Standing Rock Massacre

Maybe I'm the only one who did not realize it, but while the events at Standing Rock unfolded over the last several weeks, I did not know that November is National American Indian Heritage Month.

Now referred to as "Native American Heritage Month," the Library of Congress, the National Gallery of Art, the National Park Service, and the Smithsonian Institution, among many others, host events paying tribute to Native American culture.

The images and reports coming out of Standing Rock are horrifying. This is particularly true in a month where we celebrate Veterans Day, when such a high proportion of Native Americans have served in our armed forces, and Thanksgiving, where we commemorate the feast of friendship between the Pilgrims and the Indians, who helped them survive their first year on these shores.

Whether you support the pipeline or not, whether you think the president should intervene or not, it is yet another erosion of one of the most vital rights and protections granted us by the Constitution - the right to peaceably assemble.

On the one side, we have the protesters, or water protectors, depending on your point of view - men, women (including pregnant women), children (including one new baby, born at the camp), families, and elders - praying, singing around campfires, cooking, caring for their horses. They are dressed in traditional clothing, western wear, and everyday jeans and tee shirts.

On the other side - literally the other side - separated by concrete barricades and rolls of razor wire, are amassed police forces from six states, who have thus far used water cannons, sonic noise weapons, mace, tear gas, and concussion grenades (one of which blew a young woman's arm off). Those on that side are dressed in full riot gear and shielded helmets, wielding combat shotguns, and barely restrained attack dogs.

At one point authorities used armored personnel carriers to clear a path of teepees.  

A medic at the scene stated, "Approximately 300 injuries were identified, triaged, assessed and treated by physicians, nurses, and paramedics working in collaboration with local emergency response. At least 26 seriously injured people had to be evacuated by ambulance to three area hospitals."

When asked about the need to use water cannons on people in below freezing conditions, the Morton County, North Dakota, Police Chief responded, "It was effective, wasn't it?"

One phrase in particular struck me. The reports referred to something called "foam bullets." I thought, What are they doing, shooting Nerf guns at 'em? Also, the Morton County Sheriff, who seems to be running the show, notes that the shotguns only fire "beanbag rounds." Oh, beanbags, well how much could that hurt? It turns out they hurt quite a bit.

Foam bullets are made from chemically hardened plastic. Their technical name is Plastic Baton Rounds. Although designed as a non-lethal weapon, they have caused a number of deaths. Plastic bullets were invented in 1973 by the British security forces for use against rioters in Northern Ireland during "The Troubles."

A beanbag round, also known by its trademarked name Flexible Baton Round, consists of a small fabric “pillow” [I love these terms the government spinmeisters come up with] filled with #9 lead shot. It is fired from a 12-gauge shotgun. When fired, the bag is expelled at 230 to 300 feet per second. It is designed to deliver a blow that will cause minimum long-term trauma and no penetration, but can severely injure or kill in a wide variety of ways.

A round can hit the chest, break the ribs and send the broken ribs into the heart. A shot to the head can break the nose, crush the larynx or even break the neck or skull of the subject. A strike in the abdominal area can cause internal bleeding, or strike the solar plexus which can disrupt breathing or heartbeat. Beanbag rounds are responsible for approximately one death a year since their introduction in the U.S.

I was also curious about noise weapons. I remember back in the 80s, something about rock music being blasted at Manuel Noriega, the military dictator of Panama, to force him out of the Vatican embassy where he had taken refuge. Were the police playing Tool and Pantera for the protesters?

Sonic (and ultrasonic) weapons use sound to injure, incapacitate, or kill. Less powerful sound waves cause severe headaches, nausea, and discomfort, but high-power sound waves can disrupt or destroy the eardrums, and cause extreme pain and disorientation. Anyone within thirty feet of the device's audio path can experience permanent hearing loss.

To further exacerbate the situation, the device is entirely operator dependent, which could lead to serious abuses of power if the officer doesn't have sufficient training, or uses the weapon maliciously.

There is even a system that specifically targets teenagers. The truck-mounted or handheld magnetic acoustic device emits an ultra-high frequency blast that people under approximately 20 years of age are susceptible to and find uncomfortable. It appears that adults are insensitive to the UH pitch due to natural, age-related hearing loss.

An officer holding one of the devices commented, "The knees buckle, the brain aches, the stomach turns, and suddenly nobody feels like protesting anymore.”

On December 4th, thousands of veterans are due to "deploy" to Standing Rock in support of the protesters, just one day before the December 5th deadline issued by the U.S. Army Corp of Engineers, threatening to evict the protesters and demolish the camp. We've already had the Wounded Knee Massacre. Let us hope that history does not repeat itself.

http://nativeamericanheritagemonth.gov/

What's Good For the Gooseberry...

We tried something absolutely unique for dessert yesterday - Gooseberry Pie. Gooseberries taste like a cross between rhubarb and raisins. We started with Oregon brand canned gooseberries, and followed their simple recipe of sugar, cornstarch, and butter.

The combination of tart and sweet was irresistible, with a luscious consistency. Gooseberry pie is all but forgotten, although it used to be quite popular. In Walt Disney's masterpiece, Snow White, when the Wicked Queen, in the guise of an old hag, appears at the dwarfs' cottage, she asks what kind of pies Snow White is making, and Snow White replies, "Gooseberry."

Also, in Edward Winslow's 1621 letter describing life at Plymouth colony, he writes, "Here are grapes, white and red, and very sweet and strong also. Strawberries, gooseberries, raspas [raspberries], etc."

Of course, it wouldn't be me if there wasn't a ridiculous story involved, as always, through no fault of my own.

I was bound and determined this year to end our feast of pumpkin soup, roast duck, and Brussels sprouts with bacon and walnuts, with gooseberry pie. No other dessert would do. Not sour cherry, not tart apple, not lemon meringue, not pumpkin or sweet potato, not even southern pecan with a shot of bourbon in it!

Even though the product is packaged under the popular Oregon brand, a staple in the baking aisle, no store in our area stocked canned gooseberries. I checked on Amazon, and single cans were available and listed for $11.49 per can. The recipe called for two cans. Then I noticed that a case sold for $27. It didn't take a math wiz to figure out that for an additional four dollars I could get SIX more cans. I placed the order and hoped we would all like gooseberries.

I finally received a shipping confirmation around the second week of November. We had already decided on a Plan B (sour cherry), but those cans could keep. Therefore, I was understandably excited when the package arrived. I opened the box, lifted out the case, cut the thick plastic wrap, removed a can, and looked at the label.

Grapes! Thompson Grapes! What the hell is a Thompson grape?

In fact, according to Oregon Fruit, the Thompson seedless grape is grown in the warm, sunny heart of California. This popular varietal has a light, green shade and a sweet, mouth-watering flavor. They recommend trying them in a classic fruit salad, a dessert pie, or indulging in a sweet and savory recipe like curried chicken salad.

But still . . .

I went through Amazon's online return process, and a message came back that the item had been reordered and that I could keep the case of grapes free of charge. Swell, but it looked like we were back to Plan B (the sour cherries).

Sure enough though, I got another shipping alert and delivery notice. The Thursday before Thanksgiving, I brought the box home. Although I was somewhat dubious, I repeated my steps.

We were getting closer, but blueberries were not what I wanted either. Yes, I could think of more things to do with blueberries (such as top a cheesecake), than canned grapes, but I had hoped for something a bit special for our holiday dessert.

This time I thought I better call Amazon directly. I dialed the customer service number and put the phone on speaker. In clear English, but with a marked Indian accent, the representative identified himself as Sanjeev.

I calmly and concisely explained the situation step by step. As I went on, I noticed the background chatter quieted, and when I finally exclaimed, "All I wanted were gooseberries!" I could distinctly hear the sound of giggling voices.

I was having as much fun telling the story as they were listening to it, and the rep said once again, if I so wished, he would be happy to reorder the correct item, and I was free to keep the case of blueberries with their compliments.

You can guess the rest. Plan B was pretty much a foregone conclusion, but after a late afternoon doctor appointment, just as the local post office counter closed on the Wednesday evening before Thanksgiving, I retrieved a package, the third time being the charm.

So for an initial investment of $27, I got twenty-four cans of specialty fruits. Amazon's loss will be the food pantry's gain (except for enough blueberries to top that cheesecake).

We served the pie, still warm, a la mode. I highly recommend you give this a try for next Thanksgiving, or anytime you want to serve a refined yet rustic dessert.

A turkey walked across our dessert

The turkey leaped from the pie to the plate

Our new Pfaltzgraff Autumn Berry dinnerware set

Steve's Yammin' Grahamin' Sweet Potato Pie

Happy Thanksgiving!

A few days ago, I published a blog about sweet potato pie. The post featured a recipe given me by a neighbor, who got it from her mother, who got it from her mother. I roasted and peeled sweet potatoes, burning my fingers in the process. I bought fresh jars of spices, throwing away last year's still almost full ones, and carefully mixed in cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and ginger. I rolled out a scratch crust. I whipped whole cream with a little powdered sugar and vanilla for the topping.

But I wanted to see if I could come up with an easy sweet potato pie recipe that still comes close to homemade. I cut out the step of working with raw sweet potatoes by using canned yams, and skipped dealing with pie dough by using a store-bought graham cracker crust. I substituted pumpkin pie spice, using the open jar in my cupboard, for the individual seasonings.

The result was nothing short of fabulous. The pie was as rich and satisfying as any sweet potato pie I've ever had, but it was light and refreshing, which are not words generally associated with sweet potato pie. All the ingredients were perfectly balanced, and there are not enough "o"s in smoooooooth to describe the sweet potato custard filling. Sometimes people add too much spice to sweet potato pie, and it tastes like pumpkin pie, but in this recipe, the sweet potato flavor is front and center.

The idea of using canned yams in a pie is not original, but this is the recipe I came up with. I'd be proud to serve this pie at my Thanksgiving table.

Steve's Yammin' Grahamin' Sweet Potato Pie

Serves six

40 ounce canned yams in light syrup, drained

1/4 cup packed light brown sugar

2 large eggs, lightly beaten

1/2 cup heavy whipping cream

1 teaspoon pumpkin pie spice
Keebler Extra-Serving Graham Cracker Crust

Canned whipped cream for garnish

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. In large bowl, mash drained yams with potato masher. Continuing with potato masher, mix in sugar. Mix in eggs. Mix in pumpkin pie spice. Mix in whipping cream. With rubber spatula give a quick stir incorporating sides and bottom of bowl. Pour custard into crust, scraping down sides. This recipe fills the extra-serving size crust perfectly.

Place pie in center of oven for 45 minutes. Test for doneness with butter knife inserted into center of pie. Knife should come out clean, but do not overcook. Pie will continue to set as it rests. Cool on wire rack. Serve chilled or at room temperature. Top with canned whipped cream.

I Haven't Even Finished Eating All My Halloween Candy!

With Thanksgiving just a day away, I want to share a few of my all-time favorite Turkey Day shows.

[Remember to use your back page key to return to blog after viewing video links. All links were active at time of publication.]

We never miss the opportunity to invite Charlie Brown into our home for the holidays, so A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving is a must. I was already fifteen years old when this first aired, so it doesn't have the emotional bond of the Halloween and Christmas episodes. But the colors are bright, Peppermint Patty turns in one of her finest performances, and we get not one but two great Snoopy and Woodstock skits, first when they are getting the backyard ready, and second when they put on their Pilgrim costumes. Available through Amazon.

While we're speaking about Charlie Brown, there is another wonderful Thanksgiving piece featuring the Peanuts gang, an episode of the TV series "This Is America, Charlie Brown," The Mayflower Voyagers, 1988. In a simplified and entertaining way, the cartoon educates about the Atlantic crossing, and settling in a new land. Available through Amazon.

We also love having Garfield over, so Garfield's Thanksgiving is an annual laugh riot. Spoiler alert: Grandma saves the day. Available through Amazon.

A real (or should I say surreal) gem from the past is the 1951 cartoon short Pilgrim Popeye. And as the story teaches, you should eat your spinach - even on Thanksgiving.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pSLDlHhgLiM

Then there's the Bewitched episode Samantha's Thanksgiving where Aunt Clara, of course, sends herself, Samantha, Darrin, Tabitha, and Mrs. Kravitz back to old Plymouth. Elizabeth Montgomery's soliloquy in the last act still rings true today. Available through Amazon.

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x2gj81n

One Thanksgiving cartoon I would think about, and then forget, and then think about, is the Underdog episode titled Simon Says..No Thanksgiving (1966). I found it on Youtube, in two parts, and I recalled why I had such a crush on Sweet Polly Purebred. She's still hot!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZX_kjTPQGb0

The only full-length Thanksgiving movie that we traditionally look forward to is the 1952 MGM big screen production Plymouth Adventure starring Spencer Tracy and Gene Tierney. Tracy is at his cynical best, and Tierney's overbite leads the way in every scene she chews. The film won an Oscar for the storm at sea scene. The movie is available through Amazon, but the following trailer is vintage Hollywood.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=KaH5WLft8Jg

The place of honor goes to the 70's sitcom WKRP in Cincinnati. Perennially voted the number one Thanksgiving pick in poll after poll, the final line has become iconic in popular culture. Against tremendous temptation, I won't give it away. The name of the episode is Turkeys Away.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Zuj3dwZl64

One final note, before the NFL started showing three games on Thanksgiving, after dinner and the afternoon game, we would snuggle up and watch Miracle on 34th Street with a precocious Natalie Wood. As you know, the story opens on Thanksgiving Day in New York City at the Macy's Parade. The classic film is a light-hearted way to transition into the holiday season. Be sure to check out this ad for the film.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ce_op2qG24

So wattle over to the couch and queue up some of these Thanksgiving turkeys.

Custard's Last Yam

When we were living in our apartment on Crab Apple Court in Naperville, and our boys were young and getting into trouble, our neighbor across the hall was a young, attractive, black woman with a boy about the same age as ours. Like all the kids on the block, her son was constantly in and out of our home. One day he walked into our apartment, plopped himself down on the loveseat, picked up the remote and started watching TV.

I looked at him and said, "Hey Jace, what's going on?"

He said, "Oh man, I broke my mom's lamp that used to be my grammie's, and she's gonna kill me, so I gotta hide out here. You ain't gonna narc on me, are you?"

What could I say? I listened for Camille to get home, slipped out the back door, and softly tapped on her door. When she answered, I said, "Hi Camille, I've got Jace over here. I think he broke something and he's afraid he's going to get it. You know, we have a lot of holiday breakables, and it goes with the territory. What do you want me to do?"

She said, "I'll go around and knock on your front door and say I'm looking for Jace."

I went back in and busied myself in the kitchen. A moment later there was a knock on my front door. Jace lowered himself down as I opened it. Camille said, "I'm looking for Jace, has he been here? I saw an old lamp was broken in our apartment and I want to make sure he's alright. He's not in any trouble, but it's dinner time and I'm worried about him."

Jace sprang up and said, "I'm here ma."

"Hi honey," said Camille. "Thank Mr. Dunn."

"Thanks Mr. D," said Jace.

"See ya buddy," I said.

A few weeks later, early on Thanksgiving morning, we were surprised by a knock on the door. We had the parade on and were drinking coffee, but we were still in our sleepwear. I looked out the fish hole and saw Camille standing there. I opened the door. Jace stood beside his mother.

"We brought you something for dessert," said Camille. "It's a sweet potato pie. We have it every Thanksgiving. The recipe's been handed down in my family for many generations."

I will not even attempt to describe how good it was. I subsequently asked for the recipe. Camille gladly gave it to me and I've tried to recreate the experience of that first bite. I've come close, but there's some subtle nuance that I've never been able to capture. Be that as it may, this is one helluva pie.

Steve's Southern Yankee Sweet Potato Pie

3 cups (4-5 large) sweet potatoes, roasted, peeled, and mashed

1/2 stick butter, melted

1/2 cup white sugar

1/4 cup light brown sugar, packed

1/2 cup cream

2 eggs

1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon

1/4 teaspoon ground nutmeg

1/4 teaspoon ground ginger

1/4 teaspoon ground allspice

1/4 teaspoon ground cloves

1/4 teaspoon salt

1 Tablespoon bourbon

Homemade or refrigerated pie dough (bottom crust for 9" pie plate)

Preheat oven to 375 degrees F. Place sweet potatoes in large mixing bowl. With electric hand-mixer on lowest setting, beat in melted butter. Mix in sugars. Add lightly beaten eggs, one at a time. Add cream. Add vanilla. Mix in spices and seasonings. Add whiskey. Mix. Pour into unbaked pie dough. Bake for fifty-five minutes, or until butterknife inserted in center comes out clean. Cool on wire rack. Serve at room temperature with whipped cream.

Need Not Apply

I have written a letter to the president-elect, offering my services as his propaganda minister. I included the following credentials:

I am a physically disabled, mentally handicapped, Jewish transsexual, in a 3-way marriage with my Roman Catholic spouse and an Ivy League educated goat. I am the adopted child of a Muslim father and an illegal Mexican mother. My great-great-great-great grandparents were runaway slaves.

My work experience includes marketing director for Planned Parenthood, the ACLU new case manager, and the congressional lobbyist for PBS.

I have not heard back yet.

Dem Bones, Dem Bones, Dem Beef Bones

We made French Onion Soup from scratch, and it was the richest, deepest, most savory example of the classic dish I have ever tasted. And when I say from scratch, I mean from scratch. Just about the only thing I didn't do was birth the beeve.

But we did start with five pounds of beef soup bones packed with marrow. We roasted them, then slow cooked them in a crockpot, along with a carrot, a celery stalk, an onion, 12 (yes, 12) garlic cloves, kosher salt, cracked pepper, and a bay leaf. We covered everything with water and let it cook on high for 24 hours!*

*(Our crockpot had to be reset every 8 hours, so if yours is the same, plan accordingly.)

We then strained the stock and let it cool completely, then refrigerated the broth in a covered container overnight.

When it came time to make the soup, we removed the container from the fridge, and a pure white layer of tallow lifted cleanly off, revealing the glistening gelatin below.

Shellie caramelized 4 medium-sized yellow onions in butter, made a roux, then allowed the gelatin to melt in. This simmered for 30 minutes. Meanwhile, she oven-toasted slices of French bread drizzled with olive oil.

After the 30 minutes, we ladled the stock into individual oven-proof crocks. Shellie placed a slice of provolone cheese on the bottom of the crocks before adding soup. We then floated a slice of toast on top, then added a slice of Swiss cheese and another slice of provolone. These got put, uncovered, into a 350 degree oven for another half hour.

Our crocks are oven safe, but not broiler safe. The usual method for finishing this dish is to place the crocks under the broiler to brown the cheese. However our cheese browned up beautifully, thank you, without this step.

Be forewarned. You will burn your mouth on this soup. It's that good.

Veteran's Day (Stories from the Greatest Generation)

"War is hell!" - General William Tecumseh Sherman

"To hell with war!" - Major General Smedley Butler

My great-uncle Hank had a direct line to the freshest smoked fish in the city. A couple of times a month, he would show up at our house early Sunday mornings, with a big box of plump, juicy, delicious, smoked chubs.

We kids learned early-on how to gently peel away the skin, and remove the succulent meat, leaving only the head, bones, and tail, just like in the cartoons.

Uncle Hank was stationed in the radio shack of the Naval base at Pearl Harbor on December 7th, 1941, "a date which will live in infamy." He lost most of his hearing in the raid. He adored my mother and doted on us kids, but when we talked to him, he would scrunch up his craggy face and say, "Heeeh!"

Prior to the attack, Uncle Hank had sent his wife, my great-aunt Freda, a necklace and bracelet made of small matching seashells from Hawaii. When Aunt Freda passed away a few years ago, my mom and sister went to clean out her home. My sister gave me the set to present to my wife on Mother’s Day as a keepsake, along with a vintage 1940s photograph of my great-aunt wearing the jewelry. Many families have such cherished heirlooms.

Of course, I knew my great-aunt and uncle many years after the war. Uncle Hank didn't talk about the war much, but I have never forgotten one story in particular. I was about nine, and my brother Bunce must have been about seven. I don't remember how we got on the subject, but I vividly recall what he said.

“When you kill a man with a knife, you slide the blade in till your hand digs into his belly. Then you give the knife a quarter twist (he demonstrated with a quick flick of his wrist), and jerk it out.”

He passed away long before I reached my adult years, and could relate to him on that level. As an adult, I can now picture my great-aunt as a young wife, gathered around the radio with her friends and relatives, listening to the war reports in horror and disbelief, not knowing if her husband was alive or dead.

Aunt Freda Steinberg Budman

In the larger context, as history repeatedly shows, mankind somehow rises phoenix-like from the blackest ashes. Although the sneak attack was a tragedy, and many men, women, and children  were injured or lost their lives, if Japan had not attacked when it did, it would have delayed the United States from entering WWII, possibly allowing Nazi Germany to develop the atomic bomb before we did.

If the Nazis had won the war we could be living in a state where our communications were monitored, our movements tracked, our civil liberties curtailed, where the police controlled the population with brutality and impunity, where the military-industrial corporate barons pulled the strings of politicians, and used the armed forces to exert their will around the globe.

Hmm, wait a minute . . .

Franklin Delano Roosevelt

A powerful book, well worth reading, is To Hell and Back by Audie Murphy. The book is a gritty narrative from the perspective of a private infantryman, who became a front line combat officer. In eloquent and insightful prose, at times almost poetic, he recounts the day to day struggle of men in trenches, slogging through muddy fields, and over the frozen terrain of WWII Europe. The stench of death permeates the work, the reek of rotting corpses, burnt flesh, and black powder in the nostrils. But it is also a book about life, the hopes of the soldiers in the hopelessness of war.

Murphy introduces us to a cast of characters, and through their eyes we see the intimate reality of the foot soldiers: the inedible rations, the exhaustion beyond endurance, the bravery and collapse of the human spirit. Of men willing themselves to fight amid the chaos of action, and leaving their blood and broken bodies beneath the soil of foreign lands. Of having to hold their bowels as they are about to meet the enemy, and losing them when they do.

Murphy returned home, the most decorated soldier of the United States Army, and took Hollywood by storm with his boyish good looks, which belied the battle-hardened steel just below the skin. Yes, war is hell, and To Hell and Back makes that abundantly clear.

I happen to be from the specific age group that was born during the late 1950s, making me too young to serve during the Vietnam War, and too old to fight in the Gulf. Quite often, when I am out in my wheelchair, I am mistaken for a veteran, but I would never claim that distinction, and I explain that my condition is due to illness not injury.

My wife would think me remiss, however, if I did not mention that my father-in-law served in the Pacific during WWII, my brother-in-law was stationed in Turkey during Vietnam, and her nephew is on active duty in the Navy.

In April of 2015, after a long decline, my wife's father, George DeYoung, passed away peacefully in his sleep, at the age of 91, at the North Carolina State Veterans Home in Fayetteville, NC.

George served on Guam

When she was growing up, my wife and her dad worked on cars together, went fishing, and traveled extensively with an RV club, including the time they spent an evening around the campfire with Carroll O'Connor, a down to earth gentleman, who starred as Archie Bunker on TV's All in the Family.

George was an avid sailor, and held a Coast Guard Captain's License. My wife loved sailing with him on Lake Michigan. Her father was also a past National Archery Champion, and hand-crafted his own bows.

I knew my father-in-law as an inveterate tinkerer, always puttering around the house - that he built. I spent many Easters, Christmases, birthdays, weddings, and family gatherings there. Devoutly Catholic, and a liturgical minister in his church, George welcomed me into his home, and was always curious about the differences and the similarities between the holidays. He encouraged my marriage to his daughter.

A year ago I got to witness the interment of my father-in-law at Arlington National Cemetery. My wife and I were staying in Georgetown, and we took a limo across the Potomac via the Arlington Memorial Bridge into Virginia. The family gathered at the elegantly appointed Administration Building. A personal director formed us into a motorcade with the decorum befitting the situation.

My wife's niece Dawn, all five-foot-two and one-hundred-and-ten pounds of her, is an EMT, and she immediately took charge of me. She lifted me with ease from my wheelchair into and out of SUVs, and maneuvered me around, so my wife could grieve.

A white-gloved honor guard carried the casket, as the director escorted us to a canopied area on a grassy knoll. Seats were arranged in three rows. My wife sat with her sister and brother-in-law in the front row, but because of my wheelchair, the director asked if I would mind sitting behind the three rows, so as not to disrupt the proceedings. I had no objection.

Over the course of the service, we witnessed a complete flag ceremony, which began with a tri-folded flag being crisply snapped open with precise hand movements from one seaman to the next. The open flag was then held horizontally over the casket, which rested on a covered table. The navy chaplain led us in hymns and readings, and blessed with holy water, the remains of George and his beloved wife Marian, whose ashes lay in the casket beside her husband for all time.

Off to our left, a drill team smartly executed a twenty-one gun salute. From far off seemingly, a bugler played Taps, the plaintive restrains rolling across the former plantation fields.

My wife had the wherewithal to record the event on her phone, and you can hear the family members crying in the background. The solemnity of the moment was not lost on me, but from my position in the back, all I could think was, How cool is this?

The honor guard refolded the flag into the all too familiar triangle shape and presented it to my wife's sister, the oldest sibling, with these words:

"Ma'am, on behalf of the President of the United States and the Chief of Naval Operations, please accept this flag as a symbol of our appreciation for your loved one's service to this Country and a grateful Navy."

We made our way across a small road to the Columbarium, row after row of beautifully grained marble walls. The chaplain gave the benediction and the casket was placed within its niche.

My father-in-law was salt-of-the-earth enough to season every steak that ever moseyed up the Chisholm Trail, just like his hero, John Wayne.

A Chicago Democrat early in life, George gradually became Republican, but I never heard him utter a bigoted word or prejudiced thought. As a husband, a father of three daughters, with numerous granddaughters and great-granddaughters, I believe he would not condone the offensive language and vileness of the current president.

I do not believe many of his generation, who fought and died to keep Europe free, would be pleased that the United States is about to hand over the continent to a criminal and expansionist Russia.

George and Marian on their wedding day

(Photographer unknown)

Memorial Service of George and Marian DeYoung,

Arlington National Cemetery:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PuPpWGR15fc

:(

Everyone I know is sick at heart. My wife came home from work crying, and was literally quaking in my arms, sobbing, "I'm so scared. I'm so scared." And you know what, so am I.

To the rest of the world I say, please don't judge the American people by the outcome of this election. As Laci Green points out in the following 3-minute video, the popular vote was for the more qualified candidate. It was only in the Electoral College that intolerance and brutality triumphed for the day.

This is worth watching. I have followed Laci for many years. She is a fine young vlogger.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DJXE8R1gByM

Because I felt like we needed it

I Got Clocked

BREAKING NEWS: At 2:00 a.m. Sunday, due to unusually heavy demand, the Atomic Clock suffered a catastrophic meltdown. Authorities confirm that large amounts of time were released into the environment.

If you find time, authorities urge that you save it in a bottle, but do not hesitate because time waits for no man, and that would be a waste of time. Authorities cautioned that you should approach time from above because time flies.

Authorities also warned that you should avoid having too much time on your hands. If you have too much time on your hands, wash with mild soap and rinse under cool water.

Atomic Clock Director, Wunsaponnah Tyme, stated, "Just as radiation has a half-life, time has a limit. This is referred to as the Outer Time Limit."

When asked why information about the meltdown and release of time into the atmosphere was made public so quickly, the Director commented, "You can fool all the people some of the time, and some of the people all the time, but you cannot fool all the people all the time - about time."

In winding up, the Director remarked, "Everyone should remember that time is not on your side."

Tricks and Treats and A Nine Pound Chicken

We have the kids coming over for an early Thanksgiving. The main course is a succulent, nine pound free-range chicken. Yes, you heard right - a NINE POINT THREE FIVE POUND CHICKEN!

The side dish is mashed Hubbard squash, from a local farmstand, with butter, brown sugar, and a drizzle of maple syrup for flavor.

Right now Nik and Shellie are battling with the hard-shelled behemoth. Inside the blue-gray rind, we'll be rewarded with yellow-orange flesh ready for roasting.

The other simple accompaniments are everyone's favorites - Brussels sprouts with browned butter, and canned cranberry sauce.

And of course, coffee and homemade pumpkin pie with real whipped cream for dessert.

We kept our Halloween decorations up so the grandkids can enjoy them. I recently purchased a pop-up book based on Poe's "The Raven," designed by a master paper artist, that I can't wait to share with them, and watch their eyes pop up.

Since we didn't see them for Halloween (they were trick-or-treating in their neighborhood, and we were handing out treats to the kids in ours), we still have their treats. Not candy, they get enough of that, but skeletons on fabric panels.

The life-size cotton prints depict one skeleton in a fully-plumed, Victorian hat, and another wearing an evening top hat. We're going to tell them that grandma and I had x-rays done so the kids can remember us for many Halloweens to come.

Plus, Alexa wants grandma to teach her how to crochet for a Girl Scout merit badge, and I'm sure Owen has a few tricks up his sleeve for grandpa.

But that's okay. Seeing my family is the biggest treat of all.

And That's the Way It Isn't

For thirty years, Americans shared their dinners with a beloved houseguest named Uncle Walter.

Anyone who has logged onto Google today has seen the Doodle honoring the 100th birthday of legendary reporter and news anchor Walter Cronkite. In my childhood he shared a place with the other avuncular Walter in my life, one with the last name of Disney.

As the CNet report states:

"Cronkite, who reported for CBS from 1950 until his retirement in 1981, is remembered for embodying a reporting approach based in objectivity, accuracy, fairness and integrity. He was also an outspoken advocate for respecting the standards of responsible journalism."

I can just remember the black and white images on my family's old console television. The CBS Evening News with Walter Cronkite. The name was as rock solid as the man through turbulent times. Yet I can still see the tears streaming down his face as he told a stunned nation that its youthful, charismatic leader was dead.

Other images. Riots. Cities burning in the night when the Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. was murdered. It was all adult stuff, but I could hear the tension in Cronkite's voice. And although I didn't understand it at the time, I felt that something incredibly wrong was taking place.

But amid all the tragedy, Cronkite was never more in his element than when reporting on the NASA space program. Like a little boy, he could barely contain his glee as the mission controller called out - ten...nine...eight....

I was eleven years old, and along with 202,676,946 fellow Americans, and much of the world, I watched Neil Armstrong take that one small step for man. The microphone of my Panasonic portable cassette player was draped over the tinny speaker of our 19" color TV as I recorded Walter Cronkite's coverage of Apollo 11.

Cronkite also saw another launch, this one of a weekly news anthology called "60 Minutes." After his retirement in 1981, Cronkite was openly critical of what news broadcasting had become. He credited "60 Minutes" with the commercialization of news, which until that time had been a 'loss leader.' "60 Minutes" forever erased the line between news and entertainment, and news was now expected to turn a profit.

Cronkite closed his nightly broadcasts with his signature quote, "And that's the way it is."

Unfortunately, that's the way it is.

For a short clip of Cronkite at his most childlike, reporting on his favorite topic, go to:

cbsnews.com/news/to-the-moon-45-years-later-remembering-apollo-11

Royko Is Hoisting A Cold One In Heaven

Okay. Just in case of the unthinkable, the city of Chicago, and die-hard fans all across the country - and indeed, the world - are going to need a scapegoat (no pun intended). At the risk of life and limb, I officially volunteer.

When I grew up on the southwest side of Chicago, I was nominally a Sox fan. I say nominally because I really didn't like sports. I stunk at Little League, I thought (correctly as it turned out) golf was tedious nonsense, and football was some arcane ritual that cut into the shows I wanted to watch on Sundays. I couldn't understand how the last two minutes of the game could take forty-five minutes to play.

Occasionally my dad would get home from work, and hustle me and Bunce and whatever kids we were playing with into the station wagon. As we drove off, he'd yell out the window to a neighbor, "I'm taking them to the ball game."

He invariably meant Comiskey Park and the Sox. Now that was fun. My dad didn't like buying us hotdogs because they weren't kosher, but we could have all the popcorn, peanuts and crackerjack we could stomach.

Plus, my dad bought each of us a souvenir program to keep score, although I didn't know how. But I liked paging through the pictures and articles while there wasn't anything going on on the field. Which to me was most of the time.

Sure, I liked Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Fergie Jenkins, and the voice of Jack Brickhouse, but I have not stretched during a 7th inning in close to fifty years.

Yet, since I don't live under a rock, I have been following what that other Chicago baseball team has been doing of late. My wife asked me this morning if I knew the outcome of last night's game, and I said, "There's going to be a game seven."

She said, "Do you know when they're playing? I'd like to watch."

"Yes," I said. "Tonight. If I watch, that would jinx 'em for sure. It's going to come down to the bottom of the 9th in game seven of the World Series."

Cubs fans everywhere can vent their anger and frustration at one person. (Cleveland fans, we can talk about my statue later.)

I shall be forever known as the man who single-handedly prevented the Cubs from winning the championship. I shall be remembered along with a tavern owner's pet billy goat, Al Capone's secret vault, and Mrs. O'Leary's cow.

So, I'll be watching, and we can all see together what happens. And who to curse, so to speak. And if there is no joy in Mudville, there's always next year.