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Slowly but surely, my friends are all finding their way to Lancaster, and I look forward to seeing all of them. When they visit, I convert my bedroom into a guest room. It’s still full of my stuff, but the sheets are laundered and the bed is made. That makes it a guest room.  For special guests, I might even vacuum. Since I have a queen-sized bed and I live on North Queen Street, I’m calling it the Queen Suite on Queen Street. Catchy, huh?

My most recent guests were my Scrabble-playing friends, Barbara and Jim. It was their second visit, but the first time that they stayed in the Queen Suite. The last time they were in town, Barbara had injured her leg and was in a wheel chair, so they stayed at a handicap-friendly motel nearby. I know that they both love to eat, so the first time they were here, I went out and stocked the refrigerator full. Then they showed up with enough groceries to feed an Ethiopian refuge camp. Naturally we didn’t finish it all, so after they left, I wound up finishing everything, and within a month, my belt was buckled about 3 holes beyond where it had been before their arrival.

This time they stayed here in my house, but knowing the way they travel, I didn’t stock up too much food ahead of time. I had the eggs and breakfast items I knew we would need, but little else. I guessed right. They showed up with everything in the supermarket except the boy who bags the groceries.   Oh well, there goes my New Year’s Resolution to lose weight. I was just glad I had notches left on my belt to accommodate the weight I expected to gain.

Jim is a handyman, by trade, and the last time he was here he fixed a major problem with my kitchen sink. So, when the handle on my toilet broke a few days before their arrival, I just bought the parts I needed and left them on top of the tank. “The handle’s not working so you have to open the tank and lift the handle manually,” I said knowing that Jim wouldn’t be able to resist fixing it. I was right again. The very first time he went to the bathroom, he fixed it and had it working like new. If you’re anywhere near Secaucus, NJ and need anything fixed, I’ll give you his number. He does everything…Plumbing, Electric, Carpentry, anything. If it breaks, he can fix it, and he does terrific work at a very reasonable price. (Free, for me, ‘cos I’m special!)

We had lunch, and then they ordered out for a pizza for “dessert.” I wondered if the few spare notches left on my belt would be enough. Then we settle down to a game of Scrabble before dinner. The games of Scrabble I’ve been playing with Crazy Debbie had lulled me into a false sense of security. I never lose to her. Now I was swimming with the sharks, though, and I got my ass kicked in the first game. Basking in the glory of victory, Jim was ready for dinner. No, I protested. Let’s play another game first. “Okay,” they said, and Jim proceeded to win again. Then we ate some more.

After dinner, I finally won a game, and then it was time for a snack. We played some more Scrabble and talked about the old days. I broke out a few picture albums, and Barbara broke out her FaceBook pages of pictures. Another snack and it was time for bed.

Breakfast is a major production, and Jim is the producer and chef. “Do you have any more frying pans?” he asked me. “There are two on the stove,” I responded. “Isn’t that enough?”

“No,” he said and gave me a look like I must be joking, thinking that two frying pans was enough to prepare one of his gourmet breakfasts.

“Look in the oven. I never use it. There might be something in there.”

He found what he needed, and was off to the races. Pretty soon we were sitting at a table heaped with scrambled eggs, home-fried potatoes, various meats, toast, bagels, and pots of coffee.

After breakfast, naturally, we played more Scrabble. Jim piled up two more victories, and so did I. Then it was time for dinner. When my friend John visits, he likes to go to the Onion Café. When Geralyn visits she likes to take me to the upscale Belvedere Inn. When Marianne visited with her family we went to the family friendly Alley Kat. Maria prefers Italian food, but she will eat anywhere that serves Pinot Grigio wine. My brother and our mutual friend Jimmy usually like a barbecue in the backyard when they visit. For Barbara and Jim, I picked out a special place for people who really love to eat a lot of food, Fat Pigs.

“Fat Pigs?” they both questioned.

“Don’t get nervous, the name refers to the menu, not the customers. It’s a sports bar for people who love pork. They put bacon on everything.   I think you can even get bacon and pulled pork on the vegetarian platter.”

We spent the evening there.

They packed their car in the morning, but Barbara was still 0 for 7 in the Scrabble games, and I was one win behind Jim, so we played one more for the road. Barbara finally whooped us.

They headed back to New Jersey and I took a nap. Managing a Bed & Breakfast is hard work. LOL

So, if you’re ever in the Lancaster area, you might want to consider staying at the Queen Suite on Queen Street, especially if you’re a good cook or good at fixing things.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I’m currently listening to an audio book by Liza Mundy called “Code Girls.” It’s the recently declassified story of the women code breakers in World War II. The book is basically a big thank you to the unsung heroes, who were not given much credit in their day, because, primarily, the work they did was Top Secret, and also because they were women in an era when women were not all that welcome in the military.

Codes and code breaking go back centuries, and most wars had their spies. The United States had its fair share of spies, until their number was greatly reduced during the Herbert Hoover Administration. President Hoover believed that “Gentlemen do not read other gentlemen’s mail.” Years later, the sneak attack bombing of Pearl Harbor taught us that Governments entrusted with protecting the lives of their citizens had damn well better start opening and reading the mail of those who threatened that safety.

At the beginning of World War II, while all available men were quickly being trained to do the fighting, the U.S. Government hired women mathematicians to break the enemies’ codes. Part of the training included informing them that the work they were doing was Top Secret, and that if they made any breach in this secrecy, they just might find themselves in front of a firing squad. Thus warned, the young women didn’t even tell their mothers what they were doing, and they remained unsung heroes until just recently.

I was drawn to this book, because I, too, had once been involved in the field of intelligence gathering when I was in the Navy. I worked on the Top-Secret Spy in the Sky Program. We were not threatened with facing a firing squad if we revealed our mission, but we were informed that a breach of security would entitle us to free room and board in the Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary. Fortunately, the Spy in the Sky program was declassified a few years ago, so I am now free to talk about it.  The Discovery Channel even had a show about it a few years ago.

We’ve all heard the admonition, “Loose lips sink ships,” and during my training we were treated to a few anecdotes about just how costly a slip of the tongue can be. My favorite was about the Cuban Missile Crisis, which I remembered well from my days of hiding under school desks to protect myself from atomic bombs.  You probably already know that American spy planes flew over Cuban and photographed the installation of Russian missile sites there, but do you know why President Kennedy sent the spy planes there in the first place? That’s the part I learned during my training.

The Intelligence community monitors all sorts of foreign communications, and one day they intercepted a telegram sent from Russia to Cuba. It was a simple thing, along the lines of “Happy Birthday, Ivan. Love, your wife.” Seems pretty harmless, because Cuba was a vacation spot for many Russians, but why didn’t the wife go on the vacation trip with her husband. Maybe the man wasn’t on vacation after all. Who was he? A little research turned up the fact that he was a Russian missile scientist. What was a Russian missile scientist doing in Cuba? Are the Russians building missile sites in Cuba? A few passes with spy planes and we had the answer. They were, and as Shakespeare and Sherlock Holmes would say, the game was afoot.

So far, my favorite story from the Code Girls book concerns the Battle of Midway. The Japanese had already delivered a crippling blow to the American Navy at Pearl Harbor. Now they wanted to deliver the coup de gras somewhere else. The “Code Girls” deciphered a Japanese message that the Japanese were planning a major attack on “AF” on a certain day. So, we knew when a major attack was coming, but we didn’t know where. We didn’t know what “AF” stood for. The Japanese had used secret two-letter codes for all the major targets instead of spelling out the complete names.

To get the Japanese to tip their hand, the women had the Navy send out different false messages from the most likely targets. One of these messages was sent from Midway declaring that they were desperately low on fresh water. Shortly thereafter, the U.S. intercepted and deciphered a coded Japanese message that they had learned that AF was running out of fresh water. That confirmed it. We now knew that AF was the secret Japanese code for Midway, and the Navy rushed everything they could to Midway. The historic victory in the Battle of Midway became the turning point for the U.S. in the war in the Pacific.  It also became a blockbuster movie.

On January 3^rd I celebrated the 47^th anniversary of my Honorable release from active duty. I’m glad that the Spy in the Sky project was finally declassified and I can stop worrying about going to Leavenworth for being a blabbermouth. I will wait a while before telling any revealing stories about the program, though, just in case the Intelligence community is monitoring this blog.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

For Halloween this year I went as Jerry Garcia, and I didn’t need a wig. It had been a year since my last haircut. But now, as they say on Game of Thrones, “Winter is coming.” It was time for a haircut.

I didn’t think it was fair to the students at the Barber School where I used to go to have to face the daunting challenge of cutting off all that hair, so I went upscale a smidgin. The employees at the Walmart barber shop questioned my timing. Since I made it through the dog days of Summer with long hair, shouldn’t I keep it long for the winter to keep me warm? I told them that I had read about a new invention called a hat.

Hats and long hair conflict. Whenever I pull off my ski cap, my hair looks like Doc Brown’s in Back to the Future. It was time to simplify. In short, it was time to get it cut short again.

I liked having long hair. It was the first time in my life I ever let it grow past my collar, and it was pretty cool, but there were some disadvantages. On windy days I felt like I was walking through a cave of spider webs, and when I ate, I often found myself chewing on Peanut butter, Jelly, and Hair Sandwiches. I was constantly picking hairs off my shirt only to find that they were still attached to my head. The cost of shampoo and conditioner was also escalating the longer the hair grew. Plus, the stylist who cut my hair last time said I needed “Product.” In the old days a little dab of Brylcreme would do it, but nowadays you need “Product.” I’m not sure what ingredients are in this product, but everyone told me I needed it.

The salon product was extremely expensive, so I experimented. I tried Coconut Oil. I tried Macadamia Nut Oil. I tried Mane and Tail Detangler. None of them really worked well, and they all attracted flies, bees, and mosquitos.

When I got home from the salon I looked in the mirror and loved my new haircut, except for one thing. The hair looked good, but now my beard looked scraggly, without the mop of hair on my head to balance the picture.

Oh well, I guess I’ll have to find some “product” for my beard now.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

I met Mark about 20 years ago when we were both working for Sports Eye (a.k.a. “The Bible of Harness Racing”). Every employee played the horses. We all had that one thing in common. Mark and I also shared a fondness for smoking weed. When his mother kicked her tenant out of the upstairs apartment in New Hyde Park, Mark offered the apartment to me at a low rent, and I moved in. At least once a week, we would get together, get high, and go to the local OTB. Afterwards, we’d grab a bite to eat, while we explained why the horses we picked lost. We went through this ritual for 14 years. Then, he bought a house in Texas, and I moved to Lancaster. I found out from his Mother that he just had a massive heart attack and died.

During the prime years of Mark’s life, his friends called him “Captain.” He outlived most of those friends, but I would still call him Captain, just to remind him of the good old days, even though I didn’t even know him back in his good old days. We had talked so much over the years that I practically knew his life story. He loved boats, and even lived on a houseboat in New York for several years. I think that he bought another boat a few weeks ago and was fixing her up. That might have been what did him in. I’m sure that Preparing for the hurricane that recently passed through his home in Corpus Christi didn’t help, either.

Now, the Captain will return to the sea. He’s a member of the Neptune Society. His body will be cremated and his ashes will be spread on the ocean.

Fair winds and following seas, Captain.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl

When I was a teenager, my family bought a summer bungalow in Yaphank, Long Island. The place where we lived was part of the German-American Settlement League, a private club exclusively for people of German extraction. They had 50 bungalows, a ballfield, a clubhouse, and a private beach on the Carmen’s River. Our house was right on the river. As nice as that sounds, there were still problems for me living there as a teenager. For one, I was a big fan of screaming guitars and Rock N Roll, while the neighbors all preferred accordions and polkas. When there was a dance at the clubhouse, it seemed that all they played were polkas and waltzes. There was no twisting, nor frugging, nor mashing of potatoes – and those were the only dances I knew at the time.

There was a bigger problem than the music selection at the dances, though. Most of the people were ancient, and there weren’t any girls my age there. I had a few male friends – Fritz, Freddie, Edgar, and Charlie, but there weren’t any Brunhildas, Annegrets, or Margaretes around. The only girls were Linda Zeltman and Carol Ann Schultz and they were only 12 years old. Lillian Lyons was the only eligible female in the entire neighborhood, but she was a college girl, so she was way out of my league. There were no potential girlfriends in the entire community, and that can be a real bummer for a teenager.

There were a few real Nazis among the resident there, but they weren’t really a problem. They came in two varieties – old Nazis or very old Nazis. They were the ones who had founded the place back in the 30’s. There weren’t very many of them left alive by the time our family moved in. The club’s rules stated that you had to be at least part German to be a member, but some of the newer families who lived there, like us, had only a few drops of German blood. My Dad had none. He was Irish and Swedish, but my parents got in because my Mom had a little German blood in her lineage. Years later, after he retired from the Telephone Company, my Dad, who had pounded the Nazis commanding a U.S. tank during World War II, actually became the President of the German-American Settlement League. The times they certainly were a changing.

The newer families moving in were more interested in a cheap summer getaway than preserving the proud tradition of Oom Pah bands. You had to be a member to buy a bungalow there, and you had to be part German to be a member, so the limited market kept bungalow prices way down. When I got married, Ginny and I bought our first house there, simply because the price was cheap, $12,000. That was less than half of what equivalent homes were going for just outside the community.

The German-American Settlement League came a long way from their Nazi beginnings, and, by the time my family moved there, it had become more of a retirement village. As the old guard died off, however, a few of us newcomers wondered aloud if, when it was time to sell our homes, the by-laws of the community might change and allow us to list the house on an open market, where it might sell for 2 or 3 times more than we would get selling it to a club member only.

Well, I read recently that it finally happened. Philip Kneer and his wife, Patricia Flynn-Kneer sued the G.A.S.L. for the right to list their home on the open market.

To win their case, all they had to do to was go to the newspapers with pictures of the community back in the 1930’s.

An undated photo at Camp Siegfried in Yaphank shows the swastika and the salute, familiar Nazi symbols, on display. In a federal lawsuit on Monday, Oct. 19, 2015, a Yaphank couple said that discriminatory covenant restrictions of the German-American Settlement League, which owns the former camp site, have prevented them from selling their home. Photo Credit: UPI

Once their lawyers played the Ole Nazi card, it was impossible to get public opinion behind keeping the by-laws of the all-German community intact. Besides, like I said, many of the club’s members also hoped to be able to sell their homes on the open market when the time came, so the G.A.S.L. settled the lawsuit quickly.

Noe, with the German American Settlement League opening their doors to people of all kinds, who will still be around on Long Island to dance the polkas and remind the world of Germany’s many proud traditions, like Oktoberfest, lederhosen, Bratwurst, and beer? The answer, I recently found out, is Nephew X. He’s a teacher on Long Island, and he actually wore this outfit to school one day. I think it was National Pretzel Day, or something like that.  At least I hope it was.

Peace and Love, and all of the above,

Earl

It was Star Wars night at Clipper Magazine Stadium and the first 1,000 attendees got free bobblehead dolls of the Barnstormers Mascot, Cylo, dressed in Darth Vader attire. I got there an hour before game time, but that wasn’t early enough to be among the first 1,000. Almost 7,000 people showed up for the game.  So the night started with a little disappointment for me. Then the Lancaster starter gave up 5 runs in the first inning and the disappointment mounted.

One of the mottos of the Barnstormers, however, is “Keep Calm and Storm on.” They did just that. The Barnstormers fought back and scored one run in their half of the first inning. They held the Sugarland Skeeters scoreless in top of the second, and scored 2 more runs in the bottom of the inning. So, with the score now 5-3, hope was returning. The Skeeters were blanked in the third and the Stormers stormed on to tie the game in the bottom of the third.  The Force is strong in this team.

In between innings the Star Wars characters staged mock light saber duels on the field, and fireworks were also planned for after the game, so the thousands of children in attendance were kept entertained. While they were enjoying themselves with hot dogs and cotton candy, I was enjoying the seesaw game. The Skeeters retook the lead and the Stormers fought back. Then the pesky Skeeters would score again and the Barnstormers would respond with enough runs to keep the game close. Then the Stormers actually got their big break, when one of their guys struck out. The Skeeter catcher wasn’t able to catch the outside pitch and it went all the way to the backstop. The batter darted for first and got there well before the throw. Safe at first. The next batter took advantage of the opening and hit a two-run homer.

Both teams kept piling up runs but the Skeeters never relinquished the lead. Then in the 7^th innings, another Stormer struck out on a pitch way outside that the Skeeter catcher again couldn’t reach, and he, too, reached first safely. I crossed my fingers hoping for lightning to strike twice. A homerun would tie the game. The next batter only singled, though.

The Skeeters still had an 11 to 9 lead, but the Stormers now had the tying runs on base and with two out centerfielder Beau Amaral stepped to the plate. He hit a looping fly ball down the left field line that the leftfielder raced after and dove for at the last second, but he came up empty, and the ball rolled all the way to the wall. The two men on base scored easily and as Beau chugged into third the coach frantically waved him home. The relay throw got to the plate before Beau, but not soon enough for the catcher to secure it, and a sliding Beau scored what eventually was the winning run as the ball bounced away from the hapless catcher.

I’ve seen inside-the-park homeruns in some of the huge Major-League parks, but I never before saw one in a small Minor-League park. The last time a Barnstormer hit an inside-the-park homerun, was 6 years ago, playing against the Ducks in Commack, Long Island.  It was a sight to behold, and even more exciting than the post-game fireworks. The force was definitely with the Lancaster Barnstormers that night, and they increased their league lead. It looks like they’re headed to another Championship season. Storm on, Stormers.

Peace & Love, and all of the above,

Earl