped a generation and then at age 32 in the year 2035 I joined the Tampa Fire and Rescue Service.
That summer of ’36 was my rookie year and I spent it with Captain Amos Brigand tooling around the Seminole Heights area with our red pushcart. Captain Brigand was one of the last of the firefighters that had commanded the big pumpers. Oh, there was a pumper at the firefighter museum downtown, but hardly anyone cared any more. It was covered with dust and debris. The tires had gone flat so heavy wooden blocks were placed under the axels to hold it up.
Captain Brigand and I had our window washing equipment piled in our pushcart. We had an assortment of ladders, squeegees, a bundle of rags and soap powder. The pushcart was outfitted with a small water pump that enabled us to wash second story windows. We also had an assortment of home safety equipment such as smoke detectors and fire extinguishers. It was my job to walk up to each residence to solicit window-washing jobs and to try to peddle our smoke detectors and home safety equipment.
You may wonder what in the world I am talking about, but you will soon enough hear the stories of that time. During President Bush’s (Jeb) last term in office another great depression similar to the one back in the 1930’s began. As a result of the hard times many cities across the land could no longer afford to buy fire engines. Instead fire inspectors were hired from the ranks of the unemployed. These inspectors were given a lot of power. They could even come into your home and look for violations of the fire code.
Our city declared that the fire department must be self-supporting so those firefighters not participating in the inspections and the new hires had to go out and drum up money by washing windows and peddling fire safety equipment.
Captain Brigand and I worked out of the fire station in Seminole Heights. This area was hard hit by the depression and the inhabitants were not inclined to purchase our products. On this particular Thursday we were having a particularly bad day. When 5:00 pm rolled around we had only one window washing job and two smoke detectors sold for the whole day. Captain Brigand said that was it for the day and we turned our pushcart around and headed for station.
Chief Inspector Checko was waiting for us when we got back to the station.
“What have you brought in today, Brigand. I hope it is more than what you brought in yesterday,” Inspector Checko sneered.
Captain Brigand handed him our log and the money that went with it. Inspector Checko looked at the money and the log for a moment and then launched into a tirade. “You think you can coast because you will be eligible to draw your pension in three weeks. If you do you have another think coming. Tomorrow is your last day unless you produce. This city is not going to give a pension to a slacker like you.” He then stomped off to his office.
I turned to Captain Brigand and asked, “What are you going to do, Captain?”
He put his big hand on my shoulder and said with a big smile, “When the time comes I will deal with Inspector Checko. Let’s head for home.”
The next day things were going better for us as we had two window washing jobs completed, sold three smoke detectors, and were just setting up the ladder for another window washing. I climbed the ladder and began to squeegee the window in front of me when I noticed smoke rising from the downtown area. I called out to Captain Brigand who was sitting on the curb smoking a cigarette. “Captain, there is smoke due south of us.”
He got up from the curb and threw his cigarette away and said, “Come down here and let me take a look.”
I quickly came down and we repositioned the ladder so he could get a better look at the column of smoke. He ascended the ladder and then yelled down to me while still at the top of the ladder, “Get all our stuff together. We have to go back to the station.”
I got behind the pushcart, but Captain Brigand shouted, “Leave it. We only need the ladder. We hoisted the ladder onto our shoulders and as fast as we could, headed for the station. When we got there Captain Brigand spied Inspector Checko’s city owned sedan and without a moments hesitation took the ladder from me and rammed it through the back window of Inspector Checko’s city owned sedan.
Inspector Checko upon hearing the sound of breaking glass bolted out of his office and nearly fainted when he saw what Captain Brigand had done. Captain Brigand slipped past him, grabbed the sedan keys off the desk in Inspector Checko’s office and ran past the now turning-purple-with-rage Inspector Checko to where I was standing.
Captain Brigand motioned me to get in the passenger seat and we drove off leaving the now completely purple Inspector Checko yelling at the top of his lungs, “You are fired, Brigand. You are fired, Brigand.”
The fire was raging in a warehouse close to the docks. Right next to the fire was a cruise ship loaded with tourists. The fire was closing in on the main entrance to the ship making it impossible to get off the ship. Most of the passengers were able to get off the ship before the fire got too bad, but now several hundred of the passengers and crew were trapped. Preparations were being made to get the ship under way, but it was feared that would take too long and the smoke and heat would take its toll on the remaining passengers and crew.
Captain Brigand quickly saw what was happening and we drove around to the bow of the ship. We quickly pulled our ladder out the back window of the sedan and hoisted it to where the tip of the ladder rested on the railing of the bow. Almost at once the passengers and crew huddled on the deck began to scamper down to safety. By this time engine companies and ladder trucks began arriving from the county and began to set up to combat this fire.
Inspector Checko arrived a bit later and began to complain to the fire chief about what Captain Brigand and I had done. I heard the chief tell him that he couldn’t very well fire us because over two hundred lives had been saved because of what we had done.
When the fire was out and the Inspectors were able to get into the burned out warehouse it was discovered that there were numerous violations of the fire code. The owner of the warehouse was arrested on the spot and he immediately began to sing like a little canary. It seems like Inspector Checko and some of his cohorts were soliciting payoffs to look the other way when there was a violation of the fire code. Inspector Checko was arrested later that same day.
As a result of this fire the city managed to find the funds to buy new fire engines, Captain Amos Brigand got his pension and I didn’t get fired.
I hope you enjoy this look back at the “old days” of your fire department.
Your Grandfather,
Eric “Batka” Major
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Is it Bakery or Homemade
Michael,
Do you remember the Black Forest Cherry Cake your mother and I baked for a church picnic?
You probably don’t. You and your sister were only about four or five years old at the time. The picnic was to be held at the Baptist Assembly Grounds. The highlight of the picnic was going to be a cake-judging contest. Your mother picked out a cake she wanted us to make and bring to the picnic. It was this elaborate Black Forest Cherry Cake. She and I spent the whole morning making that cake and when we finished the final decorations this was one magnificent cake. It looked just like the picture in the recipe book. Cherry filling was spread between the layers, whipped cream adorned the sides and top, shredded chocolate was pressed into the sides, curls of chocolate were carefully placed on top and then a garnish of maraschino cherries finished the decorating. This cake was truly a work of art.
As soon as we all got to the picnic your mother and I carefully unloaded the cake from the car and immediately headed for the table where the entries for the cake judging contest was to be held. Mrs. Castor was hovering about eyeballing each cake as it was brought in and placed on the table. Now Mrs. Castor ran a tight ship. There had better not be any fooling around at the cake-judging table. Her eyeballing the other cakes halted when she saw the cake your mother and I brought in. Her gaze immediately became fixed although she continued walking around the table. It was as if she wanted to inspect our cake from every side to confirm her suspicions. Finally she stopped and turned to your mother and hissed, “You bought this cake at a bakery didn’t you? We can’t have any bakery cakes here.”
Your mother was stunned into silence for a moment, but she finally replied rather heatedly, “I will have you know my husband and I spent all morning making this cake and I also washed all the dishes it took to make this cake. WE DID NOT BUY THIS CAKE AT A BAKERY! Mrs. Castor immediately retreated from the cake table at this uncharacteristic show of ferocity from your mother. I really did appreciate your mother defending our cake and there was no need for me to untter one word. I figured your mother had put Mrs. Castor in her place. Besides, I was hungry and there were huge mounds of fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, casseroles of every description, and assorted desserts waiting to be devoured at the food table.
Our pastor gave the blessing for the food. I loved that man. He never gave long food blessings. Afterward I began heaping my plate with the fried chicken, the potato salad, the baked beans, and assorted helpings from the casseroles and then topped it off with the desserts. When I could finally eat no more I walked down to the lake where members of our group had set some reclining lounge chairs in the shade of the huge oak trees that ringed the lake. I was offered a spot in one of the lounge chairs and promptly accepted the offer. The previous brouhaha with your mother and Mrs. Castor were the last thing on my mind as I began to doze.
These assembly grounds are set amid a very picturesque spot. Huge old oak trees frame the lake to make a picture post-card setting. There is a white sand beach where the younger kids can run and play to their hearts content. I scan the beach to see what you and your sister are doing, but I cannot see you two from where I am reclining so I raise up so I can get a better look at where you two are supposed to be, but I can only see your mother and Mrs. Castor. Oh no, Mrs.Castor is lying face down in the sand and your mother is straddled over her. She has Mrs. Castor’s hair is one hand and with the other hand is shoving Black Forest Cherry Cake in Mrs. Castor’s mouth. Then your mother shoves Mrs. Castor’s head into the sand saying, “This is bakery cake.” Then your mother pulls Mrs. Castor’s head out of the sand and shoves cake into her mouth saying. “ This is my cake. Now can you tell the difference”? This went on for some time. Head in the sand, then head out the sand. “This is bakery cake.” “ This is my cake. Now can you tell the difference”?
I was awakened suddenly by a commotion coming from the sand beach in front of me. Two of the men from our church had Mrs. Castor by her arms and were attempting to drag her past me. She appeared to be quite disheveled with sand covering her face and hair matted with more sand. Oh No! Around her mouth were pieces of cake, Black Forest Cherry Cake to be exact. I was not dreaming. Your mother actually did it to her. I ran over to her and exclaimed, “Mrs. Castor I am so sorry. I had no idea my wife would do this to you.”
“What are talking about,” one the men attempting to hold Mrs. Castor upright said to me. “She was walking on the beach while eating a piece of your cake. She wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going. Your son and daughter dug a big old hole in the sand and she tripped and fell in the hole. She was thrashing about and chocking on your cake at the same time. I thought she was going to die before we could get that cake out of her mouth.
Our cake didn’t win a prize, but your mother and I were not unhappy.
Love, Dad
BLACK - FOREST CHERRY CAKE
2 layers chocolate cake (a tight cake does better than a real light one)
1 (16 oz.) can tart cherries, packed in water
1/4 c. sugar, if you want a sweet filling
No sugar, if you want a tart filling
2 tbsp. Kirschwasser (cherry brandy)
2 tbsp. cornstarch
1/2 pt. whipping cream
1 sm. pkg. instant vanilla pudding
1 c. milk
German's Sweet Chocolate, block
Bake chocolate layer cake according to package directions and cool completely. Drain cherries, reserving liquid. Bring 1 cup cherry liquid (add water to juice to make 1 cup) to boil, stir in cornstarch (and sugar), boil for 1 minute. Take off heat, add cherries and Kirsch, let cool completely. Whip cream frosting: Mix pudding with milk, let it get a little thick. Whip cream and fold into pudding.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Memorable Fires, Cuban Sandwiches and Poetry
Dear Michael,
Arson fires are a way of life for the crew of ladder 24. You had to be very careful when you went into a suspicious fire to make sure the arsonist has not booby-trapped the entrance. Fortunately for us the persons who set out to burn this building never got that chance.
Our ladder truck responds to what is being labeled as an explosion by dispatch. The address given is at the northern limits of our territory and it will be some minutes before we arrive on scene. The hour is early morning and I settle back in my tillerman’s seat for a long ride. When we arrive on scene it takes a few minutes for us to figure out what had happened. The front of the building is lying across the street from the rest of the building. Arsonists have gone into what once was a bakery with their gasoline cans and pour this deadly liquid onto the floor.
Someone forgot to tell them that this bakery uses gas ovens. Gas ovens contain tiny little flames called pilot lights that continue burning away after the ovens are shut down for the evening. I do not remember the exact speed that flame travels when it meets up with gasoline vapors, but I will say this. There is not a person alive able to run this fast. These unlucky criminals proved to be no exception to this rule. There is little fire left, it simply blew itself out and only the coroner is hard at work removing the burnt corpses of these unlucky criminals.
I got to ride around on this big long red shiny truck that seldom failed to turn heads when cruising by. Only the most jaded person could fail to make note of our presence as we would cruise the avenues and when there was a fire ladder 24 roaring by with siren howling and beacon lights flashing was a sight to behold. As I recall the following events happened on our watch.
Our ladder truck responds to a call to the downtown area on a third alarm to a four story commercial building. When we arrive at the scene of the fire our crew is ordered to begin an interior attack. This effort made to minimize the damage already occurring is lead by our assistant chief. We go in with 2 &1/2 inch hose lines using fog nozzles. The attempt made to reach the seat of the fire from the lobby almost succeeds, but we are forced to retreat because the heat of the fire that is raging in the false ceiling above. The radio suddenly crackles with the news that the fire has broken through the false ceiling into the floor above. The order to clear out of the building sounds and aerial ladder operations commence. Powerful streams of water shatter 2nd floor windows and find their mark. Reports about this chief, his ways and his personal life make for much firehouse gossip, but the man is there, putting his life on the line. I will listen to no more gossip about this man.
There is nothing worse than being the first company in on a huge fire. You feel so helpless as the world around you explodes in an unmatched fury.
That explosion happens to us one sunny Sunday afternoon. We just finished the clean up from the noon meal and are preparing to spend a lazy summer afternoon when the call bell sounds. Being dispatched to the nearby business district there is no need for an address as we can see smoke and flames leaping from the nearby buildings. Our engine company is out at a smaller fire, so our ladder company is the first to respond. By the time we arrive on scene the fire begins to leap across the narrow street to the buildings there. This is the moment that you begin to think this fire is way beyond your control and there is absolutely nothing that you will ever do to stop the burning. For that singular moment time freezes as you watch your world being consumed by this monster fire.
As quickly as that moment comes it passes and you begin to rely on your training and your instincts. Our ladder company quickly begins to set up while distant sirens signal that our crew is not alone in our time of need. Our engine company is soon on the scene and lays hose to our already extended ladder. Soon water is streaming out onto the fire. Other engine companies arrive and begin pumping to other ladder companies dispatched to help us. Our assistant chief arrives and takes command of the fire. The initial set up is very good so there is little for him to do except to encourage us and bum cigarettes from the smokers.
Ahh, yes, the classic is the Cuban sandwich. Only if it has the proper ingredients can it be called a Cuban sandwich
There is a column in the newspaper about the lack of knowledge around our city on how to prepare a real Cuban sandwich. It seems as if the reporter ordered a Cuban sandwich and it had lettuce and tomato on it when arrived at his table. Invitations to lunch at our fire station get you a true Cuban sandwich. No imitations allowed. Baked ham, marinated pork and Genoa salami from the Italian meat market, dill pickle and Swiss cheese encased by real Cuban bread. Mayonnaise and mustard applied in liberal quantities round out this gastronomical treat. May God have mercy on the cook if he even brings lettuce and tomatoes into the station this day. I am sorry, if you live north of my city there is a good possibility you cannot get a true Cuban sandwich. All you can do is salivate or drive down here to get one.
We will have Cuban sandwiches fixed for you upon your homecoming.
Love, Dad
P.S. Do you remember this “poem” that you dashed off one day while I was lunching on a Cuban sandwich and trying to find the right words to a story I was writing.
That’s poetry
Cuban sandwiches and firefighters.
-Take a bite-
“Help me,” my Dad says
trying to write this poem.
See now I’ve got this story
trying to turn it into a poem.
-Take a bite-
( I mean a really big bite. And get all that extra ham hanging off the edges. That’s it. Now wash it down with a really tall glass of ice tea—a sprinkle of lemon on the side.)
See listen to this
as the flames leap higher and grow.
No forget about that
don’t worry about it for right now.
-Take a bite-
Now look at this
I’ve really been working on this.
Cuban sandwiches and firefighter
And my dad a firefighter-poet.
Yeah, that’s poetry.
Arson fires are a way of life for the crew of ladder 24. You had to be very careful when you went into a suspicious fire to make sure the arsonist has not booby-trapped the entrance. Fortunately for us the persons who set out to burn this building never got that chance.
Our ladder truck responds to what is being labeled as an explosion by dispatch. The address given is at the northern limits of our territory and it will be some minutes before we arrive on scene. The hour is early morning and I settle back in my tillerman’s seat for a long ride. When we arrive on scene it takes a few minutes for us to figure out what had happened. The front of the building is lying across the street from the rest of the building. Arsonists have gone into what once was a bakery with their gasoline cans and pour this deadly liquid onto the floor.
Someone forgot to tell them that this bakery uses gas ovens. Gas ovens contain tiny little flames called pilot lights that continue burning away after the ovens are shut down for the evening. I do not remember the exact speed that flame travels when it meets up with gasoline vapors, but I will say this. There is not a person alive able to run this fast. These unlucky criminals proved to be no exception to this rule. There is little fire left, it simply blew itself out and only the coroner is hard at work removing the burnt corpses of these unlucky criminals.
I got to ride around on this big long red shiny truck that seldom failed to turn heads when cruising by. Only the most jaded person could fail to make note of our presence as we would cruise the avenues and when there was a fire ladder 24 roaring by with siren howling and beacon lights flashing was a sight to behold. As I recall the following events happened on our watch.
Our ladder truck responds to a call to the downtown area on a third alarm to a four story commercial building. When we arrive at the scene of the fire our crew is ordered to begin an interior attack. This effort made to minimize the damage already occurring is lead by our assistant chief. We go in with 2 &1/2 inch hose lines using fog nozzles. The attempt made to reach the seat of the fire from the lobby almost succeeds, but we are forced to retreat because the heat of the fire that is raging in the false ceiling above. The radio suddenly crackles with the news that the fire has broken through the false ceiling into the floor above. The order to clear out of the building sounds and aerial ladder operations commence. Powerful streams of water shatter 2nd floor windows and find their mark. Reports about this chief, his ways and his personal life make for much firehouse gossip, but the man is there, putting his life on the line. I will listen to no more gossip about this man.
There is nothing worse than being the first company in on a huge fire. You feel so helpless as the world around you explodes in an unmatched fury.
That explosion happens to us one sunny Sunday afternoon. We just finished the clean up from the noon meal and are preparing to spend a lazy summer afternoon when the call bell sounds. Being dispatched to the nearby business district there is no need for an address as we can see smoke and flames leaping from the nearby buildings. Our engine company is out at a smaller fire, so our ladder company is the first to respond. By the time we arrive on scene the fire begins to leap across the narrow street to the buildings there. This is the moment that you begin to think this fire is way beyond your control and there is absolutely nothing that you will ever do to stop the burning. For that singular moment time freezes as you watch your world being consumed by this monster fire.
As quickly as that moment comes it passes and you begin to rely on your training and your instincts. Our ladder company quickly begins to set up while distant sirens signal that our crew is not alone in our time of need. Our engine company is soon on the scene and lays hose to our already extended ladder. Soon water is streaming out onto the fire. Other engine companies arrive and begin pumping to other ladder companies dispatched to help us. Our assistant chief arrives and takes command of the fire. The initial set up is very good so there is little for him to do except to encourage us and bum cigarettes from the smokers.
Ahh, yes, the classic is the Cuban sandwich. Only if it has the proper ingredients can it be called a Cuban sandwich
There is a column in the newspaper about the lack of knowledge around our city on how to prepare a real Cuban sandwich. It seems as if the reporter ordered a Cuban sandwich and it had lettuce and tomato on it when arrived at his table. Invitations to lunch at our fire station get you a true Cuban sandwich. No imitations allowed. Baked ham, marinated pork and Genoa salami from the Italian meat market, dill pickle and Swiss cheese encased by real Cuban bread. Mayonnaise and mustard applied in liberal quantities round out this gastronomical treat. May God have mercy on the cook if he even brings lettuce and tomatoes into the station this day. I am sorry, if you live north of my city there is a good possibility you cannot get a true Cuban sandwich. All you can do is salivate or drive down here to get one.
We will have Cuban sandwiches fixed for you upon your homecoming.
Love, Dad
P.S. Do you remember this “poem” that you dashed off one day while I was lunching on a Cuban sandwich and trying to find the right words to a story I was writing.
That’s poetry
Cuban sandwiches and firefighters.
-Take a bite-
“Help me,” my Dad says
trying to write this poem.
See now I’ve got this story
trying to turn it into a poem.
-Take a bite-
( I mean a really big bite. And get all that extra ham hanging off the edges. That’s it. Now wash it down with a really tall glass of ice tea—a sprinkle of lemon on the side.)
See listen to this
as the flames leap higher and grow.
No forget about that
don’t worry about it for right now.
-Take a bite-
Now look at this
I’ve really been working on this.
Cuban sandwiches and firefighter
And my dad a firefighter-poet.
Yeah, that’s poetry.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Grapefruit, Cockroaches, Shotgun Houses and "Crackers"
Michael...I had this really vivid dream last night. I was a stand up comic on one of those late night talk shows and I was doing a routine about, of all things, grapefruit and cockroaches.
The first thing that happens to us when we get to Florida is someone from down the street shows up at our door with several paper sacks full of grapefruit.
Now, this is not an act of friendship and they are not happy to see you, they just want to get rid of the grapefruit. The word is already out on the street that there is a new place to dump the grapefruit.
Grapefruit grow everywhere in Florida. You can’t get rid of the stuff. Whatever you do, do not try to bury the grapefruit in the back yard or put them in the garbage. You must consume every bit of it. You are being watched and the penalties for burying or dumping grapefruit are very severe.
I have seen homeless guys carrying around paper sacks full of grapefruit. You just know that the poor homeless guy got too close to a house with a grapefruit tree in the yard and the owner ran out of the house and gave him a paper sack full of grapefruit.
Now that Aunt Bessie from Fargo is up on the table screaming at the top of her lungs, you suddenly realize that a cockroach has crawled out of that paper sack full of grapefruit that you placed in the corner.
Mr. or Mrs. cockroach is now atop the bag of grapefruit and is a little woozy from the grapefruit vapors and very quickly he or she gets some much needed fresh air and regains equilibrium.
Now if this cockroach decides to fly that is a very bad thing. It is like having a miniature B-29 cruising around the inside of your home.
The grown men present fling themselves to the floor and Aunt Bessie realizes that getting up on top of the table is not going to save her from being rammed by this miniature B-29 and retreats to the safety of the underside of the table.
Generally these flights tend to be of short duration and end with muted inquires of where did the damm thing land. There is no more shouting or screaming because you certainly don’t want to attract attention to yourself.
The problem is once this cockroach gets the feel of flying he or she may feel the need for further flight. Flying sure beats being stomped on and the terror and mayhem he or she can create makes the flight worth the while.
There is some discussion about arming ourselves with the grapefruit, but cooler heads prevail. It is very difficult to peg a grapefruit at the miniature B-29 as it cruises by and there are windows and wall hangings to replace.
One suggestion made is that once the thing comes in for a landing the grapefruit might be useful to smash it while the thing spreads its wings for another takeoff. This plan falls through because there is not one soul brave enough to reach in the bag and pull out a grapefruit for fear there is another cockroach lurking there.
There is nothing else to do except turn out all the lights, head for bed, pull the covers tightly over our heads and wait for daylight.
Wow, that was a dream and a half. Can you imagine your Dad as stand up comic?
Michael...By now you have probably figured out that my dreams always have two parts. The next night I found myself standing up on stage talking about “shotgun houses” and “Crackers”
The first house we moved into when my family and I moved to Florida was a “shotgun house.” My Uncle said it was a shotgun house because it was so full of holes you could fire a shotgun directly at it and miss it completely.
That wasn’t exactly the right definition, but it was true about the house we moved into.
A true “shotgun house” is a house with a long hallway on one side of the house that stretches from front to back. That means that you can stand at the front door of the house and fire a shotgun through to the back door and not hit a single thing in between.
“Crackers” sometimes live in shotgun houses. Now what is a “cracker?” A “cracker” used to be a person who drove cattle with a whip and that whip made a loud cracking sound when used properly.
Now it has just come to describe a low-down mean “redneck.” I once made the mistake of using the word “cracker” to my future father-in-law while speaking to him. The wedding almost did not happen because the intended groom was almost lying out in the street dead.
It is not a good thing to dally with the wife or girlfriend of a “cracker” that resides in a “shotgun house” because if the “cracker” comes home unexpectedly while you and his significant other are in the bedroom playing footsy-wootsy you are trapped like a rat.
The minute you come tiptoeing out the bedroom door, shoes and shirt in hand you now become the one item that will stop the buckshot from going out through the back door.
Your only hope is to dive out the back window, dodge the rusty car parts scattered about the back yard and run like hell.
The first thing that happens to us when we get to Florida is someone from down the street shows up at our door with several paper sacks full of grapefruit.
Now, this is not an act of friendship and they are not happy to see you, they just want to get rid of the grapefruit. The word is already out on the street that there is a new place to dump the grapefruit.
Grapefruit grow everywhere in Florida. You can’t get rid of the stuff. Whatever you do, do not try to bury the grapefruit in the back yard or put them in the garbage. You must consume every bit of it. You are being watched and the penalties for burying or dumping grapefruit are very severe.
I have seen homeless guys carrying around paper sacks full of grapefruit. You just know that the poor homeless guy got too close to a house with a grapefruit tree in the yard and the owner ran out of the house and gave him a paper sack full of grapefruit.
Now that Aunt Bessie from Fargo is up on the table screaming at the top of her lungs, you suddenly realize that a cockroach has crawled out of that paper sack full of grapefruit that you placed in the corner.
Mr. or Mrs. cockroach is now atop the bag of grapefruit and is a little woozy from the grapefruit vapors and very quickly he or she gets some much needed fresh air and regains equilibrium.
Now if this cockroach decides to fly that is a very bad thing. It is like having a miniature B-29 cruising around the inside of your home.
The grown men present fling themselves to the floor and Aunt Bessie realizes that getting up on top of the table is not going to save her from being rammed by this miniature B-29 and retreats to the safety of the underside of the table.
Generally these flights tend to be of short duration and end with muted inquires of where did the damm thing land. There is no more shouting or screaming because you certainly don’t want to attract attention to yourself.
The problem is once this cockroach gets the feel of flying he or she may feel the need for further flight. Flying sure beats being stomped on and the terror and mayhem he or she can create makes the flight worth the while.
There is some discussion about arming ourselves with the grapefruit, but cooler heads prevail. It is very difficult to peg a grapefruit at the miniature B-29 as it cruises by and there are windows and wall hangings to replace.
One suggestion made is that once the thing comes in for a landing the grapefruit might be useful to smash it while the thing spreads its wings for another takeoff. This plan falls through because there is not one soul brave enough to reach in the bag and pull out a grapefruit for fear there is another cockroach lurking there.
There is nothing else to do except turn out all the lights, head for bed, pull the covers tightly over our heads and wait for daylight.
Wow, that was a dream and a half. Can you imagine your Dad as stand up comic?
Michael...By now you have probably figured out that my dreams always have two parts. The next night I found myself standing up on stage talking about “shotgun houses” and “Crackers”
The first house we moved into when my family and I moved to Florida was a “shotgun house.” My Uncle said it was a shotgun house because it was so full of holes you could fire a shotgun directly at it and miss it completely.
That wasn’t exactly the right definition, but it was true about the house we moved into.
A true “shotgun house” is a house with a long hallway on one side of the house that stretches from front to back. That means that you can stand at the front door of the house and fire a shotgun through to the back door and not hit a single thing in between.
“Crackers” sometimes live in shotgun houses. Now what is a “cracker?” A “cracker” used to be a person who drove cattle with a whip and that whip made a loud cracking sound when used properly.
Now it has just come to describe a low-down mean “redneck.” I once made the mistake of using the word “cracker” to my future father-in-law while speaking to him. The wedding almost did not happen because the intended groom was almost lying out in the street dead.
It is not a good thing to dally with the wife or girlfriend of a “cracker” that resides in a “shotgun house” because if the “cracker” comes home unexpectedly while you and his significant other are in the bedroom playing footsy-wootsy you are trapped like a rat.
The minute you come tiptoeing out the bedroom door, shoes and shirt in hand you now become the one item that will stop the buckshot from going out through the back door.
Your only hope is to dive out the back window, dodge the rusty car parts scattered about the back yard and run like hell.
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