Archive » September 2024 » Columns

DELANSON — In spite of the fantastic run of great weather we all have been enjoying lately, there are signs that are hard to miss about what time of the year this is.

It is dark when I get up in the morning; in fact it was dark as I drove to Gibby's Diner on Sept. 17 to meet with my fellow OMOTM for breakfast. The sunrise on Tuesday occurred at 6:30 a.m., sunset will be at 7:02 p.m.

The leaves are starting to turn and some are ready to fall. Vacations are over, and school buses are everywhere.

The lakes are getting quiet. Many boats have been pulled out and some docks have been pulled out in preparation for, and in anticipation of, end-of-season work to close down the camps on the area lakes.

It is not like the rush of the springtime when we can’t wait for the summer season to start. This is a much slower time; some may even call it the annual resistance to face the inevitable.

These resistance fighters will point to the 80-degree bright sunny days we have had and say, “See? Summer is not over! This is the best part of the year!”

OK, OK, I get it, but the school buses are still running, high school football games are being played, college and pro football games dominate the weekend TV. It is still dark when we wake up and it gets dark shortly after we get home from work.

I think the new drop-dead time to acknowledge Yogi Berra’s famous line from last week, “It ain't over till it’s over,” is probably Oct. 14, Columbus Day. Three weeks after that is when Daylight Savings Time ends, a hard freeze can happen anytime, and our peak foliage is starting to fade.

 

From fruit flies

To DoodleBugs

One of the tables on Tuesday got to talking about fruit flies. An OF asked out of the clear blue, “How long do fruit flies live?”

Instantly, another OF fired back an answer, “Forty-two days.”

This was accepted and a further discussion followed as to how to get rid of them and where do they come from. Your scribe, who is a curious sort, checked Google when he got home about the life span of the fruit fly.

Sure enough, he found out that life span was 40 to 50 days, depending on several factors, so 42 days was an absolutely correct answer!

From fruit flies, the conversation moved naturally to DoodleBugs.

Again, I had to check with my friend, Mr. Google. I found out that DoodleBug is a slang name for a homemade tractor during World War II when tractors were in short supply.

Larry Kosilla of Autoweek says, “The DoodleBugs of the 1940s were typically made from Model As or Model Ts. Conversion kits were $300 back then so farmers just did it themselves.”

Does that frame of mind or attitude sound familiar? Do you think the OMOTM, when young, would watch their fathers “just do it themselves?” You better believe they did.

So, moving ahead a generation, to the current OMOTM, they, too, built their version of a DoodleBug. These young men searched out the junkyards, or “boneyards” as some were called.

One OF at the table recounted that they would get permission to search around the yard until they found an old car that still ran, paid the junkyard $25, and drove it on the back roads until they met some friends and then towed the junker home and went to work. Presto, one DoodleBug was born!

 

Junkyards

This led to a general discussion of old and current junk yards in the area. Turns out just about all of us have used the junkyards to find that old car part we need. 

In the old days, the OFs said you would bring your own tools, find what you needed, remove it, and bring it to the junkyard owner, pay for it, and be on your way.

Another OF wanted to know where he might find a certain radiator, just in CASE, he said. When asked about the word CASE, he said it stood for “Couldn’t Afford Something Else.”

Another OF said he knew of a place but two of you better go to it, one to stay with the car, or at least lock your car if you were alone. About this time, another OF came to the table with a suggestion of yet another boneyard our OF might want to consider.

You just never know who is listening to which conversation when you are having breakfast with the OMOTM. We do talk sort of loud, because none of us can hear worth a damn.

Well, from resisting the passing of the seasons, to fruit flies, to DoodleBugs, to boneyards, the time flew by and another great Tuesday breakfast was had by all of us at Gibby's Diner. Those who were there included Frank A. Fuss, Pete Whitbeck, George Washburn, Michael Kruzinski, Ted Feurer, Wayne Gaul, Jake Lederman, Wm Lichliter, Jake Herzog, Ken Parks, Joe Rack, Glenn Patterson, Mark Traver, Gerry Chartier, Marty Herzog, Warren Willsey, Roger Shafer, John Williams Lou Schenck, John Jaz, Jack Norray, Dick Dexter, Gerry Cross, John Dab, Paul Guiton, Elwood Vanderbuilt, Dave Hodgetts, and me.

— Photo from the Guilderland Historical Society

The Becker Bridge, destroyed in 1938, was originally named after the farm family that had lived nearby. Bridges of that name had been in that spot for generations, but this was not the same location of the present bridge over the Bozenkill. In 1939, New York state replaced the old Becker Bridge with a new one in the location on Route 158 we are familiar with today, building a bridge of steel girders 65 feet long and straightening out the road to make it safer.

Overcast early morning skies on Sept. 21, 1938 found Guilderland farmers going about their chores, workers driving to their jobs, local businessmen and professionals opening their stores or offices, and housewives tackling their usual household routines.

Other local folks were out of town. Mr. and Mrs. Walter Fick had left their home in Altamont early with their daughter Ruth driving 210 miles east to Providence, Rhode Island, planning to drop Ruth off at college, then returning home the same day.

Vacationing that week at Orient Point on eastern Long Island was another Altamont family Mr. and Mrs. Frederick McCellan and son.

Also on vacation were Mr. and Mrs. Weidaw, a former WGY announcer with his wife, Margaret Waterman Weidaw, originally of Altamont where her parents still resided on Western Avenue. The couple now lived in Connecticut, but he was still well known in this area. The two were aboard the Cunard luxury liner Carinthia heading to the West Indies.

In the meantime, out in the Atlantic, a Category 5 hurricane had formed, reaching estimated winds of 155 miles per hour. Originally this storm had been predicted by the United States Weather Bureau to lash into southern Florida where people made ready for the storm.

However, the ferocious storm changed course, heading north, passing to the east of the Carolinas, dropping by then to a Category 3 storm with winds from 111 to 129 miles per hour. At that time, radio messages from ship captains were the only way for weather forecasters to track hurricanes.

Categorizing them with numbers based on wind speeds came into being in 1969 when the Saffir-Simpson wind scale was developed. However, in retrospect, modern meteorologists now use these categories to describe the hurricane of 1938.

Normally in 1938 a hurricane would have been expected to curve northeast out to sea, moving away from the cold waters off New England.

Except for Charles Pierce, a young U.S. Weather Bureau weather forecaster who predicted that it would go straight north aiming at New England, all the more senior personnel including the head of the bureau overruled him, opting for the storm’s traditional path out to sea with the result that no hurricane warning went out to the folks in its direct path either on Long Island or in New England or that it was particularly dangerous storm.

The ferocious and unpredicted hurricane made landfall on eastern Long Island in the midafternoon on Sept. 21, 1938, the storm surge coming in with high tide. The area was quickly devastated with beachfront summer cottages washed out to sea or damaged beyond repair by driving rain and hurricane-force winds. Lives were lost.

Crossing Long Island Sound to Connecticut and Rhode Island, the howling winds, flooding from torrential rain, and tidal surges began to cause catastrophic damage and huge loss of life. An observatory south of Boston recorded one wind gust at 186 miles per hour.

Buildings were blown down or severely damaged by wind and water, streams and rivers overflowed, causing irreparable damage in many mill towns where flooding destroyed factories. The power grid was wiped out.

Worst of all was the loss of life. The intensity of the hurricane grew less as it moved into far northern New England, but its effects were felt as far away as Canada and points west to Guilderland and the surrounding Capital District towns and cities in local counties.

In the Capital District that day, the overcast skies darkened and the rain began. By midafternoon, torrents poured down, the rain driven sideways by gale-force winds.

As the hours passed, streams began to rise, and trees began crashing down, blocking roads and taking down electric and telephone wires as they fell. Roads were flooded and sometimes washed out.

Bridges were sometimes washed out as well. Washouts and flooding also occurred along the railroad lines. All this occurred even though the area was 175 miles to the west of the intense hurricane.

 

Local damage

Two days later, The Enterprise’s lead headline told it all: “Backwash of Tropical Hurricane Rakes Entire Area Wednesday As Floods Wreck Bridges; Crops Down” and “Death Toll In North Atlantic States Mounts Press Reports; Local Sections Are Flooded As Streams Go On Worst Rampage In Quarter Of A Century.”

The writer reported, “Albany was a picture of general misery” but by comparison “damage to property in coastal states [was] beyond calculation.”

After gales described as “mile a minute” accompanied by “blinding sheets of rain” lasted for hours, this area was a “picture of general misery with trees and power lines down and highways flooded” with some bridges out even though the area was distant from the worst of the storm.

An estimate of the rainfall that had come down in the storm and the previous two days in this area was estimated to have been 6.28 inches. Any crops that had been left unharvested were flattened by the howling winds and soaked by the rain for a total loss.

Cellar flooding was common anywhere in town that was near an overflowing stream or in a low-lying area. Particularly hard hit was Altamont where the small streams that run through the village overflowed, flooding cellars and leaving debris all over the village.

Just previous to the storm, Altamont High School had updated the elementary playground and regraded and reseeded the baseball field only to have it ruined by rushing water and strewn with debris. Repairs were estimated to cost $800 ($17,000 in modern dollars), a hefty loss to taxpayers during that Depression year.

More severe local damage occurred when the Becker Bridge on the Altamont-Schenectady Road was washed out by a raging Bozenkill, leaving behind a “wreck of concrete and steel.”

Traffic on main roads was stalled the night of the storm due to flooding or trees down. In some local areas railroad traffic was snarled with flooded tracks or washouts undermining tracks. Waters of the Normanskill were especially high along its length.

Damage and flooding was common not only in Guilderland, but also in surrounding towns and counties. Schenectady County was also affected by damaged roads, bridges, and railroads with trees and power lines down. Crops still in fields were ruined.

Initially Schoharie County was isolated by extensive flooding, bridges down, and road damage. The Hudson River crested at 18 to 19 feet, especially affecting Troy where the state stepped in to provide supplies to aid flood victims.

Appeals were made by the local Red Cross chapter for cash donations to bring aid to the devastated areas battered by the worst of the storm. Their notice in The Enterprise said, “10,000 families are temporarily homeless and under care of the Red Cross.”

Cash only was requested since transportation was so badly affected that shipping food and other supplies was almost impossible. Seeking to raise $4,000, for the next few weeks, local Enterprise columns included the names of Red Cross representatives in various areas of town who would take donations.

In the weeks after the storm Enterprise articles recounted stories of local folks who were caught in the hurricane at its worst. The Ficks, who had left Altamont that morning heading to Providence had gotten within eight miles of the city, having encountered flooded roads, barns down, fallen trees, downed power lines, and being detoured from one roadway to another.

Finally unable to go any further, they spent two hours sitting in the car until things let up enough that they could go into a nearby gas station where they ended up spending the night.

Returning to Altamont, they witnessed that homes had been washed away, while others were submerged in water. Downed trees and power lines and poles along with debris left by the storm clogged roads, snarling traffic. The Ficks arrived back home in Altamont around midnight Thursday, estimating they had covered 600 miles.

Riding out the hurricane at their vacation accommodation at Orient Point, the McClellan family experienced the storm. Mrs. McClellan noted that many substantial summer cottages were washed out to sea, blown down, or submerged by the tide and storm surge.

Nearby the state park was almost barren of standing trees. After the storm passed, the downtown area was underwater with people being rescued from the second floors of their homes. Returning to Altamont on Friday, the McClellans found traffic snarled by downed trees and power lines.

A week later, the tale of the Weidaws wastold. Their luxury liner rode out the full fury of the storm before the winds dropped slightly in intensity to Category 3.

The ship’s captain had changed course to escape the fury of the storm, but the storm also changed course and the Carinthia found itself in the thick of it. His account of the storm had been taken from the Hartford Courier and reprinted in The Enterprise.

With both captain and crew members claiming it had been the worst storm they had ever experienced at sea, most passengers were sea sick and in some cases thrown down by the rolling ship. Once the storm had passed when it was possible to go outside, Mr. Weidaw observed there was much surface damage with covers torn from life boats and one actually torn from its davits. Fortunately, with the skill of the captain handling the ship, no major damage occurred and they arrived safely in Jamaica.

The New York Telephone Company president placed a large ad, which probably ran in many newspapers, thanking the public for its “forbearance” for the time it took to restore service to 50,000 telephone customers in the area from Hudson to Glens Falls. Crews had been called in from Virginia and other states unaffected by the storm. The fallen trees and debris had made their job difficult.

 

Record-setting

The Hurricane of 1938 — naming hurricanes did not begin until the early 1950s — is still considered the worst weather disaster of the 20th Century in eastern Long Island and New England. The confirmed death toll reached 682, but is believed to be much higher because many victims were washed out to sea with high storm surges.

So extensive was tree loss that the U.S. Forest Service estimated that there had been two billion trees blown down. Losses were suffered by farmers, the fishing industry, small factories in milltowns, owners of the approximate 26,000 automobiles demolished and the estimated 57,000 structures destroyed or damaged, only a small amount of which was covered by insurance.

Losses were catastrophic, emotionally as well as financially. Modern estimates of the losses are in the neighborhood of close to five billion dollars. Fortunately it was a fast moving storm or the flooding would have been worse.

Guilderland and the Capital District got off lightly by comparison, but the unexpected storm caused inconvenience to those with flooded cellars and financial loss to many farmers or for repairs to outages, whether electric, telephone, rail or roads.

Note: Weather buffs might want to read “Sudden Sea: the Great Hurricane of 1938” by R.A. Scott. There are also some interesting websites for the Hurricane of 1938.

“The Red Canoe” was painted by Winslow Homer in the 1880s.

Late season angling is productive because cooling temperatures and shorter days sharpen fish appetites. With the sun rising later, cooler air temperatures, and a lessening of biting bugs, fishing is more pleasant for the angler.

A recent trip to the edge of Thoreau’s Maine Woods proved, again, how appealing late summer and autumn angling can be.

Recently, my friend Bob LaRoche, a landscape architect and Maine resident, wrote and invited me to join him and his friend Cliff Curtis on a camping trip with secret brook trout ponds. On Friday, Sept. 13, Bob, Cliff, and I headed north.

After following part of the route that Benedict Arnold and his troops had taken to invade Canada, Bob and Cliff left the paved road, put their trucks in four-wheel drive and we bumped and lurched over neglected paper-company gravel roads.

When we got to the campsite, we found Cliff’s friend Pete Belanger had arrived the day before and set up part of the camp. Pete, we learned, had beaten the traditionally unlucky 13, catching four brook trout over a foot long. He further underlined how productive late season fishing can be by saying his fishing was better than it was two weeks earlier.

We went to the pond where Pete had fished, a water body so large it could also be called a lake, at the height of the afternoon. Pete invited me to fish with him and fishing was initially slow. But after making yet another sunscreen application, we reached a remote cove and hooked, caught, and missed a few fish.

When the action stopped, we changed flies. I chose a nymph, a fly type fished underwater, that Curtis had tied in a pattern called “Candy Bar,” with glittery tinsel the colors of a Snickers bar.

While retrieving the nymph, something took the fly with a solid hit. The hit instantly brought me alert, and I raised the rod tip and concentrated on bringing in the line.

As the fish rose to the surface, it looked big. When the fish was near the canoe, Pete netted it, a 15-inch brook trout, the largest trout I have ever landed!

This pond, and the others we fished, have a state-mandated slot limit. Anglers may only keep fish in a narrow size range, a “slot,” that requires releasing smaller and larger fish — to keep the fishery healthy and self-sustaining. The brook trout was outside the slot, and I released it as quickly and carefully as possible.

The fishing slowed but became more active toward dusk. Fish began rising, taking insects on the surface or insects swimming to the surface. A small brook trout leapt over six inches out of the water in pursuit of a dragonfly its own size.

We caught and kept a few legal-sized fish for dinner, caught and released many fish, and had so many short strikes that we lost count.

During the next two days, we fished other ponds and a stream flowing from the big pond. We all caught and hooked fish each day — even if they were small fish.

Cliff has a piece of equipment that is part GPS, part fish finder, and part sonar. While fishing, he consulted this item to locate fish and to gather information to prepare a map of the pond bottoms, to provide clues for where fish might gather.

This trip reminded me again of the importance of preparation. At home, I have everything ready for stream fishing. But this trip reminded me that taking a different kind of trip requires more careful preparation.

Bob has camping equipment already packed and carefully labeled. Although it took him time to pre-pack equipment, it allowed him to load his truck in minutes. Cliff and Pete have fished these ponds and streams before; both have a sense of where the fish are more likely to be.

In training videos, one person portrays the right way to do something and another foolishly makes mistakes. For this trip, I was the fool. I packed many things. But I left a warm jacket at Bob’s house, which would have been nice when it got cooler the second night, and I did not have a sink-tip fly line.

When I bought my fishing license, I was in such a hurry that I did not get a copy of the Maine fishing regulations. Cliff and Pete knew the rules, but if I were fishing without them, I might have gotten in trouble.

Similarly, Cliff and Pete shared advice on fly patterns and gave me flies. Having friends or a tackle store to advise on what is working makes the trip more enjoyable and productive. If a person wants to fish in Maine and does not have experienced friends, look for a Registered Maine Guide to bring a full experience.

Many great fishing places are accessible with a regular car. But for this trip, the roads were so poor that a four-wheel drive vehicle was not optional. Around one campfire, Cliff and Bob recalled, in rueful tones, having to help a friend get a two-wheel drive truck unstuck on a poorly maintained road. 

Finally, this trip illustrated again that fishing is more than pursuing fish. On the ride home, we stopped at a rest area and 140 acres of open space. Bob had managed the acquisition and development of this place when he was at the Maine Department of Transportation — the views from the place are spectacular. 

The ponds and the stream looked as if they came straight out of a Winslow Homer painting. Maple trees turning red and yellow on a shoreline looked exactly like the trees in Homer’s October Day. Homer painted the watercolor, “The Red Canoe,” and I rode with Pete and Cliff in each of their red canoes. 

If you cannot make it to Maine, there are many great places nearby. Even parts of Rensselaer County look like the Great North Woods.

But my trip was personally memorable. Thank you, Bob, Cliff, and Pete!

MIDDLEBURGH — It’s after Labor Day, and the early morning temperature is in the 50s, the lake water is much warmer than the air, fog lays in the valleys, some leaves are falling. School buses are rolling in large numbers, and what’s that in our rear-view mirror?

Summer.

I’ve been warning you for the past two weeks that this was coming; now we will just wait for a frost and then we can settle in for what we hope will be a nice long Indian Summer. With any luck, it will be a month or more before that first frost happens.

The average first frost is Oct. 3 — I looked it up. I am sure that we have some more 80-degree days left to enjoy. I looked that up too; the last 80-degree day is a month later, on Nov 2.

Enough of the weather. The OMOTM gathered this fine crisp morning, Sept. 3, at Mrs. K’s Kitchen in Middleburgh.

Soon our ranks will thin out a little as a few of the OFs depart for warmer parts of the country. But not yet.

One of life’s puzzles is the huge number of birthdays in the month of September. One such birthday, a very special one, takes place this week; it is number 90 for Jack Norray! Congratulations to Jack — Happy Birthday!

 

Muscle car

One of our OFs showed up on Tuesday in his 1958 Pontiac Catalina, which was parked directly across the street so we all could see it. Remember a couple weeks ago when I wrote about some of the OFs talking about how the cars of today all sort of looked the same?

Well, just about every one of us knew that this car was a late ’50s Pontiac, and most of those knew it was a Catalina somewhere close to a ’58.

It had chrome, it had two colors, and it was a picture-perfect muscle car. We all knew that from across the street! I hope the OF brings it next week, ’cause I’ll take the time to check it out.

If all the OFs who have classic cars, and motorcycles, all brought them to the same breakfast, from the Model T to the muscle cars, it would be quite a sight.

 

Nude vicissitude

Last week, an OF brought an article he noticed in the Times Union newspaper to this scribe’s attention. Last week, the scribe didn’t have room in his column to give it the proper attention it deserves.

But this is a new week and this is time sensitive, so time is of the essence and the scribe had to figure out how to properly write about this rather sad subject concerning the demise of a six-year tradition at the popular tourist attraction, Howe Caverns, while not offending some readers of The Altamont Enterprise.

The scribe is not at all worried about offending the OFs because, as we all know, they are unoffendable (that’s one of the rules to become an OMOTM; I believe it is # 7.) We get mad, we get upset, we get angry, but it is nearly impossible to offend us.

In any event, here goes. The lead headlines went like this, “Naked in a Cave to Bare All One Last Time” and “Howe Caverns to strip event out of its annual lineup.”

(Newspaper people just cannot resist writing headlines like that! But not The Altamont Enterprise! They would never fall for such an easy play on words. Absolutely not! They would never use the word strip. They would use words like “discontinue” or “cancel.”)

The article goes on to say it is a self-guided tour in which attendees stroll au naturel through the cavern — and that this all started on July 14, 2018, on National Nude Day. Who knew?

I’ll tell you who knew: Each year about 250 to 300 people stroll along for about 1.25 miles in 50- to 55-degree temperatures; that’s who knew.

Precautions are in place to ensure privacy. First, and foremost, the cave offers an extra layer of privacy because all this takes place 156 feet underground in the cave. You gotta have a ticket; there are no other people wandering around except maybe a stray bat.

A keyboardist will play music, and hot chocolate and cookies are provided halfway through the stroll and a towel (I hope it is hot!) is provided to sit on if you take the boat ride.

I don’t know about anybody else, and I love hot chocolate and cookies, but 50 to 55 degrees gets pretty cold for this OF in a very short amount of time! A lot less time than it takes for a 1.25 mile stroll au naturel.

It would take at least one-and-a half days for this OF to stroll that far! I’m a slow stroller, and the colder I get, the slower I stroll. Anyway, this is it. It’s all over after Sept. 28. A sad day for those of us who enjoy a good cup of hot chocolate and cookies.

Those of  us making plans for the 28th while enjoying breakfast at Mrs. K’s included,  Harold Guest, Wally Guest, Ed Goff, Wm Lichliter, Pete Whitbeck, George Washburn, Kevin McDonald, Gary Schultz, Jim Austin, Mark Traver, Glenn Patterson, Joe Rack, Ken Parks, Jake Herzog, Roland Tozer, Gerry Chartier, Marty Herzog, Frank Dees, Ted Feurer, Wayne Gaul, Jake Lederman, Russ Pokorny, Warren Willsey, Alan Defazio, Lou Schenck, Herb Bahrmann, Gerry Cross, Jack Norray, Dick Dexter, John Dab, Paul Guiton, Bob Donnelly, Elwood Vanderbilt, Dave Hodgetts, Dave Wood, and me.

“Homage to Catalonia” by George Orwell, cover photo.

As regular readers of “Field Notes” in The Enterprise know, on occasion I have alluded to a personality test I was developing that I now call the Personality Assessment Inventory, the PAI.

It’s unique in that it includes questions about a person’s social life, his ongoing relationships within the community — his social environment — to find out about not only the work a person does but also about his involvement in groups like the food pantry, the local public library, or a community sports team — to see if he’s a coach interested in just one player.   

And part of such service — or more correctly the apex of it — is doing things for others without seeking anything in return — no ax to grind, no ulterior motive — just doing things, helping out, to make the community a better place — making it feel more like home (for everyone).  

Understandably there’s considerable complexity in such issues and, to help people unravel their neurons, if you will, the PAI’s questions are structured to encourage respondents to speak freely.

The first question of the PAI is: “Are you selfless?” That is: Are you someone people refer to as a “selfless person”?

Of course our research team starts jotting down notes right away because — sociologically-speaking — the answers are gold, never mind the gift they give to psychology.

Question 2 is: “Do you know anybody who is selfless: maybe personally; maybe someone you met along the way; maybe you worked with such a soul?”

And there are two sub-questions to that; the first is: “Have you ever read about anyone who was and/or is selfless?”

And the second is: “Can you recall a situation when someone treated you selflessly? That is, you were given something, or somebody did something for you without asking for anything in return so you never felt put in debt.”

And you saw that the person you mentioned treated other people the same way, so he seemed selfless to the core.

Which leads us to: “In your family growing up, was there anyone who was selfless? Is there anyone in your family now who is so?”

And all answers, at each stage of the way, require naming names.

And the obverse of such questioning must be posed as well, that is: “Was there anybody in your family growing up — or among those you live with now — you regard as ‘selfish,’ as in ‘ish’”?

Epexegetically-speaking, it’s the person who — after you’ve had a few beers — you start referring to as “the selfish pig.”

Remember, there’s a wide spectrum of values in the PAI so there are no wrong answers. We note everything.

And with respect to those you said were, or are, selfless: Rate their selflessness from one to ten: a zero being someone like Donald Trump and a ten Mother Teresa.

And you must say how you came to your scores, must delineate the measuring stick you use to assess another’s ethics.

The combined answers to all the PAI’s questions, of course, are essentially a CT scan of your soul, the value- and belief-system that’s determined how giving a person you are.

Which brings us back to question 1: “Are you a selfless person?” And those who say “No,” must also say: “What happened?” “What went wrong?” “Why did you give up on humanity?” “And on yourself?”

Questions like these of course are ideologically-loaded, but it’s a road that must be gone down today because so many Americans are jaundiced through and through, whining like Woody Allen in “Crimes and Misdemeanors”: “Life is dog eat dog; worse than that, the dogs don’t even return your phone calls.”

Years ago, when I was editor-in-chief of a progressive justice journal out of the UK called “Contemporary Justice Review,” I put out a call for papers for a special issue dealing with the kinds of issues just mentioned.

Potential respondents — in or outside the university, there was no education requirement — had to say how their ethical system came to be, what beliefs helped shape the code of conduct by which they lived, and where their sense of justice came from.

The special issue of my journal never came off; the academic community didn’t bite. I was more puzzled than displeased.

As editor of the journal, I had had good luck with calls for papers — the response at times was flooding — but the academics wanted no part of: “Are you selfish?” “Are you just?” “What rules do you live by?” “Have you given up on humanity?” “Are people better off after spending time with you?”

My error in thinking was that I labored under the illusion that every university person interested in “justice” would want to write his own “On the Genealogy of Morality” and out-Nietzsche Nietzsche.

One person who did do that — and at every stage of his life — was the great 20th Century British writer, George Orwell.

People who know him know him from “Nineteen Eighty-Four” and “Animal Farm,” two pieces of brilliant artistry that are ranked among the best stories ever told during the twentieth century, many folks having come upon the writer in their summer reading list in high school.

Orwell answers all the questions posed above in a 1946 essay called “Why I Write,” which appeared the year after “Animal Farm” came out.

He was trying to disentangle his neurons to see where next to go in life to be true to a sense of justice kindled in him in 1936.

Toward the end of that year, as an official reporter for “The New Leader,” the weekly paper of the Independent Labour Party in England, he was sent to Spain to survey what was going on in the “Spanish Civil War” and report back home.

As we know from history, the war began when Francisco Franco Bahamonde, aka “Franco,” the commander-in-chief of bands of fascist forces, crushed the democratic republic of Spain and declared himself dictator (king), a position he held onto from 1939 to 1975. He was known as “Caudillo” which some Spanish dictionaries translate as “Mussolini.”

After surveying the landscape of “the Spanish Civil War” for just a few days, Orwell the reporter, laid down his writing pad, picked up a gun, and headed to the front to join the democratic forces pushing against the fascist muscle of Franco.

Everything that happened day by day while he was there — for example, what it was like being a soldier in a “socialist” army — Orwell included in his brilliant memoir “Homage to Catalonia,” which is ranked one of the top three or four nonfiction books written during the 20th Century. 

But after only a short time at the front, Orwell got shot in the throat — the bullet went all the way through — and had to leave the war to heal, then later the country to escape with his life.

Historically, “Homage to Catalonia” has been disrespected by indifference even though the war story far surpasses in suspense and intrigue anything portrayed in M.A.S.H. on TV and even in Altman’s movie of the same name.

And because of how Orwell conducted himself in Spain and in his writing, there are many who still refer to him as a “secular saint.”

In “Why I Write,” Orwell explains that in his life the war in Spain “turned the scale and thereafter [every] line of serious work … I have written since 1936 has been written, directly or indirectly, against totalitarianism.”

It was a vow he never reneged on. He never gave up on humanity, or himself.

With a new kind of totalitarianism knocking on America’s door these days — and with so many Americans holding that door widely ajar — I can hear Mr. Orwell whisper with the hoarse throat he was shot in Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

MIDDLEBURGH — The Middleburgh Diner was the meeting spot for this week’s edition of the OMOTM breakfast. In a continuation of last week’s column with regards to the end of the traditional summer, the OF’s were heard to be talking about the speed of the passing of yet another summer.

It really does seem as though the Memorial Day Parade was just yesterday. Many colleges and some high schools are already open, and the rest will open in one week. This weekend is Labor Day weekend for goodness sake!

Vacations really are winding down and our visiting relatives and friends are heading home, except for one last party with family and friends over the weekend to celebrate the end of a great summer. September looms before us with its own bucket list of things that must be done, or some things that have been put off until after the fun of summer is over which now must be done.

 

A proud moment

On Sept. 12, a very important event, and a very proud moment for the family of an Old Man Of The Mountain, Frank Dees, will occur. Frank’s older brother, First Lieutenant Timothy Roy Dees, was severely wounded while fighting in battle and a year later, to the day, after much rehab, he received his honorable military discharge.

There is an organization that honors a group of these men and women from their geographic area, by providing an expense-paid flight to Washington, D.C., then taking them on a tour of the Vietnam Wall, Korean War Memorial, World War II Memorial, Navy, Air Force, Lincoln, and Iwo Jima memorials, as well as the changing of the guard at the Tomb of the Unknowns, all this and more, before heading back to the plane for the flight home.

While in the service, all soldiers always looked forward to “mail call.” In that spirit, the OMOTM of the Hilltowns around Albany, New York would like our member, OF Frank, to make sure that his older brother Tim gets this column along with our heartfelt thanks for Tim’s service to his country.

Many of the OMOTM also served, or have family members who served, many suffering wounds and some even paid the ultimate sacrifice. The Old Men of the Mountain know all about this, they lived it, and they appreciate what the Dees family will be feeling on Sept. 12.

 

The real deal

Also heard and seen on Tuesday morning, Aug. 27, was a show-and-tell discussion about a local man and friend of one of our OFs who makes cannons! Our OF had several pictures of some of the cannons his friend has made.

He also makes the two-wheeled trailers to mount the cannons on.

It all looked exactly like what I see in old photographs from the Civil War or on the ships of that era. Those cannons, with the cannons mounted on them, were towed behind horses when the armies moved to the next battlefield.

And these cannons work! They are the real deal. They are full size, not toys . He even makes the cannon balls! All by himself.

No big factory here, just him and his small shop. Fascinating. You just don't know what you will find up here in the Hilltowns.

 

Memory Lane

Your current scribe has mentioned before that, on occasion, he will dig back in the archives and see what was going on way back when. So here we are.

Looking back with John Williams, Scribe Emeritus for the OMOTM:

This part of John’s column on March 12, 1998 dealt with the wives’ response to a question posed to them by the Old Men as to why they were not joining them for breakfast:

“We can't afford it.”

“I don't get that much of a kick out of waitresses. They don’t sit on my lap.”

“Why would I want to go out with a lot of old women and talk about old times?”

“That’s my day to go shopping without him following me around saying ‘Aren't you done yet?’ or ‘Do we need that?’”

“Who's going to run the business? He spends more in a week than we make in a month.”

“That's my morning to sleep late. I don’t have to get his breakfast.”

“I use that day to pick up and put away what he has dragged out all week.”

The Old Men decided they better let well enough alone.

John’s list of members present that morning in March in 1998, included Herbie Wolford (Founding Father), Mike Willsey, John Williams, Gerd Remmers, Myron Filkins, Harold Murphy, Ivan Baker (Founding Father), and George Washburn. They all met at the Alley Cat Diner in Schoharie. (Yesterday’s Alley Cat Diner is today’s Your Way Café, located in the same place.)

And that’s it for this week’s column from the Middleburgh Diner. Those enjoying breakfast on this fine morning in August 2024 were Harold Guest, Wally Guest, Ed Goff, Wm Lichliter, George Washburn and John Williams (both of whom were here today and on March 12, 1998), Miner Stevens, Gary Schultz, Roland Tozer, Bradley and Bruce and Brian McLaughlin who were family guests of Miner Stevens, (welcome guys), Marty Herzog, Jake Herzog, Waren Willsey, Frank Dees, Jack Norray, Gerry Cross, Dick Dexter, Lou Schenck, John Jaz, and me.