Southern Christmas Part 3 - The Christmas, Un-Christmas Tree

Twas two weeks before Christmas and all through our house stood boxes of last year’s decorations packaged with care now awaiting our attention. The living room ceiling was partially hung with red and green construction paper chains, and the red crepe paper bells were nowhere to be found.

The miniature Jesus nestled in tissue paper slept the slumber of off-season hibernation. Our artificial made-in-America Christmas tree remained in the basement awaiting its fifth call to duty.

Despite the disarray, my wife and I sat outside on a warm southern winter afternoon discussing the fact that several live oak trees had grown too close to a retaining wall meant to protect the rear yard from surge tide should such protection be needed.

I concluded that I must cut them down and decided then was the time.

“But wait,” she cried out with enough pain to give pause to the first brutal saw cut.

After turning to her, I saw deep concern in her eyes and said, “I’ll be careful,” thinking she was concerned that I might get injured. It was a large tree, six plus feet tall and about eight in diameter.

“I want to save the tree,” she continued as if to move quickly beyond what I thought she originally implied.

I looked at her and knew she was not only serious, but very upset over the real possibility that the tree might soon die.

“Enough trees are killed around here,” she added hurriedly as if thinking I would proceed despite her plea for clemency. “If we can save the tree, well, that’s all I want for Christmas.”

“I guess I could move it if you’ll help,” I returned thinking that might change her mind, but knowing we were beyond that.

“Okay,” she said and added, “Do we have two shovels?”

Trapped, I thought. Foiled again! Rats!

“Yes, we have two,” I said calmly and collected our tools, rolled up my sleeves.

For the next hour and a half we dug up three to five feet long surface roots and bundles of short tap roots.

We prepared a hole in the center of the backyard to match the trees’ root pattern and carried, half-dragged the 200 pound tree to its new home.

Finally, almost two hours after the first discussion, the tree stood planted. We managed to avoid losing any large roots, cracked one which should heal fine, and we both felt like something good had been accomplished.

Now, every day, my beautiful wife waters her tree and it seems quite pleased with its new home and the attention she provides, despite the occasional “Well, Bless your heart,” that she cried sarcastically when she got sprayed by a leaky hose.

And about Christmas? We decorated more grandly this year than any past, cut back on gifts, and truly enjoyed our day together with family and friends.





__________________________________________________________________________

Technorati Tags:
Chistmas in the South, Southern Christmas, Christmas Tree, transplanting trees, live oak tree
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

Old Time Southern Christmas Part 2

It is likely that I’m not terribly objective regarding living in the south. Christmas is a reminder for me as to what appeals most down this way.

Normally, my wife and I adopt a family in need each year to help them have a better Christmas. I felt certain that due to the economic crisis we are all living through that more families would need assistance this year.

We went to the church where we usually go to adopt a family and discovered that all of them, and there were nearly 300 this year--more than most years--had been adopted already. Despite the suffering a recession delivers to each doorstep, no one forgot those in need, and I am sure some of the people who adopted families will give as much as possible even if they are required to have less for themselves.

No one gets injured shopping at Wal-Mart. No one fights in stores for the last toy or last special dress like we once witnessed at a Macy’s in New York. People always greet you, hold doors for you and smile as if they are really happy to see you. The best part of it all? It’s contagious. If you live here long enough you’ll catch yourself doing the same to strangers and friends alike.

Old Time Southern Christmas Part 1

Regardless of what you believe about the origins of Christmas, this is a time of year filled with magic and wonder. I've seen the holidays turn cynicism away and the cynic into a reveler if for only a few days or weeks.

As a Yankee living in the deep south for most of the previous 20 years, I've grown to appreciate the southern way of celebrating just about everything there is to celebrate. But when it comes to Christmas, there are few places in the world that do it better.

No, we don't use fake snow. Heck, most folks from around here never saw the real thing until 1989 when, after Hurricane Hugo, it snowed for Christmas. God's little joke right there, I'm telling you.

That was my first year living in the Coastal Carolinas, so I drove north to be with family in New Jersey, where it did not snow. Go figure! It has not snowed down this way since, which is fine with me. I had enough before moving here.

Christmas in the south, as you might've guessed, is about Christmas first, gift giving sure, but that is not the reason for the season in the south.

Stay tuned to more.

Who was George of Autumn People Circa 1966?

As a used bookseller/buyer, occasionally, I find a gem among the ordinary. While searching through shelves of Science Fiction paperbacks about 8 years ago, I spied a hard to find 1st edition book by Ray Bradbury titled Autumn People.

Without flipping it open, I dropped it in the box I planned to fill with used books in very-good or better condition I would sell later.

Several weeks went by before I opened Autumn People to read the back of the title page. When I did, I discovered a time capsule, which I have copied below. Some of the surnames might be misspelled, and if so, I apologize in advance.

If any of the people listed here are interested in the book, it is yours for a simple fee. I want to know why and when it was autographed and just who the heck is George?

Front Cover:
George Grisson

Inside Front Cover:
Little Burt
Phil Sickles alias Cous
Chris Brahney Lots of luck George

Front Flyleaf:
Hughie Baby

Title Page:
Good Luck, Mary Beth

ISBN Page:
Patti Vidulich

First page of intro:
Joe Leather

Was An old Woman title page:
Kathe T.
Lots of Luck!

To You George from Andy (on page 28-29)

See you this summer, George. Linn Palt (page 67)

Jay (on page80)

Cindy (on page 112)

Jane Eccleston (on page 113)
Doug (on page 113)
Laurie (on page 113)

Let’s Play Poison title page:
Lots of Luck in Future Years!
Cathy Blasco (on page 165)


THE END
Beverly Hulsart
Lots of Luck (on page 188)

Inside Rear Cover:
Meele (with two flowers)

Have lots of fun in the summer, Mary

Ann Kirh

Have a hell of a lot of fun, Gerry

Outside Rear Cover:
Margorie Ward

____________________________________________________________________________
Technorati Tags:
class reunion, high school, old friends, lost friends, best friends, graduation, seniors, where in the world is
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

Honoring Korean War Veterans

Never forget those who fought in America's Forgotten War!

Schliessman(n) Family Veterans 140 Year History

SCHLIESSMANN, JOHN JOSEPH
PVT CO A 146TH REGIMENT INDIANA INF
CIVIL WAR
DATE OF BIRTH: 1835
DATE OF DEATH: 17 APR 1922

SCHLIESSMANN, PHILIP JOHANN
PVT CO H 21ST INF REGIMENT
1875-1879
DATE OF BIRTH: 09 OCT 1857
DATE OF DEATH: 30 AUG 1917

SCHLIESSMAN: HENRY HUGO
PVT US ARMY
WORLD WAR I
DATE OF BIRTH: 15 SEPT 1898
DATE OF DEATH: 10 JAN 1967

SCHLIESSMAN, JOHN
US ARMY
WORLD WAR I
DATE OF BIRTH:
DATE OF DEATH:

SCHLIESSMAN, LOUIS
PVT US ARMY WORLD WAR I
DATE OF BIRTH: 04 MAR 1895
DATE OF DEATH: 24 JU 1964

SCHLIESSMANN: PETER
US ARMY
WORLD WAR I
DATE OF BIRTH:
DATE OF DEATH:

SCHLIESSMAN, WILLIAM
PVT US ARMY WORLD WAR I
DATE OF BIRTH: 23 AUG 1896
DATE OF DEATH: 23 JAN 1923


SCHLIESSMAN, CHARLES
WORLD WAR II

SCHLIESSMANN, JOHN J. JR
SSGT US ARMY
WORLD WAR II
DATE OF BIRTH: 1914

SCHLIESSMAN, LAWRENCE F. SR
CPL US ARMY AIR CORP
WORLD WAR II
DATE OF BIRTH: 06 NOV 1921

SCHLIESSMAN, MARTIN A JR
WORLD WAR II

SCHLIESSMAN, WALTER H
NATIONAL GUARD
WORLD WAR II

SCHLIESSMANN, DONALD JOSEPH Sr.
CAPT.
WORLD WAR II

CATER, NORMA (NEE SCHLIESSMAN)
LT COL. KOREA, VIETNAM

SCHLIESSMANN, ROBERT MARK
CWO4 US ARMY
WORLD WAR II, KOREA
DATE OF BIRTH: 05/18/1914
DATE OF DEATH: 03/27/1989

SCHLIESSMANN, DONALD JOSEPH Jr
US ARMY
VIETNAM
DATE OF BIRTH: 09/20/1945
DATE OF DEATH: 07/18/2006

SCHLIESMAN, JERROLD J.
SGT US ARMY
B COMPANY 1ST BATTALION 5TH US CALVARY
VIETNAM
DATE OF BIRTH:
DATE OF DEATH: 17 NOV. 1965

SCHLIESSMANN, LAWRENCE F
SGT US ARMY
3/60TH INF 9TH DIV/493 MI
VIETNAM
DATE OF BIRTH: 16 SEPT 1948

David Wetherill - Honoring Veterans Part 2 Poppy Field Found

Poppy Field Found
Dave Wetherill
Copilot, 571st

In the fall 1995 issue of our Newsletter I included an article, entitled “Poppy Field” in which I told about an American soldier discovering, in a poppy field, George Massa’s grave, how the people of Dietersheim had recovered his body and provided a proper burial, after our plane had been shot down. (Pilot, Crew 91, 571st Sqdn.) My story mentioned that I had been unable to locate Dietersheim. In that same issue of the Newsletter we included a letter from A. Verwaal, of the Netherlands, in which he described his work in researching the crash landing of one of our planes. Because Mr. Verwaal’s letter appeared in the paper, we made sure to send him a copy. Of course, then, he got to read both his letter and my story, and he got busy locating the town of Dietersheim and corresponding with me about his efforts. As a consequence, I learned that Dietersheim is a suburb of Bingen.*

One of my desires has been to visit the area of our shoot-down and capture. In March, Jean and I were able to make the trip. We arrived on German soil at Frankfurt Airport, picked up a brand new Opel, and, even though we were feeling the effects of the overnight flight, decided to head for Bingen and possibly Dietersheim.

Jean had studied German in college and has, generally, a good language aptitude and a good ear. Even though I knew all of this, I was still amazed at how well she picked up the language. (Thank goodness, because I’m almost a complete dud when it comes to communicating in a foreign tongue.) And, we soon discovered, the highway signs in Germany are very well planned and displayed. Even I had little trouble navigating. We arrived in Budesheim, another of Bingen’s suburbs, and found a place to have some lunch and sample some German food in an Italian restaurant.

After lunch, we went on to Dietersheim, where, with only a little trouble, we found the Catholic Church. We parked our car and looked around. The church doors were locked, but through a window, we spotted a man working at a desk. We attracted his attention and got him to come talk with us. Outside the church we explained, actually Jean explained, the purpose of our mission and he invited us inside. Father Eberhard Otto then excused himself and went into his office. In a moment, he returned with a file folder. As he opened the folder, I saw a letter, in English that had words in it that I had written. It turned out that he had received a letter from Leo Massa, George’s brother, in which my “Poppy field” was quoted. I opened my envelope of stuff I’d been carrying and pulled out a copy of that piece and handed it to him. He glanced at it and then back at me, with an expression of surprise. From that point on we had no trouble holding his interest in our mission.

He explained that he had no personal knowledge of George’s burial as he had come to that area after the war. He did, however, know of a place that might be what we were looking for. During Hitler’s time, he explained, no enemy could have been buried in a sanctified cemetery. That had been strictly verboten. He told us to look for a bus turn-around, out near the edge of town, where, then, we would see a cemetery. Beyond that cemetery, he told us, is a field. Maybe there.

Father Otto then took us on a tour of his church. Of particular interest to us were the beautiful stained glass windows and a hewn stone altar that dated back more than a thousand years.

We drove the short distance to the cemetery. The main gate was closed so we walked along outside of the stone wall that surrounded the place. At the rear, looking out beyond the wall, we could see a field, probably twenty or thirty acres in size. Beyond the field, we could see the Nahe River and a highway, and beyond the highway, wooded hills. We wondered if the burials had taken place out there somewhere, but jet lag was getting to us and it was late. We decided to postpone further searching.

It took us a week and a half of visiting other points of interest before we got back to our search for George Massa’s gravesite. We went directly to the cemetery and went in. A monument to military heroes and the inscriptions on the head stones told we were in a cemetery for war veterans. While we were admiring the graves, we saw a woman walking a dog. As we watched, she tethered her dog to the gatepost and entered the cemetery. She smiled and walked on past us to one of the graves. After a few moments, we greeted her and learned that she was on one of her regular visits to her husband’s grave. His head stone was inscribed, “Heinz Eckert, 1929-1996”.

To Jean, I said, “Tell her why we’re here; ask if she knows anything about the grave.” Jean, in her recently reborn German, broached the subject. Well, the lady knew something, all right. She brightened right up and began to talk, gesturing, and pointing to the field beyond the wall. “Mein mann hat es gefunden.”

“What did she say?” I wanted to know. Somehow, we had lucked out. She told us her husband had found that grave. She had met her husband after the war. He had told her about having found this grave and shown her where it was. But the grave isn’t still there, of course. No, we said, George’s body has since been moved to a National Cemetery on Long Island, near where he had lived. But, she said, there could have been other graves there, for French, Polish, and American airmen, but not any more. Not for many years. But she could tell us how to find the spot. Our elation was almost palpable. Go back through that field, along that path until you get to the dike. Then turn right and walk along the dike. Over there, near the bridge. That’s where they were buried.

Well, we thanked Frau Eckert for her help and started out. Because we could see a fence between us and our goal, we turned left to get to another path that would take us, on the other side of a new highway bridge, to where we could get to the dike. We looked back, and there was the woman, waving at us. She had taken the dog home and had returned on a bike. Apparently, she wanted to make sure we found the spot. She waved and pointed. She was indicating that we should go over, now, to our right. We walked under and past the bridge, and there she was, now having moved to where she could again follow our progress. She was nodding her head and still pointing.

We walked on and discovered what must have been the poppy field in 1944. We were walking along a low dike. Our guide was still on duty, waving us on. Soon, when we were pretty close to the ruins of a bombed out bridge, I looked back and saw that she was vigorously nodding her head and waving her fist above her head. We had come to the sacred place. She waved goodbye and got on her bike and, as we waved our thanks, she peddled away. We turned toward our find.

We saw a large field between the dike and the Nahe. There may have been graves there once. A lot can happen to a place in fifty-three years. We felt confident that we had found what we’d been looking for. We walked around saying a silent prayer. Mission accomplished!

*A few months later, I received correspondence from Marshall Shore, of our association, who is quite familiar with Dietersheim, telling me more about the place.

David Wetherill and The Poppy Field - Honoring Veterans

David Wetherill's Poppy Field.

I've been fortunate so far in life. Due to my veteran status and past employment, I've known many combat veterans from all branches of service and from several wars. Each one I knew had an inner strength forged during a time in life when he underwent duress the average civilian would never experience. The more severe their ordeal, it seemed, the greater the strength.

Perhaps that's a product of the will to live, or maybe inner strength is the will to live brought to the surface of personal reality. And too, I think a strong spiritual conviction is necessary to keep inner strength from abandoning us when we need it the most.

Whatever it is, Dave Wetherill was a man with an inner strength that drew others to him. He expressed that strength in many ways. You could hear it in his words, his laughter, and read it in his eyes. He spoke of family and friends, of sharing his love of music, and his pride in fellow veterans.

I found him to be a quiet gentle man. A man I liked almost at once. And I'm the kind of combat veteran who shuns crowds, feels most comfortable sitting facing a door when I'm in an unfamiliar place. Normally, I don't warm up to strangers. But oddly, Dave was not a stranger when we first met. Not that I knew him from the past. I didn't.

My wife and I started a small writer's group in Mount Holly, New Jersey, posted a flyer at local libraries, ran a small reader ad in a local paper, and Dave called to join us.

He attended weekly, offered kind advice, like the fact that clouds scud across the sky. They don't drift. He shared with us the newsletters he edited for his WWII outfit, the 571st Squadron. He was a co-pilot Crew 91. Their B-17 bomber was shot down over Germany. David was badly injured, and spent many months in Stalag Luft One. He spoke of other members of their organization, and about their dwindling numbers.

Then, one night he gave us a copy of two articles he'd written for the newsletter. It seemed there was one member he missed more than any other. The man who didn't live to join, the hero who was left behind.

His pilot went down with the plane, and David never forgot him, never stopped honoring his friend George Massa.

With his family's permission, I'm posting his articles in two parts. The first is titled: Poppy Field and is below. I'll post the follow-up titled Poppy Field Found tomorrow and let you meet this extraordinary man.

This Veterans Day, let's all honor the silent heroes that live among us, like my friend David Wetherill. And remember that those men and women honor the fallen every day as Dave's articles explain.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


NEWSLETTER FALL 1995 Page 19


Poppy Field
by David W. Wetherill


On Memorial Day last year, I was interrupted in my studio by the ringing of my phone. I’d been at work for more than an hour, so the disturbance came as a small relief.

“Hello.”

A man’s voice said, “Is there a David Wetherill there?”

“Yes. Who wants him?”

The voice continued, “I’m looking for a David Wetherill who was a copilot on a B-l7 flying over Germany in World War Two.”

“I am such a person. Who are you?”

“My name is Leo Massa..." My heart fairly leaped. “and I’m looking for the man who was my brother’s copilot. My brother’s name was George, George Massa, and..."

“I guess I’m your man. I was copilot on George Massa’s crew.”

Leo became very enthusiastic. Almost overjoyed. We talked for nearly an hour and ended our conversation after each had promised the other that an early meeting would take place.

The meeting was set for a couple of weeks later, with Jean and me driving to the Massa home in North Jersey. We planned to leave home in time to eat lunch on the way and arrive by 2 PM. Quite naturally, we fell into a discussion of the interesting news we’d picked up from my phone conversations with Leo. It was possible, I decided, that I had met Leo on the occasion of my meeting with George’s parents, at their Brooklyn home, in the summer of 1945. That was my first move after arriving home from my stay in Stalag Luft One.

Although I had realized, from the report I had received from Bill Reulbach, our toggleer, at the time of our first meeting on German soil, at Dulag Luft, that George had to have still been on board our B-17, still carrying its bomb load, when it hit the ground, I knew that no official word of his KIA status had reached the Massas. It, therefore, had become my first duty to meet with them and tell what I knew.

He had been only fifteen at the time, but Leo was sure that he had been present at that meeting, and when I mentioned some of the details, he became more convinced of it. I had reminded him that George’s sweetheart, Lisa, a beautiful Finnish girl, had been present. He remembered Lisa but has long since lost touch with her. I had mentioned to Leo that only after my visit to the American Military Cemetery at Cambridge, England, in 1984, and my subsequent inquiries in Washington, that I had learned that George’s body had been identified and brought home to be buried in the Military Cemetery on Long Island.

Leo had then explained to me that the identification must have taken place after a period of time, because he had information about a grave in Germany that had been George’s first stopping place. I was eagerly looking forward to more details.

We arrived at the Massa’s lovely suburban home at about the appointed time. As we parked our car, Leo appeared in the driveway, followed by his wife, Sinikka. A warm greeting then took place. At first, I saw only slight resemblance in Leo to George, but as the afternoon slipped by, I was able to see certain characteristics that I had come to know in George. And, it occurred to me, George would have looked some different by now, if he were still alive.

I answered many questions from Leo about what kind of a pilot, airplane commander, officer, soldier, and man George had been. My answers were all confirming that he had been the best in each category. Then I wanted to know more about the burial that had taken place in Germany. Leo handed me two sheets of lined paper with a penciled letter written on them. This letter, and its subject, had been mentioned on the phone, earlier.

The letter is quoted, in its entirety, below:

I was a member of Co. K-3rd Inf. 424th Division, which arrived in Dietersheim, Germany in May 1945, as a guard unit to 150,000 German war.

Just outside of Dietersheim, in the Rhine Valley, was a beautiful poppy field. As I walked among the flowers, I came upon a lone grave of an American soldier. It was so beautiful I came back to it each day.

I was curious to know more of this boy who rested alone in the quiet of the hills, and I learned he was buried by the townspeople of Dietersheim with full church services. They made him a large crude cross from the deep forest close by, and each day they came to water the potted plants, which they placed upon his grave.

I wondered about his parents, and how pleased they would be if they could only see this final resting place of their boy. As I had no camera, I decided to make a sketch - perhaps locate his family and give it to them. I had only an old German map, on the back of which I made this drawing.

I have also a few poppies, which I picked from the grave when we were ready to leave. It's been a long time ago, but I still keep thinking of MASSA, his grave, the good people of Dietersheim, and his family. I should like to go back some day and visit that grave again.

B. Kruczek, ---- St., Cleveland, Ohio

While I was reading the letter, Leo left the room, and returned in a moment with a framed picture that had been hanging on the wall just inside his front door. I took it and examined it. It was a beautifully drawn pen and ink rendering of the grave described in the letter. After spending some minutes admiring the picture and appreciating the thoughtfulness of the artist/discoverer, we talked about Leo’s heretofore unsuccessful attempts to locate the man who had been so caring and thoughtful and we talked about the town, so far not totally identified, whose people so caringly took George’s body and provided so lovely a resting place for it.

In a little while, Leo produced George’s diary. It seems George had kept a record of his impressions of his daily encounters. I haven’t yet held the diary in my hand, but Leo has promised me he will give me the opportunity to do that on our next meeting. He did read certain pages to me, such as George’s feelings about one particularly frightful mission (11/30/44— “Oh, the prop wash! I was so scared I couldn’t stop shaking.”), and my introduction to him (7/7/44—”I met my copilot today. He’s a swell guy.”)

There were emotional pings and pangs all afternoon, and I guess there will be a few more before this subject is filed away. To quote one observer of our reactions to all of this, “It’s amazing how the need to know survives 50 years later.”

Note: Although Leo Massa has searched, and Bill Reulbach, our crew’s toggleer who lives in the Cleveland area, has more recently searched, B. Kruczek hasn't been located. Nor has the town of Dietersheim.
____________________________________________________________________________

Technorati Tags:
veterans, veterans day, honor, service, army, air force, marines, navy, memorial day, USA, WWII, WWI, Korean War, Vietnam War, Gulf war, Iraq War, War in Afghanistan
Add to: Technorati Digg del.icio.us Yahoo BlinkList Spurl reddit Furl

My Father the Wolf

Halloween along Grove Avenue, Patchogue, New York haunted each small footstep. Cold October night air greeted warm breath with a balloon cloud of dissipating fog. Enough early evening moonlight shivered through the bare branches that we believed our costumes were more real than imagined. I the cowboy, my sister the Indian princess slowly worked the streets calling Trick of Treat, not really understanding the implied consequences of the phrase.

We were young, filled with wonder that so many adults willingly opened their homes and showered us with gifts of candy, coins, and fruit.

Of course, we knew that our father manned the front door to greet the children who would visit our house while we were away. All lights except one table lamp and the porch light were off, and the door remained closed until someone knocked or called out Trick or Treat. He would protect our home.

By the time we walked several blocks--our mother not far behind--with other kids from the neighborhood, our sacks, used pillowcases, were laden with treasure. We were anxious to return home to examine our spoils, and exhaustion brought on by both excitement and exertion, added to our desire.

As we plodded up the front sidewalk, which led to our small stoop overhung with leafless vines, our mother called out, "Let's go in the back door and surprise your father."

The idea lit a spark of excitement that we consumed with glee. My sister led the way, as she often did being the oldest, and we rounded the driveway side of the house. Suddenly the darkness seemed more oppressive, and our steps faltered. We peered into the night and wondered that moonlight failed to illuminate the space between our house and the neighbor's home.

But our mother was not far behind and we had a mission. Sneak up on dad.

Then, as we rounded the house's back corner a tall and menacing figure emerged from the rear yard. Its huge arms lifted to the sky, its claws scrapped the air, and from its long snout, filled with rows of sharp dagger teeth a growl rocked us both. The wolf that ate Little Red Riding Hood's grandmother was about to eat us too.

My legs felt like rubber as my feet scrabbled to grip the driveway, a surface that moments earlier was concrete not Jell-O. The scream that ripped from my sister's throat became mine and together we alerted the entire town that a wolf was on the loose.

We dropped our well-earned loot and bolted back the way we came, past my stunned mother, and into the house, not stopping to realize that the front door was now open, that the lights were now on and didn't slow until we reached the safety of our rooms.

It was decades before I finally realized who wore that mask, and when I confronted my father the delight that filled his eyes, and the laugh he could no longer hold back, told me I was correct.

So dad, Happy Halloween! Now the world knows that my father was the wolf!

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Technorati Tags:
wolverine, wolfman, wolf man, wolf, full moon, howling, halloween, costumes, wolf mask
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

How to keep your car from being robbed

The Night the Car was Robbed and How to Turn Away Thieves

It was a dark and stormy night, well, okay; it wasn’t stormy and not particularly dark with a three quarter moon and no clouds.

Strange noise wakes me during the night. The sound might be as quiet as one of the cats deciding to try out a new box as a hideout, or the slam of a tree limb against the side of the house.

Normally, I roll over after deciding that what I heard was not worth investigation, until one night in early July.

At 3:35am, I woke when I heard something odd. It had sounded like a car door closing. However, my wife was up and heading to the bathroom, so I concluded that she must’ve bumped into something, and went back to sleep.

When I got out of bed after sunrise, I went about my usual chores, which ends with letting our indoor/outdoor cat, who spends the night in, outside. After he is satisfied that no other cats or strange animals have dared to invade his territory during the previous night, he wanders off to do his daily border inspections.

At this point, I retrieve the newspaper, which is never in the driveway (free whine moment here). As I did, I felt stunned to see that the car’s trunk lid was up.

But mistakes happen, so I went over and closed it, only it didn’t close because a box in the trunk sat beneath the hinge and blocked it. That should’ve been an alert. I never leave boxes in the way of the hinge.

I moved the box, shut the trunk lid, and then as I strolled past the car, glanced inside and froze. Everything in the glove box was on the passenger seat, and all the CD’s were scattered around as were various papers and debris we left in the car.

In shock, I opened the car door and then thought about calling the police. After phoning them, I told my wife about the problem and the two of us investigated to learn what was missing.

Well, they didn’t take the insurance card, or the registration card. And, much to my utter surprise, they didn’t want any of our Cds! I was shocked and insulted that our taste in music failed the test of robbery! Why, how dare they ignore Mozart! What kind of idiots don’t want Beethoven? What in God’s name is wrong with the Lord of the Rings, or the Narna soundtracks!?! And those fools don’t listen to Norah Jones? Saywhat!?!

So here’s the lessons we learned. Prop up some classic Cds in plain sight, don’t leave any cash in the car (they did take the single quarter I left in the car, but not the four copper pennies (can you say really stupid thieves?), and never leave keys that open something.

Instead give them a thrill and leave that old key you have for a house you once rented in another state, or an old car key that doesn’t fit in the ignition.

And if you have to leave a package in the car or trunk, leave one filled with last night’s trash, neatly wrapped of course.

After all of the above, they’ll write you off the list and not return to rob you a second time. I mean, really, they didn’t get but 25 cents the first time, right? And the local cops got their prints!

Tales of Swan Lake in East Patchogue

The name Swan Lake represented both mystery and romance when I was a boy. Although the romance part was an unknown concept in my child’s mind, just the name alone evoked a picture of swans swimming and princesses drifting alone gentle currents that guided them to secret rendezvous where they would. . . Well, that was as far as an eight year old boy’s mind knew to travel, which is just as well, I guess.

The mystery was easier to frame. Along the eastern banks of the lake dark shaded alcoves hid their secrets among boulders and rotting logs, and overhanging trees shaded deep pools where any type of monster might lurk to capture and devour a boy if he swam too close, or fell out of a canoe.

The streams that fed the lake twisted off into a distance too far for a boy to fathom, but I knew that back there somewhere pirates had hid treasures, and a lost family like the Swiss Family Robinson lived in a fabulous tree house.

I watched butterflies and dragonflies in the summer, and winter ice slowly solidify and claim the lake’s life as it created a solitude that defied imagination, not unlike Superman‘s Fortress of Solitude but without a super hero, or was it?

My mother was born in a house on Main Street in Center Moriches, grew up in Mastic on Mastic Road. When she was a girl, her family used the hills along the eastern bank of the lake for sleigh riding. They skated on the lake’s thick January ice, and fished its waters after spring thaw.

So it was only logical that I took my two daughters to Swan Lake for an opportunity to share in the experiences of two previous generations. We rented a boat with oars. Since they were too young to row, I put my back into the effort and quickly discovered what I’d forgotten. Rowing a boat is serious labor.

But we had the entire day, so off we went to explore the farthest reaches of the lake’s north side. We discovered small islands, and the overhanging trees I once dreamed about, and finally when exhaustion began to claim my arms, shoulders and back, we spotted a swan family.

This is not always the safest place to be. Swan mothers and fathers are notorious for protecting their young. I had two brothers-in-law who accidentally confronted a swan family while canoeing not far from where the girls and I rowed. Angrily, the male swan flew at them, but went over their heads to warn them away. Several years earlier, a man in a boat died from a broken neck when a male swan’s wing clipped him as the huge bird defended his own.

I stopped rowing and told the girls to be very quiet so we didn’t get the mother and father angry at our intrusion. They remained quiet as we drifted within twenty feet of a line of baby swans paddling feverishly to keep up with mom. They went around the end of the small island where the nest they’d recently left sat now abandoned.

I managed to snap several good photos and then decided that it was time to head off in a different direction, with a feeling inside that told me for one brief moment the boy who once thought of Swan Lake as a mysterious and romantic place now had shared those emotions with a new generation through an experience that happened back where pirates hid treasures and a lost family lived in a fabulous tree house.

Technorati Tags:
Swan Lake, Patchogue New York, Schliessmann
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

More on Bay Avenue Elementary School

We lived on Grove Avenue. Our neighbors the Westbrooks were good gentle people. My best friend Paul Crabtree and I flipped baseball cards under the fire escape at the school during recess.

My father took me and my oldest sister Louise with him every Friday after he came home from work to buy Cod Fish cakes at the small deli on, I think, the corner of Bay Avenue and Main Street. My mother cooked them in stewed tomatoes, which I then thought was the only way to make them edible.

After every Thanksgiving Day, we walked into town to the Sears Roebuck Store, where as kids, we dreamed and imagined about gifts under the tree at Christmas time.

Our family went to the Robert Hall Clothing store in Coram, New York for our yearly Easter clothing.

We attended St Paul's church in Patchogue. And I still remember feeling like I entered a jail each time we visited the post office for stamps or to mail packages. The stone building looked huge to me, had bars on the windows, or I imagined that it did, and the ceilings were quite high. Of course, I was quite short.

I vividly recall when the four corner's fire made us think that the safety of our hometown wasn't quite what it had been the day before. But the community came together as so many Long Island communities did back then and encouraged business owners to rebuild. When they did, we all shopped there again.

When I married my wife Ruth, who grew up in NC, I took her upstairs at Sweezy's Department Store so she could experience the wavy floors, the different levels that seemed to have been built in as the building expanded over the years.

Growing up in Patchogue, although my family moved to the North Shore when I was 8, instilled a love of neighbors and friends I've never found elsewhere. Maybe that feeling had to do with my age at the time, the innocence of those postwar decades.

Or perhaps, it was more about the place and the people who lived there. This is what I chose to believe. I have lived in several different states in all corners of America, and never found what I experienced when I lived and grew in my first hometown.

Technorati Tags:
bay avenue school, patchogue new york, grove avenue
Add to: | Technorati | Digg | del.icio.us | Yahoo | BlinkList | Spurl | reddit | Furl |

Mitchell Paul Feinberg

Mitchell Paul Feinberg

I took this picture during a trip Mitch and I took to New England to do a photo essay on covered bridges.

It is possible that on this same trip, we also drove up to Maine first to look at a house that needed a roof. Unfortunately, the concrete block walls wavered like the Great Wall of China, so adding a roof seemed a waste of time and money.

I knew a woman named Jill (she had a cat named Embly) in Burlington, Vermont and we stayed at her house one night. As it happened, the next morning, the headlines announced that Richard Nixon had resigned. Since all of us Leftist Pinko Commies (as the right wing framed our politics back then) worked to see Nixon run out of town, the news was a cause for celebration.

The paper was sold out everywhere we went locally! We needed to search out newsstands in the center of Burlington before we finally found the paper that Mitch holds in the photo while sitting on Jill‘s house’s front steps.

On our return home to New York, we passed a huge field of corn. Mitch suggested we stop and gather up some corn to take with us. I stopped alongside the wire fence and we both ran between rows of corn. Yes, I got lost, but I don’t know if Mitch did. We called to each other until we found the road and the car parked several hundred feet away. After that, we loaded the rear floor of the car with dozens of ears of corn and drove off as we heard a truck approaching from behind.

When we reached the Feinberg home in Port Jefferson, Mitch’s father took one look at the corn and announced, “You can’t eat that, its feed corn.”

It seems that we raided the wrong farm! But we got dozens of terrific covered bridge photos including the one posted here.




(The bridge photo posted is copyrighted and may not be reproduced in any manner digital or otherwise without the express written permission of L. Schliessmann).

Bay Avenue Elementary School, Patchogue, New York 1957

This great photo was shot as a class picture in 1957. I'm standing alongside my best friend at the time Paul Crabtree. However, I have not heard from him or any of the rest of the class since then and can only wonder where they are, what they've done and, embarrassingly, what their names might be.