Dad mentioned that at one of the airshows he was able to see the great German WWI ace Ernst Udet pick up a handkerchief off the ground with a hook attached to the wing of his Fokker biplane. But that was on Ernst’s second try. On the first attempt in the morning, Ernst crashed fairly spectacularly, and they carted him off to the hospital. What impressed Dad was that Ernst reappeared for the afternoon performance, heavily bandaged up, and successfully hooked the handkerchief (similar at 48 seconds into http://youtu.be/d7sBJ7Qky8Y).

Dad was a terrific student, but said he played hooky one day (when he was 12 or 13 yrs old?) and went down to a local high school to watch a track meet that featured a local high school super hero – Jesse Owens. Jesse was breaking world track records while in high school.

The illustration shows Jesse at a different meet on July 1933.

Dad mentioned that his older brother Bob liked to tinker with cars, and one day took Dad for a ride in a barely functioning stripped-down Model T. They were eventually stopped by the police. Bob was well underage and did not have a driver’s license, so they quickly changed places. The policeman was flummoxed as to what to do with so young a driver, so just bawled them out and had them walk home.

I am guessing my father would have been about the same age as Edsel Ford in the illustration.

Dad was pretty fortunate in not seeing direct combat during WWII years in the army. He said that Adak Island was bombed and strafed by the Japanese during the war, but I don’t remember if that was before or during his stay there. So maybe the only time he was shot at was actually before the war, when he was a camper up in Michigan. He was on a camp canoe trip on a remote northern river, and his canoe was in the lead. As they rounded a bend a US Army Air Corps fighter on a training mission strafed the water well ahead of them.

Dad also mentioned that the only time he was ever shot was by an arrow at camp, which penetrated his leg.

Dad loved the summers he spent at a camp in Michigan, and kept his camp honor trophy on his desk up until his death.

Dad mentioned that one of the best breakfasts he had in the Army was after a very cold damp night during training maneuvers. He had gotten in late the night before and missed supper. The mess truck rolled by and doled out a steaming bowl of hot dogs and beans, but it tasted great that morning. He then went back to his tent and found that the private who had pitched it the night before had (accidently?) pitched it in the middle of a poison ivy patch. Fortunately Dad did not develop a rash.

When Dad was stationed at the Rhode Island Coastal artillery, he kept in close contact with the local fishermen since they acted as another set of eyes on the coast, and knew right away if something seemed suspicious or out of place. One day Dad asked if he could buy lobsters for his contingent. One of the lobstermen had a son in the armed forces and insisted on selling Dad all the lobsters he wanted for the price of a penny a pound, which was far below the going rate. So they all dined on lobster once a month or so.

Dad told of the time when he was stationed on Adak Island (in the Aleutian Islands) and had an Italian mess hall cook, who once made them a (relatively) fantastic Thanksgiving dinner of turkey stuffed with ravioli.

Dad told of the time he almost drowned. He was on a small boat (laying mines?) off of Adak Island, and his boat capsized. Fortunately (miraculously?) a group of local men had just been chased out of their house by the owner’s wife, because she was tired of their beer drinking and smoking. So they decided to go boating instead. Thus my father remembers being pulled up from the cold depths by these heroes. Dad’s mother, Jessie, who was thousands of miles away, sensed that something was horribly wrong and wrote him a letter about it stating “I sense that you are in grave danger”. Dad received the letter many weeks later of course.

A very sad moment occurred when Dad had to notify the family of one of the men in his outfit who was accidentally killed. A soldier in the barracks on the floor below was cleaning his rifle and forgot to remove the bullets first. The shot went up through the ceiling and killed the man above.

Dad recalled the time that a good friend of his had flown into Adak to connect with another flight leaving the next day. They celebrated a bit too much at the officers’ club that night, and the friend missed his connecting flight the next morning. The base commander ordered my father and his friend to report to the commander’s office, where he vigorously chewed them both out. As they turned to leave, the commander said, “by the way, that plane flew into Mt. McKinley just after takeoff and all on board were killed.” (Note – Adak was noted for extremely bad weather conditions and many flights were accordingly lost.)

Dad mentioned that when he arrived on Adak, the local population was a pretty hardy mixture of folks, some of whom had ended up there because they were non-gratis in the lower 48. Thus some of them were not adverse to selling drugs to the soldiers. Dad made it known that would no longer be tolerated and somehow convinced the local sheriff to expel any potential drug dealers off the island.

Dad mentioned that many of the soldiers on Adak had acquired dogs for companionship. When the war ended, they were not allowed to take the dogs home, and there were too many to find other homes for. So the soldiers had to abandon them. The company commander gave Dad a verbal order to shoot all the abandoned dogs since there was no way for them to survive the winter on their own. Dad agreed if the commander would put the order in writing. Fortunately, the commander did not issue that written order.

In September, 1941 I reported for active duty in the Army that continued through the World War II years; in September 1936 I came to Boston by train to start five wonderful years at MIT; in September 1929? That's my story today.

I was ten years old, growing up in Cleveland Heights, Ohio. I loved music, baseball, swimming and model airplanes. On my bedroom walls were two large pictures: Old Ironsides sailing across the ocean blue; and a huge photo with a beautiful red, white, and blue striped border of the Lone Eagle (Lucky Lindy), Charles Lindbergh. Readers close to my age no doubt will remember the excitement when Lindy soloed across the Atlantic in May 1927 in his little Spirit of St. Louis airplane, and thereby changed the world.

Bert Wright was the manager of the Cleveland airport and Bert and Esther Wright were good family friends. Cleveland planned to hold the National Air Races in September. It was to be a really big American event. Lindy was invited to be the guest of honor, and Bert arranged for me to sit in Lindy's box to watch the races. Wow! I was sky high all summer. However, shortly before the big event I came down with measles, was quarantined, and had to miss the big deal.

While still in bed I received a phone call from Bert expressing his regret that I would miss the fun. He said that as soon as I recovered my mother should drive me to the airport and he would arrange an airplane flight for me.

Great. I'll never forget that first flight in an open cockpit biplane. The pilot was a solid guy with a big mustache, cap, goggles, white scarf, and all. Soon there I was in flight helmet and goggles, sitting in the rear open cockpit, enjoying the thrill of takeoff, the wind rushing by, the roar of the engine, the twists and turns, and the smooth landing.

Bert later said he watched my mother following the flight with great concern for my safety as the little airplane flew about in the sky overhead.

Yup. I'll never forget it.

I remember that during the summer of 1935, when I was a high-schooler, this episode took place. I was active in athletics and a buddy and I went up to Ontario, Canada to join other friends for a couple of weeks of tennis, baseball, swimming, canoeing, hiking, and other healthy fun. We took the evening train from Cleveland to Buffalo, arrived about 10 p.m., and had a four-hour layover before our next train left for Toronto. The huge waiting room was empty except for us. So we took out our baseball mitts and baseballs and played catch. Soon railroad employees gathered around us, cheering my buddy's pitching, great ·curve balls and strikes. Things went OK. We caught the 2 a.m. train and had a great vacation in Canada.

Alas, later on, in World War II, my friend was a B-24 crewman; their flight left the Philippines and was never heard from again.

At age 20, I was in my senior year as an undergraduate student at MIT. We knew that the World was in trouble and that probably the USA would soon have to get involved. MIT offered Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC), and I had elected to continue with the advanced military training program leading to receiving a commission as Second Lieutenant in the Army of the United States upon my graduation the next spring. The ROTC program included an honorary military society, Scabbard and Blade, and I was invited to join. The initiation program started early in the week with various doings on Campus, and concluded with the events I am about to relate.

November 11 was then celebrated as Armistice Day, in recognition of the end of World War I (after WWII it was renamed Veterans Day). On November 10, we were given backpacks, old rifles, and old WWI helmets, told to dress warmly and wear strong boots for a long hike. Late in the afternoon we all convened at the Hartwell Tavern, an historic inn in the Lexington historical area, and had a congenial dinner and a rousing program, and then late in the evening each of the initiates were driven separately out into the countryside about seven miles from the North Bridge, given a rough map of the area, and were told to be at the Bridge before dawn for the final acceptance into the Society. If we did not show up, we would not be initiated. Members of the Society would patrol the roads in automobiles, and whenever they caught one of us that person would be penalized by being driven back one mile.

So now there I am, alone, hiking down deserted country roads in the early hours of the cold November morning, wearing my helmet and lugging that heavy rifle, wary of any approaching vehicle, hiding behind a tree or in back of a rock wall whenever an auto would pass. After several hours I trudged by the Concord prison, where their bloodhounds sensed me passing by and howled loudly, sending shivers down my spine!

Eventually I found my way to the bridge, along with the other fellows, just before sunrise. The cold air over the river had condensed the water vapor over the river surface, making a dense fog, so the whole bridge area was in a cloud of mist It was as if we were in another world!

But as the sun rose, the sunlight dissipated the fog, and lo, here we were on this historic bridge on the Concord River, a symbol of our patriot forefathers' determination to be free. And the Colonel proceeded with the ceremony and we were now members.

Three score years have passed since then. I have studied the battle of Lexington-Concord and I have visited the Bridge many times. Each time I visit the Bridge I can visualize the struggle of the British soldiers and the local Minutemen, and I can hear their gunshots and sounds of battle, and 1 get a lump in my throat and a bit teary-eyed. I give homage to those who died here that April l9th, 1775, and to all those Minutemen who stood on principle that tragic day and started us on the long and bloody road to our freedom as the United States of America.

Yes, I remember it well.

In the late 1930’s I lived at a fraternity house on Beacon Street. One day an alumnus (of the prohibition era) came by and we chatted and I showed him around the house. We had one pay phone (in the basement boiler room) and there were many telephone numbers that the brothers had scrawled on the wall by the phone. When the alumnus saw this, he examined the phone numbers and delightedly pointed to a particular number, and explained to me that that was the number of their bootlegger! 

I remember my first and only experience as in charge of an honor guard. It was just after the Cocoanut Grow disaster, fall of 1941. I was on duty, 2nd Lieut at Fort Adams RI (Newport). I was a very junior officer, so the Commanding General ordered me to select an honor guard and proceed to Boston to be in charge of a rifle squad at a couple of the burial ceremonies of servicemen who had died in the fire: I returned to my battery and asked a sergeant to select six men for the duty. I was astonished how quickly the men volunteered. Many more than needed. We proceeded to Boston and officiated at the ceremonies (rifle firing at the graves and folding and presenting the flag) and were Invited to the wakes (Irish and Italian). Then I realized why so many volunteered. The wakes were well attended by young ladies, there was dancing and drinking etc. and the soldiers were invited. Anyway, we survived the duty and returned to base a couple days later with no mishaps.

It was July, 1943, in the middle of World War II. I was at Fort Monroe, Virginia, for further Army radar and artillery training. A notice announced that there was to be a first demonstration of a remote-controlled target airplane. This was to be a major step forward. Hitherto an aircraft pilot flew his airplane towing a tar- get across the sky. and the antiaircraft artillery would try to shoot it down. Naturally the pilots didn't care much for this assignment, as sometimes the artillery guys would shoot at the plane instead of the target.

I went to see the demonstration. It was a nice sunny afternoon, and we all gathered in a large field to watch. The robot airplane was on the ground, and next to it stood a sergeant with a black box with control knobs and buttons on it just like the controls that operate model airplanes and boats today. The plane's wingspread was about six feet, so it was large enough for target use.

We all waited until the general arrived, then everyone did the correct saluting protocol, and finally the captain in charge ordered the sergeant to get the aircraft aloft. Up it went, flying all over the sky, turning and dipping and swooping above our heads, almost uncontrollably. Finally it landed. The general commended the captain on the demonstration and then departed in his automobile. Slowly all the onlookers departed, but I, being a naturally curious fellow, stayed to see the plane close-up. I heard the captain say to the sergeant something like “what in the @#!%& were you doing?" And the sergeant replied, "Geez, captain, I was just trying to make it fly straight."

Helen and Laura and I started coming to Cold River Camp on July 19, 1969. I remember holding eight-year-old Laura on my lap the evening of July 20th as we watched our Astronauts walking on the moon – the only time that CRC ever had a television event – in the library!

I think I remember that the Corps of Engineers had already just started building the Basin dam. Basin Pond was still a natural pond. I do remember parking at the pond parking lot before sunset, along with many Valley folk, and observing a moose feeding in the marsh across from us.

The Engineers had drawn up a plan for seven dams on Cold River, based on the concept of controlling possible flooding in a worst possible storm in 100 years. I remember folks saying that the Engineers said that dam was promoted as being good for the valley — bring work to valley folk. (Later I was told that the dam work was contracted from outside the valley and that valley folk did not get work on the dam) The Basin Dam and the Colton Brook dam had already been started. The plan included scouring the full length of the Cold River to maximize water flow.

The dam that really worried us Cold River Camp folk would be the 70 foot high earthen dam that would be anchored at Little Deer Hill and extend across the river and all the way up to Route 113, on the higher ground at the southern boundary of the Charles property. This dam would cross the Cold River just upstream from the little dam that still exists on the Cold River Camp property, and would present this huge 70 foot high dam to our view from the dam, cutting off the beautiful upstream view we now enjoy. The dam would create a 100-acre collection basin at worst flood conditions.

Cold River Camp committee and campers urged Joy Street to take appropriate effective action to stop this program, and Joy Street responded very effectively, taking legal action successfully, to eventually cancel the program before the 70 foot dam was started. I think I remember that some $30,000 was spent in legal and Washington action. I think I remember that many of us Cold Riverites donated money to help defer the costs of the effort.

That’s what this 90-year old geezer remembers, as of September 12, 2009.

Listen to the wind,


Whispering through the pines,


Caressing and waving our country's “Old Glory”.

What a beautiful day to be alive!
 

See the soft white clouds slowly sailing by


On their endless journey, high in the sky,


Floating o'er the mountains, forests, lakes, and streams,

Leaving us here on the porch with our dreams.

We look west up to Baldface


And feel its’ majesty,


And remember many Circle hikes,


And sense a feeling of friendship with the mountain.

Then I tum east, see and recall Little Deer,

Our landmark o'er in Maine.


How often we have crossed the dam and hiked

Through the cool inviting forest on its’ slopes.