We’ve all seen something like this in the adverts for retirement planning on TV. A guy calls time on his career, is given the golden handshake and with a little bit of help from Cialis, departs to sail around the world or swans off to some swinging retirement community where most of the residents seem to be 50 years old at the most. My own vision is somewhat different. For the past six or seven years, I’ve pictured myself and my career as a B-17 Flying Fortress returning from a mission over Germany. The tail looks like a giant piece of Swiss Cheese. The controls are sluggish. The crew is still alive, but only just. Two engines are dead. The third one coughs, sputters and threatens to pack up half-way across the English Channel. There’s only one engine left to carry the plane and its crew to land in that hay field just past Dover’s white cliffs and even that engine is starting to act a mite peaky. It looks like I’m going to fall far short of that hay field.
The above imagery is more than enough to peg me as a ‘Boomer.
My unemployment benefits ran out at the end of August and I had planned to file for Social Security when I returned from our annual week at Virginia Beach. There had been a few interviews over the summer but all but one were nothing to write home about. Despite all the sincere promises to contact me no matter what decision was made, the phone had not exactly been ringing off the hook. Time for me to call it a career and devote myself writing novels.
A funny thing happened whilst on holiday. Judi & I had just returned from dinner at our favourite Virginia Beach restaurant and I fired up the iPad to check e-mail before parking myself on our balcony with a wee dram of single malt. It was the usual stuff; adverts, Twitter & Goodreads notices and a message from someone who had been trying to contact me about a job I’d applied for. I replied to said e-mail advising them of my present availability – or lack thereof – and repaired to the aforementioned balcony. I didn’t even mention this to Judi until around noon the following day.
For once, the cavalry was indeed just on the other side of the hill. On Monday, a company called Dematic offered me a position as a software engineer at a very comfortable rate of compensation. The only – minor – drawback was that the position was not in Charlottesville. It was to be on the south side of Richmond, VA and so I will come full circle and return to where I began my career in Information Technology as a computer operator back when 256 K was a heck of a lot of memory.
After a whirlwind week of form-filling, background checks and drugs tests – I correctly identified Viagra, Abilify and Enzite – I depart for Hopewell, VA tomorrow evening to return to my boyhood home and ancestral estate. I’ll be spending four or five nights a week there and returning to Charlottesville on Friday evenings. It’s not an ideal situation but the security is worth it. I look on this as a Win-Win-Win situation. I have money coming in once again, the historic family home is occupied once again – more or less – full time and Judi gets me out from being under foot.
As for my clients, I will still be available on weekends and on weekday evenings. The sequel to Urban Mermaid will continue to be developed and if my own cooking doesn’t kill me, I may even loose a few pounds. My reviews of Heather Rigney’s Waking the Merrow and Emm Cole’s The Short Life of Sparrows will be finished and published. Responses to e-mail, tweets and Facebook postings will continue albeit during a restricted time-frame.
I would like to thank my lovely wife for letting me off the leash, my father for finally caving into Mom and buying the house on Oakwood Ave. 56 years ago and my mother for carrying on the tradition amongst Tench women whereby their home is their castle and not to be sold for a quick buck or two.
You know, I just MIGHT make it to that hay field after all.
Boy was it hot! I believe that my brother told me it was over 100 degrees that day. I know that it felt like it in the church!
Somehow we all managed to survive it!
And I’ll never forget this moment as long as I live . . . no matter how much single-malt I consume.
The only thing I want to know is: What happened to the skinny dude in the blue suit???
True Facts: Judi’s bridal portrait was finally taken 10 years after the event. The gown still fit!
NB — These photos need a bit of cleaning up. In due course, I plan to create a gallery with a selection of of photos from our album – now that we’ve finally found it – over this winter. I’m not expecting the world to beat an electronic path to my door; just a bit of fun, actually.
On January 26th, my brother invited me to attend a Burns Night celebration in Winchester, VA. Jim is a classmate – Hopewell High School, 1976 – of one of the many people involved with putting on this event and he figured that this would make an ideal birthday present for his aging, decrepit bother. It has been over 4 years since I attended/participated in one of these things so I was game from the get-go.
The photos in the album below were taken with my iPhone 4S. I didn’t want the hassle of lugging my SLR or even my Sony pocket-sized camera -my sporran is only so big – so I thought I’d give the iPhone a go. I have seen some brilliant work done off an iPhone but it does require a steady hand and the decided tendency of the photograph’s subjects to remain stationary. This was somewhat difficult for Dr. Data as he had 3 drams of The Balvenie 12-year old in him so the results were somewhat less than spectacular.
I decided to post this 12 photo album to get a feel for the WordPress plug-in that runs the show so sit back and enjoy.
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I’ve never been particularly fond of Thanksgiving. It seems to me to be one of those “made-up” holidays contrived by Hallmark or the Turkey Council. Oh sure, it wasn’t too bad when I was a kid; you got a couple of days off from school and there was a LOT of college football on TV, but . . . I’ll let it lie with “but”. Once public school was behind me, my enthusiasm waned.
During my college years, Thanksgiving turned into a pain in the rear. Everyone was thrown out of the dorms and told to go somewhere else . . . usually home. For me, that wasn’t too bad as home was just under two hours up the road. For those students who lived hundreds of miles away – like the girl who eventually became my wife – it wasn’t quite so easy. It was a odessy. Take my wife. She had to endure a six-hour plus bus trip just to get as far as Philly. Then, there was a two-hour car ride across the state to reach her home at the Jersey shore. Once Thanksgiving Day had come and gone, it would be time to think about heading back to school. No wonder she gave Thanksgiving a miss during her college years and stayed close to Rocky Mt.
Thanksgiving is this insane American tradition where people drive – or fly – hundreds of miles to have a meal consisting of things they wouldn’t eat otherwise with folks they don’t really like. Then, they turn around and drive/fly hundreds of miles to get back home in time for Black Friday. Countless family feuds have been born on Thanksgiving and – probably – countless divorce proceedings as well.
And what do you do – besides watch Aunt Marge and Cousin Mildred bicker – for entertainment on that day? Well, the wall-to-wall college games of yore have gone elsewhere, For a while, the only game you could watch was the Detroit Lions losing to anyone and everyone. There are now a couple of Pro games on and maybe a college match-up. Friday is the day for college sports but you can’t watch them because you’re too busy standing in line at Mega-mart and making a silent vow to never speak to your cousin Ralph again. Ever! Think of all the fun you could have had raking up the leaves in your yard for the 100th time.
What about the food? Well, an occasional turkey sandwich is OK but you’ll probably be sick of it in a few weeks time because Grandma gave you all the leftovers rather than let her brother’s family have it. And let’s not forget Aunt Ethyl – no one can quite figure out just whose sister she really is – and her “famous” pumpkin/mincemeat pie that tastes vaguely like 10W-30. Uncle George swears by her cooking and then spends the latter part of the afternoon in the bathroom. Believe me, you do NOT want to go anywhere near that place afterwards for at least 6 hours.
Thank you, no. I’d much rather spend my time at home with the cats. A pie for dinner sounds lovely but the pizza joins are all closed on Thanksgiving. Maybe Chinese.
Dr. Data plans to drive 90 minutes to his ancestral home in Hopewell, VA and have a late afternoon meal with his brother. He will do all of the cooking and his brother will do the dishes.
For those of you left wondering as to what happened last week, my wife and I decamped for our annual pilgrimage to Virginia Beach. The weather was not perfect as there was a low pressure system sitting off the Carolinas. This meant that we had a somewhat stiff breeze and partly cloudy skies coupled with the cooler temperatures that were already in effect when we hit the road.
Nonetheless, we had a pretty good time doing as little as possible aside from scarfing pizza, sleeping and sitting out on the beach. The water was rough for a good part of the time but there were still some opportunities to go for a swim – or pretend to in my case since I have all the aquatic skills of a rock.
Whilst we were enjoying the sun – or the clouds – I had the opportunity to watch those pulchritudinous mermaids who are more commonly known as the distaff contingent of the Virginia Beach Lifesaving Service. Up at our end of the beach – also known as the quiet end – the lifeguards were being put through a daily training programme which consisted of such activities as swimming along the shore for 5 or 6 blocks, exiting the water and running back down the beach where they would rinse and repeat. The sight of red bikinis and pony-tails jogging by was more than enough to keep the blood circulating for a few more days, at least.
Judi seemed to enjoy herself – at least there were no repercussions from my paying close attention to the above mentioned mermaids – and we had ample opportunities for strolls along the boardwalk and wading in the surf. There was even a bit of reminiscing – which shows you just how old and decrepit I am – about Pat Boone’s cover of the 1931 hit – no, I am not that old! – Love Letters in the Sand . Judi even added her own contribution to the nostalgia.
Looking to the future, we decided to improve our accommodations for the forthcoming iterations of “Beach Week”. One of the things that recommends this place is a tiki bar that actually knows how to make a lime daiquiri. Back in the day, this was the most common – and quite often the only – version of this drink to be had. Sadly, the decline in traditional values has led us to the point where most bartenders have no clue as to how one concocts anything other than the strawberry version. Indeed, the only two places I know of here in the Old Dominion that can make a decent lime daiquiri is this place and the Aberdeen Barn in Charlottesville. But, I digress.
Starting in 2013, we will be staying at this place known as the Ocean Beach Club:
If you’re expecting me to resume my usual schedule of rants and book reviews, you’ll have to wait a bit longer. Although the review queue contains four books at the moment and there are a fair number of things like Windows 8, tablets, and the impending end of civilisation as we know it to rant about, I am off to the family estate tomorrow morning to spend 3 days on stuff like installing three-prong outlets in an 83 year-old house. Fun, fun, fun. I should be able to rant about something or other on Fri.
Since this is my last post from the 290th Reunion, I thought that I’d bore you with a little story as to ow I started coming to these things.The kids in my cohort started coming around 1964 but I actually started in 1963 . . . Sort of.
The early reunions were just the guys; Off the leash & having a real good time. After a few years, they started bringing their wives and then their kids. My father wanted these gatherings to be just the guys and nothing but the guys so he viewed the onslaught of wives & kids as nothing short of a disaster.
In the summer of 1963, the Reunion was in Greensboro, NC and Dad had planned a trip that would allow him to attend the festivities, visit Clyde’s mother in Peachland, NC for a day or two and then take us on to Wrightsville Beach, NC for about a week.
The McGovern family were on their way to NC the weekend before the event & stopped by 208 Oakwood Ave. I remember Mr. McGovern asking Dad if we were coming to the Reunion and he said no, it was just going to be him. And to a certain degree, dad was right. My brother & I had been ordered to say nothing about our plans for Greensboro.
We headed towards Greensboro a few days after that visit and Mom, Jamie & I were ensconced at the home of Hal and Ora Mae Thomas. (She was a cousin from the Cherokee line of the family. Dad left the three of us to be entertained by Hal & Ora Mae while he attended te reunion. The following evening, he took Hal to the event as a guest and left us with Ora Mae. Hal also accompanied him to the banquet.
In those days, the party went on until long after midnight. He must have had more than his share to drink because he left the car at the motel & had Hal Thomas drive him home. He recuperated the next day and around supper time, we all piled in to Hal’s car to go back to the motel to pick up the car. We were told to stay in the car & not come inside while he went to say good-bye to those who were staying over until Monday morning.
While we were sitting there, I noticed that someone had placed an empty Planter’s Peanut tin behind the right rear wheel of our family car as a prank. (There were plenty of things like that back in those days.) Afraid that Dad would run over the tin & cut a tire, I got out of the car, retrieved the tin, and took it across the street to a litter bin. On my way back, I passed by the big plate-glass windows of the motel’s restaurant. There, next to the window, enjoying dinner, was the McGovern family who had stopped by our house on their way south.
They waved at me. I waved back and Dad never heard the end of it from the other veterans. He was shamed into bringing his family along which is how I attended – for real – the 1964 Reunion in East Brunswick, NJ. Eleven years later, I exchanged vows with a girl from te Jersey Shore a few miles away in South Brunswick. Among the guests & wedding party that day were the Arons family from the 290th. I had met their girls, Paula & Cynthia, at that 1964 Reunion in East Brunswick. It is worth noting that only I attended East Brunswick with Dad. He finally relented & took all of us to Rochester & Washington, DC. Sadly, he only had a few more reunions left to attend, the last being Columbus, OH in 1969.
And that’s it from the 56th & last reunion of the Veterans of the 290th Combat Engineers. Nothing left to do but turn out the lights in the Hospitality Room.
One of the best things about the 290th reunion when I was a kid was the fact that we were able to use a real, live swimming pool. We didn’t belong to a country club or anything like that so we had to rely on Crystal Lake in Hopewell for the majority of our aquatic experiences. Throw in occasional week-ends at OceanView in Norfolk and a dip in Reedy Creek in Lunenburg County and so it went until the 1st weekend after July 4th.
I don’t know about the other kids I my cohort but my brother and I used to strategise as to how we could stay in the pool until we looked like prunes and still participate in all the other doings that the kids were up to. Needless to say, the swimming pool at the 290th Reunion was the highlight of my summer.
As this is the final get-together, I made it a point to hit the pool here in Albany one last time. It was nice to pretend – if just for a moment – that I was a kid again.
For the telling of tales.
290th Reunions were powered by . . . Well, booze and stories from their time in training & overseas and, if nothing else, what happened at the last reunion. Here is one tale that involves two of the founders of the 290th Veterans group and is suitable for readers of all ages.
My Dad was a supply sargent with the H & S Company and Clyde Kiker was his helper. When my father was drafted, he wound up in the 186th Combat Engineers at Camp Shelby, MS. When the 186th left Shelby, a select number of Non-Comms stayed behind to form the cadre for the next battalion to be formed there; The 290th. My father was one of that cadre.
Clyde Kiker served as the Executive Officer and guiding force of the 290th Veterans for many years. In 1944, Clyde was the archtypical baby-faced soldier. Very, very young and hailing from Peachland, NC.
By the time the battalion reached the European theatre and completed their training in England, the Battle of the Bulge was on and – having been given last rites – the battalion was ordered in to action to hold the line around the salient known as the Colmar Pocket in France. My father was tasked with loading food, ammunition, and other supplies on mules and leading them over the mountains to the front lines which were at the foot.
For the return trip, he and Clyde gathered the earthly remains of the less fortunate, tied them on the mules and took them back over the mountains. My father despatched a letter to his congressman complaining that a boy as young as Clyde should not have to do such grisly work. It is not known if the Congressman ever replied.
During this time-frame, it was cold as it could be and my father – on his way to the latrine one night – passed by baby-faced Clyde Kiker who was bundled up in his mummy sack with only his nose protruding. On his return from the latrine, Dad stoped, grabbed Clyde’s nasal appendage between his thumb & forefinger and said in a voice loud enough to wake the living: “Isn’t this the cutest little baby nose you’ve ever seen?”
This morning, the last business meeting of the Veterans of the 290th Combat Engineers took place. These fine old soldiers recognised the enevitable and voted to make the 56th reunion the last official gathering. At present, there are 23 living veterans and 20 of them are either no longer able to travel or the distances are too great. The organisation will soldier on and periodically produce a newsletter.
This is by no means taps for the family that has grown up around this annual gathering. The kids and grand-kids will have more flexibility as to a date and place and I can assure you they they will continue to get together and talk about their parents for years to come. Nonetheless, these annual weekends will be missed.
As of today, we have three veterans of the 290th Combat Engineers here with us in Albany. These old soldiers are outnumbered by widows, children, grand children, etc. & their respective spouses. Back in the “good old days”, this was a hard-drinking, hard-partying bunch of fellows. The centre of action was always – and still is – the Hospitality Room a.k.a. “The Hospital Room”. Way back when, things might have slowed down a bit around 4:00 or 5:00 AM but in the 60’s, you could usually find at least two guys with a drink in their hand at most any hour of the day or night.
Nowadays, the Hospitality Room shuts down around 10:30 PM or so and the Veterans retire much earlier than that. It’s the children of the 290th who keep things going that late and even we retire on the early side. My cohort started attending in 1964 or so and we are older now than our parents were at time. Talk about a sobering thought!
Being a 290th kid was pretty neat as for one weekend every year, we had scads of “Uncles” and “Aunts” who would give us a quarter for the candy machine, keep an eye on us when we made our mass migration to the swimming pool or were simply willing to hear what we had done since the last reunion. These wonderful ladies and gentlemen would kindly look the other way when we got up to our annual mischief. Mind you, our “trouble” was either relatively mild or could not be proven by the hotel management/police..
We kids would spend that terrific weekend listening to stories from the war – or at least those stories which could be told in mixed company. As time went on and we became older, some of these stories sprouted additional details that were not fit for younger ears. The kids in my cohort attended almost every year until life began pulling us in different directions after high school and college. Since then, we’ve attended when time, distance and circumstance allowed.
It was a running joke that the “Children of the 290th” would carry on after our fathers and grandfathers were gone. Since this appears to be the last time that our heroes will gather in any organised fashion, perhaps now is our time to carry on their legacy.