Michigan's Ke-che-te-go Warriors

It is spring in Roscommon and I have a new book. This one is another about an Indian who lived nearby (Grayling, MI) in the mid 19^th century. Writing this book was a natural outcome of my earlier work about a local Indian, since the two men were friends and the Grayling newspaper frequently reported on their comings and goings.

So, in case you are interested, here is a copy of the Prologue to Michigan’s Ke-che-te-go Warriors, available in its entirety at Amazon. com.

 

 

April 1865, near the close of the Civil War

 

Big Tom Ke-che-te-go marched forward with the men from his regiment. No one spoke as they marched toward the crater – the big hole in the ground that the Union Army made by exploding 8,000 pounds of explosives under the rebel lines in front of Petersburg, Virginia. None of the men or officers in Tom’s outfit, the 1^st Michigan Sharpshooters, knew why they were attacking. The first troops sent in some 30 minutes earlier had not been heard from, so now, the Sharpshooters were marching forward, just behind the 30^th United States Colored Troops.

The line of march was ominous for Tom and his men in Company K, the celebrated all-Indian company. As Sharpshooters, his unit normally fought as skirmishers or snipers in support of other Union regiments. Both skirmishing and sniping required the Sharpshooters to be dispersed along the battle lines, often creeping close to the enemy using whatever cover the men could find. This time is different, Tom thought, as his regiment marched toward the enemy in parade ground formation. We must be headed to the front lines as reinforcements for the regular troops, Tom decided.

As they approached the crater, Tom gaped at the devastation he saw. The early morning explosion had obliterated the rebel fort that formed a salient in the rebel lines. What used to be a fort was now a widely scattered mélange of broken logs, twisted lumber and chunks of foundation materials thrown about as if a tornado had found a target. It was strangely quiet; Tom heard only the occasional sound of canteens striking ammunition boxes and the sucking sound of boots being pulled from the muck as the men marched forward, making a long thin line of Union blue. As they reached the crater, they could see grey and black smoke rising above the large mound ahead of them.

The men climbed the rise and Colonel De Land sent them over the sides. The lip of the crater was too steep, the men slid down its sides toward the milling mass of troops that were below. As soon as Tom slid down the steep bank, he knew they were in trouble, even the closest Union troops were being hit by rebel fire. Tom saw dead and dying men scattered about like cordwood. Just as the men were assembling into ranks, a shell landed nearby creating a flash of light and a shower of mud. The kaboom of the exploding shell proved that it was close. As Tom gained his feet and his equilibrium, four of his fellow Sharpshooters pushed him aside, carrying a wounded man. It was the Colonel, injured by the bomb. The four men carrying De Land began struggling up the side of the crater; it was the last Tom saw of them.

Pizzzz. A bullet whistled by Tom’s ear. He looked up, hoping to see a flash of light and smoke from a rebel rifle that would become a target for him. It was no use - there was smoke everywhere. The Lieutenant signaled Tom and the Indian company to follow him. The men ran forward in a crouch along the bottom of a ravine, past a company of colored troops who were trying to form themselves into a battle line a dozen yards to their right.

As they ran past, a shell landed almost in the middle of the line the colored regiment was trying to form. Some of the Sharpshooters stopped to attend to the wounded men, but the Lieutenant waved them on. Tom saw other Union troops to his right trying to find cover from the artillery shells and the bullets that were raining on them. He kept moving forward. They were traveling at a diagonal across the bottom of the crater until they reached its opposite side on the left. Here, the troopers began clawing their way up the steep sides until a rebel rifleman appeared above and fired into their ranks. Tom hit the ground and rolled away from the rifleman’s downward trajectory. Just above him was a broken log sticking out of the ground. Tom crawled toward it, hoping for a small measure of protection. He peeked around the log to see not one, but three rifles over the lip of the crater each with a head just above. Tom got his rifle in position and fired a shot at the head closest to him then jerked himself and his rifle back behind the log.

He tried to calm his labored breathing and listen for any sounds indicating the presence of the riflemen above. Instead, he heard a series of shots from men all around him – apparently, other Sharpshooters had found a way to fire their rifles also. He waited another moment. Hearing nothing, Tom peeked again. Neither heads nor rifles were showing. Tom decided that being at the top of the crater could be no more hazardous than his current position, so he crept around the log and resumed clawing his way up. Other Company K men followed. Tom and the Lieutenant reached the top about the same time. The Lieutenant pointed to the left, indicating a long trench down and away from them that must have led to the fort before the explosion. Tom started in that direction as another bullet found its mark. The Lieutenant fell back clutching his upper arm. Tom headed toward the trench as another man helped the Lieutenant back over the lip of the crater the group had just left.

Tom reached the trench and jumped in, hoping to be protected from the whiz of bullets that he continued to hear as he made his way to the trench along with a dozen other Sharpshooters. As soon as he dropped into the trench, Tom stopped and reloaded his rifle and snapped the bayonet in place on the end of the muzzle. He looked at the other men behind him and saw that all had followed his lead in checking their weapons. With Tom in front, they started moving along the trench to the left, walking warily in expectation of finding a line of rebels facing the front. The walk was short. After creeping forward a few minutes, Tom saw a rebel soldier with his rifle resting on the forward edge of the trench. He fired his rifle instinctively and the body in front of him twitched. Tom stepped backward two paces and pushed his back hard against the rearmost earthen wall, hoping he was out of the line of fire.

He waited a moment, heard nothing, and then crept forward to the reb he had shot. The body had not moved. Tom walked up to him, grabbed his arm and twisted the body around to see his face. He was shocked to see a young man, barely old enough to shave. Blood had streaked across his face and an empty eye socket showed where one bullet entered with another in his neck. Tom’s bullet was in his chest. He had shot a dead man. He turned back to the troops behind him and signaled them forward, then continued his cautious pace forward. The trench soon opened up into a room with six rebel gunners lining a front wall. Some were headless; others had equally gruesome injuries, all fatal, victims of a Union bomb blast. Behind them were stacks of guns and ammunition in disarray from the blast.

The Sharpshooters behind Tom were just filling the room when a shell landed close by, in front of the trench. A rebel artilleryman must have seen them through the smoke and fire. The men returned to the narrow trench they had just left. They gathered there, waiting for someone to decide what to do. Tom took a quick look at the men; all he could see were Indians and he was their Sergeant. He looked over the back ledge of the trench where he believed the rebel lines were. A bullet whizzed by, the rebs must have a bead on them. Tom considered their position for a moment and looked at the men, waiting for someone to say something. There was silence.

“Let’s go back to the crater and join up with the rest of the regiment,” Tom said. The troops were willing to follow Tom’s lead. They retraced their steps until they came to the open area next to the crater. Two hundred yards off to their left, they could see a line of rebel infantry coming forward with puffs of smoke issuing from their rifles. Several of the troopers took shots at the advancing line, but it seemed to have no effect. Several men turned to Tom, awaiting his orders.

“Let’s spread out. Head for the crater. Two men at a time,” he said in the Ojibwa language. “Go!”

Tom waved his arm and two men from the company sprinted forward. He waited for another moment and then repeated his command, “Go!”

He decided to watch the fate of those he sent forward before sending others. The first two made it almost halfway when one of the men seemed to jump backward. He had been hit. His companion grabbed him and the pair continued forward with the wounded man dragging one leg. Tom watched as they disappeared over the lip of the crater. As soon as they topped the ridge, Tom signaled the next two who were in line awaiting his signal.

“You two, go that way first before turning toward the crater.” He pointed toward the Union lines to the right. “Go!” When he saw those men make it halfway, he sent four men forward in the same direction. There was just one other man and Tom left. Tom looked at him. He was an Indian from Saginaw, Amos Chamberlain. They started together and finished together, both running as hard as they could. When they reached the lip of the crater, Tom yelled for Amos to jump.

They nearly landed on top of several Company K Indians who had made it to the crater ahead of them. These men were lying just below the edge of the crater and firing at the line of rebel soldiers who had been pursuing them. The Indians were calmly rising above the edge, firing their rifles and then falling back to reload. They were having the effect of slowing the advance, but there were too many oncoming soldiers and Tom knew that in a few more moments the rebels would be on top of them. He called out for the men to go down the sides of the crater and search for cover. It was an act of desperation because the crater below them seemed a hell-hole of crying, falling men taking rebel fire.The Indians began running, sliding and falling downward. Before they reached bottom, the whine of bullets indicated live fire everywhere around them. Tom saw a man in front of him fall down as he clutched at his back. There was a slight rise in the ground that Tom fell behind. It offered the barest hope of shelter from the rain of bullets that dug holes in the earth all around. Tom lay panting behind it, unable to see any Indians around him or rebel soldiers above him.

He believed he was taking his last breaths. When the advancing rebel soldiers reached him, he expected to be killed or captured. Maybe they would take his scalp – certainly his rifle. Whites craved Indian rifles with their ornately carved stocks that Indians worked on in camp, hour after hour. He should have told the Lieutenant where he wanted to be buried. Perhaps he would be lucky and his bones would be carried back to Saginaw to lie with his father’s bones as all his ancestors would want. Once again, he wondered why he was fighting this White man’s war as he waited for the sound of the coming rebels.

 

 

 

RV' ing

I

Old-timers with RV

I own a travel trailer. I have owned several over the years, beginning with a pull-behind I purchased when my children were young. After my retirement, I gravitated to a 5^th wheel version of an RV and continued camping. I have learned a lot about trailers over the years. The most important thing I have learned is that they eat money for both regular maintenance and unexpected repairs as they age.
 

The worst thing you can do if you own a trailer is to hook it to a vehicle and pull it on the road. Trailers don’t seem to like the bouncing, twisting and jarring ride that is inevitable on all the roads I travel. They rebel at this treatment, mostly by fracture of some esoteric part that causes the dealer to remark something like, “I’ve never seen one of these break before,” as he hands you the bill.
 

The second worst thing you can do to a trailer is to leave it outdoors. Trailers don’t want to be outdoors. Despite all the advertising that shows an RV parked on the shores of a secluded lake with a forest surrounding it and a mountain in the background, RV’s prefer being parked in a heated barn, with low ambient light surrounded by other RV’s, all of them near a camping dealership. The truth is that sunlight causes vinyl seals to crack and colors to fade, rain causes joints to leak, and cold, well, that’s another matter.
 

As I prepared to de-winterize my 5^th wheel this spring I decided to look inside before tackling the job. The door wouldn’t open. After giving a mighty push, I learned that the vinyl floor covering (aka as linoleum for you old-timers) in front of the door had cracked open in the shape of a long, thin volcano . As I stuck my head in further, I discovered that the volcano extended across the entire entryway, under the cupboard, out the other side and then approximately in the middle of the entire length of the vinyl flooring. A helluva crack, in the vernacular.
 

“This won’t do,” I said, just as the Missus came up behind me. “I’ll need to find my roll of duct tape.”
 

After a lengthy discussion, it became apparent that the duct tape-fix wasn’t suitable for my better half and that I had better get myself to the travel trailer place for repairs. Since I am on a first-name basis with the service shop at the trailer place, I called Mike and described my problem.
 

“Oh yes, we’re seeing a lot ot that. You are caller number six so far. It was too cold this winter, wasn’t it? ha, ha, ha.”
 

“So, Mike, old pal, how much are we talking about for repair?”
 

It turns out that old Mike wasn’t such a pal, after all. He said the repair would cost in the neighborhood of two or three thousand dollars depending upon whether I wanted to replace the bathroom vinyl that had been miraculously unaffected by the cracking agent. Another trailer repairman said he would ‘work it in’ over the next three weeks or so while he worked on (presumably) more important and more profitable jobs. ‘This won’t do,’ I said to myself as I began the process of looking for another old friend in the flooring business. After several phone calls, I learned that trailer repairmen have extraordinary chutzpah in demanding extraordinary bills for routine repair work. My trailer is now being repaired at a flooring store after a one day wait at a cost of less than $400.00.
 

I should point out In defense of the RV industry, that this type behavior is not unique to them and those in other recreation-based businesses have equal amounts of chutzpah. Did you know, for example, that the worst thing you can do to a boat is to put it in water? And don’t even talk about airplanes. Ha, ha, ha.



 

Gettin' Silly

 

   I may not have told you that the Mrs. and I are in an exercise group that has the imaginative name of Silver Sneakers. This is a program for seniors who have more time than sense and are willing to exercise for an hour on two mornings a week trying to coax our bodies to move. I believe the overall goal of the Silver Sneakers program is to convince us that we are once again young enough to dance to fifties-era music, as we often try to do. It has only been partially successful for me as I hop around trying in vain to find a beat. My favorites dance tunes are The Twist and YMCA, although recently I have taken to spelling out A A R P instead of Y M C A just to be silly. And that brings me to the topic at hand: many of us in the class amuse ourselves between sets of stretches, dances, and exercises by acting silly.

            It turns out that individual acts of goofiness are contagious. After someone acts out or says something completely silly, it is passed from one Sneaker to another and ripples of laughter circulate around the room. After that, a funny thing happens: the exercising becomes a little more palatable.

Fortunately, we have a teacher who puts up with our foibles. (We call her Annie Archy or sometimes Annie Achey if she has been too tough on us). The class is slowly gravitating toward most members being silly on a periodic basis. Not only are individual acts of craziness being lauded, now the entire class has begun conspiring to blur the line between sanity and, well, you know. At our last class meeting, we turned our chairs backwards so that Annie was facing our behinds. We thought it was hilarious. To our group of proper ladies and a scattering of grandpas, Annie said, "What the hell . . .?" As the next step in our ongoing joke, one of our members said he is going to arrive early at a meeting and move all our chairs outdoors.

            Fortunately, Annie has a profound sense of humor or she would have quit by now. The Silver Sneakers national organization doesn't seem to share her attitude in dealing with seniors who have a silly streak. One summer the organization sent a twenty-something fitness expert to evaluate our class. The assessment was a might critical,". . . the teacher doesn't seem to have control of her class." The report didn't bother our teacher and it gave us another thing to laugh about.

            I have come to understand that being silly is a valuable adjunct to growing older. If you are willing to say goodbye to your dignity, you can make a stiff joint or a sore hip a little more bearable. As one of our octogenarian exercisers who has her share of aches explained, "If it doesn't hurt, it must not be working." Another of our exercisers came to class with a broken foot that must have been painful. Yet, she drug her walking boot around and gamely tried various exercises, albeit with an exaggerated grimace. After each movement, in a fit of simulated agony she bellowed louder than an angry cow. Then she smiled while our class erupted in laughter. She's a treat. I expect her to milk the use of the boot for some months beyond her recuperation.

So, if your age has reached a point where you can detect pressure changes sooner than the weatherman and some of your joints need more lubrication than a 30 year-old lawnmower, my advice is to behave as if someone just told an uproariously funny story. Then, have a glass of wine and act like a clown. Forget the stretches and exercises, have another glass of wine, stick out your tongue and put on a silly face. You are bound to feel better. I've been obtaining the benefits of this advice for some while, besides, it provides cover for my most egregious behavior --that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

 

I been with Millie stompin' grapes and gettin' silly
Drinkin' wine, wine, wine
Pass a little ripple and you take a little sipple
Make me fine, fine, fine
There ain't nothin' in the place'll put a smile on my face
And take the worry off of my mind
Like me and Millie stompin' grapes and gettin' silly
Drinking wine

“Me and Millie" -- an old country song, lyrics by Bobby Goldsboro

 

 

New Spectacles

I just finished my biennial optometrist visit and the clever doc sold me another new pair of specs. He said the new spectacles should fix my problems in seeing close-up stuff and those pesky things at intermediate distances as well as enhancing my longer distant vision - just about everything, I suppose.

“You’ll be 20/30 again,” he said proudly, as if he had just developed a plan for world peace, ”if you buy the new glasses I recommend.”

Then he sent me to his girlfriend, the one who helps you decide about new frames and fits them to you. After that, she tells you about your bill. Before I retired and my employer paid for vision care, I used to get new frames each time I got new glasses. In those days, new frames were covered by my insurance, providing I chose frames designed during World War II. After my retirement and the loss of company paid insurance, I quit getting new frames at each optometrist visit and continued wearing my old WW II glasses, except for the few dozen times that I broke or lost my glasses.

The blonde girlfriend talked to me about new frames. She said the progressive lenses the doctor specified required a larger glass surface, hence a new pair of frames would be needed to accommodate the new lenses.

“But,” she said, “let’s first talk about some of the optional features you might enjoy.” For a small fee, she explained, I could get the new transition lenses that darken in the sun.

“Everybody is wearing them now,” she said, hinting that if I was anybody, I would surely require the transition lens regardless of cost. About then I noticed that she was wearing a low-neckline blouse that emphasized her bosom. She went on to tell me about this nifty coating they could put on the glasses that reduced glare. I shook my head yes. It was an ample bosom, by the way. Then she explained about the scratch-resistant coating – yes, and the lighter-weight plastic - definitely yes, I said. Finally, she came to the frames.

”It would be a shame to house these latest technology lenses into an old fashioned frame,” she said. “I think a person like you would want the latest design frames.”

By now, I was staring intently and I had forgotten all about WW II. “Why don’t you choose the latest style for me?” I offered, trying to look at her face.

She picked out a pair of eyeglass frames in no time flat. I assumed she had been saving them just for me. They reminded me of the glasses Bono wears. I told her they were wonderful and I admired her taste. She began adding up my bill. I was a little concerned when the tally for my bill stretched to a second page. The Bono style frames were about the same price as my first car. The total for the examination and new eyeglasses with all the optional features was only slightly less than my first house. She handed over the bill. Of course, I acted like the price didn’t matter as I stuffed the bill in my pocket and finally managed to look the blonde in the face.

I should be getting my new specs sometime soon and I won’t be going to the optometrist’s office for a long time, I hope not until he gets a new girlfriend. By the way, I’ll be posting a lot of selfies on Facebook soon.

To Hug or Not, That is the Question

OK, I admit it, I’m a hugger. Of women that is, men, not so much. I never used to be a hugger, but became one after we took up square dancing where hugging is a part of the standard greeting and farewell. Since then, my hugging skills have improved; I graduated from a sort of amateur hugger to a professional because of one particular square dancer. She is a diminutive woman, but ox-strong as I came to learn when she gave a bear hug that left me pleasantly stunned, gasping for breath. Before then, I had been one of those wimpy huggers who come close, but never engage in a soul-searching, breath-skipping sort of hug that this woman offered. I was hooked. From then on, I became, like her, a bear-hugger. I tried it out on one large woman for practice. I may have overdone it a little.

“I almost peed my pants,” she said.

That was in the early days. Now, after years of practice, my hugging skills are more refined and I have more appropriate clenches depending upon the hug’ee and her skill level. (I learned early on that you should hold your breath when you expect a bear hug to avoid the wet pants syndrome.) Clearly, the man hugging President Obama is not skilled in giving bear hugs and needs advice from a professional like me.

 

                With this background, you can understand how disappointed I was when I learned I had missed National Hugging Day. This year America’s National Hug Day was January 22. It turns out that huggers have their own web site, http://www.nationalhuggingday.com/ where they explain about different types of hugs and why hugging is important. By the way, their organization is apparently international as they have a German name, ‘Weltknuddeltag’, and a Swedish(?) name as well, ‘Kramens Dag’. I like the wet nuddle name even better than hug day.

The day was launched on January 21, 1986 in Clio, Michigan. The idea of National Hug Day is to encourage everyone to hug family and friends more often to reap the many benefits that hugging offers. The originator of the idea, a Reverend Kevin Zaborney, has but one caution: Ask first if one is unsure of the response [as my better half reminds me].

Here are the benefits of hugs according to Wikipedia:

“It has been found that human contact improves both psychological and physical development. Hugging can also help build a good immune system, decrease the risk of heart disease, and decrease levels of the stress hormone cortisol in women. It has been shown that a couple who hug for 20 seconds have higher levels of oxytocin, and that those who were in a loving relationship exhibited the highest increase. According to the American Psychosomatic Society, a hug or 10 minutes of holding hands with a romantic partner can help reduce stress, and its harmful physical effects. In a study, adults who had no contact with people had higher blood pressure and heart rate. Other studies have indicated that the touch of a friend might not be as helpful as the touch of a partner but should not be avoided.”

Hugging is practiced around the world. As you might guess, our Puritanical background in the U.S. puts us behind other nations in the frequency of hugging. Of course, there is at least one study: A 2003 study by the Touch Research Institute at the University of Miami Medical School found that American couples spend only one-third of the time touching that French couples spend. Now, we don’t want to be behind the French, do we? Go hug somebody. And if you need a hug yourself, let me know.

 

Bill

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Glowing Rectangles

Glowing Rectangles

 

As you probably remember from my previous ramblings, the wife and I are members of a square dance group; one that struggles to exist because we are unable to find new members and our old-timers continue to disappear due to age and death. Similarly, our church struggles with membership, and the regular professional concerts we attend are becoming less regular due to falling attendance. What’s going on here, you may ask? Do people have such a low opinion of us they refuse to attend any function where we show up? Well, maybe… naw, at least, I hope not!

In fact, available statistics indicate that falling attendance is becoming a common problem for many groups. Many fraternal organizations have begun a long downward spiral of declining membership with vaunted organizations like the Masons conducting surveys on the problem and its solution. Even America’s sports empires are concerned: NASCAR can no longer fill its racetracks with die-hard fans, eight professional baseball teams drew fewer than two million fans, and now, even NFL teams are having problems filling their stadiums. It seems that venues of all types are having attendance problems and no one knows the cause. Except me.

I have stumbled on to a rare piece of intelligence. Namely, we can’t attend all the events that we used to because we are too busy staring at glowing rectangles. Telephones, televisions, computers, tablets, and other smart, glowing rectangles powered by electricity and controlled by computers, are now in our hands in record numbers and compete for our attention with everything else. And, they are winning. They win at the breakfast table, while riding or walking to work, during work, at the park, at dinner, even while exercising. Come on now, tell me you haven’t been annoyed at least once by someone’s totally inappropriate use of their glowing rectangle at a restaurant or other public place. The blamed things are everywhere, all the time. Folks are addicted to them. I regularly see one man, in the gym, looking at his glowing rectangle while lifting weights. Goodness!

The addiction seems to affect most everyone in America. Even one of my coffee-drinking buddies, the most old-fashioned person in Michigan with no computer, no mobile phone, no knowledge nor interest in anything invented in the last 40 years, has moved into the digital age. The television service provider cancelled his analog signal and forced him to install a decoder for its digital signal. He didn’t know what it was, didn’t like it one bit, but he was forced to comply since he enjoys watching football.

Americans are so busy looking at our devices, we barely have time to look at each other. I predict a disastrous fall-off in the birth rate before someone wises up and fixes this problem. Even my household with just the two of us and my strong predilection for things old, outdated and cheap, has fallen prey to glowing rectangles; three televisions, two computers, two mobile phones, and one tablet. This equipment forces one into another time warp, once you have the things you must use them. The Mrs. and I have become slaves with e-mail, blogging, Facebooking, texting, Tweeting and all manner of other time-wasters not indulged in when we had time to occasionally attend, say, a football game.

Therefore, now that we know the problem, what is the answer? Of course, I don’t know but here are some ideas: Since folks have indicated their preference in using glowing rectangles, why not facilitate their use at venues with an attendance problem, to wit; Make telephone recharging stations available at each seat in a football stadium, Provide instant replay of controversial referee calls to mobile devices, Allow fans to decide sports outcomes by voting on their devices, Require parishioners to bring their mobile telephones to church with ring tones set to LOUD, etc. You get the idea, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

Now, does anyone know how to download Downton Abbey on this danged phone?

Merry Christmas

Merry Christmas

So, the calendar says its Christmas again and time for a blog even though we aren’t yet ready for all the Ho, Ho, Ho business except for the part about wishing you a Merry Christmas.

     The best news of the year for us is that our family continues to be blessed with good health. I have come to believe that the aches and pains of getting older is not so bad and may be a simple reminder of what could go wrong if things turned sour. So far, we have been spared major problems and we are thankful. One of the things Marjorie & I have taken on this year is a more serious approach to exercise. Although going to the gym takes a lot of time and energy, and some believe that grunting while looking silly in short pants is a little too much, after doing it for several months I’m used to it and I think it is good for us.

We are still talking about our big trip this year to South Africa that we enjoyed immensely (tell us if you want to see a few thousand pictures). Beyond that, we spent a lot of time camping and dancing. Our dancing took us to many venues, the most distant being our summertime trip to Oklahoma City for the National Square Dance Convention. It was a hoot. We also danced locally, and it continues to be a fun hobby that provokes friendships with those who are as silly as we are about do-se-do.

We are now into our 12^th year of retirement and living in our new house in the North Woods. Except the house isn’t new anymore. In fact, this year became the year for repair, replacement, and refurbishing with replacement of a water heater and a refurbishing our water system with a new water softener. We also decided to buy a new GM truck. It’s a humdinger – when the diesel engine runs it hums, and when I back too close to something, it goes ding, ding, ding. What won’t they think of next?

Here’s hoping that you and yours will enjoy the magic of the holiday season and find time to say hello to old friends. We’ll be thinking of you…..