The Real Love Story...

 Milo Hofstetter's GPA went to hell his 2nd year at Harvard, grades bad enough to get him tossed out of school and left to the mercy of his county draft board back home in Mekinock, North Dakota. It was a long, hard fall for the one-time, "smartest boy in the Red River Valley"!

Milo spent the spring helping on the family farm. When his draft notice arrived, Milo enlisted in the Army for three years. Off he went to basic training, then advanced training. His training finished, Milo ended up a cannon cocker in the 4th Batallion of the 4th Artillery Regiment in the Republic of South Vietnam.

After his government-sponsored 12-month field trip to Asia, Milo was assigned as an artillery instructor at Fort Sill, Oklahoma. He soon realized a couple of things; the Army was no life for him, and the "wind sweeping down the plains" in "Oak-Lah-Ho-ma" was a breeze compared to the wind back home in the valley.

One day after giving six classes on the 105 mm M101A1 howitzer to sleepy young artillerymen, Milo made his decision. He was going back to Harvard. He applied for an early out for educational reasons, got his GI Bill money arranged. His send-off from Fort Sill included these words from Major Dumbrowski, "Good luck, Specialist, you're too damn smart for this man's Army anyway."

Milo found himself back in Cambridge for the start of school in the fall of 1971, reinstated as a sophomore. Milo was determined not to make the same mistake twice. He got a room in a triple-decker in Somerville, no partying, no blacking out on Saturday nights, no more chasing preppy girls who considered him an alien from another planet. Girls who asked him things like, "Where exactly are you from anyway?"

Milo was walking across the yard on his first day back. By the time he'd walked 150 yards, six people called him Oliver or Barrett, one of them, a sad-looking girl dressed in black with black-framed glasses said, "Too bad about Jenny, it must have broken your heart." She smiled a sad smile and walked on.

Milo was so focused on school, he didn't think much about it. Weeks went by, and every day, it was the same thing, 'Hey Barrett, Sorry about Jenny or How you doin' Oliver?"

Milo often ate dinner at The Cottage in Harvard Square, he'd gotten to know Gina, the gum-chewing waitress. One night when business was slow, Milo told her about the Oliver business. Gina's answer, 'Jeez Milo, yoah such a dumb bastid, don't you know yah look like Ryan O'Neil's twin brotha fah chrissakes?"

"What?" Milo said.

"The movie stah, he was in 'Love Story" yah silly shit, he was the Olivah guy, and Ali Macgraw played the Jenny chick, where you bin anyway, hidin' undah a rock?"

"No, I was in the Army."

"There yah go then, want yah cheeseburgah like usual?"

"Uh-huh."

When he finished eating, Milo went to a used book store and bought a paperback of "Love Story' for 75 cents. By ten after ten that night, he understood what was going on. Within a few months, things settled down.

School went well. he did have great luck with women who wanted a little Ryan O'Neil to rub off on them. he didn't have any complaints.

Milo graduated summa cum laude in the spring of 1974, he went on to Harvard Business School and got his MBA in 1976.

Tired of the cold weather, Milo took a job with Pacific Partners Investment Bank in Los Angeles. He loved his job and did well.

Milo met a woman at Jumbo's Clown Room one night, she stared, then remarked, "Hey you look like Ryan O'Neil!" Milo looked her over and said, "Hey you look like Ali Macgraw."

'I know." she kissed him, and they both immediately fell in love.

A year later, they drove up PCH and had a fine dinner in Malibu to celebrate Milo's promotion to partner at the investment bank. Milo asked his "Ali" to marry him. She said 'Yes." They kissed over dessert.

On the drive back to Santa Monica on PCH, Steve McQueen ran Milo's new Porsche off the road with his Ferarri. Steve was pissed because he thought Ali was fooling around with her former co-star. Steve was screaming something about "I left my god damned wife for you, bitch."

Milo calmly listened while he examined his car. Then he walked over, kicked Steve McQueen's ass, took the keys to the Ferarri, threw them across the highway onto the beach. Milo wiped his hands on the unconscious McQueen's jacket, turned to his fiancee, and said, "Let's go home Honey", he sighed, "you know I'm getting tired of this shit."

As they drove away, Milo looked in the rearview mirror, he could see Steve McQueen trying to stand up, stop his nosebleed, and look for his keys all at the same time.

After their intimate wedding ceremony at Los Angeles City Hall, Milo and Margaret drove their shiny, black Porsche 911 SC to North Dakota on their honeymoon. Milo hadn't seen his parent's new home, a stately colonial built on what remained of the original farmstead. Milo's parents had sold the balance of the land to the city of Grand Forks for construction of the new sewage lagoon and treatment plant. His parents loved the new house except when the wind blew from the south.

On their second night in the Red River Valley, they took Milo's parents, Myron and Ethel, to dinner at the Bronze Boot. They signed 27 menus for other diners that night. Myron Hoffstedder, said, "The hells going on, then." Milo smiled, "Just roll with it dad."

Their evening at the Boot was written up the next day by a young Herald reporter named Marilyn Hagerty. The headline on her story read, "Ryan O'Neil and Ali Mcgraw enjoyed the Bronze Boot's always delightful Surf and Turf last night. They were in the company of a farm couple from Mekinock. No further details are available, but Alice Johanson, their waitress said, "They were very nice for such famous people, not snotty like some I've met."

Dear Dr. Trump...

I was fascinated by your advice yesterday. After your informative press conference, I tried your bleach suggestion, I mixed Clorox with a packet of instant lemonade in a beer glass. I couldn't get it down. 

Knowing it would protect me, I came up with a solution, multiple small doses. I put 10 packets of lemonade mix into a one-gallon jug of Clorox, then put the jug in my freezer, it was a tight fit, so I ate the gallon of strawberry ice cream I had to remove to get the bleach mixture in the freezer. 

Two hours later, I poured the chilled mixture into a shot glass. Using the shot glass method the chilled bleach was easy to get down, I didn't know the exact dosage you'd recommend. I figured 10 shots would be a good initial dosage.

When my wife came home from work, she's an ER nurse, she said, "What the hell are you doing with that bleach and look at the mess you've made in the kitchen!" 

At that point, I couldn't talk and my eyes were watering, I was so weak, I couldn't get off the floor. My wife said, "You're a disgusting bastard, spending your day drinking and watching Fox news, I'm going to bed and this mess better be cleaned up before I go back to work tomorrow." 
Sir, I was unable to respond. 

Dr. Trump, by this point, my stomach felt like it was on fire, every time I belched the lining of my throat feels like it's going to fly out of my mouth, my head is pounding, my ears are ringing, I have chest pains and I'm having trouble breathing. 

Luckily, several hours later, my wife got up to pee and when she finished, she checked on me, I was curled in a ball on the kitchen floor. She assessed the situation, cut a ten-inch section out of my new garden hose. jammed it on the turkey baster and pumped my stomach right there on the kitchen floor. When she finished, she said, "It's a damned good thing you ate a gallon of ice cream before you drank that shit, otherwise I'd be calling the coroner." With that, she stomped off to bed and locked the door.

Dr. Trump, I'm still shaky and the headache won't go away, I can breathe somewhat better. I am concerned about the continuing chest pain, I asked my wife about it, she said, "You're an idiot, don't talk to me."

Since she left for work, I've been thinking, what do you think about using powdered bleach in time-release capsules? Could you have Jared look into that? Maybe bleach in suppository form? Although after my morning sit-down I did notice some blood, so maybe that isn't a good idea.

My neighbor Larry and I are working on mercury battery-powered UV lights. Larry thinks if we use those small disc-shaped mercury hearing aid batteries attached to a UV bulb we'll be able to get the powerful disinfecting light inside our bodies.  Larry and I know the batteries will be easy to swallow (we both swallowed two yesterday after your press conference) they go down nicely with a good gulp of beer. Larry wants to know if you have a source for small UV light bulbs so we can further our research. 

I've attached my contact information, so it will be easy for Jared to get back to me. 

Thank you and God Bless you, sir, I'm a big man (my wife says that's what saved my fat ass from bleach poisoning) and I have tears in my eyes. 

Make America Great Again!

Not Stupid, Evil...

How hard is this to understand?

The government is giving small businesses money during the crisis, they are passing it out with no strings. The money is called a loan, but it will be forgiven if you follow the "rules". 

Right.

The most important thing right now is to get the money to people who need it, you know the workers. These "loans" kinda, sorta, require that but they don't.

In simple terms, if it costs you $1,000 a month to run your business and your operating costs (rent, payroll, etc) are $900. The first requirement to get your loan should be, PAY YOUR EMPLOYEES! Send them home, send them their paychecks. If you do that, you'll be ready to open up when things return to normal. The bonus is this, your employees will continue to pay the rent or mortgage, they'll pay taxes, social security, medicare and that helps everybody and of course the money you pay them will circulate back into the economy. 

You get a nice bonus too. 

1. The people who work for you will be appreciative and think you're a decent human being and they will come back to work happy and healthy the day you open the doors.
2. Your day to day operating costs will drop while the doors are locked, like gas, electricity. You won't have to buy as much shit as you normally do.
3. If you're smart you can put some of this money back into your business, maybe even set up a rainy day fund. Update your clunky ass computer system, hire somebody to wash your dirty windows.
4. You get to pay yourself.

Of course, this is hard to do when we have a Treasury Secretary who thinks a $1200 check with the president's signature on it will last the average person 10 fucking weeks.

Lydia, Mammy Frances and my mother...

To be close to dad in his last phase of Army Air Corps training, before he left for war, Mom rented a room in an antebellum mansion in Laurinburg-Maxton, North Carolina from Mrs. Lydia Tyson. In North Carolina, mom was on her own. Two women, who became her life-long friends Bea and Moly's pilot husbands were sent to other bases. Mom was frightened and lonely when she got off the train in Laurinburg-Maxton.

Mrs. Lydia Tyson's, the widow of a prominent local banker, contribution to the war effort was to rent one bedroom out of 5 to my mother. My mother was 19 years old.

Mrs. Tyson had her "help". Fred and his wife "Mammy". Fred and Mammy lived in a small house behind the big house. Fred took care of the yard, the garden and the outside of the house, Mammy cooked, did laundry and cleaned. 

Fred in addition to his other duties was Mrs. Tyson's chauffeur. 
Some of Fred's days were taken up driving Mrs. Tyson to the bank (she was still the majority partner) dropping her off at the country club for lunch, taking her to local events, bond rallies, and church. On Wednesday evenings and Sunday, he drove her to church, If Fred was mowing the grass or trimming the hedges and Mrs. Tyson needed to go somewhere, Fred would run back to the little house, slip on a jacket and a tie, put his hat on his head, back the black Packard out of the garage. Fred would drive up next to the house, open the big car's door for Mrs. Tyson and off they'd go.

Fred's wife Mammy was in charge of the house. Mammy's given name was Frances, the same as my mother's Uncle Jim's wife. As mom told me many times, "I liked Mammy Frances much better than my own Aunt Frances."

Mom could only see dad one day a week leaving her 6 days with Mrs. Tyson and Frances. They treated my mother like a daughter, this lonely girl far from home was sheltered by their wings. 

Mrs. Tyson and mom would read books and discuss them, they followed the war news together on a big console radio. They loved poetry, drama, plays and of course, movies. They went to a movie together every week.

When mom was bored she would offer to help Mammy Frances with her housework, getting a stern, "I got this child, you just sit there and talk to me."  One day, by request, mom read to Mammy while she worked. Mammy gave her Langston Huges, W.E.B. Dubois and Zora Hurston to read. Mom read Steinbeck, Hemingway, and Faulkner to Frances in return. 

Mammy Frances and mom listened to music together, it was the first time mom heard the blues, gospel music and the black big bands. Mom liked it. 

Mom would get dressed, white gloves and all, to go shopping with Mrs. Tyson, they rode in the back seat of the Packard, Fred drove. 

Mom would get dressed up to go to the market with Mammy, Mom rode in the backseat, Mammy Frances rode upfront with Fred. When they shopped together Mammy Frances insisted Mom walk a few feet in front of her. "Cuz that's the way it is, Miss Janice."

Mom and Mammy Frances were Roosevelt Democrats, Mrs. Tyson was a Democrat too, but like most Southern Democrats in the 40s, she had her qualms about Mr. Roosevelt. Politics in the Tyson household stayed on the back burner, turned down low.

Both women gave my mother love and companionship when she needed all the support she could get. They knew mom was worried, she only had a few months left with my dad. They became mom's family when she was so far from her own. 

Mrs. Tyson, the genteel Southern lady, prim and proper, the daughter of slave owners and confederates. Mammy Frances, the daughter of slaves. They both treated my mother like she was their own. They held her when she was lonely, they dried her tears and listened to her fears. Mom was their Miss Janice. She belonged to these two childless women. Their daughter.

Mrs. Tyson taught my mother, with Mammy Frances help, how to make Pecan pie, made with pecans Fred shook off the big tree in the yard. 

Mom learned to cook Mrs. Tyson's favorite fried chicken, fried skinless and to cook Mammy's fried chicken with the skin still on. Cream gravy at our house was done Mammy Frances style served at a table set Mrs. Tyson style. We ate Southern buttery breakfasts with potato patties, basted eggs, and thick-cut bacon, our green beans were always cooked with a bit of ham, bacon or pork. 

Best of all, Mammy Frances taught mom the intricacies of cooking North Carolina Wet BBQ. Smokey, sweet, tart, tangy and oh so good. I can close my eyes and taste it. I remember mom fishing around in the bottom of the big, black roasting pan with a fork and finding a piece of pork and saying,  "this is the best part." It was, thanks to Mammy Frances

When Mom came home to North Dakota after dad left for England. She returned with the love of those two Southern ladies in her heart and her eyes. 

Mammy Frances and Mrs. Tyson sent their Miss Janice letters. Cards at Christmas and her birthday for years. My mom answered of course. She sent them my birth announcement. My mother told me later, "If we lived closer, you'd have two more grandmothers."

Mrs. Tyson wrote my grandparents a letter, "Mrs. Franklin If I had a daughter of my own.." it began.

I can't forget Fred, he'd bag up pecans from the big tree every year and send them north to Miss Janice. 

An all too short love affair...

A gorgeous Saturday afternoon in late April 1963. 

I'm a 17-year-old high school senior, sitting on the front steps waiting for one of buddy's to pick me. 

My dad's and mom's friends, Ed, and his wife pull into our driveway in a red, 1963 Jaguar XKE. 

My jaw drops, I've never seen an E Type except in car magazines. Ed hops out, tosses me the keys and says "Take it for a ride." Ed heads for the backyard to see my dad, Nomi, his wife joins my mom in the kitchen.

I'm stunned and amazed or dazed and confused in my 501 Levis, gray t-shirt and Converse All-Stars standing in the driveway with the Jag key fob in my hand.

Some background on the Jaguar XKE: 

The E Type was as good as automobiles could be in 63, it was sleek, fast with a racing heritage going back to the Jaguar D Type racing cars of the 50s. 
The E Type was a scarce commodity worldwide and they were expensive for the time. They are even more expensive today. 
The E Type is still considered to be one of the most beautiful cars ever built and is the only car in the collection of the New York Museum of Modern Art. 

I slip into the tan, the Brits call it Bisquit, leather bucket seat, Ed is short so I slide the seat back and adjust the backrest. My arms are extended with a slight bend at the elbows, hands at 10 and two on the wood-rimmed steering wheel.

My right hand naturally falls to the shift lever, into neutral, start the Jag's overhead cam straight-six. It comes to life. Parking brake off and I back onto the street. Minutes later I'm heading south on US 81. 

A few miles out of town, I shift the Jag down into 2nd gear, run the tach to redline, shift to 3rd and on into 4th. A moment later the speedometer reads a tick over 120. I'm in teenage gear head heaven. 

I'm frustrated all the roads are too damn straight, I want curves, sweeping curves, banked curves, tight curves. I know where a few are, they're west of Thompson. I put the E Type through its paces. The Jag is fast in a straight line and fast on the twisties too. The car sounds magnificent especially when its wound up.

Back in town, I drive by my girlfriend's house, not home. Her mother gives me the evil eye. I drive to the Kegs Drive-in and tool slowly by. Kids are breaking their necks to see the Jag. 

I see my friends, 

"We came by to get you and your dad said you out driving around in a Jag, we didn't believe him."

Three car rides later I see my girlfriend, she leaps out of her friend's car and joins me. 

"Is this better than your Prom night in the Corvette?"

"Are you kidding?" She says and kisses me on the cheek.

"Be tough to park in this wouldn't it?" She gives me a punch on the arm, but she knows its true. 

We drove around and show the Jag off, downtown, the tennis courts, the campus and Riverside park. The Jag puts smiles on most people's faces. 

A local leather-jacketed hood flipped me the bird as we drove by. I slowed down and said, "Remember when I kicked your ass in junior High, pull over and I'll do it again." He didn't ake me up on my offer. 

A local cop, the nemesis of every teenage driver glared at me, I said nothing and stared straight ahead and purred away from the light.
It was over too soon, I drove home thanked, Ed. My girl and I had a coke with the adults and left in my 57 Chevy Belair which I held in total disdain other than the fact it was good for parking.

DJB and Me...

San Diego around 9 at night, DJB and I are in Old Town. We're eating at a little place, the kind of Mexican restaurant with a tiny, old Latina making fresh tortillas in the front window. Damn, they're good. We're drinking cold beer, we've had fish tacos, carnitas, ceviche, we're eating our way through the menu. At 10:30  we decide to drive to Ensenada. I don't even remember why. It was a good idea at the time. What the hell, it's only 89 miles away, a short ride down the coast.

We climb in DJB's Silverado, silver and red Silverado, a single cab with a toolbox bolted in the bed. We cross the border and get lost in Tijuana.

"Hey there Hor-hey, how the hell do we get to En-sen-nay-da?" A Mexican guy and his wife, look at DJB like he's crazy, never the less he points us in the right direction.

It's a beautiful drive down the coast. A full moon, the Pacific Ocean is on the right, beautiful beaches and a smooth 2 lane asphalt road, no traffic.  

I get thirsty, open a couple of cold Tecates and hand DJB a bottle, he takes a massive pull and slips the bottle between his legs. We've got the windows down and the radio is blasting a million watt Tijuana oldies station. DJB is driving a nice steady 80. 

Time flies, a couple more Tecates and we're at the harbor. It's 1 in the morning. Nothing is open. We see a local strolling down the street, DJB stops. The guy looks at us like we're crazy.  The Mexican, in perfect English, tells us, "There's only one place open, a late-night place. Alfredo's Sea Boy Bar."

We find Alfredo's, park the Silverado. The Sea Boy has no door, just a greasy curtain.  We pull back the curtain when we do everyone in the bar turns and stares at the two gringos in the doorway. Even the music stopped. It's a scene from a movie and we're in it.

Dennis and I make our way to the bar. At the end of the bar, there is a big guy, his back to the wall, it's Alfredo himself. We order tequila shots and a couple of Tecates from the bartender, a hawk-faced woman with a scar that runs from her hairline, down her left cheek and curves off under her chin. Alfredo later tells us that her boyfriend's wife carved her up one night in a fit of temper. 

We've become friends with Alfredo because his brother lives in Chicago. He likes us so much he gets up, goes behind the bar and pours us samples of tequila. The consensus, Sauva Commemorative. Alfredo joins us in shot knocking. God only knows how many we have as the hours' pass. We've become Alfredo's mejores amigos, 

Dennis and I are now part of the late-night gang at the Sea Boy. 

Making my 3rd or 4th trip to the hellish restroom, as I'm standing at the open trough, I can see the sun coming up through the slit window above me. I wash my hands in the rusty water and head back to the bar. 

"Dennis, the sun is coming up, we need to get back. Dennis and I get into an argument. He claims, "It's not sunrise, it's the false dawn." 
I have to show him my watch 6 times to convince him we have to go. We are embraced by Alfredo, the scar-faced woman gives us a sneer. 

Out on the street, Dennis spots a stray dog, he takes off after it. He's yelling, "Com ere, don't you want to move to the United States like every other Mexican?" He can't catch the dog, he stumbles back, out of breath. "You see that dog? Damn, he was nice, I really wanted that dog."

Back on the road, Dennis lasts about ten miles, "You gotta drive, I can't do it." 

I get behind the wheel, Dennis gets his sleeping bag out of the toolbox, rolls it out in the bed of the Silverado, climbs in and passes out. 

I'm driving my ass off to get back to San Diego, my plane to Boston is at noon, I have to be at the airport at 11 and I haven't packed yet.

At the border, the agent asks me, "Country of birth?"
"USA."
"How about your buddy in the back?"
Dennis sticks his out of the sleeping and says "Fort Knox, Kentucky, goddammit." We make it through and I didn't have to declare the quart of Sauza Commemorative Alfredo sold me at cost.

I made it home, I'm still alive, but sometimes I wonder how I made it this far. Dennis is too and wonders the same damn thing. 

Johnny and June's granddaughter...

One night I was working late, almost 8. I locked up my office and was about to head home, I noticed Scotty was still at his desk, We decided to cross Boylston Street and have a beer at the Boylston Brewery, we sat at the bar ordered from the bartender, somehow during our 2nd beer Scott brought up Johnny Cash. The bartender said, "You like Johnny Cash?"

'Who doesn't like Johnny Cash?"
The bartender smiled, "I love Johnny Cash, he's my grandpa." she turned and moved down the bar to wait on another customer.
Scott looked at me and said, "What the hell did she say?"
"She said she's Johnny's granddaughter."
"No way."
"We'll see when she comes back." We drank our beers and waited.

The pretty bartender comes back, we get her story. 

Anastasia is Carlene Carter's daughter, her stepfather is Nick Lowe, her grandmother is June Carter Cash and her great grandmother is Mother Maybelle Carter, she adds, "Mother Maybelle taught me to play the guitar." Johnny Cash is her step-grandfather, "He loves me like I'm his own."

Anastasia was a student at Berkeley School of Music, it's just down the street from Boylston Brewery. Anastasia is off again, down the bar to serve a few more beer drinkers. We wait.

Anastasia split time between her parents, she went to school in London and lived with her father, holidays and summers in Nashville. She said it was fun but schizoid. 

She said Christmas with her grandparents was the best, "You'd never know who would show up and of course they'd all go down to the music and play songs, laugh and sing."
"Are there tapes?" I asked.
"Of course."
"Will, we ever hear them?"
"That's up to John Carter."
"Who is on the tapes?"
"Everybody."

Tiffany ( her first name) Anastasia Lowe graduated from Berkeley, she is now writing songs, wrote a hit for Selena Gomez, doing some acting. Of course, her grandmother wrote a song about her.

It was nice to meet the grandchild of two American Legends.