Random Thoughts

Ye Olde Budget Book

Carole and I have now been married 49 years.  I tried, but I couldn’t find a happy 49th wedding anniversary card.  Wait till next year.  But, each month for the entire marriage, we have prepared a budget.

The first thing we did was purchase a very nice, substantial ledger book.  This adds significance and formality to the drill.  Picking up that formidable book and carrying it to the kitchen table was part of the ritual.  That’s important when you don’t have any money.  A budget is most important when you are managing very little money.

I don’t know anything about accounting.  I took beginners accounting in college and learned to line everything up neatly, but that was about it.  The only thing I know for sure is that debits go in one direction and credits go in the other.  But, I don’t know which is which.  I review my daily activities at Wachovia Securities on line.  Some numbers are in red and some are in black.  Then, some numbers appear twice, both in red and black.  I don’t have a clue.  I haven’t tried too hard, because I can tell that the bottom line is where it should be.

We started off married life with me going to law school.  Carole worked as a secretary, first for the University and then with the law firm of Smith and Lewis in Columbia, Missouri.  I vaguely remember that she cleared somewhere around $180 a month and my dad sent us $50.  So we budgeted $230 a month.

Almost everything in the budget was a necessity – no hair and nails or golf account.  We budgeted for rent, groceries, utilities, the car, household expenses, insurance and $3.50 for each of us for clothing.  After three months, we would have over $10!

For the first few months, I tried to make things add up, but it was too hard.  So, we just went through the process of writing down what we were spending.  Then, we would look and see if we were spending more than we were making.  It’s not very sexy, but I recommend it to anyone trying to live within their means.

Of course, we didn’t have credit cards, so if you didn’t have it, you couldn’t spend it.  I guess life was simpler.  No tickee, no laundry – no money, no spendee.  Our budgetary key was to find at the end of the month as much money in our check book as we had in our budget accounts.

There was no perfection in our system.  I will leave the accounting perfection to the DC Tax Department.  They kept superb books, while they were stealing $50 million!  They  just paid out tax refunds to themselves and to bogus companies they had created.  Fifty million.  That’s a lot of designer purses.  The patients were running the asylum.

In my system, I would move a lot of money among the accounts.  If we took a vacation and exhausted our vacation account, I would take money out of  “car and gas” and “entertainment.”  That’s not much of a stretch, especially if we drove.  But, I also might take money out of the “linen” account.  Why?  Because there was too much money in the linen account.  So sue me.  There is no auditor to keep me honest and Bed, Bath and Beyond will never know.

In the early years, I would run an account in the red for a few months.  But, in some accounts, the red number would just keep getting larger.  We would them have an executive meeting (Carole and me) at the kitchen table and decide to put $10 more in the particular account.  “The ayes have it.”  Then, we would write off the red number and start over.  I think my budget process is more an art form than a science, particularly that portion of the process where I manipulate the numbers.

There is a fine line between being cheap and being frugal.  For most of the early years, we straddled the line.  By doing so, now if we want to, we can go crazy (but of course, we don’t).

Random Thoughts

The Indoor Perfect Storm

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It was Saturday morning and I had half a blog written on the exciting subject of keeping a household budget.  It’s kind of neat the sly ways I can manipulate the family budget.  After all, it is our money, so who is going to complain?

We ran out to the commissary, and the house and garden to pick up some roses.  It was a typical Saturday morning.  When we got home, Carole went in the house and I opened the trunk to get the groceries.  We have eleven recessed lights in the kitchen area (don’t tell Mr. Monk), and the first thing Carole saw was water pouring from all of the light fixtures.  It was the morning from Hell.

She screamed.  I thought someone had died and raced into the house.  Then I raced downstairs and shut the water off.  After the water was turned off, it just kept coming.  I went upstairs to locate the problem.  In the master bathroom, I found the toilet tank hose just hanging there.  It turns out that the hose had a sophisticated shut-off device in the line and it ruptured.  The irony and humor are there, but it’s hard to appreciate while standing in two inches of water.  This definitely got me out of my promise to vacuum the downstairs drapes.

We had water on three levels of the house.  We immediately called Steve Norwood, our contractor and friend.  He told us to call the insurance company and then he came right over.  The emergency insurance agent told us to find a water extractor and gave me a list of names for our area.  Unfortunately, the Northern Virginia area had had tremendous storms the week before and no one was available.  Can you imagine sleeping in a house full of water?  Neither could I.  I can’t even stand to watch one of those stupid music videos where it is raining inside the house.  After about three hours, Steve located someone who could come out.  Then, there was an accident on the Wilson Bridge, so it took him forever to get to our house.  I was feeling like Joe Bfstplk, the Li’l Abner character who always had a black cloud over his head and bad luck followed him.

When I was a kid in East St. Louis, our basement was lower that the street sewers.  So when it rained hard enough for the street to flood (which was often), we had to race down stairs and screw a plug into the basement drain hole.  If we were late, water would be gushing into the basement.  With that experience indelibly etched in my skull, I have never purchased a house what wasn’t up quite high.  “I understand that the bathroom is in the back yard, but I want to know how high are we above the century’s worst flood level.”

The next day, Brian Jennings, our water extractor, came out with his sophisticated moisture detector and before we knew it, we had holes in the ceiling and walls.  The holes were like rabbits; they just kept multiplying.  By Thursday, we were in great shape on the floors and rugs, but we hadn’t turned the corner on the walls.  Off came the baseboards and Carole’s good humor.

Now, a week after it happened, I can still hear the professional grade dehumidifiers and super charged blowers grinding away on the first floor.  I’m hiding in my second floor study.  The minute I put down my pen and appear on the first floor, I will be pressed into service returning things to their original spots.

I have now been assured that we have turned the corner.  The house is definitely drying and nothing nasty seems to be growing inside the walls.  All we need to do is replace the ceiling and the hardwood floors.  That won’t cause any dust, will it?

RAJA

RAJA and The World of Coke

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Last week, we were down in Atlanta for our RAJA meeting.  As I have mentioned before, RAJA is the Retired Army Judge Advocate’s Association.  We get together each year and tell each other how we saved the free world.  The stories continue to get more outrageous.

Also, Major General Scott Black, The Judge Advocate General, came down and gave us a sobering view of the challenges facing the Army and the JAG Corps.  After listening to Scott, it became apparent that he won’t be able to explain how he saved the free world until he has been retired and a member of RAJA for at least ten years.

One of the hosting couples was Rob and Bridgette Minor.  He worked for me at Fort Riley when he was a captain.  It would be a better story had he been a major.  Then, he would have been Major Minor (as distinguished from Major Major in Catch 22).  Anyway, we hadn’t seen the Minors in over twenty years.  That’s what RAJA is all about.  We expect to see them next year in New Orleans.

On my free afternoon, I decided to visit the World of Coke.  I was advised that there were other things that were more culturally rewarding.  I never wavered.  I am a confirmed Coke drinker (but I would never drink one before Noon – that would be sick).  I thrive on sugary syrup and carbonated water.

When Coach Frank Broyles came to the University of Missouri to coach football (he had previously been the backfield coach at Georgia Tech), he gathered the team together on the first day.  He said, “Boys, I am a firm believer in Coke Cola and after every practice there will be an ice cold Coke Cola waiting for you.”  Talk about a pep talk.  He had me!

When Coke announced back in 85′ that they were changing the formula, I went into a 79 day funk.  Then, when Coke announced they were keeping the old Coke and calling it Coke Classic, I felt reborn.  This little historic vignette is tastefully presented at the World of Coke (that was culturally rewarding).

There was a long line to get in.  I felt I was back at Disney World.  When I got up to the front of the line, I saw the metal detectors.  What has this world come to?  Are they afraid terrorists will try to hijack the World of Coke?  I thought Coke’s definition of a terrorist was some one who worked for Pepsi.  They gave me a claims number for the small pocket knife I had in my pocket.

To sum the event up, I decided not to have my picture taken with the Coke polar bear; I enjoyed the 3-D movie; and, I made myself sick sampling all the different Coke drinks from around the world.  Inca Cola should only be drunk in Peru if you are about to die of thirst.  Beverly is something everyone should sample so they can appreciate whatever else they are drinking.  My biggest fear was that I would be stuck to the sticky floor in the tasting room and never get out.

I did get out with my free eight-ounce Coke in the glass bottle.  I brought it home, chilled it, and drank it the other night.  It brought back fond memories of the nickel Cokes we had in college.

Now that I have visited the World of Coke, I don’t feel the need to go back.  I will have my own little tribute to Coke each night when I pop the top.  RAJA, however, requires a trip every year to ensure that the free world is still safe.

My Military Daze

The Clock from Hell

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In looking back, it seems that many of the important decisions we made were made while we were traveling across the country.  When traveling long distances, there are few distractions and time to give serious discussion to the issue at hand.  There used to be portions of our country where you couldn’t even find a decent radio station.  I’m afraid XM Radio may have ruined our decision-making process.

In the Spring of 1965, Carole and I took a vacation down into Mexico.  We were stationed at Fort Hood, Texas and Carole’s dad lived in Rosenberg, Texas, just south of Houston.  We dropped Becky (age 3) and Missy (three months) off at her dad’s and headed South.  It was during that trip that we decided that I would become a career Army JAG.

With that decision behind us, we enjoyed a beautiful little resort, south of Monterey.  I think it was our third and last day there when we figured out that this quaint little resort had a bit of a flea problem.  Adios Mexico!  We left Mexico, but Mexico refused to leave me.  Three months later, I was twenty pounds lighter and wondering if I would ever be free from the curse.  Then, as suddenly as it came, it went away.

Shortly after I returned from Mexico, I received a phone call from the JAG Career Management Office in the Pentagon.  “Paul?”  Paul is my first name, but only telemarketers call me Paul.  I responded with “Yes?”  He was a JAG major whom I don’t remember, but he told me that The Judge Advocate General had asked him to call and let me know that he was aware of the good work I was doing at Fort Hood.  There were some many funny responses I thought about saying, but I played it straight. 

He asked me if I had given any thought to a career in the Army.  I told him I had.  I mentioned that a friend of mine was able to attend the language school to study German and then be assigned to Germany.  I told him that I thought that sounded exciting.  He told me that he thought that could be arranged.  I told him to put the offer in writing and I would accept it.  He then said something strange.  He said he could make it happen, but he couldn’t put it in writing.  I figured he must have been speaking Pentagonese, because I had never heard anything like that before.  But, I wanted what he said he was going to “make happen.”  I said, “OK,” and, in fact, it all worked out as promised.

The last thing I needed to do was pass a simple language aptitude test.  They sent me over to the Fort Hood test center.  I sat down with an NCO and he explained the test.  I would be dealing with a made-up language and I was to answer a number of multiple choice questions.  I needed a score of 18 to pass.  In order to discourage people from guessing, each wrong answer subtracted one-half point.

I was the only one taking the test and we were alone in the room.  He took out a large test clock and wound it.  He said I had twenty minutes, set the clock down right in front of me and left the room.  I started in on the test and the first few questions seemed easy.  Then, I looked at the clock.  It was like an oversize old-time alarm clock, but I couldn’t read it.  It looked like it ran backwards, but I just couldn’t figure out how it worked, what it meant or how much time I had left.  I began to panic.  I had a wristwatch on, but I hadn’t bothered to look at it when I started the test.  I went out into the hall and looked for the NCO.  The building seemed empty.  I went back to my desk and tried to answer more questions, but the ticking seemed to be getting louder.  It was maddening.  I spent more time trying to compose myself than answering questions.  Somehow, I needed to answer 18 questions and get them all right.  Tick, tick, tick.

I had just finished my 21st question when the alarm went off and the NCO reappeared.  I tried to explain to him about the clock, but “concern” was not in his job description.  He just said, “Let’s see how you did.”  It turned out I missed only one, which gave me a score of 19 and one half.  I was embarrassed, but I had passed and I just wanted to escape from the clock and the building.  I determined that my aptitude for languages was a lot better than for time keeping.

Random Thoughts

Those Terrible Traffic Enforcement Cameras

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I don’t know if you are familiar with the Beltway (I-495) that encircles Washington, DC, but it is the fastest way to get around DC.  It is at least four lanes in each direction and the speed limit is 55 miles per hour.  Except during rush hour, when it resembles a parking lot, the average speed in somewhere between 65 and 70 mph.  The dangerous speeders are going over 80 mph.  If you drove at 55 mph in one of the center lanes, you would probably cause an accident.

There are certain drivers who treat the beltway like a racetrack (it is an oval).  If you see these nuts racing up behind you, you become very cautious and hope that their accident doesn’t include you (or delay you).  I prefer they run off the road rather than have their accident in the lanes of traffic.  That can really slow things down.

The law enforcement authorities have come up with traffic enforcement cameras that take pictures of these speeders, show the vehicle, the license plate and how fast the vehicle was traveling.  A big old fine arrives in the mail to the speeder.  Now, I am told that this is bad.  It violates our hot shot’s rights.  I get lost just about here.  What rights?  The right to privacy?  Driving a vehicle on an interstate highway seems fairly public to me.  What about the right to see the police car which will give the speeder an opportunity to slow down?  This is not a game.  If there is any due process involved, it is covered by posting the speed limit.

Those who object say it is just a way for the police to make money.  Well, it cost money to operate a police force and the cameras and personally, I would rather it would come from traffic violators than from my taxes.

In downtown areas, the city has posted red light cameras, which catch drivers who run the red lights.  Now who could object to that?  You would be surprised.  Again, you have the arguments about the city making money, privacy, and no opportunity for a violator to confront the accuser.  The inability of the red light runner to confront a police officer may keep him or her from going to jail.  No one will know about the drunk driving and the driver will not have an opportunity to resist arrest.  Can’t beat that.

Running red lights has caused a large number of accidents and injuries.  Statistics show that the red light cameras have reduced the number of accidents.  That’s good news.  However, it is argued that when someone who was going to run a red light sees the camera, he may slam on his brakes and this will cause the car behind him to rear end him.  If that is the case, I guess the car behind him was also going to run the red light.  Now, please remind me, who is it that I am supposed to feel sorry for?

People complain that a red-light-camera ticket can be issued without any police supervision.  I guess that is right and I think there should be police involvement in the process.  But as long as the cameras are calibrated and someone is overseeing the fairness of the system, I think that’s about all we can hope for.  No system is perfect.  Look at the O.J. trial

My Military Daze

Where’s Private Westmoreland?

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In the early days of my career, I was a defense counsel.  The worst cases were AWOL and desertion cases.  An AWOL could be proved by submitting a couple of morning reports – one showing the soldier wasn’t present and one showing when he came back.  Talk about exciting – I went to law school for this!  If a soldier was gone for over 28 days, the morning report would show that he was dropped from the rolls as a deserter.  Almost all of these exciting cases ended up with a guilty plea and a conviction for AWOL.

Then one day at Fort Hood, Texas, everything changed.  I was advised that Private Clarence Westmoreland was down at the Fort Hood Stockade and that he had deserted from the Army five years ago.  I went down to see him.  He was a soft spoken guy who told me he didn’t know that he was in the Army.  He told me that he tried to enlist, but the Army wouldn’t take him.  I didn’t know if he was telling me the truth, but if he was lying, he had a great imagination.  A few days later, his wife showed up and told me the same story.  I decided to check it out. 

Neither Clarence nor his wife was a spring chicken.  I suspected they were both about forty, but they had been rough years.  His wife had moved into transient billets awaiting Clarence’s trial.  She told me not to worry about her safety, because while down in the billets, she was taking her teeth out, so she would not excite some young soldier.  She told me when she was a much younger girl, she had been married to a TV western star (I can’t remember his name).  But, believe me, she had traveled many dusty trails since then.

So here is the Private Clarence Westmoreland story, most of which I was able to verify.  Clarence was drafted and served two years in the Army during the Korean War.  He then got out and enlisted in the Air Force for three years.  Then, he reenlisted for three more years.  With less than a year left on his Air Force obligation, he received orders to Greenland.  He was advised that he would have to extend his enlistment to cover the two year tour.  Failure to extend would result in immediate discharge.  Clarence decided not to extend and was subsequently honorably discharged from the Air Force.  His discharge papers stated that he could not enlist for 90 days.  He was a sergeant and by staying out for 90 days, he lost all his rank.

Clarance and his wife and son went back to their home town in Arkansas (I no longer have a clue as to the town’s name) and he looked around for a job.  He also bumped into the Army recruiter.  He told the recruiter that he wouldn’t mind enlisting in the Army, but his discharge papers stated he couldn’t enlist for 90 days.  The recruiter looked at the discharge and explained to Clarence that the 90 days only applied to the Air Force.  So Clarence enlisted in the Army  They took him up to Little Rock where he had his physical and was sworn in.  He was given orders to report to Fort Polk, Louisiana and sent back home.

He didn’t have any money to drive to Fort Polk, so he took his wife’s silver service to the bank and using it as collateral, borrowed enough money to get down to Fort Polk and survive until the Army paid him.  With his wife, his son and all their worldly possessions, they piled into their VW bus and drove to Fort Polk.  It was about 9:00 in the evening when they arrived.  He took his records and orders and reported to the headquarters.  We never determined who he talked to, but an NCO in charge insisted that Westmoreland could not enlist for 90 days and consequently his enlistment was illegal and he was not in the Army.  They looked around for a place to spend the night, but anyone who remembers Fort Polk in the late 50’s will verify there wasn’t much, if anything.  The Westmorelands ended up driving back to their home in Arkansas.

Clarence went to see the recruiter and told him what happened.  According to Clarence, the Army recruiter said, “Well, I guess we’ll have to wait until the 90 days are up to enlist you.”  Clarence told him that if he wasn’t in the Army, then he wasn’t going through the drill again.  Clarence found a job as the handy man at a local motel and stayed there for the next five years.  His son enlisted in the Navy.

After about five years, Clarence’s aunt started looking for him.  She wrote to her congressman and said she knew he was in the Army, but didn’t know where he was assigned.  The congressman asked the Army.  The Army determined that Clarence had enlisted in Little Rock and was assigned to Fort Polk.  Fort Polk advised that he never reported and prepared the necessary paperwork showing Clarence was AWOL and a deserter.  After that, the FBI picked him up.  The sheriff told the FBI that Clarence wasn’t hiding.  In fact, Clarence cleaned up the jail every Saturday morning.

I explained everything I had discovered to the powers that be in the JAG office.  I didn’t think that this case needed to go to trial.  I was officially designated as gullible and a bleeding heart.  Me?  The case was going to trial for desertion.

We were scheduled for trial right before Christmas (not a bad time to try such a case) and I brought his son in from Naval Air Station Pensacola, Florida.  We were ready to go and then, we couldn’t find Mrs. Westmoreland.  Had she slipped her teeth back in and run off with some young soldier?  It appears that Mrs. W. had been living off of money she was receiving from the Army Emergency Relief (a wonderful organization that provides money to soldiers and families who are in trouble).  They told her that they couldn’t give her any more money, but they would provide her with a bus ticket to anywhere she wanted to go.  She decided to go to Pensacola and spend Christmas with her son (who now was at Fort Hood).

Well, Clarence got to have Christmas dinner at the Fort Hood Stockade.  We started the trial the third week in January and Clarence, his wife (with teeth) and their Navy son all testified consistently as to what had happened.  I even brought in to testify the owner and manager of the motel where Clarence worked.  He was right out of Mayberry RFD.  Based upon his testimony, Clarence could have been elevated to Eagle Scout.

The court didn’t waste much time in finding Clarence not guilty.  That entitled him to back pay for the three months he spent in the stockade.  I was also able to get him time in service for the years he was found not guilty of being AWOL.  So I figured Clarence needed about seven more years to retire.

I never found out what happened to my 40-year-old private.  His Navy son flew back to NAS Pensacola and I guess Clarence and his bride headed off for their next Army station.  I hope they didn’t send him to Fort Polk.  The cycle might start all over again. 

Golf Daze, Poems

Ode to a Cracked Seven Wood

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Golf is my passion.  And, for the first 55 years of my life, I was a miserable golfer.  What made it even more frustrating  was that I played almost everything else fairly well.  I played baseball, basketball, football, soccer, tennis, and even ping-pong at a fairly high amateur level.  But, at golf, I stunk!  Finally about ten years ago, I started going to three-day golf schools down in Florida (I have now been to four) and have learned how to play the game – not great – but, I no longer feel like a jerk.

I played poorly the last time out and decided to write a poem about the agony of poor play.  But I waited too long and my spirits improved (all I got down was “It’s just a game, or so they say, then why can it take my manhood away?).  So the spilling out of my emotions will have to wait for another really bad round.  I hope it is not too soon.

I decided to write about my seven wood with the cracked shaft.  As I wrote the poem, I actually decided what to do about replacing it.  Enjoy.


               Ode to a Cracked Seven Wood

Why do they call them woods, when they’re really made of metal,
You hit the ball on the screws, now that’s another fine kettle.
But it brings back memories of long past days,
A game of tradition and an earlier phase.

My seven wood’s broke, there’s a crack in the shaft,
And grass sticking out, when I saw it I laughed.
For without the grass, I wouldn’t have seen,
That fine little crack on the Fujikura sheen.

Do I put on a new shaft, or get a new club?
The technology is better, that is the rub.
A seven wood or a hybrid, I’ll just have to see,
I can purchase a hybrid with the same degree.

I think I’ll stay with the seven, I have memories fond,
There were times on par threes, when I cleared a pond.
The Pings are now weighted to draw or to fade,
Who thought up that stunt, never saw how I played.

What if you fade a slice or draw a hook?
You’d be in the wrong fairway and feel like a schnook.
So I asked for my Ping to be weighted for straight,
Then if it curves left or right, it’ll just be my fate.

Political Thoughts

Hillary Dillary Dock – The Clock Struck 13


I’m always amazed and in somewhat dismay,
When some high official pads a resume.
A masters from Harvard, a doctorate from Tech,
Why lie of those things, they’re so easy to check.
Doctors with no license, lawyers who fail the bar,
Some just keep on practicing, some really get quite far.

So Hillary wants to look tough, it may come down to the wire,
So she mentions while in Bosnia, she came under sniper fire.
When questioned, she embellished,  “We ran while I ducked my head,”
Poor Chelsea then was questioned and supported what her mother said.
Those of us from the military, knew her cover was blown,
You don’t land the First Lady’s plane into a sniper zone.

Just like with the dress and the DNA,
When the facts were clear, she had something to say.
She was “sleep deprived,” and she just “misspoke,”
If you’ve ever been shot at, you know that’s a joke.

But, I’m not ruling Hillary out, there are problems to be resolved,
The economy is in the tank, and, of misspeaking, she can be absolved.
She knows how to make money, she’s done it I’m told,
She’ll put tax dollars in cattle futures and rake in a hundred fold!

Poems

John Pavlick – Still Young at Sixty

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John Pavlick and I served together in the military at Fort Riley in the late Seventies and early Eighties.  He was a Flepper (one who was selected by the Army to go to law school – Funded Legal Education Program – FLEP).  The officers who were selected were very special and made my job as the boss so much easier.  George Peirce was also a Flepper and assigned to the Big Red One at Ft. Riley at the same time (He is now the General Counsel for the Defense Intelligence Agency).

I have mentioned before that for physical training, we played soccer.  Well, some of the combat battalions challenged us to soccer games.  We never lost.  The officers of the 1st Squadron of the 4th Cavalry, know as the Quarter Horse, were destroyed when they lost to a bunch of noncombat lawyers.  Just because we didn’t eat snakes didn’t mean we weren’t good athletes.

Below is the poem I read to John on his sixtieth birthday.
 

                      John – Still Young at Sixty

John’s celebrating his birthday on this special day,
He was born in Wurzburg, far, far away.
As an Army brat, they would surely anoint,
This fine young lad, to study at West Point.

And study he did and learn how to brace,
And walk a few tours, it’s a hectic pace.
But there was a bright spot, he found his elixir,
He ran into Olga at a social mixer.

He graduated, got married and started off to school,
First armor, then airborne, those patches look so cool.
Then off to Fulda, Germany, no time to get bored,
He was saving all of Europe from the Russian hoard.

John decided to become a lawyer, he certainly had the pep,
He applied for the Army program and soon became a FLEP.
Schooling at Pennsylvania, not much use for a gun,
Graduated a JAG, assigned to the Big Red One.

At Fort Riley, he prosecuted and was Chief of Criminal Law,
Discipline got better, regarding things he oversaw.
John was great at playing soccer, he truly was a force,
When the JAG officers took the field and whipped the Quarter Horse.

John was always bright, but from where I stood,
Having him in the trenches, just made me look good.
When we left Fort Riley, it was time for more knowledge,
They sent John to the Grad School and me to the War College.

With Olga, Keith and Mark, he headed for a perk,
To the general counsel’s office, to do government contract work.
He honed his skills while still young and spry,
Then retired from the Army to give private practice a try.

A partner at Venable, the horizon is wide,
There’s a lot more money on the other side.
But it’s talent and skill that set John apart,
Both the Army and clients recognized his art.

Now, John is sixty, and his friends are here,
Along with his family, bringing love and good cheer.
We celebrate your birthday and wish you the best,
Here’s to good friends, good health and all the rest.

My Military Daze

Bad Vilbel’s Spooky House


My last blog was about General Colin Powell and the number of similar experiences we had (I forgot to mention that we both had our retirement parades at the Fort Myer Parade Field).  I mentioned that we both lived in senior government housing in Bad Vilbel, Germany (near Frankfurt).  Well, before General Powell arrived, we had to put one of the general officer quarters under a microscope.

There were four or five units designated as general officer quarters.  It housed the V Corps generals and generals from other units in our area.  We had one general and his wife and child move in, and immediately move back out.  They said there was something strange and unhealthy about the house.  It was “contaminated.”

The wife explained that both she and her child had been sick since they moved in.  Some of the wives from her husband’s command had brought some flowers by and as soon as they left, the flowers started dying.  There was more.  She saw a fly come in an open window,  fly around and then, drop dead.  A very large painting that was to be placed in the living room had been damaged in the shipment and needed to be touched up.  A German artist came out to the house to work on it.  But, he got sick and could not complete the work.

Not only did they move out, but they no longer wanted any of their furniture, because they now believed that it too was contaminated.  I was now monitoring the situation, because I was seeing down the road a pretty big claim against Uncle Sam.  I wasn’t disappointed.  We sent out our resident specialists to test the air, drapes and rugs.  We found nothing.  I suggested getting an exorcist.  No one saw the humor.

It was decided between the V Corps leadership and the general that V Corps would hire the best company in Germany at investigating contaminations.  It cost quite a bit, but it would be worth it to put this mess  behind us.  The German company came in and took scrapings from the fabrics, paint chips and gathered up the dust balls.  They had contraptions for capturing the air in every room.  They went at it with German efficiency and attention to detail.  No turn was left unstoned.

As we expected, nothing was found.  But, it is hard to prove a negative and the general’s wife came back and said that no one had checked the crawl space under the house.  We checked it and found nothing.  We were at loggerheads.

One of my dearest friends in the Army is Ron Holdaway.  When I was assigned to Vietnam as the Deputy Staff Judge Advocate (SJA) for the 1st Air Cavalry Division, Ron was my boss.  And as it turned out, now that I was the V Corps SJA, Brigadier General Ron Holdaway was the Judge Advocate for US Army Europe and again, my boss.  He called me about the “contaminated” house.  It was getting some attention through the “old boy net” in Heidelberg.  I briefed him on what we had found so far.  Finally, Ron said, “Jack, we are dealing here with a general officer.”  I paused. Then, I said, “Sir, Major General Curry (our Deputy CG) told me yesterday that he would be delighted if someone could find that the house was contaminated.  Then, we could level it and move on.  But, since we have done all the superb testing and found nothing, what are we supposed to do?”  I think Ron understood our dilemma. 

About six months later, our general was promoted to his second star and reassigned out of the Frankfurt area.  We assigned another general to the “contaminated” house and guess what?  No dead flies, no problem.  We were not surprised.

Our newly promoted two-star general was reassigned to Heidelberg and assigned to quarters right behind General Holdaway.  The family didn’t last a month.  It turned out that Bad Vilbel wasn’t the only place with contaminated general office housing.  The general took his family to the Black Forest and commuted from there.  The next time I had the flimsiest excuse to call Ron Holdaway, I was all over it.  He said, “Jack, I know why you are calling.”  I said, “Sir, we are dealing here with a two-star general.”

BOO! I saw you smile!