Mothers' Day, 2019

If you were looking for the Poetry Sunday you expected, don't despair. Because today is Mothers' Day, the usual Poetry Sunday will be pushed off until next week so that I can present the twelfth iteration of my traditional Mothers' Day post, slightly revised and updated. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back another day for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364. It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away eighteen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. Between them, my beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha** are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their opa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out more-or-less all right. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's "The Mom Song" by comedian Anita Renfroe, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

Have a good day, and take the time to give your Mother a hug and a kiss. Someday, you'll wish you had.

Bilbo

* Every time you groan at one of my puns, you should be grateful that you never had to go down in flames in a pun war with Mom.

** I don’t think of Tabitha as an “in-law.”

Mothers' Day, 2018

This is the eleventh year that I have slightly revised and updated my traditional Mothers' Day post. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back another day for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364. It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away seventeen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. Between them, my beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha** are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their grandpa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out more-or-less all right. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's The Mom Song, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

Have a good day, and take the time to give your Mother a hug and a kiss. Someday, you'll wish you had.

Bilbo

* Every time you groan at one of my puns, you should be grateful that you never had to go down in flames in a pun war with Mom.

** I don’t think of Tabitha as an “in-law.”

Temporarily Closed

Well, hello! Nice to see you, as always.

I'm taking a break from posting today, as Agnes and I are enjoying the sand, sea, broiling sun, and legions of tiny insects at Chincoteague Island, and I have other things to do than post the blog. You know I love you, Dear Readers, but time spent with the grandchildren will always take priority over you*.

But don't despair! Tomorrow's post, in which the Right-Cheek Ass Clown for this month will be announced, has already been written and will appear in this space on schedule tomorrow morning. Be sure to come by and be either entertained or enraged, depending on your political persuasion.

Have a good day. Regular posts will resume tomorrow.

More thoughts then.

Bilbo

* I originally wrote "...will always trump you," but couldn't bear to write that word unnecessarily.

Mothers' Day, 2017

This is the tenth year that I have slightly revised and updated my traditional Mothers' Day post. It may be recycled and tweaked, but it comes no less from the heart. If you've read it before, just know that everything still applies ... read it again if you like, or come back tomorrow for my thoughts on other things ...

Today is Mothers' Day, the one day each year we set aside to honor the lady we undervalue the other 364. It's the day we remember the person who made our hurts better, explained our homework, cooked our meals, washed our clothes, drove us where we needed to go, warned us about our less-savory acquaintances, embarrassed us in front of our friends, and did her best to point us down the straight line of a moral and upright life.

Mothers are the wonderful and woefully underappreciated people from whom the Army and the Navy stole their one-time recruiting slogans - the Army's "We do more before 9 AM than most people do all day," and the Navy's "It's not just a job, it's an adventure." With all due respect to Soldiers and Sailors everywhere ... you don't have a clue.

Somewhere in my web surfing I found this little riff on how we look at our Mothers at different ages:

Age 4: Mommy can do anything!
Age 8: Mom knows a lot!
Age 12: Mother doesn't know everything.
Age 14: Mother doesn't know anything.
Age 16: Mother is so old-fashioned.
Age 18: Her? She's out of it.
Age 25: Mom might know something about that.
Age 35: Before we decide, let's ask Mom.
Age 45: What would Mom have thought about that?
Age 65: I wish I could talk that over with Mom.

It's true.

My mother passed away sixteen years ago at the far-too-young age of 74. She spent a long and honorable life raising four children who, I like to think, made her proud ... most of the time, anyway. And in her twilight years, her once-formidable mind ravaged by Alzheimer's Disease, she missed much of the result of her love and care and sacrifice - a son who can dance (and who may yet write that book she thought he had in him, instead of a daily blog), a small army of grandchildren, and six beautiful great-grandchildren who will never know her love and wisdom and the off-the-wall sense of humor* that brightened the lives of everyone who knew her.

The next generation of mothers is moving the family forward. My beloved daughters Yasmin and Tabitha**, between them are raising the world's six greatest grandchildren (Marcy, Joe, Noah, Leya, Elise, and Ava). And someday those wonderful grandchildren will sit down on Mothers' Day and reflect - just as their grandpa does today - on the lady who gave up so much of her own life and dreams to make them who they are.

And so again this year, I wish my own Agnes, Yasmin and Tabitha, my sister Lisa and sisters-in-law Laura and Brenda, fellow bloggers Amanda and Fiona, my dear friends Kathy and Lioudmila, and all the other mothers out there doing the world's toughest job, a very happy Mothers' Day and many more to come. We couldn't be what we are, or do what we do, without you.

Take the time today to give your Mother a hug and a kiss. Someday, you'll wish you had.

And lest you think I'm getting too maudlin about the whole thing, here's a picture from long ago of my Dad with four then and future moms: my daughter Yasmin, my sister Lisa, Agnes, and my mother ...

We're an odd family, but somehow we've turned out all right ... more or less. Good parents will do that to you.

Oh, and in case you haven't seen it, here's The Mom Song, set to the tune of The William Tell Overture ...

Happy Mothers' Day! More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* Every time you groan at one of my puns, you should be grateful that you never had to deal with Mom ...

** I don’t think of Tabitha as an “in-law.”

Christmas Day, 2016

If you came here looking for Musical Sunday, come back again in two weeks ... today is the day for Bilbo's Traditional Christmas Post.

Today is Christmas Day, the day on which Christians around the world celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ, whose lessons and example many of them find great in theory but decline to follow in practice. Beyond the Christian world, it is a season for general good cheer, the exchange of gifts, and a month of uplifting and sentimental television shows which temporarily replace the sex, violence, and cynicism of the rest of the year.

We’ve long bemoaned the commercialization of Christmas, in which the purchase and exchange of gifts has replaced thoughtful contemplation and love of family. But now, Christmas has been politicized as well. Conservative shouting heads complain about a “war on Christmas,” and both Christians and non-Christians complain about discrimination because they don’t want to have to accommodate religious ideas and traditions which are not their own. Angry idiots object to hearing a generic “Happy Holidays” instead of "Merry Christmas," "Happy Hanukkah," "Happy Solstice," "Happy Kwanzaa," "Happy Festivus," or other seasonal holiday of choice. Nuisance lawsuits force towns and cities to remove nativity displays from public places. Scrooge lives on.

The traditional Christmas story that most of us recognize is told in the Bible in the second chapter of the gospel of Matthew:

2:8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. 
2:9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. 
2:10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
2:11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. 
2:12 And this shall be a sign unto you; You shall find the Babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. 
2:13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 
2:14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Whatever happened to the part about “peace on earth and goodwill toward men*?” It seems to have been replaced by “peace on earth, goodwill only to those who agree with me, and the rest of you can go to Hell.” It’s been replaced by rigid intolerance and stiff-necked self-righteousness that belie both the spirit of the season and the values and teachings of the person whose birth is being celebrated.

Nevertheless, for those willing to put aside their cultural tunnel vision and their petty carping and hatreds, the Christmas season offers a time for joy and renewal, regardless of the religious tradition they profess to follow. It’s a season in which men (okay, persons) of goodwill can come together and treat each other like real human beings rather than like despised “others” … if, of course, they’re willing to bend enough to do so.

And it is, above all, a season for children, who have not yet been spoiled by the cynicism and hatred they’ll learn all too soon. The look on a child’s face on Christmas morning is a wonderful thing, and it reminds us that there is still joy to be found in life, if only we can get past the greed, selfishness, and political chicanery.

And so, Dear Readers, Agnes and I and our extended family wish all of you a very joyous Christmas and a safe, happy, and healthy new year. Blog on!

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* Okay, “persons.” Don’t get your holiday knickers in a twist.

Christmas Eve, 2016

Note: this post is slightly updated from my Christmas Eve post from last year. Reruns aren't only found on television ...

Today is the day of Christmas Eve, when millions of people across the nation and the world make their annual pilgrimage to the mall in search of the gifts they haven't yet purchased. Tonight, children will set out milk and cookies for Santa and desperately try to stay up late in hopes of seeing him, parents will use salty language as they try to deal with the toy for which "some assembly (is) required," and stores will sell out of the batteries you didn't realize you needed for that toy for which "some assembly (is) required."

Here's an appropriate quote from comic author Dave Barry:

"Once again we find ourselves enmeshed in the Holiday Season, that very special time of year when we join with our loved ones in sharing centuries-old traditions such as trying to find a parking space at the mall. We traditionally do this in my family by driving around the parking lot until we see a shopper emerge from the mall, then we follow her, in very much the same spirit as the Three Wise Men, who 2,000 years ago followed a star, week after week, until it led them to a parking space."

Ah, the holidays!

Tomorrow, I'll have my annual Christmas post ... for now, here's a brief message for the clueless shouting heads that are trying to spin an idiotic "war on Christmas" ...

Ho, ho, ho and all that seasonal stuff.

Tonight at Chez Bilbo Agnes and I will celebrate Christmas in the German way, with a good dinner of ham with Agnes's warm potato salad, followed by opening gifts under the tree and a good night's sleep. That constitutes a wild Christmas after a certain age.

Come back tomorrow for my traditional Christmas thoughts.

Bilbo

We're Back!

Agnes and I spent the last few days out in Dayton, Ohio, visiting our more far-flung grandchildren. And their parents, too. Highlights included:

- Three performances by granddaughter Marcy with the Beavercreek High School Marching Band, including a competition at Troy High School at which they won first place in their division and were named grand champions.

- Watching grandson Noah get his hustle on at his Saturday morning soccer game ...

- Attending the Beavercreek Popcorn Festival to celebrate the traditional hardening of the arteries*, at which the marching band also performed ... 

- Being able to spend some time with two-thirds of our grandchildren ...

And visiting the National Museum of the United States Air Force with my son Jason ...

Life is, indeed, good.

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* I did not indulge in any of the deep-fried things, but probably shortened my life by five years just walking past the various stands.

Fathers' Day, 2016

If you were looking for Poetry Sunday, don’t despair – because it's Father's Day and I have my traditional (if updated) tribute to fathers today, you won't get your poetry fix this week. My granddaughter thinks Poetry Sunday is lame, anyhow, so I guess at least one of you won't be disappointed. So let's talk about fathers ...

Today is Fathers’ Day, the day we honor the man who contributed half of our chromosomes and many of the life lessons that shaped us into who we are.

Fathers don’t always get the same degree of respect that mothers do. We work in design, rather than production, after all, and don’t earn the credit that mothers do for going through nine months of pregnancy followed by months of sleepless nights and years of worry. And truth be told, many fathers don’t earn that respect. For all too many men, fatherhood is an unfortunate side effect of good sex, and a child is an impediment to the enjoyment of life. For many men, fathering a lot of children by a lot of women is the imagined sign of a manly stud ... not of lives betrayed by a thoughtless ass who thinks with his man parts* instead of his brain and heart.

Luckily, though, there are many good men out there trying their best to be good fathers. It’s not an easy job, and not everyone does it successfully ... but fortunately, enough do.

I have often reflected back on the course of my life, and I've come to the conclusion I’ve been a much better grandfather than I was a father. This is probably normal. You’ve seen more of life, and had more experiences – good and bad – to share. If you’re the grandfather, you get to be the gentle, wise, let-‘em-do-what-they-want fellow the children love to see, rather than the grouchy, tired father who has to put bread on the table, crack the whip, and enforce the discipline. You get all the joy of holding and loving the children with none of the negatives ... when the baby needs changing, for instance, there's none of that messy fuss - you just give her back to her mother. What's not to like?

I think that, from the father's perspective, we have our children too early in life. We're still learning how to be adults, and all of a sudden we're fathers, responsible for teaching our children all the lessons of life that we haven't even learned yet. Our children grow up as much in spite of our mistakes as because of our excellence in parenting.

When you get to be a father, you look at your own father differently. It was Mark Twain who supposedly once said, "When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the old man had learned in seven years."

It's true.

A good father, as I came in time to understand, is a gift beyond all price. The gold standard for fatherhood is, of course, my own father. He fought the Nazis** in the skies over World War II Europe, ran his own business, raised four children and buried one, and cared for mom through the long years of misery as Alzheimer's gradually destroyed the mind of the dynamic and witty woman he loved. Dad left us more than a year ago, and I no longer get to hear his jokes and stories and learn the lessons he still had to teach, yet he remains the man to whom I owe whatever shreds of honor, decency, and ... well ... manhood that I can claim.

This was the man who battled for our freedom in 1944 ...

And here he is at the Mount Vernon Wine Festival in 2002, surrounded by admiring ladies (from left to right: our friends Susan and Nadja, our daughter Yasmin, and Agnes) ...

Here he is with my brother Mark and I, on the occasion of Mark's retirement from the Navy (our brother Paul served in the Army, but wasn't able to be there) ...

And here he is in December of 2013 at his 90th birthday party in Pittsburgh, surrounded by the friends and family members who came out to honor him in spite of some really ghastly winter weather ...

I'd like to think I made him satisfied, if not proud.

If you’d like to know more about the life of this wonderful man, you can read my remembrance here.

It's politically correct (bordering on mandatory) nowadays to say that a child can grow up just fine in a household with same-sex "parents," but you'll never be able to convince me that it's the same as being raised by a father and a mother who love each other, treat each other with dignity and respect, set a good example, teach their gender-specific life lessons, and subordinate their own dreams and desires to the momentous task of raising a brand new human being.

Have a good day. Honor your father. And if you're a father, be a good one ... preferably a better one than I was. Your children ... and indeed, the future ... are depending on you.

More thoughts later.

Bilbo

*  As Missandei would say. If you're into "Game of Thrones," you'll get it.

** The real ones, the ones that murdered millions of innocent people and destroyed most of Europe, not the imaginary ones to which stupid people in this country compare their political opponents.

Pictures from Germany

As you know, Agnes and I returned from our latest trip to Germany last Wednesday evening. It wasn't really a vacation trip per se, as the point was to settle Agnes's father's affairs; nevertheless, we did manage to do a little bit of sightseeing in and around the city of Singen. Here are a few pictures ...

My favorite place in Singen is the Stadtgarten, or City Garden ... a beautifully landscaped and peaceful area alongside the Aach River. There are a few sculptures dotted around the garden, one of which memorializes the German author Joseph Victor von Scheffel. He's the one on the right ...

Here are two more random pictures from the Stadtgarten ...

Agnes's cousin Bernadette and her husband Richard were a godsend to us during the visit, helping us with arrangements and (in poor Richard's case) allowing his car to be fully and completely packed with junk so we could take it to the landfill. One day they decided to take us on an outing to the Dorotheenhuette in the town of Wolfach, a glass-blowing center and gift shop in the Black Forest region.  

The Dorotheenhuette specializes in mouth-blown glassware, and for a modest amount of money (I think it was about 14 Euros), you can blow your own vase. Agnes, being the crafts-crazy person she is, naturally had to try her hand at it. Here, she heats up the slug of glass in the furnace under the watchful eye of the instructor ...

Once the glass was hot enough, she blew it out into the desired shape (this was not the end product, of course!) ...

This was Agnes's vase, as the instructor cut it away from the blowing pipe. The picture doesn't do it justice ... it was quite beautiful ...

On another day, our friends Vreni and Marcel drove up from Lucerne, Switzerland to have lunch with us in the Bodensee town of Radolfzell. We met them on our Panama Canal cruise a few years ago, and have remained friends ever since.

Richard and Bernadette also took us up the Schiener Berg - a ridge summit overlooking an arm of the Bodensee. It was a beautiful day, and the views were spectacular ...

I don't remember if I've written about this before in the blog (I know I have on Facebook), but Singen is the home of the Scheffelbruecke (the Scheffel Bridge, named for the same fellow whose statue you met earlier in this post). I first learned the story of the Scheffelbruecke from fellow blogger Buggie, who lived in the area some years ago. The bridge was built in 1923, during the depths of the wild hyperinflation of the Weimar Republic era, and the inflation was so huge and so rapid that the cost of the bridge went up - literally - every minute.

In the end, the bridge cost more than one and a half trillion Marks, as noted on this stone at one end of the span ... and it's often cited as the most expensive bridge in the world ...

On our last evening in Germany, we went to dinner with Bernadette and Richard at this marvelous restaurant in the town of Moos (pronounced mows as in grass, not moos as in cows) ...

As is probably fitting for a restaurant called "The Ship," the house specialties are fresh fish dishes from the Bodensee and the streams of the Black Forest and Hegau regions, and they were wonderful. I ordered warm smoked trout with horseradish sauce and parslied potatoes ...

... and, as you can see, it was pretty good! ...

I have lots of other pictures, but unfortunately I don't have any of the one thing I most wanted to photograph - the ruins of the Hohentwiel fortress that overlooks the city. I have dozens of pictures looking up at the Hohentwiel from Singen ...

... but it had been many years since we'd hiked up to the fortress itself. 

In order to keep me awake and force my body onto German time, on the day after I arrived, Agnes decided we should make the hike up to the ruins. This we did, and I took the camera along ... not realizing that the little Nikon camera I'd brought along did not have a memory card installed! We had made it about halfway up the giant volcanic plug on which the Hohentwiel sits when the camera flashed a petulant "out of (internal) memory" message ... AAARRRGGGHHH!!! It was a gorgeous day, the light was perfect, and I got exactly NO pictures out of a roughly 10-kilometer hike. Of course, the gift shop at the foot of the final trek to the fortress sold everything except photo supplies.

One interesting thing, though: the area is dotted with volcanic plugs (some, like Hohentwiel and Hohenkraehen, topped with ruined fortresses), but although the volcanos are gone, their memory lives on in the smell of brimstone all the way up to the summit. Ugh.

So, that's a brief summary in pictures of our trip. I didn't include pictures of the cleaning (you're welcome), but wanted to remind myself that we did, despite the circumstances, have a great time. After all, it's Germany ... how could you not have fun?

Have a good day. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

There and Back Again

Well, yes, that was the alternate title of the J.R.R. Tolkien's classic novel, The Hobbit, over-filmed over the last three years by Peter Jackson. But it serves as a reasonably good title for my first post since last Monday ... brief though it will be.

Once again, thanks to all of you who expressed your condolences on the deaths of Agnes's and my fathers, by comment, e-mail, card, letter, and Facebook post. You are truly great friends, virtual or not. We just got back from Germany on Saturday night, and my brain is still not quite sure what time zone it's in, so I'm just going to share with you a few brief observations about the last week. I'll try to do better tomorrow.

1) It was as cold in Germany as I ever remember it being, and I lived there a long time. On the day of the funeral for Agnes's father, it was so cold and windy that the holy water in the bowl at the cemetery froze .. the celebrant had to break the sprinkler loose from the sheet of ice that had formed around it in the short time the water had been out in front of the burial niche.

2) A large and loving family is a treasure beyond price. So are good friends, live and virtual.

3) Germans are always amazed when they find that an American speaks their language. When we went through passport control in Frankfurt on our way home on Saturday, my passport was inspected by a young female police officer. She asked where I'd learned to speak German, and I told her that I'd studied it in college and had a German wife. She replied that it could be dangerous to have a German wife (and the officer at the next window agreed with her). I said that it was not that bad, and that Agnes didn't hit me more than twice a day. The second officer said that was pretty good, and I was lucky. The first one stamped my passport and started to hand it back, then quickly pulled it away and asked if I wouldn't rather stay in Germany ... I told her that it would be too dangerous not to go back. Agnes, of course, was standing on the other side of the barricade (having gone through the EU-citizens line rather than the darned foreigners line) listening to the whole thing. That was interesting ... not everyone manages to joke with the inspectors at passport control!

4) German beer is wonderful.

5) So is German food.

6) German trains have gone downhill considerably over the years since the system was privatized. When I arrived in Frankfurt on Thursday morning I bought my ticket to Singen and headed for the right platform ... where I was met with an announcement that the train had been cancelled. I waited for the Ersatzzug (replacement train) for about 20 minutes, long enough to miss my connection in Stuttgart* and ensure that I arrived in Singen nearly two hours behind schedule ... bad enough, but when your trip is only two days long, it's extra annoying.

7) When you leave Washington on Wednesday afternoon, arrive in Germany Thursday morning, attend a funeral on Friday afternoon, and fly back to the States on Saturday, it really messes with your body clock.

8) I am still jetlagged and am running out of coherent thought, so I'll quit here while I'm ahead.

Have a good day. More (and, hopefully, more coherent) thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* If you are traveling by train in Germany, avoid the Stuttgart main station at all costs. I can tell you stories that would curl your hair.

Celebrating a Life

As you know from yesterday's Poetry Sunday post, my father passed away last Friday night. Although we are grieving, I think that an important part of the process of accepting the loss of a loved one is remembering the high points of that person's life, and the good times that will serve as the legacy. Here are a few vignettes that will help introduce you to Bilbo the Elder ...

Dad was born in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in 1923. Like everyone else in his generation, he lived through the Great Depression and still managed to go to art school. He was a very talented sketch artist (more on that later), and this may have helped shape his military service during World War II, in which he was an aerial combat photographer ... when not manning a machine gun to defend his B-24 bomber, he was lying on the deck of the airplane, taking photos of their attacks to help assess their bombing accuracy. Dad won his Purple Heart during one mission in which their aircraft was hit by anti-aircraft fire while he was on the deck taking pictures ... the turret gunner above him panicked, thinking they'd have to bail out (they didn't), released his harness, and dropped to the deck below, landing with both feet on the back of Dad's head and knocking out his front teeth! Here's Dad as the manly young stud who took the war to the Nazis in the skies of World War II Germany ...

The time Dad spent in England during World War II led to his life-long love of all things English. He was a particular fan of the performer Stanley Holloway (who you may know as the father of Audrey Hepburn's Eliza Doolittle from the film version of My Fair Lady), and memorized many of the wonderful monologues Holloway performed featuring the Ramsbottom family. Dad knew these by heart, delivered them in a dead-on English accent, and was still performing them for his friends well into his eighties. You can listen to Stanley Holloway perform one of Dad's favorites, Albert and the Lion, here.

Coming home from the war, Dad worked in the art department at Kauffman's department store in Pittsburgh, taking their advertising photographs. It was there he met Mom, who delivered a package to his shop one day that included - among the official papers - a nickel and a note saying "Call me." He did, and the rest is history. Here's their wedding day ...

Dad left Kauffman's and started his own business as a advertising illustrator ... he preferred to call himself an "illustrator" rather than a "photographer" because there was so much more to the business than just shooting the picture: he built the sets, found the models, and figured out how to create exotic visual effects in the days before PhotoShop. We led an interesting and fascinating life in which we met all sorts of people in the course of Dad's search for props and models ... we met circus performers, demolition experts, professional wrestlers, junk dealers, the 200+ pound go-go dancer who became Miss Olde Frothingslosh*, and many other fascinating characters. Our house and his studio were crammed with all sorts of exotic stuff that he collected because it might be needed someday as a prop for a photo.

Dad was a very talented artist, and drew many wonderful pictures for us. He did one series of caricatures featuring various puns on the fearsome Tyrannosaurus Rex: Tierannosaurus Rex wore a garish tie with a glittering stickpin; Tiredrannosaurus Rex was napping against a tree; Tire-rannosaurus Rex had a huge Firestone body; and Tyrannosaurus Wrecks was painfully slamming at full speed into a tree. We were at a restaurant for dinner one time, and Dad - who hated waste - was eating everything the rest of us left on our plates. We laughed at that, and Dad whipped out a pen and drew a sketch on his napkin of a battered garbage can with a jaunty hat and a remarkable resemblance to him, walking away from the table with a satisfied burp.

I was stationed in what was then walled-in West Berlin in the early 1980's, and Dad visited me there. We had a genuine adventure when we were driving back to Berlin from a visit to my sons in Wiesbaden: there was only one route approved for American, British, and French personnel to drive into the city (the Helmstedt-Berlin Autobahn), and we had to check in with the Russian guards at each end. When we arrived at the Berlin checkpoint, a Russian military officer came out of the guardhouse and talked with me, trying to convince me to visit him in East Berlin since he wasn't allowed to travel to the West. Dad watched all this (the conversation was in German and Russian, neither of which he spoke), and when we left and arrived at the American checkpoint and I reported the contact to our security people, Dad offered to draw sketches of the Russian officer ... he turned out several very detailed front and profile pictures that helped to identify the man as a known Russian military intelligence officer. He was always proud of that story. Here's a picture of Dad in Berlin with my sons Jason and Matthew ...

Dad was a marvelous cook, famous for his steak sandwiches and roasted vegetables. I got my own love of cooking from him ...

Dad also loved fishing. We had a cabin on the Allegheny River near Franklin, Pennsylvania, where he loved to go out at the crack of dawn in search of the catch of the day ...

He had a wonderful sense of humor, as did Mom. Where Mom was a great punner, though, Dad was a master of the Shaggy Dog Story. You can read a couple of the great shaggy dog stories I learned from him in this blog post from back in April of last year.

As his children married, Dad became the patriarch of an ever-expanding clan. We tried to get together twice a year - at Memorial Day and at Thanksgiving - for family celebrations, and Dad was always a hit with the swelling number of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren. In this 2007 blog post, I showed you two pictures that encompassed five generations of the family. Here's dad in 2011 with just a few of his grandchildren and great-grandchildren ...

I could go on, but this will give you a short introduction to the life and legacy of the man I'm proud to say was my father. Whatever you see in me that's good, I owe to him. Everything else is my own fault.

Have a good day. Honor your parents while you can ... they leave us far too soon.

More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* "The pale, stale ale with the foam on the bottom."

Our German Pre-Christmas Adventure

As you will recall, Dear Readers, Agnes and I spent two weeks in Germany earlier this month, visiting her father and cousins and our son and his family. You probably saw my two earlier posts that I published from Germany here and here, so I won’t bore you by recapping anything I already mentioned in those posts … I’ll just provide some pictures and a few additional vignettes to round out the story. Sadly, I didn't get that many good outdoor pictures because the weather was so awful the entire time we were there, but these are the best I have to share with you ...

Our first stop was in Singen am Hohentwiel, where Agnes's father lives. As it happens, Singen was holding its first-ever Weihnachtsmarkt (Christmas Market) this year, right on the Rathausplatz in front of our hotel. One of the things not associated with the Weihnachtsmarkt, but still interesting, was this statue in front of the Rathaus (City Hall) - the Concrete Porsche*. It's ugly, has a very hard ride, and doesn't go anyplace fast, but gets great gas mileage ...

There were the official greeters at the entrance to the Weihnachtsmarkt ...

My iPhone didn't take great nighttime pictures, but this one of the main entrance to the Weihnachtsmarkt was not too bad ...

While in Singen, we also joined up with Agnes's cousin Bernadette for a trip to a somewhat larger and fancier Weihnachtsmarkt in the border city of Konstanz. In this picture, a few enterprising Santas demonstrate how they cope with too-small chimneys ...

We stopped at a stand Agnes remembered from her previous visit, where they prove that Germans can make wonderful schnapps from just about anything that grows ... and which makes for a colorful picture ...

There were also many gaily-decorated kiosks and stalls that helped make the otherwise gray, dull day a little warmer and more festive ...

Konstanz is located on the border between Germany and Switzerland (the border runs right through town), and on the shores of the Bodensee (otherwise known as Lake Constance). Part of the Weihnachtsmarkt was actually located on board a cruise ship docked at the harbor ...

That was probably my least-favorite part of the Weihnachtsmarkt, because there was so much crammed into the very tight confines of the ship.

From Singen, we went on to the little town of Schwedelbach, where we spent a few days with our son and his family, which includes four of our six grandchildren. We managed a nice group picture with the Munchkins, which is a feat similar to herding cats, but harder ...

Marcy, at 14, is our oldest grandchild, and a beautiful young lady. She's also a great Big Sister ... here she is in her ballet costume (for the recital we sadly weren't able to stay long enough to see) dancing with our youngest grandchild, Ava (age 2) ...

 Ava also loves to get her nails done, and Marcy was happy to oblige ...

Ava and I got along quite well. I got used to hearing her tell me to "read," "come," and "play," and she has wonderful manners for a two year-old ... she always says "peez," "tanku," and "wekkum."

The boys got their own picture - here, our son Jason and grandsons Joe and Noah demonstrate how much respect one gets around here ...

After reluctantly leaving Schwedelbach we took the train to the city of Reutlingen to visit Agnes's cousin Anna and her husband Volker. Reutlingen has its own Weihnachtsmarkt, which we visited (of course ... someone has to help drink all that Gluehwein and eat all those Wursts and Schupfnudeln and such). Again, the nasty weather kept me from getting many decent photos, but I did like this one. Those of you who are Facebook friends with me will recognize this as my new cover photo ...

I have lots more pictures, and may go ahead and post a few more in the coming days, but these will have to do for now. In spite of the crummy weather, we had a wonderful time with family and friends, and would go back again in a New York minute.

That's all for now ... time to get ready for work. Come back tomorrow for more thoughts and an update on the voting for Ass Clown of the Year.

Have a good day. Stay dry.

Bilbo

* You may recall some of my older posts, in which I shared photos of some of the hideously awful statues dotted around Singen. I can't believe someone paid money for some of them.