Memorial Day Remembered

Once again I have the honor of presenting some thoughts by a guest blogger, JoAnne. As usual, she reminds us about why today is a holiday and what it means to be an American. Thank you JoAnne.

A Passing Thought for Memorial Day

Instead of worrying about which Presidents laid which wreaths at Arlington, I wish you were all as lucky as I am to live close enough to have been able to visit there on numerous occasions. I’ve taken the guided tour, wandered about on my own, and even attended the funeral of a family friend there. Each time, I was struck by the sea of simple white markers that are placed so that the rows are in perfect alignment no matter which angle they are viewed from. And the markers themselves are all the same – they don’t discriminate between officers and enlisted personnel, between male and female, Republican or Democrat, straight or gay, Christian, Muslim, Jew, or atheist. Or whether you died heroically in battle, spent your entire service on a safely remote base, or (as was the case for our friend), went from active combat to a long history of alcoholism ending in an ugly suicide.

Everyone there is equal in value. And there’s a waiting list of sorts to get in, especially given the current rate at which we’re losing the WWII, Korean, and even Vietnam vets. Families often forego the comfort of having their loved one buried closer to home because of the tradition associated with Arlington, the honor of the company they’re keeping, and the sheer “Americanism” of it all. These men and women were willing to put their lives on the line to defend ALL of their fellow Americans – not just those of their same religion or political party. They followed the orders of their Commander in Chief, whether that Commander was Lincoln or FDR, George W. Bush or Barack Obama. They put aside whatever differences they had with each other to defend all of the various beliefs that make up America.

Many of them gave their LIVES for that America. Most of us on here can’t seem to even give our fellow Americans the time of day, let alone the common courtesy to respect their differing opinions and values, or to put the good of the country as a whole ahead of our own selfish partisan interests.

Make you feel proud much?

To all our service members – past, present, and future – and to their families and loved ones, I say “thank you”. Next week we can and will return to the petty bickering. But just for the rest of this weekend, can’t we for once put our differences aside and reflect on what this weekend is all about?

Anyone?

He Catered to Riff Raff

Preface: Many years ago my friend Marcia and I decided that instead of giving gifts for our birthdays, the birthday person would give a picture to the other on which a story must be based.  The idea was to write a tale that was engaging, odd, and if possible included shared experiences. Then on the day of the birthday the story would be read.  This is one of those stories.

He Catered to Riff Raff

 

                                    

She sat on the old bentwood rocker, slowly moving to and fro, small dark eyes peering out of her deeply wrinkled face.  The setting sun cast shadows across that craggy visage giving testament to her 90 plus years.  Mrs. Pearl Coleman had lived in Willow Creek Junction all her life.  Everything about the town and everyone in it was filed away in her encyclopedic mind.  She was indeed a pearl — a gem of knowledge about my great-grandfather William Stone.

I came to know Mrs. Coleman while on an unusual (at least for me) vacation to Colorado.  I had been dabbling in genealogy since I was a teenager.  In the course of my research, I reached back in time to my great-grandparents and discovered William Stone, my father’s enate grandfather.  At the National Archives there was little I could discover other than his death recorded in Durango County, Colorado.  In the fall of 1980 I decided that a vacation out West would be a pleasant break from work and give me a chance to look into the life of this person who family members only knew as a “character.”

Records at the Durango County seat told me that William Stone was born in 1868, his parents having arrived at Willow Creek Junction from St. Louis that very year.  His marriage at 17 to Esther Price (a woman 11 years his senior) is also duly recorded.  A deed of trust to property on Main St. and his death certificate dated December 17, 1926 were the only other scraps of information I could find there.  My curiosity was piqued.  Who was this man?  A trip to Willow Creek Junction seemed to be in order.

My first stop in Willow Creek Junction was the local church cemetery.  There among the leaves and debris in the old section of the cemetery I found a white slab of marble resting flat on the ground acting as a frame for a weathered black marker lying atop it.  It read: “STONE William (Bill) Aug 1868 Dec 1926.  He catered to Riff Raff.”  Hmmm, I thought, I wonder what that means.  I really had no idea what this mysterious epitaph meant but decided to find out.

A stroll along Main Street in Willow Creek Junction takes about 15 minutes if you walk slowly.  It’s a small town having seen its glory days during the time of the great cattle drives of the 1880’s.  Now it is more like many other sleepy western towns.  Dusty pickups line the street along the curb, each with its gun rack prominently displayed in the rear window.  I immediately notice that I am the only male not wearing a cowboy hat and boots.  People are friendly but instantly mark me for a stranger with my bare head, Member’s Only jacket and white running shoes adorning my feet.

Whitey’s restaurant reminded me of the many diners I have sampled across the country.  Its screen door announces new customers with screeching springs like a cat whose tail has been stepped on.  Its Formica table tops and the smell of greasy food made me feel right at home.  It was late morning and the rush was over, a time for gossiping among the few stragglers who were in no hurry to be anywhere.

Sally, the waitress, seemed genuinely interested in my story, “Well hon, if you want to know anything about old timers in this town you gotta go see Miz Coleman.  She’s as old as the hills but she still got all her wits!”

A short while later I was sitting on Mrs. Coleman’s porch, a cup of tea perched precariously on my knee.

“So you’re Bill Stone’s great-grandson, huh?” the wizened crone peered at me curiously.

“Yes, Ma’am.  No one in my family is still alive who could tell me much other than that he was a “character’.”

She bobbed her head and chuckled, “Oh, he certainly was that!”

“Can you, I mean will you tell me about him?”

“Oh lordy son, I don’t know where to start.”

An hour or so later I had gleaned some of the story of my great-grandfather.

Bill Stone grew up in Willow Creek Junction after the Civil War when many folks moved West to start a new life.  He married at a young age, taking an older woman for his wife.  Esther died 9 years later in childbirth but not before giving him three children of whom one was my grandmother. (The children were sent “Back East” to live with Esther’s sister Myrtle.)

Bill was the local saloon keeper.  Those were the days of the real Wild West, which was only a little like you see in the movies.  Cowboys, real cowboys, would flood the town after a long cattle drive.  Every kind of person you can imagine was there and they all eventually ended up at the saloon.  Bill had a few rooms upstairs where a couple of ‘girls’ who worked for Bill lived.  Bill didn’t run a whorehouse, but he knew how to take care of customer’s needs.  If the girls invited men to their rooms and made a little money out of it, it was no concern of his.

Mrs. Coleman’s story telling was spellbinding.  I never realized that the old West was not like in the movies.  It was a hard life.  Cowboys would spend weeks together on the trail.  Having no women with them they often turned to each other.  I was surprised to find out that one of every five cowboys was black.  After the war, many sought their fortunes in the west.  Some were even Indians.

By the turn of the century, things were slowing down in the old West.  The cattle drives were largely over.  A large migration of people from the East headed toward California and other western territories.  However, Bill’s Saloon was still the place to meet.

By and by Bill took on a partner; a young man named Ukiah Ford, half black, half Indian.  Ukiah must have been 16 or 17 at the time.  They became inseparable friends.  They lived together and worked together for nearly 20 years before Bill died in 1926.

“Many people wondered about Bill and Ukiah,” mused Mrs. Coleman, “including me.  Bill just doted on Ukiah, doing anything Ukiah asked.  Bill left everything he had to Ukiah when he died, including the saloon.”

“What happened to Ukiah?”  I asked.

“Oh, he’s still around.  He’s my age and we’re the two oldest folks in town.  He lives up in a little house on Friar’s ridge.  He ain’t all there all the time, but he ain’t totally senile either.”

“Mrs. Coleman, you have been very gracious to take the time to tell me about my great grandfather.  I will never forget you.  Do you think I could go see Mr. Ford?”

“Oh sure honey.  Just ask anyone in town how to get up to Friar’s Ridge,” she replied rising from her rocker.  “It’s getting late.  You best wait 'til morning to go up there though.  You gotta place to stay?”

“Yes ma’am, I do.  Thank you so much for your time.”

The next morning found me in Whitey’s restaurant.  After a hearty breakfast, I chatted with Sally who gave me directions to Friar’s Ridge.

I found Mr. Ford’s home and was surprised at how well kept this log home was.  A pretty young girl answered the door.

“Hello.  Mrs. Coleman told me I could find Ukiah Ford here.  Is he home?  May I speak with him?”  I asked her.  “I’m the great grandson of an old friend of his.”

“Yes, he’s here.  Come on in,” she replied.

She ushered me into the parlor that was bright with morning sun.  Sitting in a worn stuffed chair was a quite handsome man despite the many wrinkles of age.  He was coppery in color with high cheek bones and curly white hair.  I could only imagine what he must have looked like in his younger days.

I introduced myself and told him why I had come to visit.

“So, you’re Bill’s great grandson?  I nearly forgot he had kids.  Well, welcome to my home.  Any relative of Bill’s is welcome here,” he said with a broad smile.

“Your great granddaddy was one of the best people god ever put on earth.  He was good to everybody no matter what.  He took in a wild young half-breed and gave him a life.  That was me.  Bill and I were partners in everything.  Lord yes...”  I could tell he was beginning to drift away from me lost in so many memories.

“Mr. Ford.  Mr. Ford!”  I said firmly trying to bring him back to the present.  I was only able to bring him back briefly, but what he had to say before slipping back to the past resolved the mystery I found here.

“Oh quit bein’ so formal.  You’re sort of a relative.  You can call me what Bill always called me.........Riff Raff,” whereupon he slipped back to his gentle dreams.

Europe 85, Part V

Wednesday September 18, 1985, 1:30am, Hotel Elysa, Paris

I am sitting here in my room soaking my feet in the bidet. Not exactly what it’s intended for but who cares?  My feet are quite tired and I’ve managed to develop 2 blisters one on each toe next to the little ones. It must be the fit of the shoes.

I slept from 6p to 8p got up, dressed and walked my usual path down Blvd St. Michel toward Notre Dame. After a bit of meandering, I walked around the Tuilleries down to le Place de la Concorde — a beautiful view of le Place and the Arc de Triomphe further up the Champs Elyseé.  I continued back along the other side of the Tuilleries along the Seine across the Pont Royale, and back to my favorite (cheap) food haunt, la rue de la Huchette.

I had a nice dinner for 69F ($8) — avocado vinaigrette, steak garni with French fries, vanilla ice cream, espresso, and a demi-bouteille de Bordeaux. I did not eat until 11:30pm and finished around 1am.

Impressions:

It is difficult to express how one feels about Paris. It is a city where it seems that quality of life is the raison d’être. Quantity and material things don’t appear to be as important. It is OK to like material things, especially in clothing and other accoutrements, but it all fits a certain attitude.  I was very impressed by what I saw today in the Jardin du Luxembourg.

Jardin_du_Luxembourg

Old people have something to do: a place to congregate with their contemporaries.   Most older people in DC are stuck in front of the TV afraid to go out, and there isn’t much to go out for. People really seem to respect what is beautiful here. In parks it is OK to walk on the grass, but not in les jardins. Men, young and older, playing cards or chess and children romping about after school made a lasting impression.

This is certainly a place for lovers!  Many times I have seen couples (young, old, and in between) strolling hand in hand or kissing not so much as an expression of passion but rather in the spirit of really enjoying the person they are with. Of course, that reminds me of my own loneliness, and I feel a little hurt inside.

I have not had the company of anyone since I came to Europe (except Neville in London and the Walters' on the train). Just to have someone to talk with would be such a  great pleasure. This loneliness is a drag.  Will my whole trip be like this?

My feet are turning into prunes, so I will take them out of the bidet and finish this later.

It is now 5:15am. Lesson to be learned. Don’t drink espresso at 1am or you won’t sleep for hours unless your system is very tolerant of caffeine! Since I am still awake, perhaps I should write a little more.

I seem to have my loose bowels under control now. Must be the good food. Thank god the French have the sense to have public toilets along the main streets. Apparently the old pissoires are all gone now. I have not seen a one. In their place is something new.  It’s an automatic toilet.  I had occasion to use one today. It costs 1F which is placed in a slot and then the door opens.  There is this strange seat where one sits – sort of a plastic groove. After doing whatever, simply open the door. The door closes behind you and locks for a minute while the whole seat area apparently rotates into the back and is scrubbed with disinfectant.  Very ingenious! Assures privacy and cleanliness for 12 cents!

I forgot to mention earlier that while going to American Express the other day I walked along some of the grand boulevards, especially Blvd des Cappucines, then down to Place Vendôme, and along St. Honoré.  This  area is very “uptown” in appearance.  The buildings seem more formal, lots of large businesses and many large and expensive stores.  At Place Vendôme major jewelers like Cartier, Van Cleef & Arpels and banks are situated. I remember looking at one ring – nothing special – for 136,000F ($16,000)! I can’t imagine what the diamond and ruby necklace next to it must have cost. All in all I find I am not nearly as comfortable on the Right Bank as I am on the Left. The Right seems to be for the well to do and the Left more for just regular people.

It is now 6am.  I’ll try to get a couple of hours sleep before breakfast.

The Cat Has a Name!

Thanks to all of you who were so helpful in suggesting names for my new-found feline.  He and I are getting along well and getting used to each other.  I think this will turn out to be a good relationship.

After considering nearly 80 suggested names, including some that I added to the list, I still had not found a name that seemed to fit this cat. I was getting annoyed at myself for not being able to come up with a good name.  Friday morning I woke up and a word popped into my head out of the blue: Renard.

Renard is the French word for fox and was not on my list at all, but I liked it.  I did a little googling and found that there is a very old story (ca 1152) about Reynard the Fox.  I knew that if I chose this name I would most likely be calling him Rennie.  That made me think of Michael Rennie of the 1951 classic “The Day the Earth Stood Still” one of my favorite movies. (Click here for Netflix Description and Reviews)So as is natural to most humans one thought leads to another and the cat’s name, though a bit strange (what else would you expect from me?) took shape.
My new partner in crime's name is:

Reynard Klaatu

Rennie for short.

Here are some pics for those who haven’t seen any.