Correction/addition to previous entry

"A most interesting man...."

I have just completed reading a book titled "Americans in Paris - Life and Death under Nazi Occupation" by Charles Glass. In the epilogue, he wrote that George Whitman's bookstore was initially named "Le Mistral Shop". He met Sylvia Beach, the owner of the original Shakespeare and Company during a reading in his shop. She passed away in June of 1962. It was not until 1964 that he renamed his bookstore Shakespeare and Company, a name he called "a novel in three words".

A short stay in Bayeux, France

When we travel, a lot of our memories are based on food. Below is an example of an appetizer I had when dining in a small restaurant in Bayeux, France. Unfortunately, I do not remember the name and I do not have the Rick Steves' book on France, which is where we found a write-up on the restaurant.

As you can see, it was a work of art. It was a beautiful mixture of cheeses, thin sliced ham, tomatoes, cantaloupe, greens, and, one would think, some sort of glue to hold it all together. It was fantastic, as was the rest of the meal. The rest of the meal, including wine and desert, was excellent! And, it was about half the price we would have paid to have a similar dinner in the states.

Every decent sized city and village in France has their version of the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Bayeux is no exception. As you can see, the cathedral is, yet again, and amazing work of architectural art.

The day we went inside, the sun was shining through its stained glass windows, allowing the colour to wash over the walls of the sanctuary. Fortunately, the photos I took came out relatively well.

Another thing we love to do when we travel is to time our arrival and length of stay in a particular area to when we can attend the local markets. These markets are a lot of fun, extremely interesting, and the aroma from the food they sell, mixed with the fresh air makes one hungry regardless of the last time you ate. The market in Bayeux is held every Saturday morning, and is located right outside the Hotel Mogador, which, as luck would have it, is where we stayed.

During World War II, Bayeux was liberated by British troops shortly after the D-Day landings at Normandy. Bayeux is located approximately 4 miles from the D-Day beaches, which is how we happened to stay there. The photos above and below were from our second visit. During the first visit, we toured Omaha Beach. I will cover that in a later blog, but I did not want to end this one without showing the entrance to the museum, and the cemetery across the street from it. The cemetery holds over 5,000 remains of British soldiers, along with those of the Germans who died trying to stop the invasion. I thought it was interesting that the allied graves were marked with white headstones and crosses, whereas the German ones were in black.

In leaving, I often wonder if we would have been allowed to make the trips we have if not for the sacrifice of the millions of young men and women that fought for the freedom so many now take for granted.

A Winter in Massachusetts

After leaving basic training in 1960, I was sent to Fort Deven, Massachusetts, to train for assignment in the Army Security Agency. This was not MP school, but a place where intercept specialists, and data handlers, were trained to gather and forward military intelligence back to the states.

I arrived sometime in September of that year, and had to wait for my class to begin. Even when we were in training, we still had to pull normal army details, such as KP. One day in late November, or early December, I was tagged for KP.

The day arrived, and along with it, the first big snowstorm of the year. Needless to say, no one was prepared for that. We had not been issued our winter gear, and had only minimal clothing to wear that day. The field jacket was enough for a blustery fall day, but was no match for a snowstorm.

On top of that, the heat on post was not turned on yet, so there was no heat in the mess hall. The temps inside dipped into the low thirties. We had to go into the milk cooler where the temps were in the forties in order to warm up.

I, with my usual good luck, was given the duty of 'outside man'. The outside man is the poor schmuk who has to hose down the garbage cans that are filled and emptied during the course of a day. The tool used was a steam hose, no less.

Needless to say, my boots, pants, jacket, hands, whatever, were wet all day long. Not only that, but my clothes literally froze on me when I was outside, thawing only went I went into the cooler to warm up.

The result was pneumonia, and a two week stay in an army hospital, so close to Christmas I did not think I would be able to return home for the holidays.

While I was in the hospital they brought around a young man who was training to be a medical corpsman. They had decided to draw some blood from me, and he allowed the trainee to do it. Bad decision. He didn't have any trouble finding a vein, but once located and pierced, the trainee pulled the plunger, or whatever they call it, rather rapidly. As I swooned and almost passed out I heard the trainer say, "WHOA! Slow down! This is 50 cc.s, not 5!"

I lived. And, I was able to make it home for the holidays.

A most interesting man whom I have never met...

In 1919, a woman named Sylvia Beach from Salem, Massachusetts, opened a bookstore in Paris, France at 8 rue Dupuytern. The name of the bookstore was Shakespeare and Company. Two years later, she moved the store to the rue de L'Odeon, where it became the place to hang out for writers such as James Joyce, Ernest Hemingway, and many others. The store remained opened until December, 1941, when, during the Nazi Occupation of Paris, a German officer wanted a book that belonged to Sylvia. She refused to hand it over. When he became angry and left, she knew he would return in force and take it from her. She gathered her friends, they emptied the bookstore, and she closed it that day, never knowing that some day in the future, it would reopen in a different location, by a different owner, but still in Paris.

Fast Forward to 1945 -

At the end of World War II, a soldier named George Whitman, found himself not wanting to return to the United States. So he stayed in Paris, attending school at the Sorbonne. At the end of his journey through the Sorbonne, he had acquired many books written in English. He purchased a small building across from Notre Dame de Paris for the sum of $500. He lived in the small apartment above the store, and opened it as the reborn Shakespeare and Company. Today, the building is worth over five million dollars.

George Whitman is now in his mid-nineties, and

believes he is living in a novel. I had the pleasure of

seeing George in 2006, sitting in front of the

bookstore, reading, with a huge stack of books beside

him. I did not interrupt him, but I did take a picture of

him. He is sitting in front of his manifesto.

George has a daughter who is in her mid-twenties

and who currently runs the bookstore. He named her

after the original owner, Sylvia Beach Whitman.

Every time we have the pleasure of visiting Paris, we make a point of stopping by the

bookstore. While George no longer lives above the store, the apartment has been set up to

accommodate several writers, should they need a place to stay while they write.

I cannot imagine George sitting in front of his store with an e-book in his lap. The thought

is almost obscene. A book has a personality all its own, but it changes with each reader. Such

is the world of George Whitman, who says that the most interesting characters he ever met

were on the pages of a book. All I can say, George, is may your novel never end!

Funny moments during basic training...

It was a sunny, Sunday afternoon. Recruits were sitting around talking when one of the short, stubby Drill Instructors came walking by. I don't remember what started the confrontation, but I do remember the sergeant standing in front of one of the recruits, looking up at him, and dressing him down for something the recruit had done. Exasperated at the recruit, the sergeant said -

"Tell me something soldier, just what do you want out of this man's army?"

The recruit, a draftee, looked down at the sergeant and replied, "Me!"

Picture in your mind a bright, sunny day. There are two columns of marching men, each column strung out on opposite sides of a dirt road, with a drop off on either side of the road. Along each column there were separations between platoons of about 100 yards. Four contact men were evenly spaced between each platoon in order to maintain eye contact.

I was one of the leaders of a platoon who was watching the contact men ahead of us, when suddenly, one of them begins to weave back and forth across the road until he goes over the edge and into the ditch.

When I caught up to him, I asked, "What happened to you?"

His reply? "I fell asleep..."

This was the same man who, when the CQ came by to wake him one early one Sunday morning for KP (kitchen police) after a Saturday night on the town, wrapped his arms around the CQ and pulled him into bed telling him how beautiful he was.

The CQ managed to pull away and wake several men around him. He told them to get the guy up and over to the mess hall. So, they managed to get him dressed, and then they stood him up and let go of him. The loud thud when he hit the floor woke up the rest of the barracks.

The CQ pointed to one of the men who dressed him and appointed him the man's replacement for the day on KP for the day...

Then there was the time when one of the recruits decided he wanted out of the army, and didn't care how. So, one day when he was selected to remain behind as a barracks guard, he waited until he saw the Company Commander walking over to inspect the barracks.

He had found a piece of wood big enough to use as a fishing pole, and placed some string on it. When the Company Commander came into the barracks, he found the guard sitting in the latrine (bathroom) on one of the stools (there were no walls in the barracks) pretending to be fishing in the stool next to him.

The Company Commander left the barracks only to return several minutes later with a rod, reel, and tackle box. The startled guard was at a loss for words when the officer sat down on a different stool and began to prepare his gear for fishing. As he did, he looked at the recruit and asked...

"How are they biting?"

Needless to say, the recruit did not get out of the service.

The first morning in the army...

The first place you're assigned to is a transient company. This is where you stay until they assign you to a basic training company. During the time you are here, you wear your civilian clothes.

The barracks we were assigned to were the kind that had walls with spaces in them to allow the wind to whip your bedding around. There were also gallon sized butt cans with water in them hanging on the posts supporting the second floor. these were where you were supposed to place the remnants of your cigarettes to ensure you did not burn the place down.

We awoke that first morning to a short, fat, PFC (Private First Class) yelling to get out of bed as he proceeded to kick the butt cans off their poles all over the floor. Several of the draftees that were in the transient company yelled back at him.

Him - "All right, you maggots, get your asses out of those racks and clean this pigsty up!" the PFC yelled.

Groans came from some of the beds, and then the comments...

"Aw, man! Get outta here and leave us alone!"

"We're tired!"

"We got to bed late!"

Back to him - "You got 10 minutes! After that, no breakfast!"

Little by little, we got up. Then came the call to reveille. We made our way out of the barracks and waited to see what would happen next.

They lined us up and walked, or tried to march, us over to the 'mess hall', which is where we ate our meals.

We took a tray and began to work our way down the food line. It was like a cafeteria, with the different offerings along the line. There were things like oatmeal, eggs, bacon, ham, potatoes, and toast. I was never a big on breakfast. At that time, I was allergic to eating eggs and oatmeal, so I passed on those. I passed on most of the rest because I couldn't understand how anyone could eat things like ham and potatoes for breakfast. By the time I reached the end of the line, I had a glass of water, and a piece of toast. Needless to say, the next morning I knew why one ate meat and potatoes for breakfast!

Military Life - The beginning

I rose early in order to eat something and arrive at the induction center by seven-thirty in the morning, where, with the exception of having a physical, I sat around all day watching several draftees (they were drafting in my day - as they should be today) find out they were going to be Marines! They were just sitting there, waiting like the rest of us, when a Marine Recruiter walked into the room, and as he made his way down the row of chairs, pointed to one after another of the draftees and said - "You're in the Marines! Move it!"

Then, during the physical, there is a moment when one stands with a large group of his peers, totally naked, and is told -

"All right! Turn around, bend over, and grab your cheeks!" And, of course, humiliated or not, one does as one is told. This is normally followed by the comedian yelling out - "Not those, buddy! The ones on your ass!"

Then comes the swearing in. I never realized that up to that point, I could have walked away with no repercussions. I doubt if I would have anyway, since I did volunteer.

After the swearing in, you sit, and you sit, and you sit. It's the army way, you soon learn.

In late afternoon, I was rounded up with the rest of the recruits and herded onto a bus. A sergeant steps onto the bus and quiets all inside. Then, the pep talk!

"Men! The next eight weeks will be the toughest eight weeks of your life. But you can do it! Never give up!"

To say I was psyched for the really difficult time ahead is putting it mildly. I couldn't wait to be tested! Let's get it going!

The bus pulls out, and we head towards Fort Leonard Wood, the hell hole of the midwest, so we're told. The time is about five in the afternoon.

After riding for several hours, we stop for dinner. I strike up a conversation with the young kid sitting next to me. After we eat, he grabs my arm and says, "Come on, hurry!"

He pulls me out the door of the restaurant and into the bar next door. He struts up to the bar and says, "1/2 pint of Seagram Seven!"

The bartender looks at him. "How old are you?"

"Seventeen!" he replies.

"Well, son, you have to be twenty-one to buy in this state."

"We're in Illinois, aren't we?"

"Yeah, and you have to be twenty-one in Illinois."

A forlorn look crosses the face of my companion.

"Where you boys headed?" the bartender asks.

Standing straight, chest out, my companion replies, "Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri!"

The bartender turns, reaches for a bottle of Seagrams, hands it to the kid and says, "Now, get outta here and don't tell anyone where you got that!"

"Thanks, man!"

The bottle is stuffed into a pocket, a shirt pulled down over it, and we head back to the bus. Once darkness falls, we sit in the back of the bus nipping at the bottle. I doubt if it took too many nips for me to really start to feel the effects, as I was not a drinker.

By the time we rolled into Fort Leonard Wood at three in the morning, I was feeling no pain, not much of anything else for that matter, either.

As soon as the door opened, a Drill Instructor hops on the bus and starts yelling at us to get the hell off! I guess I did. I can't say I really remember what went on after that, outside of the fact I filled out form after form, smiling all the time.

Leaving for the Army...

Sometime in May of 1960, right before I graduated from High School in Marion, Indiana, I decided I would join the army and possibly go to West Point via the military. When I went to the recruiter, they presented me with a series of tests to determine my interests and general intelligence. I did well, so they pointed me in the direction of the Army Intelligence area. And, while that seems to be an oxymoron, it really isn't. However, the specific course that best suited my interests was full up until October of that year. This, actually, was fine with me, since I figured that way I would have my entire summer and some of the fall to just relax and have fun.

Graduation came and went. I settled into a routine of getting up when I felt like it, playing tennis, staying out late at night, and generally having a good time. Until one morning in late June when the phone began ringing quite early. I didn't bother to answer it since I was still in bed and figured it wasn't important at that hour anyway. When I finally decided to get out of bed, I showered, and made ready for the days events, called a friend who agreed to pick me up, and began to eat breakfast before leaving.

When the phone rang once again, I answered it, totally unsuspecting young person that I was. The voice on the other end said...

"You're leaving at five o'clock this afternoon!" That was all she said. It was my mother.

"I am... what for?"

"The recruiting sergeant tried to call you, but you never answered. So, he called your sister (they worked in the same building) and told her someone had dropped out of the program you want. He asked her if she thought you would take it, and she replied you would. So, you're leaving this afternoon for the army!"

Needless to say, that put a definite crimp into my plans for the day, and occupied my life for the next three years as well.

That afternoon, after hurriedly saying my goodbyes to the people I knew, I, my closest friend, and my family, such as it was back then, drove me to Indianapolis, where we said our goodbyes, and I entered a new world. My new world was not only a lot of fun, but one that also opened the door to 'the' world itself, and the realization that there was a lot more to life than a small town in Indiana.

Pastor Moses Martin and his $5,000,000...

I just read this e-mail in my box and have to share the good fortune of receiving same.

Pastor Moses Martin has indicated that he is so overjoyed that he was given twin girls after 15 years of marriage that he wants to share his joy! He wants me to contact the church secretary to receive this windfall, as he is currently at a seminar in Peru. He gave the secretary's cell number, and her e-mail address no less!

I was overtaken with amazing happiness myself as I read this wonderful offer of monetary joy, written by some upstanding human. I couldn't decide whether to call his secretary, send her an e-mail, or just hop in my car and drive over there for the check!

Unfortunately, due to my indecision, there have probably been many who have already responded to his call, and so I will once again lose my golden opportunity to become wealthy... Oh, and the pastor didn't say how old the twins were when they were given to him.

Happenings in the old neighborhood

About half way through filling the old neighborhood with houses and people, a family moved in several lots down from us. We began to notice that their son, who was probably seven or eight years old, would make a trip over to our front yard every morning around ten A.M.. When we realized this was becoming a daily ritual we decided to find out what was going on, so we started to look for him to see what happened after he arrived.

We had a good sized tree that sat pretty much in the center of the front yard. He would stand on the opposite side of the tree whereby anyone in the house could not see him. When we became really curious, we went outside one day while he was there and caught him watering our tree with his own, personal, hose... up and down and all around! We basically told him to water the trees in his own yard, and that was then end of the daily ten am visitor.

On the other side of our house one lot down lived a family with a son named Gilbert. He was probably close to my age, and we would play together on occasion.

The other part of this story involves an old washing machine, the kind with the powered wringer rolls that were used to wring out one's clothes after being washed. Then, of all current day horrors, the woman of the house would actually take these same clothes outside and hang them up to dry in that horrible fresh air!

One day we learned that Gilbert had gotten his thumb caught in the wringers. Fortunately, they were not strong enough to remove the thumb from his hand, but they were strong enough to crush the developing bones inside. I don't know how this has affected him in adult life, but as a kid, he was the only one I ever knew who could bend his thumb all the way back to touch his wrist, let it go, and watch it vibrate like a pice of rubber.

A new neighborhood

The first time I can remember being alive was when I was perhaps six years old. I have no active recollection prior to that time, probably because it was all boring and not worth remembering anyway.

The neighborhood we moved into when I was that young was a new one. I remember that because ours was the only house for as far as I could see, which actually wasn't far because I was so small and there was a lot of foliage close by taller than I was. But, living in such a neighborhood gave me a lot of opportunity for advancement to, like, age seven.

I remember I had a real interest in watching the houses being built in the neighborhood. I would stand around watching the carpenters at work, thinking how luck they were to be able to take that hammer and pound those nails. No nail guns in those days!

I liked the way the house went up; the cement block and brick foundations, the 2x6 boards they laid on top of the foundation walls; then came the support beams, the flooring, the walls... I was always amazed how all these pieces fit together to make a house.

One day, one of the carpenters asked if I wanted to pound some nails into the floor they were laying. Needless to say, I absolutely did! I don't know how long I was up there, or how many nails I pounded, but I do know I never hit my thumb once. That, I would have remembered.

It was quite a thrill later on to look across the street from where I lived and think I helped build that house. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on one's likes and dislikes, I lost my desire to build things, at least with a hammer. As an adult, I like to watch, and admire, but not participate.