From Saturdays Brunswick News

Thief steals man's pants

after assalt

* 5700 Block of Altama Avenue, Glynn County:

A man reported being struck on his head, neck and face by a male suspect Feb 10. 

The male suspect took the man's pants after assaulting him with a gun.

hmmm........

A Love Story at the Dog Show

Her name is Mary, but he called her Maria, a pet name for the love of his life.

We sat with Mary at the Saint Simon's Island 3rd Annual West Marigold Dog Show on Sunday and watched the colorful parade of costumed humans and canines as they vied for bragging rights in the categories of Best Over-all Cuteness, Best Talent and Best-In-Show. Sampson and Delilah were not entered this year having won both Best Talent and Best-In-Show two years ago. Wisely, they retired at the top of their game... before the deafness, the seizures, the exquisite exhaustion of 14 years of a lives well lived. Still, they were graciously recognized as this year's Grand Marshals and lead the parade around the block, prancing proudly in tandem at the head of the pack of 40 dogs entered in this year's  show.

To paraphrase the Wizard of Oz, it was a veritable "clinking, clanking, clattering collection of caliginous" canines. Spectacular!

The judges awarded the prizes and the Best-In Show trophy (all local talent this year, no Yankee Dog spoilers...) and we were finally able to turn our attention to Mary.

Her intense blue eyes evidenced no sign of confusion or fatigue, despite the long and chilly day. At the age of 88, she was entirely engaged and she wanted to talk... about the love of her life, Jerry.

She remembered their first meeting. She was a 16 year old freshman at Wesleyan College in Macon, Georgia attending a dance at Mercer College in 1942. Jerry was a uniformed, commissioned officer in the Army Air Corp. She said she remembered looking at him and thinking "If I was older, maybe I would know how to get him. He was tall and handsome and the moment I saw him, it was like electricity went through me. And I got him!"

Jerry and Mary were engaged before he left for B17 Bomber pilot training in North Dakota. She stopped dating other guys and he focused on preparing to fly bombing runs in Germany. They wrote a million letters.

Jerry flew 24 missions over Germany, 70% more than the average number of missions flown by other WWII B17 bomber pilots. He was shot down on one mission, but managed to fly back over Allied occupied territory in France before bailing out of his fatally damaged airplane. His silk parachute was ripped in the process and the Supply Sargent  informed Jerry that it would have to be destroyed. Jerry received permission to keep the chute and mailed it back to Mary. She and her mother used the parachute that had saved Jerry's life to sew a wedding dress.

Mary told story after remarkable story about a man who went out of his way to spare civilians, to drop warning leaflets, to avoid churches in his bombing runs, a man who survived the war and returned to marry her. He attended the University of Florida and became an architect. He and Mary moved to Saint Simons Island and he worked on Sea Island building beautiful, amazing homes. Mary told us about her historic home in the Village which Jerry had disassembled board by board, numbered, and reassembled in it's current location. She spoke of her two children, both girls, and how every day when Jerry returned from work, he would rush to her and embrace her and that the two girls would then join in by each hugging one leg of their father and one of their mother creating a circle hug of family love.

She lamented on the tragic death of her pregnant 30 year old daughter and how she named the unborn son Will so that he would not be forgotten.

She said " I can't begin to tell you how much I loved that man... and still do." They were married 63 years. Six years ago Jerry succumbed to dementia and Mary was forced to place him in a nursing home. Although he did not recognize her and was no longer speaking, she would arrive at Magnolia Manor each morning before he awoke to read the paper and drink her coffee sitting on the end of his bed and would stay until he slept each evening. She was counciled to spare herself the effort, the exhaustion, but she refused.

Jerry died in 2008. She said one morning he awakened, spread his arms wide, smiled and spoke his final words, " Come to me, my Maria."

A love story at the West Marigold Dog Show...

Spyro Gyra

As I write this little blog, my headphones are plugged into my favorite Pandora station, Spyro Gyra Radio. I've been a jazzophile for the past 40 years. Don't know much about the history or the artists or the mechanics of jazz, much to my musician son's disgust, but I have always known what I liked... and I have always liked Spyro Gyra.


Shortly after we were married in 1976, after countless hours researching Consumer Reports, we purchased a Pioneer rack system and a pair of Acoustic Research, AR 17 speakers. It was either that system or a reel to reel tape system and the budget simply wouldn't support that... thankfully. The reel to reel technology quickly followed the path of the 8 track tape systems, into the audio technology trash bin. I remember the first vinyl record I purchased was Boston by Boston and we rattled the windows as we wore the grooves off the disk. 

An audiophile friend (with no budget constraints... God bless those trust fund babies) had decided to convert his entire record collection into the latest and greatest new technology... cassette tapes. He was scrapping his records and I was more that pleased to scoop them up. And thus my introduction to jazz began. I began listening to amazing new music, music I had never experienced, certainly nothing that was ever played on FM radio in Central Maine; Stanley Turrentine, Michael Brecker, Gary Burton, Lionell Hampton, Pat Metheney, Miles Davis, Stan Getz, Grover Washington and, my favorite, Spyro Gyra. I was captivated.

The music was a welcomed reprieve from the hectic daily life of a new house, a new job and a new family. Our newborn twin sons were weaned on these albums right along with me. I remember when we treated the boys to roller skating lessons when they were 4 or 5 (winters are long in Maine). The instructor asked them to which kind of music they would like to skate. Eric looked up thoughtfully and said, “Do you have any jazz?”


And when they chose band instruments in junior high, they both chose saxophones, joined jazz band, went on to attend jazz camp at the University of Maine and were ultimately selected for the State Jazz band. Ryan has maintained a lifelong passion for his music playing around Maine and New England whenever his busy career and family life allows. Eric took his sax with him to Australia and formed a jazz band at Melbourne University. Music was a big part of his life to the very end and I'm sure he will be blowing his horn at heaven's gate when it's my turn to follow. And when it was Katie's turn, she played sax, too.


On my 40^th birthday, Connie planned to give me the ultimate birthday present. My loving wife had obtained front row seats to a Spyro Gyra concert! She arranged for her sisters to come down from Brewer to our home in Waterville to watch the kids and she was driving me to the concert so that I could relax from my stressful job and enjoy some birthday libations. It was a great ride an hour down the interstate to Portland and we arrived before the show started with a half hour to spare ... to an empty parking lot. She was perplexed and a little fearful as she asked the venue box office where the Spyro Gyra concert was to be held. The answer made her nauseous... Orono!... a 3 hour drive north.


It was a sweet mistake. There was no malice in it... only love. As the busy mother of three kids, running our big house and all their activities, and trying to support her overworked husband, she has missed one small, but significant detail. It took awhile for us to get our sense of humor back. I remember the crack in the gloom. Connie was crying and going on about how we needed to go to the airport and rent a plane or some such thing. “I am going to stop this car and lay in the road and you are going to drive over me!” she wailed. I knew I had to soften the mood.


“Honey, honey, stop. That's enough. No more beating yourself up, please. Let's get this thing in perspective. Nothing terrible has happened. Yes, Spyro Gyra is my favorite group and, no doubt, it would have been a fantastic concert. But it would have been a sweet but short lived enjoyment. What you have given me is so much more lasting... a story I can tell and we can laugh about for the rest of our lives!


And we have...but someday... Spyro Gyra is definitely on the bucket list.

Now

http://www.wimp.com/alwaysnow/

Drawn to Gettysburg

 

The Railroad Square Theater in Waterville, Maine smelled of popcorn and mildew.  The old converted warehouse on the banks of the Kennebec River, like the deserted paper mill directly across the river, had seen better days. But it was pleasantly warm on that snowy January evening in 1994, compared to the sub zero temperatures outside.  My 15 year old, identical twin sons, Eric and Ryan, flanked me sitting in the worn but comfortable old theater chairs and were sipping on their sodas as I enjoyed a coffee before the show began.  The movie was the epic Civil War film, Gettysburg adapted from the novel The Killer Angels by Michael Shaara.  I had read the book and was hyping the story line to my boys who were something less than enthusiastic about accompanying Dad to a history movie. I noticed that the pastor of our church was also in the theater with his two sons, seated just in front of us. Perhaps he had coerced his sons to join him, as I had. 

 Not that my boys were complaining. We enjoyed spending time together whether on the athletic fields, skiing at Sugarloaf USA, in Boy Scouts or just exploring the backwoods roads and fishing holes which were so abundant around our home. We had chosen to live in this rural little college town on the edge of the Great North Woods, as it's now called, so that I might work at a paper mill 20 miles up the Kennebec River. And 10 mile up the river from the mill was the little town of Embden, population 881 in the 2000 Census,  hometown of my great great grandfather, William H. Foss, and his first cousin, Elfin J. Foss,  back in the mid 1800s. But this was information that I was to gathered later, much later, as I was inextricably drawn to Gettysburg.

I did not know that the movie was 254 minutes long... 4 hours and 15 minutes. But I don't remember being bored or wanting it to end. And I don't remember Eric or Ryan complaining that they wanted to leave. We remember the instant the film became intensely personal for us.  About half way through the film, as Col. Joshua Chamberlain, played by Jeff Daniels, was reviewing his regimental battle lines on Little Round Top, he came upon a man on his knees. In the scene, low on ammunition and awaiting the third charge of Confederate General Longstreet's 15^th Alabama Corp, Chamberlain turned to his Sergeant and asked, “What is this man doing?” The Sergeant (also Chamberlain's brother) replied, “Private Foss is praying”... at which point our pastor, always quick to acknowledge his faithful flock, turned in his seat and flashed us a warm and benevolent smile.  I muttered to my son's, “We Fosses have always been a Godly bunch”.  The boys grinned, but the irony of the situation was not lost on us. The seed was planted and our interests piqued for more exploration into our ancestry.

 Since his retirement several years before, my extraordinary father, Frank Waldo Foss, had developed a passion for digging through old genealogical records and books.  He had determined that his great grandfather, William H. Foss, had enlisted in the 2nd Maine out of Orono, Maine, had served his time and returned to Gardner, Maine where he married, raised a family and worked in a paper mill. Dad also determined that William's great grandfather was Isaiah, the first Foss to homestead in the Maine wilderness.  Isaiah had fought in the Revolutionary War and his land grant in Embden, Maine was part of his recompense. Later he brought his father, Ichabod, to Embden to live and to work in the family logging business.

Fascinating... I had no inkling that I was not the first Foss to work in a paper mill or that our family had arrived in Maine in the late 1700's just up the road in Embden. Had something drawn me back to this place to work among these people, many with whom I likely shared some familial strand of DNA?

Over the next twenty years my interest in the Civil War grew and I took any opportunity to read of it and also to visit the battlefields including Gettysburg and Bull Run. I remember standing on Little Round Top in 2004, where Private Foss had prayed in the movie, and wondering if he was real or imagined. It wasn't until July 3^rd 2013 that I got my answer.

My daughter and her husband have lived in Arlington, Virginia for several years. She knows of my interest in our family history and of the Civil War and, wonderful daughter that she is, she arranged for a day trip for just the two of us an hour and a half up the road to Gettysburg on July 3, 2013, a very special day. It was the occasion of the 150^th anniversary of that battle and it was being commemorated in grand style.

We arrived that morning, with thousands of other visitors and enjoyed hours of walking through reenactments of the camps and the battles. We walked along the Devil's Den and the Peach Orchard. We ate our lunch in the shade of the "copse of trees" near the Bloody Angle. It was a remarkable, moving morning. Sacred would not be too strong a word to describe it. 
As the heat of the day began to wear us down, we retreated to the newly constructed Visitor’s Center where, remarkably, one of Katie's good friends from high school worked.  Elise provided us with free tickets for the museum, the movie theater and several other amazing displays which we so enjoyed.  And she handed me a sheath of papers she had obtained from the computerized National Historical Archives. They contained the specific histories of  ten Maine Foss men who had fought in the Civil War, their family information, their records of engagement in battle, their place of origin. As I perused the paperwork I determined that we might have shared a family connection with some of these men, but the genealogical work that Dad had researched provided no clear link... except for Elvin J and John W, two brothers out of Embden.

The hair on my neck stood up as I read the accounts. Their great grandfather was Isaiah and their great great grandfather was Ichabod. These brothers were first cousins to my great, great grandfather William H. They were blood of my blood. I read the materials hungrily.

John W. was 18 when he enlisted into Co. A of the 28^th Maine Infantry as a Private on October 13, 1862.  38 days later, he died of disease in Fort Schuyler, NY on their way to Washington DC.  It is a little known fact that the odds of a soldier surviving the Civil War was about 1 in 4 and that ¾ of those fatalities resulted from death by disease, primarily small pox, but also malaria, infections, pneumonia, trench rot. Sometimes the cure killed them as one uniformed reenactor described. A mercury pill was routinely dispensed to soldiers for treatment of all sorts of maladies from constipation to headaches, and resulted in untold numbers of deaths. Such was the state of medical science only 150 years ago. Over 650,000 soldiers died during the Civil War, more that all the other wars ever fought by the United States combined (up to the Vietnam War).  214,000 died in combat or from wounds sustained in combat. 450,000 died of disease. John W. survived a scant month before disease took him. He died at age 19, just a boy.

His brother Elfin J. enlisted as a Private into Co. F of the 20^th Maine Infantry on August 29, 1862 at the age of 22.  He was 5' 71/2 “ tall, had light colored hair and blue eyes. Almost 10 months later, on the rocky crest of Little Round Top while fighting under the command of Col. Joshua Chamberlain, he was shot through the center of his right lung by a soldier of the 15^th Alabama. He died of this wound on July 7^th at the age of 23. The report stated that Elfin J. was buried with 51,000 other casualties on the Gettysburg Battlefield and was later exhumed and reburied in the Soldiers National Cemetery at Gettysburg in the Maine plot, sec. C #15.

We went directly to the Soldier's Cemetery, about a 10 minute walk from the Visitors Center and, after searching through thousands of graves, found Elfin. I can't describe the emotion of finding his final resting place and learning his story after so many years. Had any other family members ever visited this place? Was I the first to stand solemnly over his stone and stare into the past, glimpsing dimly this person whose life was ended, like so many others, in this terrible struggle?  I spoke in my mind into the void... “Thank you, cousin. Sorry for your troubles. Wish I could have known you.... If there is a Foss Reunion in the hereafter, I look forward to meeting you. Until then...”

And the whisper responded across time and space,  “Trouble? What trouble? I drew you here. It took but an instant. Time flows differently in this place beyond and I want to meet you, too, as I have your son, your father, all our family before you. But no hurry, son. We’ll be here when it’s your turn…  Until then; Pay attention.  Enjoy.  Love.  And keep your head up… unless, of course, they’re shooting at ya.”

Santa Lineup

Where were you the night of December 24th??

 

He knows who's naughty and he knows who is nice...

Hmmmmm.....

Will the real Saint Nicholas please step forward?

He knows if you've been good or bad, so be good for goodness sake.

Shave and a haircut, boys.

Back in SSI- What We Have Learned.

This is the third time we have traveled coast to coast; Five years since the last journey. There have been lots of up and down the East Coast ventures, but they really don't compare to the I-10, I-20, I-40 and I-70. I-95 is a toll infested, hard ridden, pot holed distraction by comparison. Everyone hates "The 95".

This adventure was fairly unscripted. We wanted to see Wayne and Holly, Larry and Helene, Gordie and Dalonna, Brett and Mary, and Lynne and John. And we wanted to be open to a direction, whatever presented itself. We had no idea that the direction would be back East. But then, you don't know what you can't know, can you?

The pull from SSI was distinct. The ride across the I-10 was so spacious and amazing... long, but amazing. And we collected a list of things we had learned over the past month. Here, for your enjoyment and edification, is that list.

1.) Green is better than brown.

2.) It is possible to grow too old for the road.

3.) Warm is better than cold.

4.) You gotta laugh.

5.) Texas is frickin BIG.

6.) Gambling is a disease upon society.

7,) Thanksgiving can be done in 21 minutes

8.) Less stuff is better than more stuff.

9.) Joy is found in people and experiences... not things.

10.) Motel 6 really does leave the light on for you.

It was a good trip. Glad we're back...

 

Thanksgiving 2013... On the Road

Our time in the West, albeit short, is done. We saw most of the people we wanted to see (see you next time Laima...) and got to experience the Southwest during the winter (not what we were looking for). We did our work and received our gifts. Time to head back to the island.

The "10" is magnificent. We headed South out of Phoenix to Tucson and down the 10 towards El Paso. So much open space. West Texas is empty and amazing and after 10 hours on the road we pulled off in Ft Stockton for the night. It was 30 degrees the next morning at 6:30AM. The drive East was amazing and we pushed on until 11:00 or so when our stomachs began to growl. It is Thanksgiving and we were hankering for some turkey.

I saw the sign for the Cracker Barrel on a bill board in the middle of the high desert. Exit 335, 56 miles. 45 minutes late, we pulled off the highway and into the mayhem. Traffic was backed up trying to get into the parking lot. Families were standing outside and sitting in the rocking chairs (if you are familiar with Cracker Barrel you'll know what I mean...). I dropped Connie off to wade into the insanity and circled four times before I found a parking spot. After watering the dogs I entered the madness; wall to wall people dressed in their best West Texas garb waiting to he seated. Connie had worked her way to the front and was ordering two turkey dinners.... take out. After 15 minutes we received our food and retreated to the car where we enjoyed a hot turkey, stuffing, mashed potato, corn muffin and pecan pumpkin pie dinner. From payment to completion was 27 minutes. Fantastic.

7 hours later we are hunkered down for the night in Matairie, LA. The dogs have been bathed, Connie and I are showered and we are ready for the final push to SSI for some downtime. We had anticipated a longer stay in the SW, but when you know, you know. So back East we come... It has been a blast; an adventure... and as Helen Keller wrote " Life is an adventure... or nothing."

Life is good.

Los Alamos, New Mexico

Home of the atomic bomb. It was a town created in mystery, labeled "The Town That Never Was", for the specific purpose of beating the Nazis in the development the atomic  bomb.

We drove up this morning and got a good feel for this quirky, nerdy, green, slightly diverse, upper middle class community. Lowest unemployment, highest educational attainment in the state. The National Nuclear Laboratory in Los Alamos is the largest employer in NM with 11,000 employees.

We spent a couple hours in the Bradbury Museum learning about the history of the town and the atomic project. After a great Mediterranean restaurant lunch we hiked the Bandolier National Monument. Great day.

"Little Boy"  the Hiroshima bomb

"Fat Man" the Nagasaki bomb

 We're probably too old to be having this much fun.

 

 800 year old Loop Trail, ladders up the cliffs, grooves in the stone from eons of foot traffic

 I climbed to the top of the mesa and, upon returning, found Connie doing yoga to the setting sun. The pose is called sun salutation. We don't know what the pink orb is in the photo, but we know what we believe it to be. The veil is very thin in this enchanted land.

"Isn't anybody scared? Nobody's holding onto Mama."

              

~quote from Azerbaijan as she fell off the sidewalk

More Santa Fe Sunsets

I remember the first time I saw the Swiss Alps, I was so awe struck by their majesty that I took 4 rolls of film. Of course none of the pictures even came close to capturing their grandeur, especially in those days of the Instamatic Kodak (remember the cube flash bulbs?) .

At any rate, I feel the same thing about trying to photograph these New Mexico sunsets. Every evening I scurry around stunned by the color and the beauty, trying different settings on my new smart Sony Cyber-shot (thank you Katie and Elnur!). It is certainly a huge improvement from 1969, but still only touches the edges of what can be experienced by just standing still on Wayne and Holly's overlook.

No wonder they call New Mexico "The Land of Enchantment".

Santa Fe Sunset

 

 

We are enjoying house sitting for our good friends, Wayne and Holly, here in Santa Fe. The views are spectacular as is their home. We feel blessed.

 

We drove 2200 miles west and 7200 feet in elevation from Saint Simons (sea level). We sure notice the elevation change on our daily walks.  The dogs are peacefully coexisting with a fearless black cat name Ninja. Ninja has decided they are harmless... I think.... I hope.

 

The drive across the USA was, as always, jaw dropping. What an awesome, expansive country, so diverse, so beautiful. Again, we feel blessed.

 

Thank you to our Vets today... and every day.

 

 

 

 



As the Song goes...

"On the road again..."

The grand plan is to spend some extended time in the Southwest which we so enjoyed a few years back. We are one day out from Wayne and Holly's home in Santa Fe and looking forward to seeing them.

We left Saint Simons Island on November 1st "in a fever hotter than a pepper sprout"... as the song goes. It was the weekend of the Georgia-Florida football game and the start of the 4th annual PGA McGladley Golf Classic. The island was hopping! A bitter sweet departure from our wonderful friends and our sweet little cottage. But the timing was right for an adventure so down the road we went.

 We stopped in Monteagle, Tennessee for the night, just up the I-24 Slide from Chattanooga. In the morning I took this Americana picture of sunrise over the Monteagle Super 8 and Waffle House. Yup, back on the road. Feeling good.

First stop, Nashville...

It was a short visit as it turned out to be the Annual Bourbon, Beer and Barbeque Festival, a rowdy scene... not our thing, but Connie was thrilled to meet Elvis.

 

At that point we were only 4 hours from Connie's brother, Mike, and family in Burlington, KY.  Rhonda and Mike were so gracious to invite us for an impromptu visit. And getting to see Molly, Chris, Meghan and Ashley was icing on the cake. Great time. Thanks ever so much...

 We gassed up on the way out of town. Another Kentucky bonus...

We headed down "The 46" on Tuesday morning and thoroughly enjoyed the beautiful day driving through the Indiana farm country all the way to Saint Louis. The next day was a different story, rain and heavy truck traffic on "The 44". No fun, but the weather and the traffic cleared by Springfield and the Missouri farm country was just as scenic.

Wednesday night found us in El Reno Oklahoma where we hunkered down in a nice Best Western and where we enjoyed watching the 2013 Country Music Awards. No twerking, no obscenities, just fabulous music and decent human beings, a Subway turkey sandwich, a cold Yeungling and a good nights sleep. Perfect.

We lingered over the excellent TexMex breakfast buffet talking with an 80 year old woman named Ann Johnson from Kansas who was headed for the salt flats on a birding excursion and a big Okie roughneck headed for the oil fields. Americans are wonderful, genuine folks and everyone has a story they will tell with just a little encouragement. My amazing wife has a wonderful way of engaging people and getting them talking.

 

We drove by the exit for Foss, Oklahoma before doubling back at the next exit. Glad  we did. Here are some photos of the proud little broken down town.

 

 

Connie loved the cardinal... of course.

 

The community tornado shelter.

Main Street

And it wasn't just the Foss name we found in the cemetery...

The poor town struggled from 1900 to 1937 to get on it's feet. They were devastated over and over again, by a flood, by two major fires, by the dust bowl and finally by the closure of a nearby military base. Today there are no stores, no banks, no school, only a handful of homes and a Baptist church. I mean, we Fosses are tough, but holy cow, we also "know when to hold em and know when to fold em"... as the song goes.

"The 40" from Oklahoma City to New Mexico was fabulous; blue sky, bright sunshine, light traffic, 75 mph speed  limit, stunning high desert landscapes, 50 miles of majestic whirling wind machines, butes, canyons, washes, cows... Tonight we ate some incredible Mexican food at Del-reo's in Tucumcari, New Mexico. Our waitresses name was Stormy. She and Connie bonded... of course.

We're having a blast.