Penguin Hall Monitor

The Beast from 1985

2012-01-24T13:08:00.001-05:00

Far below Penguin Hall, the walls of the catacombs lay lined with row upon row of shelving. Beneath the dust of a decade, resided hundreds of hours of tape, painstakingly labeled in tiny script and devoted entirely to Mrs. Hall's compulsive penchant for recording the minutiae of her life, her diversions and delights. They loomed as heavily over the other boxes in the basement as they did over Mr. Hall's thoughts. He had on several occasions, stared helplessly at the amassed wealth of personal history and in moments of weakness, lingered uncomfortably long over thoughts of havoc and destruction perpetrated by the untimely placement of large, powerful magnets in close proximity to the collection.

The obsession began, as most obsessions do, innocently enough; in a moment of gift-giving desperation, Mrs. Hall had been presented a camera. Twenty or so photo albums later, a dawning realization that there may be a problem crept over her family. The scandalous amount of scratch spent on the developing and printing of her pictures began to be the subject of whispered concern. The advent of VHS recorders in the early 80s only fueled her unholy desire to mark and preserve the tedium of her days; and following the introduction of light inexpensive models available to the public, she was never seen without camera and/or camcorder in tow. As a result, her collection multiplied unfettered.

As happens in so many of these cases, of course, the madness did not end there. Not merely content to document her own history, she recorded ad nauseum local programming and frequently, (Mr. Hall shuddered) even commercials. Having moved several times in her past, she explained, local commercials became a sort of time stamp to her, of when the recording was made. It was one of those things, reflected Mr. H. wistfully, that upon looking back the symptoms seemed so clear one wonders why help wasn't sought sooner.

All effort must be made to reduce this, he thought, before we have to move. Mrs. Hall had been agreeable to the disposal of a considerable amount of goods already, but Mr. H. was certain on these she would not budge. Eyeing the ancient technology, it occurred to him at the very least, space could be salvaged with conversion. Christmas week, he lovingly presented a perplexed Mrs. Hall with a VHS to DVD dubbing machine and suggested, in the kindest way possible, that they begin right away. She regarded his motives darkly, but dug in.

The work was proceeding nicely, when Mr. Hall unearthed an unfamiliar subject. Wiping the dust off the label, he struggled with her printing. "What is this?" he asked. Mrs. Hall looked over and smiled. "That is a true rarity. And I think we'll dub that one next." They dimmed the lights, put on some popcorn and watched as the dubber hummed happily away, converting the fragile magnetic tape to digital stock.
"Back in 1985," Mrs. Hall explained, "I was living in Wichita, Kansas. KSN television station aired 'The Beast from the Beginning of Time' as a Halloween special. Apparently, the film had been made back in 1965, but was deemed so silly that it had never been released to the general public. When I heard they were going to show it, I fired up the ole' VCR and taped it on the spot. Since then, every once in a while you will see reference to it, but by and large, it's not available and very hard to locate on tape." Mr. Hall winced as he watched the "acting". "I'm not surprized- " he said, "the scariest thing about this is that they were able to convince anyone to record it in the first place. Did anyone actually look through the viewfinder when they were filming it? Some of the staging at the end of the film is, well, to put it politely, unfortunate." "It was a different time, dear," snickered Mrs. Hall.
Later that day, as they cleared away the tapes and made room for a cup or two of something bracing, Mrs. Hall examined some of her handiwork. She had to admit it was much neater and more compact to store them this way. "Now don't you feel better?" asked Mr. Hall, as he handed her a glass. "Yes. I don't mind shrinking them," she added; "but don't ever ask me to give up my copy of 'The Beast from the Beginning of Time.' " He smiled. "Or that copy of 'Hardrock, Coco and Joe' I recorded from a Bozo the Clown Christmas special. Do you know how hard it is to find that??" she began, but Mr. Hall just shook his head.

(Ed. note: B-Movie Man, Richard Chamberlain- no, not the famous one- wrote a wonderful history of "The Beast from the Beginning of Time" on his blog, and the Gentle Reader can peruse that here.)

Christmas redux

2012-01-14T18:38:00.007-05:00

"Leave the decorations just the way they are and let's get some more egg nog- It's Chris' turn for Christmas now!" said Mr. Hall. The boys of the Hall had been taking the holiday in a sort of tag-team approach, and Mrs. Hall was gearing up for round two. At least the unseasonably warm weather made getting around easy. Mrs. Hall threw a scarf on over her sweater; "Com'n, we're going to be late for the cocktail party at the crematorium!"

They slid out of work and over to Oakwood Cemetery. All the usual suspects were there, and the buffet looked even more enticing than last year's. The chef from Kelly's pub held his place behind the carving station, and was dishing out a pasta creation with a terrific sauce enlivened with banana peppers.

Despite all the trappings of a Christmas season, the weather gods still refused to go along with things; the grounds around the cemetery remained green and fresh. Though while the temperate climate was topic of the day, the bigger concern was the economy. A number of their parties had been cancelled or postponed (which was turning into a euphemism for cancellation) and the season seemed to be taking a turn for the worse. Even the venerable holiday do at Coleman's Irish Pub, (the one chance Mrs. Hall looked forward to every year, because it always brought out the old guard of directors) was put off until a later date. Such was the nature of the year.

But all that was put aside, when the Halls pulled up to Hancock airport the following night to pick up Master Chris. Flying in from Montgomery, AL, he was staying over the holiday, renting a 16' moving van, and with Mrs. Hall's very indebted and happy blessings, taking all the loot, furniture and possessions he could carry away.

"Ah, it's good to be back home again," he said, after finally relaxing on the couch. Killer came up and gave him a hug. Mrs. Hall busied herself making all of Chris' favorite dishes, but Mr. H. disappeared downstairs. Chris' space gun collection was well known far and near as a thing of large and substantial beauty, but as far as Mr. Hall was concerned, it had been gracing the catacombs at the Hall for long enough.

He brought up several large bins of guns from the basement. "Welcome home. You can start by

going through all these."

Mrs. Hall prepared the traditional dinner for Christmas eve and after a short respite, the group dressed for service. Midnight Mass was beautiful and the little band straggled on home. The next day, Santa obligingly made a second appearance at the Hall, and Chris' stocking swelled up full, next to his bounty under the tree.

Wiping the remains of a chocolate orange from his

mouth, Chris reminded Mrs. Hall that he had to leave the following day, and while it was loads of fun to sit around and eat, (swallowing yet

another chocolate bell from the stocking as he spoke) he really had to load up the truck and be ready to go. They continued to pillage the Hall until the truck could hold no more. "Be careful with my old bar cabinet-" cautioned Mrs. H. as she

watched a favored relic of her past disappear into the van. "You promised me those L.L. Bean chairs from in front of the fireplace, too," he reminded them, and in a jiff, they were gone. By Christmas night, the van was full, secure and loaded with gas, ready to take off for Montgomery in the morning. Armed with a battery of leftovers, Chris climbed into the cab. As the Halls drove off to work, the van pulled away in another direction, and Chris waved jauntily from behind the wheel. Two days later, he wearily managed to peck out the words "Home at last!" in a text message to Mrs. Hall, and everyone sighed a sigh of relief.

Revolving doors

2012-01-14T17:24:00.005-05:00

"Where's all the snow?" Master Ian had just come in on the train from Ft. Geo. Meade and was anxious to have a traditional, if a tad bit early, upstate NY Christmas. "There hasn't been snow all month out here," remarked Mrs. Hall sadly, though Mr. Hall's happiness at that deficit was barely contained.

Ian barreled through the door of the Hall and threw down three or four of the most massive

duffel bags Mrs. H. had ever seen. Within minutes, most of it was spread out around the house. Killer came over to greet him, and he skritched her head. "I have to be back by the 2oth," he said. "I'm shipping out to Japan right away!" Mrs. Hall sighed. Another baby flying away, she sniffed.

The Hall was decorated early in anticipation of Ian's arrival, but it was doubtful he ever noticed.

It took all of the span of thirty minutes or so for him to communicate with his friends that he was back in town, and before you could utter the phrase "massively multi player online role-playing game", the working clutter and attendant paraphernalia necessary to connect the players with the rest of the universe appeared and swallowed up the room. Friends came and went throughout the night, and when Mrs. H. came down to breakfast the next morning she surveyed the damage and fed the remaining survivors.

During the days when he couldn't muster a team, Ian relaxed by working on his battle re-creation models. Painting them accurately consumed him, and the hours sped by peacefully. (In fact, while at school at Ft. Meade, Ian and his interest in his models was the subject of a student's feature film. He was interviewed and videotaped working and talking about his hobby for about three minutes.)

Just before he was to leave, they chose a day to be "Christmas" that week, and bright and early in the morning, Ian arose to a plump stuffed stocking and goodies waiting for him under the tree. There was lots of candy and holiday food and fun; but before you know it, it was time for him to go.

Mrs. Hall thought she would only have a quick moment at the train station to say good bye, but as luck would have it, a change in his orders necessitated a snap decision, and the little band took off together on the road. Master Ian, after a brisk six hour drive, piloted by a surprized but ever ready Mr. Hall, was deposited on the steps of his base in Maryland. Hugs and handshakes all around and he was off. Next episode: Chris-mas!

Cocktails for two (hundred)

2011-11-20T11:02:00.012-05:00

Mrs. Hall, cheered by the fact that her pater familias had yet again thumbed his nose at the medical profession, defied tradition to the tune of beating the odds and walking away unscathed, took a moment or two to raise a glass and give thanks early, ahead of the rush.

"Well," she began, "it was a very harrowing week earlier, but things are starting to look up." Mr. Hall was busy adjusting his tie. "Have you found that invitation yet?" he asked. In her anxiety, Mrs. Hall had misplaced an invitation to a cocktail reception for WCNY at King and King Architects' new flagship building on the west side. "Don't worry about it, dear," he soothed. "I know where we're going."

It would have been hard to miss. Flaggers waved the guests into the parking lots and though their new downtown location was in a very hard and dark part of town, the bright lights glittering through the new glass showed quite a well-heeled crowd swelling around a check-in table in the lobby.

Of course, not five feet into the structure, Mr. Hall stretched out his hand. "Ho, there- Bob! How are you?" and he was met by the same happy response. Directing the kickoff presentation was long time friend and the director of their little m ov ie intro at WCNY last year, Bob Papaleoni. "Things are starting to hop. The mayor's not here yet, but Nancy Cantor is and I think I see Joannie Mahoney cutting into the drink line over there."

The room was packed, so they squeezed their way over to the buffet and stood in line. "This should be quite a nice little soiree," began Mr. Hall, as the president of WCNY started to speak- when all of a sudden the lights went out. A few excited squeals let out, but the professionals running the show took it all in stride; it was the work of five minutes or so and things were rolling along smoothly again.

Mayor Stephanie Minor gave a wonderful speech, all the speakers were mercifully brief and after a lively and informative video extolling the virtues of donating vast sums of money to their cause, the gathering had, for all intents and purposes, fulfilled its requirements. "Shall we be rolling along now?" asked Mrs. Hall, but Mr. Hall was engaged elsewhere; eschewing the video entirely, and reminiscing with fellow radio personality Bill Baker behind one of the buffet tables. "Come along, dear," she said. "The cats are waiting for us to feed them at home." They wrapped themselves up against the dark night and sped back to the Hall.

With (H)all Gratitude

2011-11-11T11:53:00.006-05:00

To all our sons and daughters in the military today,

whether retired or active:

From all of us at

Penguin Hall- Thank you.

(And lest we forget-)

to all our four legged friends

who have served as well:

Thanks and a head scritch to you, too!

The Case of the Office Envy

2011-10-28T10:04:00.013-04:00

Mrs. Hall had been looking at mid century modern homes in Las Vegas online for some time. The thought of purging all her old traditional furniture for a more contemporary look was beginning to truly appeal to her (chuckling all along that it was delightful that a sixty year old sofa could genuinely be referred to as "contemporary") and she found herself yearning for examples of the period to emulate.

She sipped her coffee as she stood at the newsstand at Wegmans and sighed. Staring back at her was a glut of magazines now touting the virtues of this century's take on last century's innovations, but what she really craved was the look of the real thing. She tried to imagine the classiest versions she could think of; the only ones that came to mind were the television incarnations she remembered from her youth. Not those horrible suburban living rooms with their faux-colonial stuffed couches and maple end tables; but the flashy, modern environs created by a superior race of designers that all seemed to come from Scandinavia. The first thing that came to mind was Perry Mason's office.

In the past, her main impetus for watching the old Perry Mason show was for the cars. While Raymond Burr may have been nothing like the lawyer Erle Stanley Gardner envisioned, and while his courtroom antics were, well sometimes circusy ( seriously- if you've just committed a felony, would you really stick around and see how it played out in court?)- the best reason for tuning in was to see the fancy pants wheels he was thrashing about the California landscape in, week after week. (Paul Drake apparently was doing pretty well for himself, as well.) GM and Ford were trading sponsorship of the series over the years, and it made for some lively rides for the boys; Perry got to drive a '57 Ford Skyliner with one of the industry's first power retractable hardtops and Paul switched between a Thunderbird and a Corvette.
But his success in the courtroom revealed itself more tacitly in his office surroundings. Maybe because it was so frequently seen only at night, maybe because it was in glorious black and white with all those delicious edgy shadows; whatever the reason, the office seemed to convey a form of California cool so enticing, it practically stood out as a character of the show in its own right. (In fact, a wonderful study of its exact dimensions and accessories can be found here, and an dandy interactive architectural rendering - with pics to support the views- can be seen here. Many thanks to D. M. Brockman for his tireless research and his charming website.)
That's exactly the look I want, thought Mrs. Hall to herself, and she slapped shut the latest glossy decorating edition chock full of useless advertisements. Now all I have to do is find a warehouse full of untouched sixty year old furniture waiting for me at rock bottom prices. She decided not to hold her breath waiting for that to happen.

We're only young two or three times at most...

2011-10-24T12:48:00.007-04:00

"Hey look! I can get this thing up to fourth gear in the parking lot!" Mr. Hall gripped the door handle. Mrs. Hall was taking another lesson in piloting a stick shift car. "Okay- that's enough of that. Let's pretend there's a stop sign up ahead now." There seemed to be more activity in the high school parking lot than usual for a weekend and Mr. Hall was concerned about a nearby school bus that was conspicuously moving itself to the other side of the yard. "I'm getting to old for this. Flight instructing was less harrowing." Mrs. H. pulled Winston up to a neat stop and promptly stalled the motor. "Darn.." she muttered. "There, there...you're doing better every time." consoled Mr. Hall. "But we have to get going; we wanted to get some shopping done and we have to be ready for that dinner tonight." They hustled on over to the Wegman's grocery store in Fairmount.
Fall temperatures bring on the instinct to hoard and Mrs. Hall had been cooking and baking up a storm all weekend. While searching for the perfect head of cabbage, however, she realized she had inadvertently lost Mr. Hall. She strolled about the seasonal department until she came up behind him. Though the Please Do Not Touch sign was clearly posted, Mr. Hall's desire to play engineer was too strong to be denied. Photographic evidence, while proving he did in fact succumb to temptation, fails to fully document his particularly skillful application of the train whistle at strategic moments. Mrs. Hall patted him on the back and promised him one of those for Christmas if he was a good boy.
They toddled on home to change. The annual Matron/Patron appreciation dinner that night was being held at one of the Hall's favorite nearby restaurants and the attendance that night was terrific. The group filled two long tables in the back of the room, and squished in with the Halls along the back wall was Mary Perry and her daughter, little Mary Margaret. Ms. Perry had recently visited the Hall and was introduced to their signature martini after a long rehearsal one evening. She was regaling the table with what she had learned regarding the proper procedures for handling such delicate spirits: "Susan taught me this easy way to remember what to do with martinis. GIN has an 'i' in it, so you stir it (stir has an i in it, too), and VODKA has an 'a' in it, so you shake it, because shake has an a in ...well, you get the idea."
"Very good!" replied Mrs. Hall. "I've always found it easiest to teach, especially to children, when you have a mnemonic device." "What?!?" gasped Mary Margaret, and her eyes got big as plates. "You teach that martini stuff to children?!?" and she looked at Mrs. Hall with fresh respect. Mr. Hall just shook his head. "Time to go home, my dear," he said. "And I'm driving."

Ghost story

2011-10-14T14:16:00.011-04:00

In upstate New York, there are frequently days in the fall when the overcast is so complete and pervasive, that without the benefit of a watch or some other point of reference, it's truly impossible to tell what time it is. Thursday was one of those days.
Mrs. Hall packed her car, prepared a large travel mug of steaming joe and left a bowl of cat chow out for the cats. Mr. Hall was already hard at work, but Mrs. H. had to drive down to Binghamton to register for the Grand Chapter proceedings for her fraternal organization, an engagement slated to occupy the better part of her weekend.
Registration had begun at one o'clock, and ticking that off killed a solid half an hour. Since there was nothing more to do after that until the cocktail reception at six (a function she was dreading anyway, without Mr. Hall on her arm) she found herself in the unique position of finally being in her old stomping grounds again, free of obligation and alone with the company of her own memories. It was a luxury long denied.
Forty or fifty years of progress had wiped away most of the landmarks she could recall; a glance at her electronic map revealed a red gash indicating a highway that subdivided what used to be a smaller working class neighborhood. She frowned, puzzled by what looked like a foreign landscape, but luckily, the GPS wasn't hobbled by old memories. It blithely directed her under and around the stanchions supporting the thruway and eventually down a more or less familiar avenue. Even though the concrete wall that now dominated the end of the street had effectively cut it off from all but the most determined locals, it had also inadvertently rescued it from the harsher effects of the creeping urban blight lurking just on the other side. She drove down the street slowly, not because she was afraid she would miss anything, but because her eyes kept playing tricks on her; one minute the road was grey and bleak, another it was something entirely different. Stopping in front of number 94, she rolled down the window and pulled out her camera.
She suddenly felt conspicuous; a gentleman next door with a walker squinted at her. Mrs. Hall pulled the car up a little closer to the curb. "I'm just visiting an old neighborhood," she explained. "My grandfather used to live here. His name was John Pranitis."
"I've lived here 41 years," he said. "I remember him; I used to work on his car. He was a wonderful man. You see, these folks haven't kept the house up very well." She shrugged. All that really mattered to her was that it was still there. She thanked him for his kind words and drove on.

She plugged in another address in the GPS. It plotted a trail so unlike the one she had envisioned, she turned it off and headed west unaided. A few minutes later, she slid up along the curbside of another familiar venue and idled the engine. Clearly the years, as well as the subsequent owners, had been kinder to this old place. What is it about childhood memories that always make you remember things as being larger than they actually are, she thought. She drove along a route so entrenched in her memory she scarcely had to think about it, and despite the fact that as a child she could have sworn the old school was at least two miles away, the odometer proved just how fickle our memories can be. She drove to a parking lot and walked the rest of the way to the top of the hill, only to find that the the old merry-go-round in the park was boarded up for the season. A train whistle blew in the distance. It was time to go. It was so strange to see things so familiar look so different; was it that they had changed so much or had she just not remembered right in the first place? She shrugged and got back in the car. All that mattered to her was that they were still there.

Ars Gratia Artis, 'cause that's the way we roll around here

2011-09-06T12:01:00.022-04:00

Despite the fact that the children are scattered all over the country, reports do come in occasionally regarding their escapades. The editors at the Monitor, having been queried now and then about their well-being, offer to the Gentle Reader these tidbits, for their approval:

Colleen is in what can only be described by Mrs. Hall as the perfect relationship for a young lady with considerable art work that needs to be accomplished; that is to say, she is involved with a young man who currently resides a half a world away. Young Simon Thelning, who used to attend CCA along with Colleen, had to return to New South Wales, Australia last summer. They maintain communication, however, and a portrait he created of Colleen was recently spotted online. The editors of the Monitor, while recognizing that they are hardly experts in the field of art critique, do admit there is more than a passing resemblance to Mistress Colleen, and that the very accomplished Mr. Thelning seems to have captured a moment of pout perfectly.

Master Ian has been transferred to Ft. Meade, and of late has been training to be a combat correspondent. In a post to Mrs. Hall last week, he included this photo of one of his textbooks. Mrs. H. was appropriately jealous. While he has also been offered the chance to attend the broadcasting training as well, he is hesitant to accept anything that will delay his departure to parts unknown. The editors wish him well in his work, and hope he will confine his future spelling/grammar/syntax corrections of the Monitor to personal, not public, emails to them.

Master Christopher, fresh from his recent attendance at PAX Prime 2011 in Seattle, has checked in chock full of information and excitement for the world of gaming and game development. His trip was deemed a hugh success. Chris managed to take in not only the massive annual gaming convention, but the first installation of the new developers conference (PAX Dev) that preceded the convention this year. The press and media were not allowed at PAX Dev, so it was a strictly learning and networking event. Chris let on that he is currently working on some projects of his own, so the Monitor will continue to check back with him frequently. His most immediate plans, however, involve working long hours at Maxwell AFB and, on occasion, relaxing by hitting the gaming tables in Biloxi MS. Good luck, Chris!

Mixing Business with Pleasure (and chocolate!)

2011-08-28T20:52:00.013-04:00

"There's no keynote speaker this year??" cried Mrs. Hall, as she perused the convention booklet. "How on earth do they expect to get anyone from the eastern side of the state all the way out here?" The New York State Funeral Directors Association (acronymically referred to as "NYSFDA") had, in the past, scheduled some pretty high powered talent to speak at their conventions; but times being what they were, the powers that be had apparently scaled back the budget. Not only was there no featured celebrity in the field, but, as some were mumbling, it was on the 'shabby' side of the falls. "So much for home town boosterism," remarked Mr. Hall. Patriotism aside, however, the Canadians did seem to have the whole tourist thing down so much better in Niagara. Their gardens were lovely and pristine, and their boulevard overlooking the falls boasted some of the nicest hotels around. But the American side was where the convention was being held, so that was where the Halls were heading.
"The brochure says they have a block of rooms over at that Sheridan across the street from the Convention Center- are we staying there?" asked Mrs. H. tentatively. Mr. Hall assured her no; he had already made reservations at her favorite Hamptons, and Mrs. H. sighed a sigh of relief. (He made a great show of making it seem as though no sacrifice was too great for Mrs. H. but the reality was, the rooms were considerably less expensive and they accrued points for the stay as well. This was not, as they say, the first time to the rodeo for Mr. Hall.)
Without the usual two hour block of time allotted to their celebrity showstopper, the convention got down to brass tacks fairly quickly. To make the most of the seminars, the Halls usually split up and after taking notes, regrouped during the exhibition hours. The lessons seemed like slim pickings this year, but the organization had gone all out for the trade show end of it, and the strolling lunch stations were wonderful. "Is that a chocolate 'martini' station over there?" asked Mrs. Hall incredulously. Sure enough, mountains of candy sprinkles and bonbons were artfully arranged, between the casket salesmen and the mortuary shipping supplies. The hostess was scooping the sugary options over a thick chocolaty mixture poured into cocktail glasses. "I think I'll stick to the more traditional ones," said Mr. Hall, and suppressed a gag. His opinion notwithstanding, there were long lines of ladies queuing up for seconds.
A couple of days of mortuary accounting, cremation liability and funeral law sessions can wear on a person after a while, so it was with great relief the Halls faced the last day of seminars. "Take a look at all the serious swag I managed to snag in the exhibition room this week. " said Mrs. Hall, as she struggled to cram them into her bags. Mr. Hall chuckled and donned a baseball cap. "After this morning, I've got all the credits I need for this trip; how about we head on over the bridge and walk around the Canadian side?" Mrs. Hall was only too happy to agree.
Passing the souvenir stands and tourist traps along the way, they headed for the border post. Happy couples posed for pictures along the bridge and the Halls accommodated a number of them by taking pictures of them with their cameras. No matter what the season or the state of the markets, Niagara Falls continues to draw romantics from all over the world. They walked along the manicured gardens and marvelled at the mist rising from the gorge. After grabbing a snack in town, they crossed back into the US. "Do you feel up to getting a little wet?" asked Mr. Hall. "I've always wanted to take that path that runs right up to the American Falls. Are you game?" Mr. Hall, being the gentleman that he was, felt compelled to ask first, even though he already knew the answer would be yes; there is rarely an adventure Mrs. Hall declines. Taking the elevator right down to the rocks below, they trod the slippery gravel path that wound around the edge of the falls. A gentle breeze blew the cooling mist over them as their fellow tourists giggled and snapped pictures. Though a variety of languages could be heard in the group, it hardly required a linguist to translate the delight and awe in their voices.
On the way back to their hotel, they passed the Seneca Indian casino. "Just a little stop, just for a short while?" pleaded Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall agreed, on one condition; earlier in the day she had talked some of the salesmen at the US Air booth into placing their large size table model of a Boeing 767 into the silent auction. They had to stop back and see if they had won.
Mr. Hall emerged, an hour or so later, somewhat wealthier for the experience, but it was short-lived. Mrs. Hall was seen jumping about, looking for him. "We won- we won the model in the auction!" she said. "Now all we have to do is write these nice folks a check!" Mr. Hall sighed and took out his checkbook.
It wasn't long afterwards the Halls could be seen, winging their way back to Syracuse. Winston groaned under the weight of all that swag, and Mrs. Hall was visible, but only barely- hiding behind a huge white box bearing their prize plane.

The Best and the Bright(on)est

2011-08-28T16:41:00.013-04:00

Winston shone in the sunlight like a shiny green beetle. Mr. Hall drove him around and picked up Mrs. Hall in front of the lobby of the hotel. "Just for old times' sake," he began- "I just want to take a swing by the old homestead." Mrs. Hall nodded and Winston took off as if he knew the way all by himself.
Where once an orchard and a largely uninhabited stand of woods stood long ago, a small sub-division had grown up. Winston turned off of Woodland Park onto Hallridge Road; so named for the man who had once owned the entire hillside area, and who also happened to be Mr. Hall's father. A few short years ago, they had visited this spot and although the waterfront was showing signs of a revival, Mr. Hall's childhood house was up for sale. A quick inquiry proved why; in the face of the housing bubble, the realtors were asking an exorbitant price. A year later, upon revisiting it, the home was still on the market, but now for a more reasonable and realistic price. This year proved the most satisfying of the lot, however. Not only had the property sold, but the new owners had improved upon the lot in a most agreeable fashion. It was a pleasure to see it used and enjoyed. As they drove past town, they passed the old Hall's Market, where Mr. Hall, his father and grandfather had once worked so many years ago. It was a comfort to see it was still a neighborhood fixture in the area.
"Looks like there's a little weather coming in," remarked Mr. Hall, surveying the horizon, and truer words could not be spoken, for as soon as they cleared the outer markers beyond Big Pine Island Lake, the rains started to come down.
Winston splashed down the highway at a rate somewhat higher than the posted speed limit, but still couldn't manage to outrun the storm. By late evening, the little green car finally crawled up the driveway of Mr. and Mrs. Richard Pranitis' home in Brighton MI and the Halls ran through the raindrops to get in. Rick and Gail had invited them for a stay and their always gracious (and tasty!) welcome was just what the doctor ordered.
After burning the midnight oil a bit, trading stories and generally getting caught up, Mrs. Hall was somewhat sluggish about rising, but when Gail told her they were going to check out a local art festival in town, her interest perked considerably. Nothing beats finding new talent on the ascent, thought Mrs. Hall, and certainly an educated and intelligent community like Brighton would likely have some of the best and the brightest.
That the town embraced la vie artistique, was clearly apparent. Everywhere they walked were touches of adornment and sculpture. "Though I'm sure I'm supposed to be full of refinement now, I'd have to say my stomach is registering on empty. How about we break for some lunch?" said Mr. Hall. Rick and Gail were right on the money with the perfect spot. Bagger Dave's was right down the street, and after admiring the train pictures and the model train running around the ceiling of the bar, Mr. Hall finally settled down and ordered.
His inner man having been quieted at least for the moment, the little group returned to the fair. They wandered around for a while and after a few hours more of the quietly inspired lunacy, decided it was time to call it a day. Picking up their stuff from the house, the Halls thanked Rick and Gail for a lovely time, hugs went all around at least twice along with promises to get together again soon, and they were off.
As they waited in line at the Canadian border, Mrs. Hall wondered aloud if the adjacent car's owner had left his miniature dog in charge of the wheel while he made a pit stop, but Mr. Hall ignored her. "Next stop- Niagara Falls!" he announced, but she was already dropping off to sleep. Next episode: Taking sides (of the Falls)- stay tuned!

Over the river and through the woods

2011-08-16T23:34:00.017-04:00

While the cockpit in a Miata is fairly roomy, and certainly comfortable for longer rides, the hold is another story. The square footage of the aft cargo bay is hardly what one would call capacious; Mr. Hall twice had to arrange and rearrange the valises to fit. But Mrs. Hall is used to traveling light, and after waving goodbye to Colleen and leaving her with specific instructions regarding the care of their aged and ailing cat, Pepper, the Halls once again took to the road.
With passports in hand, they plotted a trip through Canada, and into The Great Lakes State. First stop: Owosso, Michigan. Owosso has no real claim to celebrity; while possessing more than its share of intriguing sites for a small community, the primary reason the Halls overnight there is because its location is central to most of their Michigan shenanigans. After a quick breather at the Korner Pub and a night at the Comstock Inn, they awoke fresh and ready to take on a stroll back in time.
Rolling into Rockford MI, Mr. Hall's old stomping grounds, they paused for the obligatory hotdog at the Corner Bar. Nothing takes away the cares of the day for Mr. H. like a double dose of their world famous chili-dogs and a chance to watch his beloved Tigers on the tube. A walk around the town was enough to satisfy them that the old haunts were thriving, even in this ragged economy. Since the reunion was still a day away, they pointed Winston in the direction of Sand Lake and the Paradise Cove resort. Childhood friend and campground host extraordinaire, Paul Arntz and his lovely wife Jan, welcomed them with open arms. The Arntz's were harboring some charming youngsters for the weekend as well as a small dog, so the party moved outdoors to enjoy the seasonably cool weather. The sunset glinted across the lake and with the addition of their neighbors Del and Ruth, it felt like time for a little something. Rumblings of a pizza were starting to stir when word came down that the kids had requested a local specialty known as "Hobo pies." The Halls watched in fascination as the irons needed for this comestible were produced; the picnic table was covered in an instant with all manner of fillings and the next thing they knew, Mr. and Mrs. Hall were being coached in the proper form. The spirit of American ingenuity has never been in short supply in this region; over a firepit formed from a reclaimed truck wheel and the liner of an old washing machine, a dozen or so of the tastiest, meltiest cheese and meat pockets toasted to dinnertime perfection, and so completely was their hunger sated, no dessert (though readily offered!) was required.
Barely able to slide into the cockpit, they hugged their hosts and made their way to the hotel room for the night. The next morning, it was back to Rockford's Community Cabin for the reunion. "The Rockford Rams Class of '66 gets together more than any class I know", remarked Mrs. H. and Mr. Hall had to admit, it was true. Blessed with a core group of individuals dedicated to maintaining close ties (via the internet, gossip, the pony express or whatever means possible) with everyone from their little band still sitting up and taking nourishment, they managed to round up quite a few of the old graduates for the bash. The weather gods weren't quite as congenial as the warmth inside the cabin; almost as soon as the barbecue pig came off the grill, it began to rain cats and dogs outside. But to the fifty or so alumni gathered, it was a wonderful day. Every one present got a chance to get up and speak; and in doing so, it became apparent that the passing of time seemed not to have diminished the memories of old flames and childhood rivalries. Even their old principal, Mr. Cornelius Huizenga, showed up and addressed the crowd. Jay Grams and Neil Blakeslee, co-chairs of the production, took a well-deserved bow for their tireless efforts, and with all the hugging and backslapping going on, no one really noticed the rain at all. As endearing a town as Rockford is, however, the Halls knew they had miles to go. Pulling themselves together, they waved goodbye to the shrubbery and headed on east. Next episode; Brighton or bust! Stay tuned.

Hall's not well

2011-08-07T22:13:00.009-04:00

The atmosphere about the Hall has been rather gloomy this week. Fluffy companion and resident rescue, Wookitter T. Pooch, affectionately known as "Wookie", passed away on Thursday. Listless and quiet, she had been spending more time than usual sleeping in Colleen's room. The Halls had noticed she was a bit off her feed earlier in the week, but things began to take a turn for the worse Wednesday evening. She was rushed in to the vet's office Thursday morning, but unfortunately, nothing could be done to save her.
Wookie came to Penguin Hall unexpectedly the summer of 2000, when Colleen and a friend of hers, Amy Foster, came running up to Mrs. Hall during a local festival, carrying what looked like a small brown ball made of fur. Weeping and crying, they had just come from a fellow in a pickup with a boxload of similar furry lumps which he intended to put down if homes could not be found for them that day. The lump's little head flopped over in a very unhealthy fashion; it was clear that the furball was really too young to be taken from its mother's side. "Well, let's see if we can nurse it back to health- then we can find it a good home," consoled Mrs. H. The good home it found, of course, turned out to be their own.
Through many a good day and even more bad ones, Wookie was faithful sidekick and silent confidant to all the kids at the Hall. Fluffy enough to be a pillow as well as a pet, she always listened patiently to whatever their fears or concerns might be, and her only advice was always the same; that of unconditional love.
Goodbye to you dear Wookie. The Hall won't be the same without you.

If a home sells in Henderson, does anyone notice it?

2011-07-25T12:28:00.019-04:00

Mrs. Hall furrowed her brow and studied the listings for Henderson, NV. "The prices are still unbelievable in this area. It's not as close as I would have liked, but the neighborhood is clean and neat. Are you game?" Mr. Hall finished tying his new two-toned oxfords and stood up. "Let's fire up the engines."
The poor little rental had but a measly 2000 miles on it when the Halls picked it up in Seattle, WA; it could be reasonably argued that the engine was scarcely broken in. Such was not the case by now- the odometer was still smoking from the previous day's run when Mr. Hall pulled it under the hotel canopy. Mrs. Hall emerged, ipad, map and charging cables in hand, ready to navigate.
"Apparently Del Webb owns the entire southwest side of Henderson," muttered Mrs. H. The area was as scrubbed clean as Disneyland- there wasn't a flower or a stone fence out of place. The streets were eerily quiet. Though there were a number of gated communities, several were not, affording the Halls an opportunity to view several listings up close. "I like it," started Mr. Hall. "Looks safe and neat." "I think it looks like something out of 'The Stepford Wives.' " confided Mrs. Hall. "Besides, I'd really like to be closer to town. A little edginess sort of appeals to me." It was clear they were separated by some difference of opinion. "Wait a minute- what's that?" he said. Pulled up in front of one of the sale properties was a silver pickup towing a trailer. On the trailer was a massive bright gold figure of Buddha. "Wow. Is that moving in or out?" wondered Mr. Hall aloud. "If it's moving in, there may be some hope for this place yet!" laughed Mrs. H.
Stopping at a local shopping center, they checked out the nearby services, broke for lunch and reevaluated their choices. "What do you want to do?" asked Mrs. Hall. "I want to ride the monorails and hit the slots. What do you want to do?" sighed Mr. Hall "I want to shop for that white dress I need for the big meeting in Oriskany. Wanna forget houses for now and just play?" He nodded gleefully and radioed in a request for flight deviation. A short hour later, they were boarding the monorail.
Walking through the shops, they encountered several wedding parties. Mrs. Hall recalled reading that approximately 315 weddings a day take place in Las Vegas. While some of the wedding parties were clearly less formal than others, there was no doubt, a wedding in Vegas would be a memorable one.
Clinking their glasses together at the cafe overlooking the garden at the Bellagio, they considered how much had changed in the two years since their last visit. Vegas was jammed, even in the off-season, but apparently still not immune to the effects of the recent Great Recession. On the face of things, the Bellagio looked the same, but looking closely one could see that the old casino was somewhat toned down; the little extras that one came to expect were more pedestrian compared to before. The waitstaff there seemed almost petulant.
The only exception was the Wynn, which seemed even more luxurious than ever. Mrs. Hall wiled away the time betting the ponies at Arlington Park in the sport book arena. (Betting hunch bets is always a risky business, and even though she would have dearly loved to win with $2 down on Homeboykris to Show, the horse sat down and took a nap somewhere around the first turn.) Mr. Hall made a killing on the slots in the afternoon and he sprang for her white dress at the fashion mall across the street.
The Halls could feel themselves falling under the spell of the town. "I love it out here," sighed Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall had to agree. The weather was gorgeous, the shopping phenomenal and the atmosphere electric. They watched the dancing fountains from the rental as they sat caught in traffic one evening. They leaned over the railing at the Palazzo to watch the boiling volcanoes spewing "lava" in front of the Mirage while strolling the strip.
On their last evening in Vegas, Mrs. Hall confessed that it had been nearly 20 years since she'd had a lobster dinner. Mr. Hall vowed to remedy that immediately. They chose a quiet little steakhouse in the Forum Shops (to accommodate Mr. Hall's palate as well) and for a few very enjoyable hours savored their last meal in town.
Early the next morning, they returned the little rental- fairly dusty and 2500 miles older- to the airport and flew off. Mrs. Hall fell asleep smiling, lost in a reflective fog, as they flew over the jewel of the desert. Mr. Hall leaned back as far as was possible in the crowded quarters of the airplane, and managed to develop a cramp. "I hate flying commercial," he grumbled. Past pilots can be a trial to fly with on a good day, and corporate ones can be the worst.
The airline was late getting into O'Hare and the Halls missed their connecting flight. The editors of the Monitor, being cognizant of the sensibilities of the Gentle Reader, have opted not to repeat Mr. Hall's commentary on the state of the airline industry at this time, but it's safe to say he offered not only a toasty editorial, but some fairly ripe suggestions for the CEOs as well.

Viva Las Vegas

2011-07-21T14:36:00.025-04:00

Crossing over the mountains at the south end of Death Valley, Mrs. Hall expected the temps to be somewhat higher. When they had crossed it two years ago, the Giant Thermometer in Baker CA was reading just under 108 degrees. However, the heat wave in the Midwest seemed to be draining their steam from the west coast; the temp gauge on the dashboard of the little rental recorded a measly 85 degrees (at altitude 3912 ft). Locals could be seen pulling their sweaters out of mothballs, preparing to bear up.
The Gentle Reader will remember their middle school teachers telling them that no matter how colorfully the states are designated in their primers, real geography does not provide such visual cues. That lesson does not apply coming in on Route 15. Visible from nearly ten miles away, the legal line between the Golden State and the Silver State is an easily discernible division; a solid wall of gambling establishments defines the difference between a CA zip code and one in NV.
Pulling into the Las Vegas city limits, Mrs. Hall could see Mr. Hall's resolve wavering between duty and diversion. She quickly gathered a list of addresses and real estate listings, so to better utilize their time searching for a home, and promised that if they looked at just the western portion of town today, they could go out playing tonight. It is common knowledge that out off the five or six major frustrations in life, househunting ranks pretty high up on the list. Weaving through one disappointing neighborhood after another can tend to take a toll, so leaving off the last remaining homes on the list, Mrs. Hall suggested they take a break. "We're up on the north side anyway; why not slide by Gold and Silver Pawn Shop and see what we can see?" Mr. Hall was already pulling in the parking lot by the time she had finished her sentence. One of Mr. Hall's favorite shows on the History Channel is "Pawn Stars", so she knew it was a cinch he'd be bucked up by the prospect of perusing their showcases and checking out items from the show.
"You've never seen Fremont Street, have you?" asked Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall had only been on the big main strip in Vegas and was unfamiliar with the casinos of older days. "Com'n- let's mush on down and mingle with the seamier side of the strip." Much had been done to try to revitalize an area that was on the verge of descending into the urban decay endemic in North Las Vegas. An overhead canopy was the most obvious upgrade, used for nightly lazer shows and much too much loud advertising. But the city was determined to hang on to this little slice of history; and while it may cater to a somewhat less well-heeled crowd than is generally seen outside the Bellagio, the street cleaners everywhere and the family safe street entertainers made it clear the Las Vegas Jaycees were doing their level best to make the old girl as appealing as possible.
The public appeared to be responsive. A woman forsook her walker to cling to a reincarnated Elvis; twentysomethings drank mystery drinks from oversized footballs. Strollers were everywhere, and the Golden Nugget had what Mrs. Hall considered the most enticing outdoor pool on the strip; guests staying at that old standby were treated to a three story high water tube that curled around and actually went through a tank filled with sharks. "A coy metaphor or perhaps a summary of the whole Vegas experience?" asked Mrs. Hall, as she stood fascinated, watching the children slide through the saltwater aquarium.
As they wandered out back onto the street, there was one attraction Mrs. Hall could not take her eyes off of. High above the crowds, a continuous stream of screaming tourists whizzed by on a zipline overhead. "That's for me!" she said, and Mr. Hall shook his head. Before he could even begin to go into an argument, she was in line and strapping on the five point harness. "Here's the camera- I'll wave to you from the top!" The following video is below, for the Gentle Reader's enjoyment.

"That was amazing!!" gasped Mrs. Hall, as she extricated herself from the ropes. Dashing past the hucksters trying to sell her expensive photographic evidence of her adventure, she rejoined Mr. Hall on the street.
"I think that's enough excitement for one day." Mr. Hall was tiring and it was time to look around for dinner. "We'll hit the main drag tomorrow." But he could barely catch her attention, she was so busy showing off the wristband proof of her flying abilities to other passerbys.
Next episode: Wynn-ing ways. Stay tuned!

Getting our just deserts

2011-07-20T11:19:00.022-04:00

"Yes, but it's a dry heat!" assured Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall had heard this reply so many times her head was starting to hurt. Having enjoyed the trip down the west coast so far, they slingshotted around San Diego and were now heading back up north and east to the high desert. Somewhere in the not-so-distant future Mr. Hall was thinking about retirement, and it was time to do some scouting for a new locale. Palm Springs and Las Vegas had come up on the short list, so Mr. Hall had filed his flight plan and was making the necessary adjustments.
The Halls had come in late to that desert mecca. A few suggestions from the GPS and some calculated guesswork dropped them in the vicinity of Palm Desert and some delightful restaurants. Closing their eyes and choosing one (always a risky venture while driving...) they pulled into "Shame on the Moon" to sup and reevaluate the situation. There was a 35 minute wait but since the bar was open, they opted to dine there. The bartender appeared out of nowhere and effortlessly brought them some wonderful light fare. Pausing a bit, as she blotted her face with the napkin, Mrs. Hall surveyed the room. "Did you notice something?" she asked Mr. Hall. He was deeply engrossed in the meal and did not reply. "I mean, did you notice that we are by far, wait staff excepted, the youngest patrons of this establishment by at least 25 years?" Mr. Hall looked up, around and nodded an assent. She called over the vapor of a bartender. "Am I mistaken, or is Palm Springs the Elephants' Graveyard? Is everyone here about this age?" He smiled and continued to wipe out glasses. "And can I ask you something else?" she continued. "I'm ashamed to say I don't recognize that bottle. Can you tell me what it is?" He pulled it out. "It's ginger-flavored cognac" he replied and Mrs. Hall pulled a face. A drink like that can pretty much sum up a crowd, she thought. She leaned over and confided to the barkeep, "I keep Hennessey in my hip flask 'cause it's hard to get cognac at the ballpark." He smiled and said, "You're a girl after my own heart."
The next morning they set themselves to their task. Armed with several real estate listings and a neighborhood map, they wound around the parks and side streets, rubbernecking and snooping and generally causing concern in the senior community. A lot of the areas were gated, and while Mrs. Hall's charms were considerable, she was only able to convince about half of the guards to let them roam about unescorted. Frustrated with what was rapidly becoming a futile search, Mr. Hall called off the plan and suggested they just check out what he knew would appeal to Mrs. Hall; the vintage/retro resale shops in the trendy oh-so-midcentury modern part of old Palm Springs.
It turned out to be a enjoyable respite. A quick lunch at the local coffee emporium, lots of envious drooling over Eames era furnishings and Mrs. Hall was remarkably docile. "Well, I may not have found the perfect home for you, but I did find the perfect accessory. Check this out!" There in the window was a huge, whited over, 737 model aircraft, probably rescued from some old travel agency long ago. Mr. Hall inspected it closely for any remaining signs of livery, but all that was left were a few chip marks revealing some cerulean blue and orange. "Probably an old Southwest jet-" he guessed. The owner was willing to haggle and Mrs. Hall equally willing to waver, but it Mr. H. remained steadfast in his belief that the treasure would not fit in the overhead compartment on the ride home and that they would have to pass.
Waving goodbye to the old movie stars homes and the stunning architecture, they continued on up to Barstow. A short detour took them past the former home of Roy Rogers and Dale Evans, and Mr. Hall stopped shortly to revisit Sunset Chapel in Apple Valley to pay his respects. The Halls would have dearly loved to re-indulge in one of Emma Jean's Hollandburger delights, brimming over with greasy ortega chili laden goodness, but unfortunately, the old Route 66 treasure had already closed for the day. They ended up dining in Barstow instead, at a singularly forgettable restaurant. Mr. Hall paused to attempt digestion and pout, when Mrs. H. reminded him about the train yard. "That's right- I almost forgot!" For about the next hour or so, Mr. Hall stood in the shadow of the old Harvey Hotel over looking twenty or more rail lines; the trains whizzed by, to and fro in the rising moonlight. Mr. Hall was serenely happy, while Mrs. Hall reclined as much as the rental's carseat would allow, trying to survive the effects of their recent repast. The hotel was close at hand, and the next day came mercifully fast. Next episode: High desert, but low temps. Stay tuned!

Meetin' and eatin'

2011-07-19T12:24:00.024-04:00

The Santa Ana sun shone in the hotel room early. Mrs. Hall gave her brother Leo Pranitis, Jr., prominent businessman and charming host, a call and the next thing they knew, the Halls were at his doorstep. (Editor's note: The kidding and reacquainting got out of hand rather quickly- so quickly in fact, that the editorial staff was unable to snap any shots. You can watch Leo as he looks today in this fascinating interview from Dentistry Today.

The coffee and the conversation flowed free and fast- Mr. Hall could barely keep up- but since Lee had so little time that morning, they unfortunately had to keep it short. "You're going right past where Sydney works- you should stop in and see her too!" he said, as he waved good bye. They swung by the shopping plaza where Sydney Pranitis, his daughter, worked. It had been years since the Halls had seen her, and Mrs. Hall was afraid that time had perhaps dimmed her memory, but Sydney could not be fooled; she spotted her immediately. A few quick hugs, a chat and some more goodbyes (Sydney was, after all, technically still at work!) and the Halls hit the road.
Escondido was the home of Mr. Hall's adopted family, the Pierces, and Elaine, her son, Eric, and his daughter Tabitha, met them with open arms. They had just enough time to wash up, check the oil and straighten their hats, when the whole clan headed over to his sister Eileen and her husband Matt Harbin's home. It had been nearly five years since they had been together, and it wasn't long after they had arrived, that Mrs. Hall recalled nicknaming them the "Harbin Hurricanes". "What an astonishing family this is!" remarked Mrs. H. as the children dashed about to their various sports. The Harbins were kind enough to offer to put the Halls up for a few days for some well needed rest, and they didn't need to offer twice. The bedroom where they bunked was filled to the brim with awards, trophies and certificates for their daughter Kristen; just one of the resident "hurricanes". The entire family seemed to be forces of nature, and each one more interesting than the next.
Nothing makes meat taste better than an open fire, and at night Grillmaster Matt fired up the charpit and dished up some king sized cuts. "After eating on the road for so long, nothing beats homecookin', sighed Mr. Hall, between mouthfuls. Even though she was stuffed clean up to the gills, Mrs. Hall still managed to embarrass herself amongst the youngsters on the tennis court after dinner.
Before they left, Elaine and the Halls drove up to Rosecrans National Cemetery, where her husband and Mr. Hall's adoptive father Robert Pierce is inurned, to pay their respects. Rosecrans Cemetery overlooks the bay, the Naval base and the stunning Coronado Bridge, and a more peaceful and well-tended resting place could not be found.
The Halls would have loved to stay and play some more, but the working part of their vacation was looming head and now they had to go. Several rounds of hugs, kisses and blessings went around, and then went around again, and finally, tearing themselves away, they hit the road. Next episode; Palm Springs eternal. Stay tuned!

The Beverly Halls

2011-07-18T02:58:00.021-04:00

Being from New York originally, Mrs. Hall found the vegetation on the West Coast a little on the fantastic side. Even though they had traveled around the southwest two years ago, she still was fascinated with the spiky nature of the lawn decor. "All this time, I thought Dr. Suess was wildly imaginative when he drew all those fabulous trees and bushes; now it turns out he was just drawing what he saw." commented Mrs. H. "And I'm really surprized at some of the different state ordinances- apparently California has a strictly enforced local leash law for either yard decorations and/or tortoises." Mr. Hall pretended to ignore her as he recalibrated the GPS.
Leaving San Luis Obispo behind, the Halls continued down Highways 101 and 154. Passing through the Los Padres National Park was positively breathtaking. The roads were good and the traffic light, so in no time at all, they managed to pull into Beverly Hills and headed straight for Rodeo Drive.
"Ooh, ooh- look at that car! And that one! Ooh, ooh- !!" Mrs. Hall could hardly be contained. Mr. Hall was sure he was going to have a problem on his hands with the luxury boutiques, but it seemed Mrs. H. only had eyes for the fancy wheels. There seemed to be a Rolls-Royce at least every other block. They hopped out to hit the streets and mingle with the beautiful people. All the big designers had boutiques on the street and after years of just reading about them in Vogue and W, it was a delight for Mrs. Hall to finally see so many together all at once.
"Six thousand dollars for that?!?" gasped Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall had just pointed out a small leather bag that caught her eye in Hermes. "Actually, I really think it's only three or four thousand," she corrected, as she examined the inside of the handbag. "Three thousand dollars for that?!?" continued Mr. H. until it became clear to Mrs. Hall that they would either have to exit the premises or begin CPR. "Breathe. It's all right. I wasn't really expecting to find anything we could get here anyway." She was trying to be conciliatory but Mr. Hall still felt like a piker. Then his face brightened as he came up with an idea. "Come over here, my dear- you may have whatever you would like. Pick it out and it's yours." Mrs. H. beamed brightly, and chose the strawberry sundae bar.
The little rental was parked right in front of one of the Halls' favorite hotels, the Peninsula, so they stopped in to check out the lounge. Offering a cool respite from the heat of the afternoon, they decided to have a little something. The Halls had a chat with the bartender, who turned out to be all alone that day. He brought out some munchies and a lovely cognac, and after a little while the day seemed to perk right up.
There were a few other spots Mrs. Hall had hoped to see there before they left.-utilizing Mr. Hall's ipad and the GPS, and a little research, they were soon driving by the former residence of Mr. Ronald Colman, past star of the silver screen and a favorite of Mrs. Hall. That, and the famous Hollywood sign on the hill, which they spotted on their way out of town, and she finally felt she could leave the town a happy woman. Mr. Hall was only too pleased to oblige.
As they slid into their hotel in Santa Ana that night, Mr. H. asked her, "Of all the cars on Rodeo Drive, which one was your favorite?", but he knew the answer already. "A little bottle-green gem with the tan leather seats named Winston, waiting patiently for us at home." she said as she curled up in the bed. Next episode; family ties. Stay tuned!

If we blink we might miss him

2011-07-15T03:15:00.022-04:00

"I smell onions...." sniffed Mr. Hall. The little rental was whizzing down the highway as the GPS directed them to breakfast. "Um.. you're almost right," corrected Mrs. Hall, and she pointed to the flags lining the main drag. Gilroy, the peaceful little villa where they had bed down last night, was avidly advertising their greatest claim to fame. "Have you ever heard of the Famous Gilroy Garlic Festival before?" But Mrs. H. shook her head. "It's too bad, but I'm afraid we won't be in town to check it out." said Mr. Hall. Happily, the breakfast menu at Mimi's did not include garlic with their delightful lemon poppyseed pancakes. Scraping off the last sticky bits, they hit the road again.
The Halls were on their way down the coast to the Defense Language Institute at the Presidio in Monterey. Because of scheduling difficulties, they only had a few hours to see Master Ian before he had to board a plane off to Miramar and Mrs. Hall was determined to make the most of that time. But since he wouldn't be getting out until the afternoon, Mr. Hall wanted to show her the Monterey coastline and Cannery Row. A pleasant breeze blew along the winding paths. While the hotels looked lovely and inviting, most of the streets seemed given over to the usual touristy teeshirt and tschotske sales. A cursory effort was made by the local historians to inform visitors, but it seemed a little lame; ice cream shops and shot glasses bearing John Steinbeck's visage hardly seemed to bear any relation to the area's gritty early history.

Freedom for Ian came at 3:30, and after all the hugging and handshaking was over, he took them over to his quarters and showed them around for alittle bit. Marine Corps life agreed with him and to Mrs. Hall's delight, he looked healthy and happy. They had just enough time for a quick bite and a trip to the airport; they delivered him into the arms of the Canadair Regional Jet and he was off.
Mr. Hall wanted to stay and watch a few more light aircraft take off; he was in the middle of relating an old work story about having flown into this very airport when Mrs. Hall theatrically stifled a yawn and mentioned they still had very far to go. Firing up the rental they resumed their trip down the coast.
The hour was late, and a marine layer was trying to come in. Mr. Hall worried the view would be compromised along Highway 1, but he needn't have fussed. Racing along at a healthy clip, Mrs. Hall could clearly see the road clinging to the side of the jagged rocks and mountains, and the shoulder on the right falling off into 1000 foot cliffs along side the car. "Big Sur is beautiful, even in this weather," remarked Mrs. Hall, admiring the beauty of the rugged rocks and surf. "But if you're going fast just to impress me, that's okay. You can take the highway a little more slowly if you like." He noticed she never took her eyes off the side of the road. "Are you worried about my driving, my dear?" he asked, and even though she waved off the suggestion as preposterous, she still managed to keep a deathgrip on the swing handle on the door of the car.
By the time they had run the course of Highway 1's spectacular drive, it was getting dark. They pulled into their hotel in San Luis Obispo, exhausted. "That's some of the most dramatic coastline you'll ever see, " remarked Mr. Hall, as brought in their luggage, but as he caught her dozing on the bed already, it was clear the only landscape Mrs. Hall was going to be seeing was the insides of her eyelids. Next episode: Slumming on Rodeo Drive. Stay tuned!

Fishing for fun

2011-07-13T01:54:00.017-04:00

It took Mr. Hall a little while and considerable help from the GPS to find his brother's home in Browns Valley, but when they finally managed to pull into the driveway they were welcomed by Brian and his wife Trina, with open arms. After talking long into the night, they awoke with renewed vigor to face the road ahead. Brian and Trina were delightful hosts and not only acquainted them with some of the local culture, set them on the right track to San Francisco with a handful of tasty recommendations.
The fog was hanging low over the Golden Gate bridge as they crossed that afternoon, but by the time they had parked the sun had burned off enough for a glorious view of the bay and its charming marina. A dancing crab accompanied by some improvised bongo street music welcomed visitors to Fisherman's Wharf and it set the proper festive tone for the crowd. Trinket sales seemed to be brisk; there was even a shop selling magnetized bagels, donuts and hot dogs. "Now I've heard these were notorious for sticking to your hips, but I had no idea they could stick to your refrigerator that way as well," remarked Mr. Hall. Crabs appeared to be a liet-motif; outside of taking every chance to feature them in ever more inventive menus, the locals had taken to manufacturing crab themed articles of clothing as well. Mrs. Hall was momentarily swayed by a chapeau at the Boudin Bakery store, but Mr. Hall, seeing her in it (and fighting off the image of that popping up at their next picnic) offered to buy her some world famous sourdough instead. The trade was a no-brainer; Mrs. Hall was a huge fan of their bread so there was no need to offer twice.
Walking along the boardwalk and enjoying a crusty boule, they finally arrived at Ghirardelli Square. They had just finished off the last of the chewy crust when a representative from the chocolate factory offered them both a fresh sample. "It would have been rude to decline," Mrs. Hall said thickly, between bites.
They had a motive for walking all the way up to the square and back; Brian Pierce had recommended a wonderful fish house somewhere along that strip and the Halls were determined to find it. Weaving up and down the avenues provided an opportunity to see more of the shops but it wasn't until they ran across an obscure ad in another bar that finally gave them the tip they required to find the restaurant. Back behind several shops, well off the beaten path and cuddled right up against the bay, was Scomas, Brian's suggestion for dinner. While hidden from the casual visitor, it was clearly a favorite with some groups. Seeing the tables mostly filled, the Halls opted to dine on the bar menu. Though it offered mostly lighter fare, it was fresh and delicious. Summoning a generous nature that did not come easily given that Mrs. Hall had just been presented with a huge platter of fresh fried calamari, she offered a crispy tentacle to Mr. Hall, who managed to decline with only a thinly veiled look of disgust. He was indulging himself on shrimp cocktail. "More for me, then-" she said smugly.
The air was redolentt of dark chocolate and coffee as they walked back to the main street, and a frothy sort of giddy goodwill permeated the crowd. Locating the little rental and bidding good bye to the boardwalk and the cable cars, they continued southward back into the fog, to Gilroy CA- home of the Gilroy Garlic festival- and their digs for the night.
Next episode: Cannery Row and a brief encounter. Stay tuned!

Rising to the occasion

2011-07-11T12:33:00.028-04:00

There was a light fog in the air as the Halls pulled out of Coos Bay. They continued on eastward, the sun broke out and by the time they had arrived in Winston (!) OR, everything was fresh and clean. Of course, they felt a natural affinity for the place because of its name, but apparently Winston, OR's only claim to fame was a discount wild animal safari. Everywhere they looked, there were references to their favorite big cats.
Moving inland towards the mountains again, they pressed onward. The narrow mountain roads wound ever upwards. Stopping to stretch their legs, the view over Diamond Lake and its imposing attendants, Mt. Thielson and Mt. Bailey, dazzled them. Since there were no storms in sight, it was a cinch they weren't going to experience Mt. Thielson' major attraction- its uncanny ability to draw lightning strikes. There was, however, a brisk breeze kicking up and Mrs. Hall began to realize that despite the warm temps they had enjoyed earlier, it was getting chillier as they went along. Entering the state park, she made note that it was down to 75 degrees already. The high pines gave way to a pumice desert and then to a rock strewn landscape. "Is that snow still piled up there?" said Mrs. Hall, incredulously. "You'll see a lot more than that," warned Mr. Hall. The dashboard thermometer agreed- as the temps fell the snow drifts rose. Suddenly the eight foot snow banks gave way to blue sky and they were at the summit; before them lay Crater Lake in all its pristine glory. The water was still and the reflection of the surrounding walls and the volcanic cone in the center was almost surreal.
"Absolutely breathtaking!" said Mr. Hall, nearly in a whisper. The overlooks were dizzyingly close to the precipice, but Mrs. Hall could not resist edging as close as possible to look down. They headed on up to the lodge at the top of the mountain and ordered lunch. It was clear the site drew visitors from all over the world; the shop and the lodge had a sort of alpine-style architecture and the Halls overheard several different languages being spoken around them. The air was thin; Mr. H. strode over the snow banks in his shirt sleeves, and it was easy to see he was becoming winded easily. Not so, it seemed however, for a group of youngsters, who were amusing themselves by flinging snowballs madly at each other and other unwary tourists.
While it would have been tempting to stay and watch the sun set over the lake, the Halls had miles to go. Bidding goodbye to the mesmerizing beauty of Crater Lake, they slid back into the little rental and careening down the mountain switchbacks, headed on.

The Queen of them all

The road south leveled out and the temperatures started to rise again, and soon, in the distance, a beautiful perfect cone rose out of the horizon. All roads seemed to lead to it, and it seemed as if all previous travelers, ancient and recent, had no choice but to be drawn to it. Second only to Mt. Rainier in height, Mt. Shasta beckoned them on.
Stopping at the scenic overlook, the Halls were able to view Mt. Shasta, as well as three other lesser volcanos visible around the horizon. "While the US Geological Survey considers this a dormant volcano, there is every reason to believe it will erupt again, in oh, say the next few hundred years," informed Mr. Hall handily. Mrs. H. glanced at the thermometer on the dashboard and wiped her brow. "Well, while it would be fun to stick around and watch for that, I'm afraid I have to admit I'm hungry and not a little bit thirsty, too. Looks like we'll have to toddle on." sighed Mrs. Hall. Mr. Hall agreed entirely.
Their heads may have been full of glorious visions, but their tummies (and the gas tank, too) were running on "E", so they coasted into Red Bluff, CA and dropped their bags at the hotel.
"I know just what I feel like for dinner tonight," said Mr. Hall, but Mrs. H. was way ahead of him and had already ordered the drinks.
Next episode: Leave it to family to know the best spots to eat. Stay tuned!

All Spruced up

2011-07-09T11:33:00.016-04:00

"Hurry up! McMinnville awaits!" Mrs. Hall's eyes were barely open and her aching muscles reminded her of yesterday's adventures at the falls. Giddy as a little kid, Mr. Hall taxied the rental under the hotel canopy just as Mrs. H. came down with the bags. The little car had but a scant 2000 miles on it when the Halls picked it up in Seattle, but it was going to put a lot more behind it by the time they turned it in.
About an hour from where they had been staying was Evergreen Aviation Museum. Rising out of the low vineyards and farms in the flatlands between two mountain ranges, the tree-shaped buildings with their dark green colored glass were a stark modern element on the horizon. The museum held many fine examples of WWII fighter planes and modern helicopters, but the big draw- the main reason Mr. Hall had been chomping on the bit to come- was the addition of Howard Hughes' H-4 Hercules "Spruce Goose" to the collection. Though having flown only one short trial run for just over a mile, the Goose made aviation history. It dominated the space and dwarfed the planes around it, and its bow came right up to the window of the barn.
The second building held their air and space museum, though it was primarily concerned with Cold War competition over the Space Program. There was a replica of a Titan missile silo, but after the Halls had already visited the real thing two years ago, it was a poor substitute. Of course, they had to hang around Mrs. Hall's favorite, the SR-71 Blackbird ("This is the fifth example of a Blackbird I've personally visited!" Mrs. H. gushed.) Behind the barns were several static displays, of more warbirds and lots of old tanks. There was a RC model landing strip and a couple of model enthusiasts showing off their aerobatic skills. And there was a third building off to the south that was apparently a water park; it was topped with a freshly painted Boeing 747 sporting a number of water slide tubes coming out of its sides. "What a waste of a perfectly good airplane!" griped Mr. Hall. He was all right with dangling out of service jets and planes in all sorts of poses from museum ceilings, but he had to draw the line somewhere, and using the jumbo jet as a water play park was definitely over that line.
Grabbing a quick bite in the lunch room, they continued their drive to the west and eventually ended up on the Oregon Coast Highway Route 101. Rugged and foreboding, the waves dashed up on the shores and the wind blew the little car around on the road. Mrs. Hall foraged about in her bags when they stopped to look over a precipice, and found her sweater. As she stood snapping pictures left and right, Mr. Hall contented himself with contemplating their next navigation and annoying the local sea fowl. They followed the coastline for hours and finally arrived in the historical old port town of North Bend/Coos Bay.
"Look! They've got a sushi diner!" cried Mrs. Hall, who was feeling a little peckish after the drive. "With shrimp tempura and saki!" "Look- they've got a casino!" cried Mr. Hall. "and quarter slots and five dollar roulette tables!" Having clearly found the perfect diversions to fit their interests, the Halls decided to bed down right there. From the patio of the casino, they watched the fireworks over the bay, cashed in their winnings and hit the hay. Next episode: Snowballs in summertime. Stay tuned!

Hot and Cold running spectacles

2011-07-08T02:27:00.012-04:00

Erick finished packing his bag and opened the back door. "Let's get going!" The Halls all piled into the little rental and waving goodbye to Seattle, fresh fish and Mt. Rainer, they headed for the highway. "Let's take this street first, before we get on the highway. We can get a cup of coffee and I want to show you one more Seattle treat." They pulled off into a charming artsy community and there, hiding in the shadows under the bridge, was The Troll. Fashioned by the hands of local artists and incorporating an actual Volkswagon Beetle, it was the Fremont community's answer to an unsightly underpass. "Well, if the java didn't get me up, that thing certainly would have!" remarked Mr. Hall. "We just couldn't leave without seeing that," laughed Mrs. Hall and they thanked Erick for the show.
Erick was on his way to Portland, so he rode part of the way with the Halls. Passing out of the city and down the coast, they drove past Mt. St. Helens and Mt. Baker. Majestic volcanoes might be just everyday stuff to the citizens of the coast, but Mrs. Hall fairly twisted herself in knots trying to snap shots as the highway wove past the snow covered peaks. The highway took them south of Portland and eastward to the Columbia gorge.
Speaking to the locals, they were informed of a beautiful tour of the waterfalls coming down from the Cascades, and the prospect of seeing so many in such a short span proved irresistible to the Halls. It was but the work of a short detour and soon they were standing at the precipice at Vista House, at the mouth of the Columbia River. It was a glorious day, and so when the little volunteer at the desk offered them a handdrawn map of the lower falls, they thought it might be a nice diversion along the way to stop and see them. "But before we go, I just have to have some of these," said Mrs. Hall, and she plucked a bag of interesting looking pretzels off the shelf of the gift house. As the day wore on, they proved to be a godsend.
Though they had initially viewed the tour as a lark, it became immediately clear it was going to be a somewhat more physical feat. "Does it say anywhere in that little map you found that the falls require increasing vigor as you go along? These walkways are becoming higher and steeper as we go," inquired Mrs. Hall. Puffing and blowing, they wound their ways up and down the stone paths, each one ending in an increasingly spectacular falls. By the time they arrived at Multnomah Falls, they were exhausted and exhilarated, all at the same time. Skipping about in the water at the bottom of one of the lesser falls, Mr. Hall reminded Mrs. Hall that while it was fun to be without cares, they did have a schedule to maintain. They trudged back to the little rental, dusty and worn, and headed back on southward. The glowing peak of Mt. Hood could just be seen in the distance as they bounced along the highway to their next hotel.

(Ed. note: For the Gentle Reader's edification: here is a graphic depicting the volcanoes of the Pacific Coast, many of which the Halls passed by.

Planes, trains and automobiles

2011-07-06T21:59:00.012-04:00

Seattle is often known for it's inclement or deary weather, but whomever was in charge of fog this week must have been on vacation as well, because the Halls could not have ordered a more perfect backdrop for their activities.
Rising bright and early, Erick drove them past the great ports downtown to the Museum of Flight. Celebrating the early careers of prominent aviators and pioneers in the business of flying, the Wm. Boeing Museum of Flight offered not only many hands-on exhibits and videos, but a chance to visit and explore static displays of some of the Halls' favorite rides. Walking through the pedestrian bridge to the aluminum playground, Mr. Hall could barely be contained. Mrs. H. had never seen a Concorde up close and was surprised at how small it really was. A stunning example of a Constitution (or a "Connie" as it was known) was there, but unfortunately, not available to tour. While Mrs. Hall was just about to tell Mr. H. that that was okay; she had toured one last summer at Chanute Air Force Base, she turned to discover he was not behind her. On the verge of worry, Erick pointed to a boarding ladder behind the SST. There was Mr. Hall, standing on the landing, waving and looking as presidential as ever.
It was getting late and the little band headed downtown to see if they could arrange to get the rental a day early. The crowds were coming in for the holiday, but overall the city looked bright and festive. "There goes the monorail!" said Mr. Hall and at that point Mrs. Hall knew exactly what was going to happen next. As she tossed out any hopes for shopping, Mr. Hall was already heading up the stairs to purchase tickets to ride the train.
The monorail, another relic from the 1962 World's Fair in Seattle, had a short track. Running only from the downtown shopping district to the Space Needle/City Center and back again, it's usefulness as a mode of mass transit was suspect. But it's coolness factor was never a matter in doubt- it was very awesome indeed to fly around at over 40 mph smoothly along a single track. The Halls had purchased a round trip ticket, so when the crowd filed out and left the train empty for the return trip, Mr. Hall slid up to the front and struck up company with the engineer. After all but piloting the train back successfully to downtown, he floated back into the city a very happy camper indeed.
The rental situation being taken care of, they were heading home when Erick wondered if perhaps they would like to take in a ballgame. As a National League fan, Mrs. Hall was only modestly acquainted with the Mariners, but when he told her they were playing the San Diego Padres, and had already beaten them the previous night, she was all in. As a diehard Cubs fan, she knew, that if there was even the remotest chance to boo or razz the Padres- she was going to be there.
Alas, a victory was not to be. After a boring pitcher's duel, the Mariners dropped the ball, so to speak, and gave up the game; 1-0. On top of that, the only run that came in was due to an error on the part of the umpires; unbelievably, they sent a runner to first base on what they thought was the called fourth ball, but was, upon video replay, determined to be just the third ball. No one on the field caught it and the game progressed to its unfortunate end.
Returning to Erick's neighborhood, they slid into the home pub to drown their sorrows and share a cup before heading off to rest. Next episode: Portland, the Cascades and beyond. Stay tuned!

Java jive

2011-07-04T12:00:00.018-04:00

“Given that there is a coffee shop around every corner out here and that everyone seems hell-bent on imbibing as much caffeine as the body can humanly handle in a 24 hour period, how come they to be so calm?” inquired Mrs. Hall. They watched the other commuters perform a leisurely pas de deux as they drove across town to the Boeing factory. “The drivers are actually driving below the posted speed limit!" Mrs. Hall blinked twice and wondered what sort of parallel universe she had entered. "Pedestrians are crossing blithely at the official crosswalks, oblivious to drivers and trusting they will make it safely to their caffeine-centric destinations.” “It’s true,” Mr. Hall agreed. “They do seem fairly laid back.” She continued, “I watched a group of grey-haired sandal-sporting matrons stride defiantly into the fray, and expected a disaster of unimaginable proportions. Yet, instead of carnage, the cars simultaneously slowed and even waved them on, with nary a trace of malice nor vulgar hand gestures.”
“Perhaps it’s a form of mass pharmacologic treatment; like treating ADHD with the stimulant Ritalin; they use coffee in order to have an opposite sedating effect.” posed Mr. Hall. Mrs. H. just shook her head in amazement and watched in disbelief.
Erick had procured reservations on a tour of the Boeing assembly plant for them. When he informed Mrs. H. that while she was welcome to take (mental) notes along the way, cameras and purses were forbidden, she was a little downcast at the prospect of not being able to document her event. But the tour was so enlightening and impressive, she barely had time to worry about it. Watching the crews assemble the 747-8, the 777's and the 787's in the world's largest factory was a show not to be missed.
After the tour, they walked around the museum alittle. PERC (Passenger Experience Research Center) was conducting trials with new interiors for their jets, and the Halls gleefully participated in one of the trials. The business class jet interiors were everyone's favorites, and one with which Mr. Hall was truly familiar. Though it took a little while to rouse Mr. Hall after he had settled down and was re-acquainting himself with the cockpit of a 727 again, the little band was finally able to move on.
A quick trip back to the apartment to provide a pitstop for Shakespeare, Erick's golden retriever, and they were back on the road again. Passing those downtown classics, the rotating Pink Elephant Super Car Wash neon sign and the neverending stream of tourist filled Duck buses, they finally arrived at the destination Mrs. Hall had been pining for the most: the Space Needle!

Built for the 1962 World's Fair, the Space Needle hovers over Seattle's city center like a fantastic spaceship. The weather could not have been more perfect; the water in the bay sparkled and Mt. Rainer glowed pink as the sun set in the distance. Despite the holiday weekend, the lines were small and for quite some time they endured the gusty breezes at the top of the needle. It would have been fun to stay longer, but after pointing out several wonderful eateries visible from above, it occurred to all that perhaps the bracing air was making them more hungry than they realized. It was the general concensus of all parties concerned that, despite the local coffee's stellar appeal and ability to warm, what was really called for in this situation was a spicy Mexican menu. A half an hour later, they were toasting their good weather fortune (and taking some of the chill off, too!) with some especially tasty margaritas and chips with salsa, at Pesos restaurant. After scarfing down way too many chips and watching the Mariners beat the Padres on the Jumbotron in the bar, the little band wondered home, happy, warmed and sated. Next episode: Wandering the streets. Stay tuned!

See you in Seattle

2011-07-02T08:30:00.020-04:00

It seemed to Mrs. Hall that she had just touched her head to the pillow when the alarm went off to get up. “Rise and shine!” said Mr. Hall in an inhumanly perky voice. “We’ve a plane to catch!” The tickets to JFK and beyond were waiting (albeit electronically) for them at Hancock Airport, and he wasn’t about to let them go to waste. A quick hop to the Big Apple ensued and they plotted their upcoming travels while enjoying a petit dejeuner in the terminal before their flight.
The blue sky whizzed by their cabin windows as Mr. Hall fiddled with the onboard satellite television. “Six hours? Six hours in this seat?” squirmed Mrs. H. Mr. Hall recognized in that tone of voice the lack of sleep Mrs. Hall was so bravely handling, and attempted to soothe her. “Just think- we’ll be flying from one ocean to another in just six hours. 'Tis the stuff of 'The Jetsons’!”
“Baloney” snuffed Mrs. Hall. “Flying cars are the stuff of the Jetsons; but where are those? When are we going to have them? We are sorely lacking when it comes to that glorious vision promised us just fifty short years ago by those visionaries at Hanna-Barbara. And don’t try to placate me; the Roomba© is a poor excuse for Rosie the robot maid.”
“Flying cars? A sky full of amateurs? The cockpit is only for trained professionals; the layman has no business there. Flying cars would be a disaster of unbelievable proportions if the average man tried to fly.” While ignoring his strictly masculine vision of the cockpit, it was clear Mrs. H. was very close to touching a nerve.
“Spoken like the true luddite that you are,” she snorted. “That’s the same malarkey they were spewing 100 years ago at the advent of the horseless carriage. When technology reaches the point where flying cars are as ubiquitous a component of the suburban milieu as the Dodge Caravan is now, that’s when we’ll have what the Jetsons had!” Just as he could see her catching her breath and preparing another rant, he managed to flag a hostess and ordered a drink. “Look darling- a little bento box full of munchies just for you!” The bright colors seemed to distract her enough and the rest of the flight went along seamlessly.
Waiting for them at the airport was Mr. Hall's son Erick and he whisked them away to the city. "I'll bet you're hungry. How 'bout a short trip down to Pike Place Fish Market for some of the city's finest fish? I made reservations for us at Matt's in the Market." The idea proved to be inspired. After a brief but thoroughly entertaining stroll through the famous fish market on the bay (where the Halls watched the amusing fish throwing frequently documented on the Food Channel) Erick helped them navigate the winding tunnels and walkways to their destination. Joined by fellow dining adventurer Drew Kearl, they (well, Mrs. Hall that is) gleefully ordered some of the most exotic dishes on the menu. The meal was spectacular, but Mr. Hall barely saw it go by. What he and Erick were mostly focused on was the air traffic. Modern commercial, light personal and even bush planes of every size continued to zip across the bay the entire evening, and for several minutes at a stretch it was difficult to tease their attention away from the airshow. As far as Mrs. Hall was concerned, the Graf Zeppelin could have moored at the table next to her and she wouldn't have blinked; her dungeness crab salad and smoky grilled octopus were all she needed to be entertained.
The business of dining being happily dispatched, the Halls et al continued on. They stopped only briefly at the very first Starbucks store for a bag of coffee beans, before heading back to Erick's apartment for the evening.
"Well, dear-" said Mr. Hall as he unpacked his bag, "flying cars aside, I think your mid century modern æsthetic will be thoroughly pleased tomorrow, when we take in the heart of the city." But Mrs. Hall was already asleep, braced by the brisk walk back to the car, her delicious repast, and a hearty side of jetlag. Next stop: Relics from the future- the Space Needle. Stay tuned!

Around the State in Eighty Days

2011-06-12T18:15:00.015-04:00

Winston pulled into the hanger around 9:45 pm.
After the purr of the engine ceased and the luggage was all brought in, Mr. Hall slumped into his leather armchair and remained motionless for a solid five minutes. When he at last roused himself to speech, it was to order up a very dry martini and his bedroom slippers.
"We are finally done with the official visits- huzzah!" They clinked glasses. "Thirty-four different state meetings, several district ones and all of our own chapter meetings- all in the span of three months. Our weekends (barring any of our usual work, of course) are our own again!" Mrs. Hall had nothing but praise for the fortitude of her fellow traveler. "We've certainly covered the state, that's for sure."
"Did you see you made the front page of 'the word'* newspaper this month?" asked Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall glanced at the sight of her weary self in navy blue chiffon and sequins and shuddered. "What an endurance contest. And I'm lucky I can still fit into those dresses. Eating on the road is not exactly the safest diet in the world. How about the footlong hotdogs at the Chuck Wagon? The smoked salmon from the Roscoe Diner? And do you remember those wonderful pies we had at the Blue Dolphin?"
Mr. Hall's eyes took on a faraway gaze and he could feel himself salivating unconsciously. "Mmmm.... banana creme..." he murmured. "Yes- banana creme pie and strawberry cheesecake. Both pieces as big as our heads"
"And us in formal wear, to boot." Mrs. Hall continued. "You know, we had to grab a bite where ever we could get it. And thank heavens for the GPS- if if wasn't for that we would never have been able to find the meeting halls, much less somewhere to eat. At least I got to march off some of those calories bringing in the flag. You had to sit through all those sessions; it's a wonder you didn't fall asleep during any of them." She unfolded her skirt from the garment bag and turned to hand him the television remote. Mr. Hall was nodding off dreamily, lost in a happy reverie of banana cream and crust.
"I'll hang up our clothes," she smiled, and covering him with a blanket, left him to his dreams.

*the word is a monthly publication put out by the Masonic Service Bureau of Central New York.

The Sporting Life

2011-05-20T13:40:00.016-04:00

Mr. Hall poured a cup of black adrenalin and wandered over to Mrs. Hall as she read in front of the fireplace. "What have you got there?"
"It's a biography of Winston Churchill. Ever since our little Miata revealed to me that his name was 'Winston', I've had an insatiable desire to know more about the man. A cursory glance in the Hall library divulged this tidy little specimen and I've been hacking my way through it over the morning brew for some time now."
"Bored with the financial section, ay?" He lifted the squat volume and heaved it back and forth a few times. "Not exactly a light-hearted romp."
"It does seem to be of the cinder block family, doesn't it? You'd think the man was clearly getting paid by the word, and yet, unbelievably enough, Pelling turns out to be a master of understatement. How can a man compose a tome of this weight, coming in at 800 plus pages of 12 point type and still leave out so many juicy details? In his foreword, his thanks are so comprehensive, he even includes a few bystanders that were on the pavement in front of his publishers; yet when it comes to his secretarial staff, he expresses his gratitude with a line that amounts to 'No thanks necessary here- you know who you are.' He slyly implies that the main subject's mum brought him into the world seven months into the marriage and that his father died of syphillis, but without any further revelation or source. Oh, Dr. Pelling, despite the fact that your book was published in 1974, you have deftly managed to remain the stalwart Victorian prude that you are, well into the latter half of the 20th century."
"That's it. I'm cutting off your coffee," said Mr. Hall. He gathered up her cup. "Reading makes you moody. Let's go into work and get you away from all that nasty thinking." He handed her her coat.
While Mrs. Hall's appointment had been taking up most of their weekends, work had been moving steadily along. One particular errand had taken them out to Auburn, and Mr. Hall had suggested they stop in at the Bass Pro Shop and see what was new in the sporting world. Realizing that Mrs. Hall's idea of sport was trying to decide which of the longshots she was going to bet, Mr. Hall bribed her with the promise of some good ole' cowboy barbecue. It was sufficient lure; Mrs. Hall took the bait and they went in. "Think fast!!" piped up Mr. H., and before she could blink, Mrs. Hall found herself the recipient of a six foot novelty pillow. "Now you can genuinely say you caught a big one!" he laughed.
Hijinks were all well and good, but unless Mrs. H. could talk him into purchasing one of those wall mounted rubber fish that wiggle on their own and unexpectedly burst into song, she was ready to head back home.
Wiping the remains of the campfire beans off their hands (and being careful not to get any on the car!) they dropped the top on Winston and started back through town. They hadn't gotten very far when the traffic slowed to a crawl and the police funnelled the crowd down to one lane. "What's going on?" asked Mrs. Hall. "Just one of the more pleasant American pastimes! Com'n, let's pull over and watch." And he pulled over the little green car onto a side road and parked.
Coming down the hill in front of them, at a breakneck speed of 5mph, were two homemade racers, their drivers huddled low in the frames, hellbent for glory and a standing on the handwritten leader board posted in the park. Having apparently wandered into the Soapbox derby finals taking place right in the heart of town, the Halls took up viewing from the coveted finish line seats. As Mr. Hall noticed Mrs. H. getting out her purse, he gently reminded her that despite what she might have heard or seen, betting on the pint size drivers was widely frowned upon by local law enforcement. She pouted briefly, but continued to cheer for the underdogs.
After a fashion, the traffic cleared and the Halls were able to move on. Later on that evening, over an aperitif before dinner, Mr. Hall asked her how the book turned out. "Well, it was pretty slow going there for a while, but I think now I can honestly say I found it most useful and enlightening." Mr. Hall nodded with approval. And later on that evening, when Mr. H. went upstairs to bed, he was hardly surprised when he found it propping open the bathroom door, enlightening most of the upstairs hallway as well.

If this is Saturday, then it must be Olean

2011-05-07T12:09:00.016-04:00

For the last two months, the Halls had been New York nomads. Weekends were no longer marked by numbers, but by district names. The endless merry-go-round that is the official visit season for the Grand Matron carries on until the middle of June, and the Halls were only slightly past the half way point.
"I don't think I can face another dinner with the only choices being 'chicken marsala' or 'yankee pot roast'. Let's find some place in town to eat." said Mrs. Hall. Mr. Hall looked down at the small dot in a vast field of nothingness that represented their destination on the GPS, and doubted the likelihood of finding a decent meal or even a nearby town. Long since used to being seen around town in a tuxedo and formal attire, they ventured into a pleasant burg and found a charming restaurant that time had apparently passed by. Big band music played in the background. The waitstaff was nimble and unobtrusive. "I fully expect that we will try to come back here next month and find that this place closed fifty years ago and all we will be left with is the haunting vision of shuttered windows, a lingering taste of this delicious entree and those creepy strains of the 'Twilight Zone' running through our heads" remarked Mr. Hall between bites of his shrimp. Though they were loathe to leave, they thanked their hosts and wandered on back to yet another meeting.

Occasionally the monotony was broken; one Sunday, a youth group held a pancake breakfast in the fire station. The Grand Patron John, and his lovely wife Gail, invited the Halls to join them at their table and regaled them with tales of their farm. John had turned out to be probably the biggest and most pleasant surprize of the whole long journey- he seemed to be, if not an actual distant relative of Will Rogers, then most certainly cut from the same cloth. His provincial tales of life in the country had left the Halls reduced to tears of laughter more times than they could count.
Saturday there was a walkathon in a recession oppressed mall in Olean. Mrs. Hall surveyed the situation; it was very likely the pledged-to-walk little group of 50 or so ladies and gentlemen that had shown up that morning were the most traffic that place had seen since the previous year's walkathon. "You cut a very handsome figure, my dear- I noticed you're the only one walking in a sport coat and oxford shirt." "Standards, my love-" he said, "You have to maintain standards." They walked the requisite 12 laps, equalling approximately four miles and on the last lap, Mr. Hall twirled Mrs. Hall around twice and they tango-ed across the finish line. The press was on hand to take pictures of the Grand Matron with her entourage and Mayor Linda Witte presented the GM and GP with keys to the city of Olean.
"Only 15 or so more visits to go!" sighed Mrs. H. as they packed up another hotel room and prepared to hit the road. "We seen iron dinosaurs selling used cars and recovered helicopters adorning rooftops. There was a rather dandy-fied squirrel in front of a leading local business last night. I'd like to say I think I've seen it all, but I have a feeling that would just put the 'whammy' on us- who knows what we'd run into then?"
"As long as you pack up the travel bar, my dear, I'm sure we'll be able to handle it" soothed Mr. Hall, and he handed her a brace of freshly washed martini glasses to pack.

What they've bean up to

2011-04-24T19:21:00.013-04:00

Each year it becomes harder and harder to top the last, and Mrs. Hall was hoping to come up with something out of the ordinary for the children's Easter treats. But the only thing she could think of was how much she missed the egg cracking contests that used to take place at home. Her imagination being the wanderer that it was, her brain was filled with images of the children vainly attempting to re-create the same game with their friends. Unfortunately, every time she tried to conjure that scenario, it always ended the same way: the aggressive nature of the game escalating into a full fledged food fight, with eggs flying all over the room. Suppressing a laugh, she looked around the office to make sure no one had seen her, and then upon reflection, tried to consider the possible down sides of such an event.

Colored eggs should probably come with some sort of warning, she thought, to prevent that. And that's when she thought of an idea for their boxes. Downloading all manner of warning labels, she printed off the more humorous ones and using some common white household glue, pasted them all over the eggs. Mailing boxes were loaded with grass, jelly beans and peeps and off they went, to the post office. Mrs. Hall was sure that there would be such an infusion of sugar into their little bloodstreams within a week, that she'd be able to hear their heart arrhythmias clear back at the Hall.

Happily, when word got back to her that they had received them, the children all had updates to report.

Master Christopher had achieved Airman First Class, but the local scuttlebutt was he was in line for a promotion to Senior Airman by June. He was enjoying his work in the Honor Guard duty, but still was finding time to get away for some side trips in his little blue convertible.

Mistress Colleen was busy sending off applications for internships all around the country, in the hopes she could land one during her summer break. Because of her work supporting the Students of Color Coalition on campus, she was invited to join them on a special tour of the Pixar Studios in Emeryville. Pixar is notoriously secretive about its workings and rarely allows outsiders in, so Colleen was thrilled to have scored such a coup.

Master Ian was continuing his education at the Defense Language Institute in Monterey. His classes had begun in earnest now and he was really hitting the books. He must have impressed someone with his work, because he happily announced that he had been recently promoted to the rank of Lance Corporal.

The troops having reported in satisfactorily, Mrs. Hall was able to relax. "Everything's fine," said Mr. Hall. "Now, I'm a little bit hungry for a snack- how 'bout cracking some eggs with me?"

April is a taxing month

2011-04-16T15:27:00.011-04:00

“I don’t know why the Grand Matron insisted on all of us wearing white shoes. It’s impossible to find any this time of the year. And wearing them before Easter-… well, I mean, really!” Mrs. Hall was fretting over dressing again. Every weekend had been taken up with traveling to meetings and the Halls had begun to realize their lives were not their own. “I’ve worn through my last two pairs- we have to find another pair of white shoes before Friday.” Mr. Hall shook his head- that tone of voice could only mean one thing; a trip to the mall was imminent. For the most part, Mrs. Hall could always be trusted to purchase consistently conservative wear, but when it came to shoes- all bets were off. Something in her brain seemed to short circuit- there were times when her whimsy got so much the better of her, Mr. H. was scarcely sure he knew her. After fruitlessly blazing a path through every shoe store they could find, Mrs. H. was nearly distraught. An inspiration came to her and she dashed into a store for teen prom dresses. Mr. Hall saw her do a little dance. “I’ve got them!” she cried, “and I may just take the pink ones, too.” A horrified look crossed Mr. Hall’s face. She must have caught a glimpse of it; she reluctantly replaced the pink pumps on the shelf, but insisted on taking the white patent leathers. “I may not have any control over the dresses,” she said, “but no one can stop me from wearing these shoes.” The Shrine Circus was in town again. After taking care of business at work, the Halls had hoped to hop over to the fairgrounds and catch the 2:30 pm show, but the fates, and local traffic, were apparently against them. Finally parking somewhere around the perimeter of the fairgrounds, they waited for the shuttle to ferry them to the Coliseum, nearly a mile away. The weather was unseasonably warm and apparently everyone decided to do the same thing at the last minute; when the Halls arrived at the doors, the house was turning folks away. Mr. Hall greeted the gentleman in a fez at the door, and shook his hand; he showed him his complimentary pass and the gentleman hurried him through the turnstile into the stands. “If you let the potentate know you’re here, I’m sure he’d want you in his box” said the gentleman. Mr. Hall waved him off- “Thanks for the offer- but I see some seats right up there.” Mrs. Hall was tugging at his sleeve- the tigers were already performing. “Let’s go get some hot dogs!” he said. The circus was particularly good this year and it was a joy to see the seats groaning with happy families enjoying the show. Mrs. H. recognized the albino boa that was being handed around for photo ops as one she had held before, allowing Mr. Hall a sigh of relief. The big finale was a terrific elephant performance, and it would have been fun to stay and see the whole thing again, but the Halls had more meetings to make that day, so they walked the long way back to the car and raced on home. Last weekend, several of their visits were scheduled around the Albany district. The forecast was so inviting, Mr. Hall made a suggestion. “Pack lightly my dear- I think we should take Winston out for a spin!” Mrs. Hall was thrilled. Despite the fact that Winston was a 6-speed standard and Mrs. H’s high school driver’s education had been woefully inadequate in that regard, she had been making significant strides in her driving. Nevertheless, Mr. Hall enjoyed piloting the newest member of their fleet himself, and not a few times Mrs. Hall had caught him zipping along somewhat faster than the recommended posted speed. The last meeting that weekend was in Saratoga. The racing devotees that populate the area are notoriously fond of not only fast horses, but sleek and sporty wheels as well, and it was a true joy to put the top down and join the other sports cars on Main Street. Having an hour or so before they had to get ready, the Halls walked down to their favorite diner for lunch. They were on their way to a wonderful milliner’s shop in town where Mrs. Hall was determined to look for a straw boater for Mr. Hall, when they passed by a tack shop window and something caught Mrs. Hall’s attention. For a second, a glazed look came over her, and her left eye twitched ever so slightly. As in a dream, she began to step inside when Mr. Hall caught her arm and shook his head “no.” “You would regret it in the morning,” he advised, even as she looked back longingly at the zebra striped vinyl cowboy boots calling to her from the shop. “I know for a fact I would,” and he slid her into the diner for lunch. The clouds came in that afternoon during their meeting, and by the time they wearily packed for home, the cold winds were reminding them it was still only April. The Halls slid themselves back into Winston, and in a jiffy he had them home and safe in the hanger again.

Saying good bye to people and places

2011-03-31T11:41:00.019-04:00

Mrs. Hall awoke to the sound of Mr. Hall's pager going off. She was far too sleepy to listen to him rustle around for a slip of paper and a pen to take notes. A half an hour later, (though it seemed like only seconds to her) Mr. Hall was rousing her to attention. “It’s a good thing we’re leaving today. The Monsignor has passed and we’ve got the call.” He placed a cup of fresh coffee on the bedstand. “Com’n- I’ve got a ton of things to do, and you have to pack us up.” She looked longingly out the window at the magnificent skyline and realized that would be the last they’d see of it for this trip.
The beautiful Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus (in Syracuse) is right across the street from the funeral home. For years, its champion and chief spokesperson of note was Monsignor Peter Gleba. He had worked tirelessly to place it in the forefront of the city’s consciousness, and even in the face of changing times and a neighborhood in flux, he strove to make it the centerpiece of the West Side. A couple of weeks ago, while saying prayers at the home, Monsignor had gone pale and crumpled. Mr. Hall saw to it an ambulance was called. The good father had a pacemaker installed, but it was really too little, too late. A week or so after returning to work, he collapsed at another funeral and never recovered.
By this time Mr. Hall was a blur. Fielding calls from all over the state was a challenge at home; on the road it was a nightmare. And the Halls had to spend yet another night and another meeting, in Westchester, before they could return. Mrs. Hall resigned herself to living the next 48 hours with a preoccupied dynamo. Of course, as so often happens, when you are in a hurry; nothing goes fast. Piling everything into the tour bus that morning seemed to take forever. A ride that should have only taken two hours stretched on to nearly four. Peering out of the bus window at one point in their frustration, Mrs. Hall noticed a marker bearing the legend “Now entering Elmsford township”. She extracted Mr. Hall’s iPad and googled the same. The first entry returned was a news item, warning all and sundry to avoid the area completely because of flood warnings and rising waters. As the bus was at a complete standstill in traffic, it was easy for Mr. and Mrs. Hall to confirm the news story; they sat for quite a while watching the Saw Mill River come right out of its banks and swallow up most of the main business district just to the left of them. Eventually, the traffic shrugged forward and the bus arrived with its weary load in Westchester. Retrieving the big black car from the parking lot behind the hotel, they foraged about the little town until they spotted A Taste of Jamaica. Mr. Hall opted for the braised chicken, but Mrs. Hall, ever the adventurer, took on the curried goat. For the better part of an hour they ate between phone calls.
By the time they finally pulled into Syracuse, most of the arrangements had been made. The talented Mr. Iltsch, who worked with Mr. Hall, met him there to explain what had been accomplished already. Proper notice having been published, according to diocesan protocol and familial wishes, the crowds began amassing at the funeral home doors and the church.

Thus began the last journey back to the Basilica for the Monsignor. There had been calling hours at the funeral home and also at the church, but the real crowds came the day of the service. Bishop Cunningham presided over 30 priests concelebrating the mass. Monsignor was finally laid to rest at Sacred Heart Cemetery, in the company of his peers, in the Priests’ Circle on the hill overlooking the cemetery itself. "It's hard to believe he's gone," remarked Mr. Hall sadly, as they turned off the lights in the funeral home. "He was the heart and soul of the basilica for so long. Sacred Heart Church and the West Side will never be the same." Amen to that, thought Mrs. Hall, and may he rest in peace.

Kitchen Mavens and Savory Cravings

2011-03-23T15:29:00.023-04:00

Mrs. Hall met the Grand Matron and her entourage downstairs in the lobby. There had been a lottery for the few tickets available to watch the taping of “The Martha Stewart Show” and Mrs. Hall had not made the first cut, but some folks were unable to attend and Mrs. H.’s name came up next. Back in 1983, when she and another chef used to cater, using many of Ms. Stewart’s recipes, Mrs. Hall had become quite a fan, so she was eagerly looking forward to the show. After waiting patiently outside in the cold for some time, and then filling out the necessary paper work, they were finally admitted to the studio and given a seat, appropriately enough, according to the color of their clothing, presumably to create a pleasing palate in the audience. Who knew hosts were so sensitive to such things, thought Mrs. Hall. But then, it was just such well documented devotion to the little details that made Ms. Stewart the kitchen icon and OCD poster child that she was. “I hope we get some nice parting gifts this time,” whispered the Grand Matron. “The last time I was here, I think all we got was a candy bar.” Oprah Winfrey, having set the bar fairly high when it came to audience giveaways, must have made it rough on daytime television producers all over the country. But the GM was not to be disappointed this day; everyone, including Mrs. H. came away with a book, a hypoallergenic pillow and matching linens from Ms. Stewart’s collection (available at Macys!) some candy bars, a CD and a voucher for a free large floor standing air purifier (“a $200 value!”)- no doubt the upshot of having a doctor explaining the dangers of airborne menaces on the show. Mrs. Hall peered into her goody bag as she waited in line for her free breakfast (also included) from the chuck wagon on the street outside the studio. One of the other guests was Joan Rivers and her daughter, but as Mrs. Hall sighed, there didn’t seem to be any free passes to Ms. Rivers’ Las Vegas show. That’s a tie-in she would have enjoyed, she mused, a good deal more than a pillow case and a noisy fan. The morning being frittered away, Mrs. Hall met up with Mr. Hall and they headed on over to Bryant Park and the New York City Public Library. A number of adverts around the old metrop had been ranting the merits of an art display called “Radioactive; A Tale of Love and Fallout” about Pierre and Marie Curie, and Mrs. Hall was anxious to see it. As the locals will tell you, the really good stuff is on the third floor, and that was certainly the case. Almost as imposing as the stone lions out front, was the cold and frozen stare of the librarian with the carved hairdo from another century, posting guard in front of one of the reading rooms. They stepped into the room and breathed in the dust and old leather binding. “Finally!” whispered Mrs. Hall, and she reached into her purse for her trusty reading glasses. As she pulled them out, they dissolved into pieces in her hands. “No- it’s not fair, I’ve finally got time- time at last!” she groaned. “Oh stop being so dramatic” said Mr. Hall. “Get out yer other pair.” It was tempting to stay but they wanted to make the most of the day. Only by utilizing the most persuasive means was Mr. Hall finally able to get her to leave. Realizing that all that concentration and learning had likely put a strain on her, Mr. H. suggested grabbing a quick dog at one of NY’s venerable street vendors on the way. As good as she knew the coney dogs would be, (and as the Gentle Reader knows, everything tastes better after a bracing walk in the fresh air) Mrs. Hall mentioned that the restaurants inside the dining concourse- the Oyster Bar in particular!- looked even more enticing, but to Mrs. Hall’s surprise, Mr. Hall waved them off. Convinced he was simply distracted by the lure of the rails, she let it pass, and for some time Mr. Hall just sat happily listening to the sounds of the station. It was a pleasant afternoon imagining where all those busy travelers were racing off to, but a quick glance at the old clock in the main terminal told them it was time to head on back. "You would insist on swinging through the lobby of the Chrysler Building on the way back," complained Mr. Hall, as he dashed into the hotel room. "Now we'll have to hope we can flag a cab in time. Hurry up and get dressed!" Puzzled, Mrs. Hall could only wave at her bags and wonder what level of dress was required; and then a sly thought crossed her mind as she recalled his vivid cravings earlier that week, and she suddenly understood why he only popped for hotdogs at lunch. "Dress for the expanding waistline, my dear. We have 7:15 reservations at Smith and Wollensky's!" Though the restaurant was packed, they were seated immediately. "I think I'd like a nice red with dinner," said Mrs. H. and she chuckled as the waiter handed her the Wine Tome. Though the menus came framed as if they were pieces of art, it was the entrées that were truly masterpieces. Absolutely no dessert was required; nothing could have possibly successfully followed those magnificent steaks. A stroll through the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria went a long way towards burning off the extra calories. Looking out for her best interests as always, Mr. Hall yawned and asked if Mrs. Hall might be tired from her heavy repast and perhaps she would like a cab. She smiled at his sleepy eyes, and said, yes, she would.

It's the song I love the melody of

2011-03-18T11:41:00.013-04:00

Pride of the Yankees

This can’t be good, thought Mrs. Hall, when she realized she could only open one eye. “Did you know they start fencing in the building across the alleyway at 7:00 a.m.?” Mr. Hall chirped, as he placed a large steaming cup of mud on the bedstand. “What would you like to do today?”
Mrs. Hall dragged herself out of bed. As she drew back the shower curtain, she could hear Mr. Hall offering his review of the bathroom situation. The fixtures were designed to imitate a spring shower, he said; clearly the engineers were unacquainted with Mrs. Hall. If they were, they would have realized that had she encountered anything even remotely resembling precip, she would step right out of the tub in her desperation to hail a cab.
Mrs. H. was in no mood for levity. Finding it difficult to produce a withering glance monocularly, she returned to the task at hand. The fixtures seemed to be set not so much on “shower”, but “drool.” There followed the usual five minutes of swishing sounds, then suddenly Mrs. Hall called out, “Baseball Cards!” What might ordinarily sound like a complete non sequitur made perfect sense to Mr. Hall. “It’s the shampoo” he said. “It smells like bubble gum. And not Dubble Bubble or Juicy Fruit; it’s definitely Topps baseball card gum.” It was undoubtedly that happy fragrance from her youth, and she emerged somewhat brighter, blotting off to inspect the damages. “Looks like it’s time to get out the spackling compound.” After a few minutes of spin control, it was time to once again hit the streets. “Com’n, my dear-“ she said, “Gotham awaits!”

The following week held the prospect of being nothing but a blur of satin gloves, bus schedules and boutonnières. They were finding out every bus ride had a lottery; every dinner begged a raffle. It was amazing how much scratch it took to keep the wheels of the Good of the Order lubricated. When they returned to home base, the rain kept the other ladies inside most of the time; but the Halls were made of sterner stuff, and trudged on to Times Square and the theatre district. At one point, Mr. Hall turned to an advert for a musical when he realized Mrs. Hall was no longer behind him. Nearly at the point of alarm, he managed to catch a glimpse of her being gleefully swept up into a group of elementary school children heading into the giant Toys Backward R Us. He finally cornered her in the stuffed animal department clinging to a huge penguin. “No, no and no!” he stated emphatically, and dragged her back out onto the square.
The rain began to come down in earnest now. Towards the ABC studios, a legion of local law enforcement was setting up barriers for an upcoming political rally. “That’s all we need” said Mr. Hall. “Come with me.” And he steered her down 42nd St. and into Sardi’s. “Let’s stop here for a while and have a quick bracer.” They slid on up to the bar on the second floor and the bartender put the traditional cheese and cracker platter in front of them. Mr. Hall ordered and looked around; the room was fairly quiet but closer inspection revealed a couple of patrons whose faces they recognized from stage and/or screen. They left them to their relative anonymity, and returned to planning their evening's mischief. A few hours later, fortified against the damp and ready for yet another touch by the tour bus crowd, they left the cozy pub and headed on home.

Staying Awake in the City That Never Sleeps

2011-03-15T10:10:00.024-04:00

The Empire (State) Strikes Back

"Do you realize that we are paying almost as much for the pet motel as we are for our own?” Mrs. Hall pretended not to hear him. “And that fellow had the nerve to ask if I wanted to go ahead and get the spa package for the dog, as well.” Mrs. Hall had other concerns. Her appointment as Associate Grand Marshal required her to purchase several gowns in patriotic colors, none of which seemed (in her opinion) to flatter either her figure or her complexion. Nevertheless, there they were, taking up valuable real estate in her luggage. By four o’clock a.m. the big black car rolled out of the hanger. Mr. Hall had filed a flight plan for Westchester County, and around late morning they joined the rest of the Grand Matron’s entourage. Thirty or so other officers banded together to commandeer a tour bus, whose driver seemed hell-bent on destroying their spines in the process of ferrying them into Midtown Manhattan, and their center of operations for the next week.
Almost as soon as they arrived, they suited up and the tour bus whisked them off again to the Nassau district for their first official meeting. As they sat in that perpetual parking lot known as the Long Island Expressway, Mrs. Hall had plenty of time to reminisce. The last time she had been to NYC was when she attended the 1965 World’s Fair. Waiting out the traffic in Flushing Meadows that evening, she noticed a few things had changed since then.
Sitting on the sidelines for a couple of hours holding Mrs. H.’s purse did not really qualify as Mr. Hall’s idea of a large evening, but he was glad to see her honored and besides, the food was halfway decent. The bus ride back to the hotel lulled the weary travelers to sleep and it was all they could do to rouse themselves and trudge back upstairs to their room.

Gin is not your friend, though it keeps some lovely company

Saturday’s meeting was a luncheon, held in Grand Lodge at 71 W. 23rd St., only about six or seven blocks away from the hotel. A number of their merry band, decked to the teeth in chiffon and taffeta, were attempting to hail a fleet of cabs, but the Halls, the game sports that they are, donned their formals and their sneakers, and walked the short sprint to the lodge. The Halls had often been to meetings such as this; exhausting affairs that proved to be mainly endurance contests. But Grand Lodge turned out to be grand indeed, and the afternoon passed by quickly. By the time they had returned to their room to change, the sky was taking on that lovely glow that signaled an effervescent twilight and an evening of pleasures to come. A gentle breeze beckoned them to walk to the most romantic point on the planet. “I give you- the top of the world!” said Mr. Hall as they stepped out on to the observation level of the Empire State Building, and Mrs. Hall caught her breath. The view could not have been lovelier, and for quite some time they just stood there together, taking it all in.
Exhilarating sights, said Mrs. Hall, tend to make one long for a little something, so gliding over to the Setai Hotel, they slid into the Bar on Fifth Avenue and ordered some smart cocktails and a light repast. The bartender whipped up a batch of Bombay Sapphire martinis with a splash of grapefruit bitters and a twist. A happy glow washed over Mrs. Hall, and as they walked on to Rockefeller Center, she explained how she truly believed that was the only civilized drink in the city. Though it’s true the gin may have been well-bred, the lemon was decidedly twisted. It spoke to her in dulcet tones that somehow rose above Mr. Hall’s gentle admonitions that perhaps skating in Rockefeller Center that night might be ill advised. The multicolored flags skipped brightly over the freshly zambonied ice. As Mrs. Hall slid into the fray of skaters, Mr. Hall moved to a prime viewing location. He thought to himself, now would be a good time to acquaint himself with the “video” application on the camera.

However, after a half an hour or so of uneventful laps, his attention waned a bit, and he became distracted by the presence of a well known character actor from a television series getting a snack. It was unfortunate decision; when his eyes returned to the ice, they centered on a crowd of skaters closing ranks on a fellow reveler who appeared to be attempting to finish the lap squarely on her pants.

She pulled herself up to standing on the rail and waving jauntily, skated in.
“That’s a quite a shiner you have there,” remarked Mr. Hall as seriously as he could manage while suppressing an urge to laugh. He helped her pull off her skates. “Who taught you to skate on your face?” As they walked up the stairs Mrs. Hall took a long last look at the happy skaters and twinkling lights and smiled. “Thank you for a glorious evening!” she said, but Mr. Hall just shook his head as he flagged a cabbie to the curb.

February Follies

2011-02-24T22:53:00.025-05:00

"Whomever it was that laid out the calendar as we know it now, ought to be sent a thank-you," began Mr. Hall, after a long period of silence on the way into work one morning. "Because making February the shortest month of the year was an act of mercy, plain and simple." Mrs. Hall could only concur.
Winter was beginning to look interminable. Where the plows had carved straight-sided canyons surrounding the driveway, strata upon strata of dirty snow told the tale of successive waves of storms throughout the month. Every week, the walls grew higher and higher.
Super Bowl Sunday had come in modestly. Usually, just about the time the Halls are donning their team's colors, the snows come roaring in and make the yearly pilgrimage to Digger's famous Super Bowl Party a logistical nightmare. But this year, the storms, like the really witty television commercials, were a no-show. Mr. Hall had taken care of business prior to the game, and so, courtesy of Digger's generous boards, they came away with $50 on the happy side of the ledger. The food and the crowd were as engaging as ever, and Karen Hadjski graciously sent the Halls home with a couple of containers of their famous Manhattan clam chowder for later week munching. In fact, mushing their way back to the big black car that evening, they had even remarked how calm and beautiful the night sky appeared.
Across the country, however, the weather gods had decided to stage their own little Superbowl, and pitting the East against the Midwest, tried to see which team could lay down the most hurt. While Chicago was racking up the inches in an impressive display that brought Lake Shore Drive to its knees, Syracuse continued its quest to win yet another Golden Snowball award. Master Ian flew in from California for a brief stay, helping out his recruiting station nearby. Mr. Hall was baffled why anyone would willingly leave a temperate climate in the dead of winter, but Mrs. Hall suspected Ian had an ulterior motive. Having watched him fleece several of his friends in a couple of late night tournaments, it appeared Ian may have been funding his modest lifestyle with poker matches and video game playoffs.

One of the brighter spots in the everlasting twilight that is February is the Auto Show, and braving the elements (yet again...) the Halls made their annual appearance. This year the displays were somewhat top heavy with muscle cars, a disparity Ian particularly relished. There is a good chance he sat in the driver's seat of every one of them. Mrs. Hall, tentatively drawn to the bikes, may have flirted momentarily with the Vespa, but as Mr. Hall knows, her heart is wrapped around a beautiful bottle-green Miata in the hanger at home. ("His name is Winston, just so you know..." Mrs. Hall had informed Mr. Hall. "I went in to cover him up and make sure his bumpers weren't touching anything, and it just came to me." A few thoughts had come into Mr. Hall's mind at the time as well, but he let them go unexpressed.)
Getting through the winter had become such an ordeal, that Valentine's Day nearly passed without notice. Noting that it had been a while since they had dined at Ichibon's (and that sake and sushi were particular favorites of Mrs. Hall), he made reservations for a late dinner there for them. Even lunch that day was a surprize; with the wave of his hands, Mr. Hall produced a gift certificate from a colleague of his, and he whisked Mrs. Hall off to a popular pub for some fun and spicy light fare. Ichibons's was packed, even for the late seating, but the crowd so festive and merry, that the dinner was a delight.

As if the weather were not enough for the poor postman to deal with, he had been groaning under the weight of fresh mail coming to the Hall. Ever since Mrs. Hall's appointment to a grand office, she had been inundated with invitations, meeting notices and reply forms. Despite the changing of the millennium and the instantaneous ease of email exchanges, most of the ladies of Eastern Star still preferred the comfort and security of old fashioned snail mail. "Are we going to all these meetings in New York City next week?" asked Mr. Hall. Mrs. Hall thought she detected a slight quiver in his voice, but nodded yes nevertheless. "Oh, and I forgot to tell you," he added, "The Grand Marshal called last night. Don't forget the rehearsal this Saturday." Mrs. H. blenched. The rehearsal she had failed to remember was scheduled to take place on the Masonic Campus in Utica. Local forecasters were predicting fairly steady winds around 20- 25 mph, with gusts topping 40 or 50 mph. Though there was only a chance of three to five inches more of snow, Mrs. Hall regarded the prospect of driving the big black car sixty miles on a whim rather darkly. She called the grand marshal early and inquired whether the meeting was still on. He answered in the affirmative, but upon checking the radar, Mrs. Hall realized he was still driving through the clear as he posted that. Loaded to the gills with her computer cables and emergency power supplies, she hit the highway. There might have been a wealth of stranded motorists along the way, but Mrs. Hall would never have been able to spot them- a virtual whiteout accompanied her nearly the entire trip. The radio reported the NYS Thruway was closing down behind her and the airport had ceased operations until more favorable conditions existed. "The Grand Matron is trying to kill me," she muttered as she pulled into what appeared to be the general vicinity of the parking lot. Approximately a third of the participants were in attendance. Two hours later, after a brief meeting and a quick lunch, she did the checklist, dug out the tires and returned to the Thruway. State authorities still had the road closed to the east, but heading back west and generally ignoring good sense and the suggested state speed limits, Mrs. Hall managed to ease into the parking lot at the funeral home by 2:00 pm. "Back already?" asked a surprized Mr. Hall. "You made good time. The funeral procession was a mess this morning. What would you like for lunch?" But Mrs. Hall was already settled back in the co-pilot's chair, eyes closed, warm and cozy, and trying to decide if she wanted one martini or two when she got home.

Breaking News from Punxsutawney PA

2011-02-24T22:18:00.004-05:00

"You want a prediction about the weather, you're asking the wrong Phil. I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life."
Bill Murray as Phil the weatherman in Groundhog Day (1993)

There was a drumroll. Digging down about 3- 4 feet into an icy snow bank, the mayor, assisted by his cabinet, reached in and pulled out the lifeless frozen remains of a groundhog. Momentarily stunned, the mayor regained his composure and announced, completely nonplussed, that after a brief "conversation" with Phil, he was fairly certain he could say that it was unlikely Phil saw his shadow, so there would be an early spring. It was the happiest meteorological news the snow soaked East Coast citizens had heard in weeks and they rejoiced accordingly. Phil, in response, was uncharacteristically silent. However, the following week he was spotted by the local populace over at Abner's Taxidermy Shop, looking fresher and brighter than ever. When interviewed, Mr. Abner's remarks were contained solely on the toughness of the jerky this year.

Dutch treat

2011-01-28T11:58:00.011-05:00

The tension was more than he could bear. As soon as Mrs. Hall had come down that morning, Mr. Hall knew things were going to be bleak. Her terse little remark about the anemic color of the morning brew, the way she flicked the newspaper as she perused the published obit she had written the night before; even the way she stood and looked down, in that disappointed way that she had, at her usual morning bowl of bran and blueberries- all these were signs Mr. Hall knew and recognized. All was not going to be right at the Hall. He put down the WCNY programming magazine he had been reading (the one with the bio of the Halls featured in it) and gently suggested that perhaps Mrs. Hall would like to take a personal day today, and stay home. A wave of relief seemed to float over her and she said that perhaps, yes, she would.
As soon as he left, she had engaged in a flurry of household activity, but by 11:00 am Mrs. Hall decided it was time for A Little Something. A couple of weekends ago, Mr. Hall, while scanning a recent copy of GQ, had run across a recipe . “Isn’t this thing called a ‘Dutch Baby’ what you ordered in Chicago last summer?” he asked. Mrs. Hall swept the magazine out of his hands- it was indeed the recipe for one of her favorite breakfasts, the raison d'être for its inclusion in the men’s quarterly being its ease of preparation. So easy, in fact, that it (loosely) implied that even a gentleman who was perhaps the worse for an evening’s entertainment, could make it and impress his breakfast companion(s), while still in the throes of recovery. She had purchased the issue on the spot.
“Mmm…. Dutch Baby….” Mrs. Hall let the idea simmer in her head for approximately ten seconds before she hastily began assembling the necessary ingredients. For years, Mrs. Hall had been shelling out considerable scratch for her breakfast fix at the few dining establishments in Chicago that actually made this specialty. She had assumed it was some keenly held and long guarded family secret, known only to trusted employees who had been sworn to lifelong secrecy (presumably involving some sort of blood ritual, but that was the romantic in her). She was aghast to find that with the merest collusion of egg and liquid she, too, was able to create kitchen alchemy. It was an epiphany long desired.
The aroma emitting from the oven was a Tantalus; she struggled to busy herself with other chores downstairs where she might not be subject to her desire to open the stove every five minutes and disturb its progress. With the reverence of an Asian tea service she carefully laid out the requisite lemon wedges and powdered sugar. At last, the timer blared and in a puff of heavenly fragrance, the Dutch Baby appeared: brown and airy and perfect.
In the custardy stupor that followed, all sense of time and worry dissipated. Pharmacological progress over the last hundred years may be judged to have taken strides undreamt of by our forefathers, but nothing within the annuals of medicine could have transported her like the Dutch Baby. It was the perfect opiate.
When Mr. Hall returned home that evening and inquired of her day, she found that while she could recall, in detail, the events of the morning prior to the indulgence, the rest of her day remained an impenetrable blur. “Probably fighting off a cold,” he shrugged, as he hung up his coat. “It’s a good thing you stayed home. Would you like me to get you an aspirin or something?” but she waved him off. “Better not to over-prescribe,” she slurred. Floating upstairs to her room, she left Mr. Hall deeply puzzled.

For the Gentle Reader's own enjoyment:

The Dutch Baby
2 tablespoons butter
2 eggs, beaten
1/2 cup flour
1/2 cup milk
1 teaspoon sugar
1/4 teaspoon salt (optional)
Pinch of ground nutmeg
Garnish: Lemon wedges, powdered sugar

Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Put the butter in a 9" or 10" pie plate, place it in the oven, but remove as soon as the butter is melted. Mix the remaining ingredients together with a whisk; pour into pie pan. Immediately return to oven. Bake for 18 to 20 minutes until even browned. Remove (you should be able to just lift the pancake directly out of the pie plate easily), squeeze some fresh lemon juice over the pancake and sprinkle with powdered sugar. Slice (or tear, if you wish) and serve immediately.

Getting through the winter is snow big deal

2011-01-20T11:35:00.010-05:00

“You blow the bubbles and I’ll hold the camera.” Mrs. Hall threw on her fur vest over her ski sweater and handed Mr. Hall the jug of bubble solution. The weather guessers on the television had just announced what Mrs. Hall had suspected already; despite the bright sunshine, early morning temps had been hovering around the -10 degree mark. Perfect weather for freezing soap bubbles on the patio and she was determined to get it on film this time.

“I’m cold and it’s impossible to shoot clear bubbles on a dark white background,” grumbled Mr. Hall, as he went along with her. Several unfortunate attempts at filmmaking later, they returned, with Mr. Hall surpressing an 'I told you so.'
“It’s too warm now,” sulked Mrs. Hall. “Who knows when we’ll get back into the minus temps again?” “With any luck,” Mr. H. muttered under his breath, “we won’t see them again until next December.” He hung his coat up and returned to the morning news.

The winter blues were settling in somewhat earlier this year at the Hall. Hancock International in Syracuse had reported about 103 inches of snow already since winter “officially” began, and Marcellus, having been more directly in the path of the lake effect, had seen probably 20 inches or more of the white stuff, beyond that. The Halls were not immune to its effects. Last Tuesday, after a particularly dull day at work, Mrs. Hall declared she had had enough. Announcing herself to be in the throes of an unfathomable ennui, disgusted that the treadmill needed repairs and that their coffee lacked both flavor and finesse, she decided to call it a day and attempted to persuade Mr. Hall to agree. To her infinite surprise, he acquiesced almost immediately. Within the hour, they found themselves immersed wrist-deep in a greasy tub of popcorn and watching “The Green Hornet” (in 3-D!) at the local cinema. “And for heaven’s sake, recycle the 3-D glasses this time,” he said, as they left. (Mrs. Hall was notoriously frugal.) “We’ve got tons of them at home already.” "I know that that Chyrsler Imperial can't hold a candle to the Big Black Car, but do you think there's any chance we could look into getting a turn table in here, like in the movie? We've got a ton of vinyl in the catacombs downstairs and it would be way easier to just spin those platters the way they are, instead of taking the time to convert them all to MP3s." Mr. Hall gave that suggestion the full 30 seconds it deserved, and then declined.

Hall night long

2011-01-12T09:25:00.008-05:00

“Have you cleared your schedule for this evening?” asked Mrs. Hall, as she waltzed into the office. Mr. Hall nodded, barely looking up from his desk. “We don’t want to miss our show; it’s going to be on tonight!”

Last October, the Halls had been watching WCNY one evening and made note of a promotion they were touting. If a viewer donated over $500 to their “Fill the Vault” campaign, they would be entitled to introduce a movie of their choice. Mrs. Hall pointed out that they had made a substantial donation just that summer and wondered aloud if that would qualify them. They swung by the studios the following day and spoke to Rosie Taravella, the woman in charge of the campaign. The Halls explained that they were hoping to recreate a Saturday morning block of time, where viewers could see old Roy Rogers’ shows, some Sky King episodes maybe or even some old cartoons. However, after a series of emails back and forth with Rosie, the film director recommended an old Gene Autry series called “The Phantom Empire.” Mrs. Hall did a little research on the series and was immediately intrigued. She wrote a two minute introduction to the 12 part serial, and designed a little diagram known as a “Hall-O-Graph” to illustrate the convoluted plotline. A week or two later, the Halls slipped into the studio to film their introduction.

The whole crew at WCNY had been wonderful and made the filming very easy. With the help of some skillful editing, the staff made the piece truly entertaining, and they sent a DVD copy of it to the Halls, for their scrapbook. “It’s four hours worth of old time fun,” said Mrs. H. “I’m making a boatload of popcorn and Colleen’s flight has been delayed because of bad weather. We can spend the whole evening together watching cliff hangers and cheering on our hero!”

(Ed. Note: The Gentle Reader is encouraged to check their local listings for time and channel. In Syracuse, New York, listings for WCNY can be found here, and “The Phantom Empire” will be shown beginning at 8:00 pm Wednesday evening, on January 12, 2011. )

Boogie Knights

2011-01-02T09:16:00.014-05:00

There were still Christmas lights up and the city glittered and shone. Mrs. Hall unbuttoned her white winter coat and looked out of the windows of the parking garage elevator as they descended. The rain had stopped and it was warm and unseasonably mild. Even though it was still early, couples in formal attire were already converging at the Oncenter for the New Year's Eve party. Pulling a freshly cleaned and sparkling big black car out of the hanger, Mr. and Mrs. Hall had left Mistress Colleen and a few of her friends to celebrate quietly in front of the fire with board games and pizzas.
As they rode the escalator down to the main lobby, the pink spotlights lit the columns dramatically over the silent auction display. About a month ago, the Halls had met with the organizers of the party for a brainstorming luncheon (the Gentle Reader can click here to refresh their memory) and now it was finally coming to pass. The band was rocking the house already. "Let's check our coats and get a drink."
"I hope you wore your dancing shoes," said Mrs. Hall, over her shoulder as she shimmied to the dance floor. She was met on the floor by Rosie, the V.P. in charge of the event, wearing a bright red dress and no shoes, clearly already enjoying the evening. The band struck up a disco party favorite from 30 years ago and the crowd hit the dance floor en masse. “Com’n and prepare to shake yer booty,” said Mrs. H. "Apparently we're going to party like it’s 1979!”

Jumbo-trons on both sides of the ballroom displayed the simultaneous television broadcast that was going on, on WCNY that evening. All night the TV cameras moved about the room, interviewing the party-goers and bringing the event to the hundreds of housebound voyeurs, unwilling or unable to brave the hoards of "amateur night" drivers. Mrs. Hall slipped out and placed a bid on a rare Syracuse Chiefs scorecard, signed by pitching phenom Stephen Strasberg, while Mr. Hall checked out the appetizers.

Just ahead of midnight the waitstaff brought out flutes of champagne and the countdown began. Thousands of balloons dropped, there was a short break while everyone cheered each other, and then the band began anew.
"My feet hurt," said Mr. H. "Ah, okay, " replied Mrs. Hall, and they wandered past the gourmet pizza stations in the lobby. "I have to see if I won anyway," said Mrs. Hall, and she flagged one of the Oncenter minions, who shimmered and flitted away. The Halls talked movies with one of the advertising execs while they waited. (Mr. Hall, who was friends with the director, invited him to their table. "Believe me," he had said, "at 12:31, I'm sitting down and having a beer!") "Yes, you won it!" said the helper, when she returned, gingerly holding an envelope. Mr. Hall pulled out his wallet. He had made quite a killing on slots the previous Christmas evening at the Turning Stone, and was in a generous mood.

It was evident by the thinning crowds that it was time to head on home. Wishing the remaining (awake) party goers at their table a hearty happy new year, they gathered their coats and noisemakers and returned to the night, the big black car and a quick trip home.

A Penguin Hall-day Classic

2010-12-29T09:34:00.024-05:00

The week before Christmas was just a blur around the Hall. Mr. and Mrs. Hall spent most of their time at the airport, ferrying in the kids as they arrived, amidst warnings of more snow and storms. The weather gods, in a uncharacteristically merciful act of benevolence, spared upstate New York from its fury and planes flying to and from Syracuse Hancock International proceeded unimpeded.

Some of the younger set had spent most of their day in transport, so that upon arrival at the Hall, they were so exhausted that even relaxing in front of a video game was too taxing for their little systems and they succumbed to Morpheus in sito. Mistress Colleen hit the social ground running, and between catching an Eastern Star meeting or two with Mrs. Hall, and sledding down the Westvale reservoir with her friends, she managed to make good use of the holiday time.

Mr. and Mrs. Hall continued the usual string of Christmas parties at this time; work had prevented them from attending the Batesville Casket Company's shindig at the old IBM country club down in Endwell this year, but they managed to find time for the holiday blowout at John's Auto Care in Solvay. Once again nestled cozily under the car parts and the hoists, John along with his lovely wife Betty, invited family and friends to raise a glass and toast the new year. Brake fluid and barbecue sauce shared workbench space together and the bar held court under the ceramirub and the WD-40; good times and fellowship flourished everywhere and the Halls were only too happy to be included in their feast.

Because they had come in so late, there was a lot of last minute scrabbling for presents. Colleen displayed a remarkable talent for wrapping, wowing the crowds with her show-stopping bow made entirely of duct tape, for one of Ian's friends. Finally, after all the hurry and scurry was done, the clan sat down for a peaceful Christmas eve dinner. With the carols playing in the background and the video fireplace on the large flat screen TV, the Halls were able to bask in the joy of family fun and camaraderie. They descended on the presents under the tree, pausing only make notes for future thank yous and to take turns shooting each other with nerf guns.
The snow had stopped blowing and the night was bright and clear. Masters Chris and Ian dutifully pressed their uniforms and dressed for midnight mass. The sight of the two young men holding the huge doors of the Basilica open for their sister was more than Mrs. Hall could bear, and she wiped a tear. Choir and carols, trumpets and the Hallelujah Chorus; the Knights of Columbus ushered in the monseigneur and the nativity and for a few hours in December it seemed like it was heaven on earth.

Snow kidding- it's been coming down

2010-12-16T11:32:00.001-05:00

Random Thoughts and Tangential Connections

2010-12-11T11:27:00.011-05:00

Separated at Birth?
The artists at Universal apparently grew up (like so many of us) watching Saturday morning cartoons; the crew of Minions working for Gru in the movie “Despicable Me” seem to be directly related to the Binomes that used to populate the computer graphic world of Bob the Guardian and Dot Matrix, in Reboot.

Not so True (Ma)Gritte
Apologies to M. Rene aside, the Monitor ran across this interesting website the other day. It may not be us, but it does look rather intriguing….

Remarks in passing, on the passing of greatness
Overheard on Facebook (of all things!) – but too good to let go without repeating:
Tracy Mohr "In my perfect fantasy world, Santo will be elected [to the Baseball Hall of Fame] by the Veterans Committee in a shameless act of contrition, and Santo's family will tell them to go to hell in a hurry. "
December 3 at 12:14pm

Merry Tweetmas from @Bluphoenix

If the Monitor tweets alone in the forest, does anyone RT? Yes, Virginia, they do, and with consistently interesting and sometime touching responses. Here's a hearty Happy Holidays from Penguin Hall to all the diligent posters in the Twittersphere out there and a thank you as well, for all the delightful hours spent following your lively exploits and explanations. Merry Christmas to all and may whatever celebration brings you and yours together, be a happy one.

Zero to Christmas in 36 hours

2010-12-11T10:00:00.012-05:00

December 1st had seen 62 degree temperatures and even though the high winds and heavy rains were enough to prompt the locals to jokingly remark that the “monsoon season” was upon them, the weather was still so mild, it made getting into the spirit of Christmas shopping seem like a bit of a stretch. Inevitably, though, the weather gods roused themselves, checked the calendar and realized that whomever was supposed to be in charge of snow in the region had been seriously slacking. In his haste to make up the difference, the new guy apparently (isn’t always him?) simply pushed the “heavy precip” button a couple of extra times and went back to partying with Thor. The winter weather mechanisms thus set in place, it began to storm and blow like there was no tomorrow. It was precisely during this time that Mr. Hall had brilliantly scheduled the upstairs windows to be replaced.
As Mrs. Hall worked on cookies downstairs in the warm kitchen, she could hear a series of hard poundings on the east wall, and a string of several unprintable expressions. Looking out, a frigid workman could be seen, poking his head through the hole in the wall beneath a disturbingly menacing cage of icicles. In an effort to soothe, Mrs. Hall had brought him up a plate of fresh baked and a hot cup o’ joe, and casually remarked on how brave she thought he was. The only reply this managed to elicit was a gruff “I hope yer happy; there’s a snow drift in yer room now.”
Two days and forty three inches of snow later, the inhabitants of Penguin Hall looked out of their new sparkling, double hung windows, at a sea of white. Perusing the canyons that were now their streets, Mr. Hall wondered if it was worth it at all to hazard the city thoroughfares. “But we have to-” gasped Mrs. H. “Jimmie from the Mazda dealership just called!” She was already pulling on her heavy coat and boots. “He finally found me one!”
Regular readers of the Monitor might recall that Mrs. Hall had frequently and ardently professed in the past, a certain weakness for small shiny overpowered sports cars. Mr. Hall always told her that when the children had moved on and the need for that ever popular Conestoga Of The Suburbs, the Dodge Caravan, had passed, he would indulge her passion. That time had finally come. The gentleman from the dealership admitted he had been unable to track down her first choice of a Galaxy Grey convertible; but if she was agreeable, perhaps Mrs. H. would be interested in checking out what he had been able to procure. Agreeable was hardly the word for it; when Mrs. Hall laid eyes on the rich bottle-green color of the power retractable hardtop and the tan English saddle leather seats inside, she emitted a such a sigh of complete and succulent rapture, she could have been mistaken for Mr. Toad. The salesman fairly purred at Mr. Hall and asked him to his office to work out the details of the sale. How Mr. H. managed to finagle a bargain out of him after that, remains a mystery, but the Gentle Reader can rest assured, that both Mr. and Mrs. Hall left the dealership that afternoon, pleased with their purchase. They drove it gingerly home, placed it in the garage, covered it with a soft cloth and Mrs. Hall was last seen telling it a bedtime story lovingly before shutting off the lights.

The jazz music played softly in the background. Mr. and Mrs. Hall sidled up to the bar at Daniels Friday as Stefanie brought over his usual Manhattan. “Something light today, Stef,” remarked Mrs. H. “We just came from the cocktail party over at the Crematory and with all the festivities going on this week, I don’t want to fill up.” Stefanie understood and brought her an inoffensive little red wine. Dan’s wife, the lovely Deana, came over and wished them both a happy holidays. “Is that all you’re going to do to decorate the bar?” she turned and admonished Stefanie. (They had had words before.) “A few silver snowflakes? I can hardly see them.” Stefanie was adamant. “It’s supposed to be elegant and subtle- you don’t want Christmas to throw up all over you.” The holiday season having truly begun, Mrs. Hall turned to Mr. Hall and, clinking her glass against his, said she believed she was ready to order now.

Thanks(giving) for the memories

2010-11-28T12:07:00.019-05:00

Mrs. Hall looked out the window- there was a fresh dusting of snow outside. The purr of the big black car warming up in the hanger could be heard downstairs, so she jumped out of bed. "Breakfast at Wegmans?" she smiled, as she pulled on her gloves; and Mr. Hall nodded. "Let's go!"

In the upstairs dining room, Mr. Hall had positioned himself almost directly under the discreet router hidden off the conduit above. A fellow pilot friend of his was fond of sending him lengthy videos of vintage airplanes and he was happily downloading to his heart's delight. As they sat enjoying their muffins and coffee, Mrs. Hall leaned back and reflected on the weekend.

Thanksgiving had been quiet at the Hall. Mistress Katie had come in for the holiday from Washington but other than that, there was not a lot going on; as far as Mr. Hall was concerned, that made it a holiday indeed. The dinner yielded plenty of leftover turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy and vegetables galore in the freezer, and because it was a little too chilly for putting up decorations, Mrs. Hall had busied herself making turkey soup from the remaining carcass of the holiday bird. While it may appear to many that Syracuse's only claim to fame is its consistent and inevitable winning of the Golden Snowball award for most snowfall in a winter season, its real passion is basketball and Mr. Hall, and Katie as well, could be counted amongst the Orange's most ardent fans. (Mrs. Hall, while professing a cursory knowledge of the game, humors Mr. Hall in his zeal and joins along with them in the fun.)

Last weekend, after a particularly long-winded evening at a reception, Mr. Hall veered off the registered flightplan and ended up at the Turning Stone Casino. As they whiled away a few hours at the roulette tables, one of the more casual youths at the table looked over, removed his cigarette and complimented Mr. Hall on his attire. ("Very classy, dude" or words to that effect- the reporter for the Monitor was perhaps more interested in the outcome of the wheel than in recording the exact exchange.) But now there was a lull in their schedule and the tuxedos and formals had been duly dispatched to the cleaners for a well-earned dusting. " You can finally give those pearls a break- we're heading for Daniel's at five," said Mr. Hall and Mrs. Hall breathed a sigh of relief. Getting to the bar at five generally guaranteed them a seat; weekends around Marcellus, sooner or later, nearly everyone came to the same conclusion: a hectic week at work was somehow always more tolerable when it ended at Daniel's.

Master Chris had called earlier and informed them that he had just been named Airman Honor Guard Member of the Quarter for his base. While he was appropriately honored and humbled to accept, he was also pragmatic enough to acknowledge it came with little financial gain. There was a gift certificate good for one entrée at the Officer's Club (one entrée being valued at about seven dollars) but since he was still enlisted, that benefit was unfortunately moot. The biggest bonus appeared to be a free oil change at a local establishment, so he was out to knock himself out and blow a whole Friday evening on the event. E-mailing them a picture of the statuette from his phone, he admitted he didn't want the award to go to his head and he was holding off building a trophy cabinet until his career was somewhat further on. The Halls agreed that was sound thinking and toasted, long distance over the phone, his good fortune.

As her rising pulse reminded her she had probably had more of Wegmans strong black coffee than was advisable, Mrs. Hall shook off the mist of reverie and pulled herself back into the moment. "Done looking at your mail?" she asked and they gathered up the laptop into the cart. Seven or eight run-ins with acquaintances later, they were back in the big black car and heading home.

Vic and Tandy explain what it's like working for the Monitor

2010-11-26T20:32:00.005-05:00

To follow all of Vic and Tandy's exploits, click here

Flying by the seat of our (tuxedo) pants

2010-11-14T07:53:00.020-05:00

Mrs. Hall arranged the penguin embroidered cocktail napkins on the bar. "Did you chill the champagne?" she asked Mr. Hall. He nodded from behind his paper. It was not out of line for Mrs. H. to be concerned; Penguin Hall was the site for the matron's appreciation brunch last Sunday and she wanted everything to be perfect for all the ladies and gentlemen. It had been the custom to hold these brunches at a nearby restaurant, but on a whim, the Halls had offered to have it at Penguin Hall this year and the matron was only too happy to agree. As Mrs. H. pointed out, it's always nicer to sit in front of the fire and not have to worry about waiters and servers shooing you out the door, and besides, Mr. Hall makes a fierce mimosa. The precedent for having the ladies over had been set a few years ago when, as matron and patron themselves, the Halls had hosted a holiday fête at the home. The upshot had been that they unleased their giddy guests into the village after imbibing a heady five pitchers of Mr. Hall's infamous mimosas, and those of whom could recall anything at all after that, swore they had enjoyed themselves immensely.
Several waffles, muffins and sausages and later, as the dishes were swept off and the embers smoldered away, the few remaining stalwarts wiped the residual maple syrup off their lips and eyed the swiss chocolates near the coffee. "I don't think I can move," slurred the matron. "That's quite alright," soothed Mrs. H. "You sit right there. I have no intention of doing anything in the realm of straightening up anyway, for another day or two ."

Mrs. Hall looked down the long row of stately buildings and apartments. James Street in Syracuse was probably the most historic and lovely of all the patrician boulevards left in the old town. As she sat waiting for the light to change, she remembered what Mr. Hall had said earlier, when she inquired where the Century Club was located; “Oh, you can’t miss it. It’s on the corner and it’s really old.” Looking forward, there didn’t appear to be any building under the age of a hundred on the entire block. She thought to herself, I’ll have to remember to tell him what a funny guy he is after lunch, if I ever get to it.
Rosie Taravella, one of the VPs over at WCNY, had invited several folks, along with the Halls, to brainstorm over lunch about their upcoming new event for New Year's eve. Mr. Burns was the chairman and he had kindly offered to host the luncheon at his club. Mr. Hall had an earlier funeral to cover but was able to join them just as the menus were being passed. While the sun was shining brightly and the air was an unseasonably warm 58 degrees, it was generally agreed that you can never start planning for the holidays too soon. The fresh popovers arrived and the ox-tail soup was delightful; they kicked around some advertising tie-ins and promotional strategies for the event and then the little band called it a day. "All in all, a lovely way to run a meeting," said Mrs. Hall, and Mr. Hall had to agree. "Now, all I have to do is find a dress for New Year's eve!" and Mr. Hall shook his head, as they slid back into the big black car.

"Do you think they will ask me to speak?" worried Mrs. Hall aloud, as she nervously snuck a fry out of its holder. "Oh, I'd lay fairly long odds on that," replied Mr. H. "Judging by the size of the field at the last event, you're relatively safe. It'll only be when we get down to some of the local official visits, that you'll have to worry about folks nodding off when you approach the podium." Braced up a bit by that little review, Mrs. Hall finished her salad. The big black car had scarcely had time for a quick checklist and a wash between flights; no sooner had they slid into the hanger, than they were programming in another destination into the GPS. Because of their hectic schedule, they were frequently observed shopping or dining, especially in fast food joints, in their formals. "Remember the pizza place in Jordan?" giggled Mrs. H. over her soda. "The policemen who walked in were placing bets on how long it would take me to spill something on my white dress." "You beat them all, too- I remember," said Mr. H. "Though how you managed to slurp that blue Icee down I'll never know! Finish your coffee- there's a car dealership along this route I want to check out- they were advertising some new Cadillacs and I think we could slip in a drive-through without being noticed, before the meeting." Mrs. Hall jotted down some ideas on the paper napkin and popped it in her purse. She pulled on the long black gloves and wrapped her stole around her shoulders. "Just think, dear- in just ten short months or so, this will all be over!" Mr. Hall, duly noting that she probably wasn't safe to be out alone, confined his comments to himself and started up the engine.

The Eating Star Ladies

2010-11-03T11:47:00.003-04:00

When Mrs. Hall listened to a message left for her on her answering machine last spring from a Ms. Fletcher, former Grand Matron of the State of New York, OES, she assumed it was another request for some artwork for her, and she hardly gave it another thought. The Gentle Reader can well surmize her befuddlement then, when she found out that she had been recommended for appointment to a state office in that order, and a somewhat high one at that. The unfortunate part of it all was that her formal official installation, attended by most of the prominent members of the state, would take place the same week as Master Ian's graduation from boot camp. Much as she would have liked to have been present for that event, especially in light of the fact that this year it was being held in her home town of Binghamton, NY, she had made a promise to her son and would not waver. The past grand matron understood and said she could be sworn in at a later date.

That later date turned out to be last week. Onondaga District's reception for its grand officers was held last Wednesday in North Syracuse, and it played to a full house. Mrs. Hall's installation was the first order of business at this open meeting and she was thrilled to be introduced by not only Mr. Hall, but also by Ian, sporting his full dress blues and looking as seriously military as the young fellow could muster.

As a grand officer, Mrs. Hall was asked to speak, and was cheered to see that when she introduced her son, the entire room rose to applaud the young graduate. The Monitor will not go into any of the boring details of her speech except to mention that it was mercifully brief and managed to elicit a few chuckles along the way. The business of the meeting having been concluded, the whole of the room exited to the dining room where they got down to the real reason of the meeting; that of free food and drink. Kudos to Mrs. Hall- the Monitor shall be following her progress and travels, throughout her 2010-2011 term.

Fall at the Hall

2010-11-01T10:53:00.010-04:00

Autumn had been taking it's time getting around to upstate New York and the weather had been balmy and bright. The Hall was decorated with the usual mumkins and pumpkins, and since Master Ian was home, the front door was open more often than it was closed. Hoards of young boys dropped by at all hours to check on the new Marine and see how he fared at boot camp. On several mornings, a drowsy Mrs. H. would slide into the kitchen to make a fresh pot of joe, only to find half the parties still focused on their flatscreens with bags under their blurry eyes and the other half asleep, spread out all over the family room floor. "Just make sure you put the dog outside, and the dishes in the sink- and don't get those two mixed up!" advised Mr. Hall, as they left for work. The Halls were lucky to have Ian for an extra week; he managed to get assigned to Recruiters' Assistance for part of his leave, allowing him to stay on a little while longer. Along with visiting the local schools to talk about the Marines, he got to lead some of their physical training sessions as well.

Back in June of 2009, the Basilica of the Sacred Heart of Jesus began its anniversary celebration of the 10th year of it having been elevated to status of "basilica". Monsignor Gleba had expected the bishop to come and had printed celebratory cards and programs advertising same, at some expense. So it was understandable when the party began and the bishop backed out, that he might be slightly miffed. However, one does not get to be Monsignor by sitting idly by; the good father waved off the slight undaunted, and vowed the bishop would visit the basilica to celebrate its good fortune yet. Sixteen months later, as the "10th anniversary" season began to get a little long in the tooth, the bishop's office bowed to the pressure and promised an appearance. The parishioners breathed a sigh of relief at a chance of closure and welcomed, at last, the pontiff's representative in grand style. Every priest in the county had an opportunity for a cameo, and the bishop presented an elaborate papal blessing (or possibly a cease and desist order; it was all in Latin so one couldn't really be sure) and beat a hasty retreat.

We'll always have Parris Island...

2010-10-16T17:09:00.015-04:00

"I believe we've begun our descent," remarked Mrs. Hall. "Um-uh" said Mr. Hall, without looking up from his reading. "That's what happens when you pull up on the spoilers; the aircraft has all the flight ratio of a filing cabinet." Mrs. Hall had long reconciled herself to the fact that flying with a former pilot at your side was not the carefree experience that flying alone tended to be. The flight into Charlotte was a pleasant one and the Halls secured their rented wheels. Since airline fares seemed, in Mrs. H.'s opinion, to be derived from some arcane whimsy unrelated to logic, it actually cost less to fly into NC and drive the remainder of the way in to Beaufort, than to try and find a connecting flight. And, as Mr. Hall noted, it allowed him to more freedom than the city shuttles would have.
Master Chris drove up in his new convertible and picked up Mistress Colleen at the Savannah airport; from there they drove down to meet the Halls, at a charming little tiki bar named Gilligan's where they could finally toast and congratulate Colleen on her 21st birthday. "What would you like; you may have whatever you choose," though Mrs. Hall already knew what she wanted. "I'd like a Cosmo, please!" she said, and drinks appeared all around, except for Chris, who was the designated driver that evening. Happy Birthday was cheerfully (if not tunefully) sung and the little band proceeded to get reacquainted.
The festivities were short-lived; everyone went back to their hotels to rest up because the following day was Family Day at Parris Island. Graduations are a weekly occurrence in this little town and the locals have come to not only accept the streaming crowds of strangers, but to profit mightily by it. Plenty of literature could be found around town, hawking all manner of buses, brunches and souvenirs by the boatload. Ignoring all but the advice of the shopkeeps who warned them of traffic jams starting early, the Halls rose ahead of the sun and headed out to Marine Corps Recruit Depot, dressed in gold to support his battalion, around 5:15 am. They sailed through the gates and found some great seats on the primarily empty bleachers. "That's because there's really no reason to be here before 7:00 am" griped Chris, rubbing his eyes. Then, out of the early morning light, they saw 500 or so dark shapes running over the parade deck, with reflective belts shining in the dark. Colleen held up a sign she had brought and the other families cheered. The new graduates made a loop around the deck and then started down the main street. The crowds went nuts.
That fun having lasted about a half an hour, the Halls decided that it was definitely time for a fresh infusion of caffeine. The kids went off to look around before the troops were to be brought back in and presented. They reconvened in the All-Weather Facility at 9:00 am. Mrs. Hall scored some terrific seats right on the floor next to the officers, and when the Battalion Commander addressed the crowd, he was practically shouting at them. The band played, the colors were presented and then, before they knew it- the young men of the 2nd Battalion were released for day liberty with their families. There was a moment or two of total chaos as the moms and dads made a mad dash on to the floor to find their own, and the Halls were no exception. Finding Ian, amongst all the other exactly dressed identical crewcuts, they dragged the poor child out, confused and dazed, and hugged him to pieces.
Any concern Mrs. Hall may have had about Ian being tongue-tied was immediately dispelled; you couldn't stop him. It was clear he was so very excited about everything that had occurred and been introduced to him at Parris Island, that it was his intention to tell them all of it in the first hour of their meeting. A tour of his squad bay was first on the list, followed by a walking tour of the buildings and training grounds. Where the recruits battled with pugel sticks, the sand fleas and mosquitoes ate the little band alive, leaving Chris a mess of welts and scratch marks. The infamous yellow footprints, the first terrifying memory of thousands of new recruits, lay in front of the processing center. Ian, dressed now to leave Parris Island, showed them where he stood when he arrived.
Liberty only lasted til 3:00; Ian was dispatched back to his command and the Halls headed out to dinner. "I really doubt we have to be back here at the crack of dawn again tomorrow," yawned Chris, as he ferried Colleen back to their hotel. "We'll get there early and save you a spot." said Mrs. Hall. And it was a good thing they did; Friday morning, the stands were filled by 7:00 am and the graduation ceremony wasn't until 9:00. Families chatted and swapped stories; across the parade deck, a small cadre of Marines raised the flag in front of a hall, and without prompting or motion, the crowd as a whole silently rose and gave respect. It was just one, in a morning of many, moving moments.
The Marine Band lead the men in, they paraded around the field to the cheers of the families and stood at attention. After the convocation, the band played a Sousa favorite and then delighted the crowd with a swinging version of "Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina". Honors were given, the bulldog mascot awakened and paraded out and the Marine Hymn performed. Then suddenly, just like that, it was over. The commanding officer released the men and the crowds poured across the fields, mobbing their sons, shaking their hands and squeezing them senseless. All the work, all the sweat and toil, all the discipline and anguish gone- what had seemed like a lifetime was really done and finished, and Marine greeted Marine, man to man, as one.
The Halls helped Ian collect all his gear. Mrs. Hall heard several graduates express the same thought as Ian, "I have no idea how to get off this island..." But they managed to work their way through the crowd and head back to town. Mr. and Mrs. Hall decided to treat the new Marine to a favorite indulgence of his; McDonald's Angus Swiss and Mushroom burger with fries, but Chris and Colleen headed in the other direction. They headed off to Hilton Head to check out the beach and some fresh seafood indulgences of their own.
It has sometimes been said that this country does not properly respect its servicemen, but Master Ian, (and Master Chris found this to be true as well), travelling in uniform, was treated quite well, and when it came to fly out back home, a kind stranger offered his seat in first class to the young graduate, and the airline followed suit by allowing the Halls to join him there as well, for the duration of the flight. Their bags were checked as priority luggage and where ever they went, folks would come up to shake his hand and say thank you. It warmed the Halls' hearts to see it so.
Welcome home to Master Ian, and kudos to you for a job well done.

October Update!

2010-10-11T11:38:00.011-04:00

Friday flew by. Mr. Hall was busy working at another funeral home for the day and Mrs. Hall was scurrying about, sprucing up the grounds. It was 4:45 pm before they knew it and time to call it a day. "I'll pick you up in 10 minutes," called Mr. Hall, "the Norris' are meeting us at Daniel's." Warm and sunny, the clement clime had brought lots of customers into the Hall's favorite haunt and they were lucky to get in the bar. Bon vivant Hugh Norris and his lovely wife Joyce met them there, and much to Stephanie, the bartender's surprize, they took a table in the dining room for a change. "Here's to five happy years past, and to many, many more to come!" they toasted. Excellent food and even better company make an evening to remember, and that was true for the Halls' anniversary; they cleared their plates and glasses, too and even saved room for some of Dan's signature pumpkin crème brûlée for dessert. (It was off-menu, but the waitress saved the last two for their table!) They waved goodbye to their friends and drove home. As the big black car rolled back into the hanger, there were a dozen red roses waiting for Mrs. H. in the Hall. As it probably needs no more elaboration, the Monitor will leave it to the Gentle Reader's imagination as to how the rest of the evening unfolded.

It's that time of the year

Frost warnings had begun to creep into the weather reports. The big black car was washed and waxed; the fluids were checked and ready for cooler temps. A colorful variety of pumpkins appeared amidst the new maroon mums and remaining hardy geraniums on the porch. "You know what time it is," remarked Mrs. Hall, and Mr. Hall nodded in agreement. "It's time to go home." Cynthia Kingston, aunt to Mrs. Hall and hostess extraordinaire, had issued invitations again to her yearly family reunion down in that Bagdad-on-the-Susquehanna, Waverly, New York. The family began assembling at her home on Fulton Street and it wasn't long before the house was filled with good food, warm hugs and non-stop laughter. The younger set wove a happy pattern beneath and around the legs of their elders. The front door was a constant blur, swinging open wide with each cheery arrival, and some had travelled quite a distance to join them. Hot and cold running commentary was the order of the day; on everything from the renovations to the living room and the kitchen (much improved and approved!) to the beleaguered local sports teams and the midterm elections- all washed down with lots of homemade casseroles and desserts. A few off-hand moments are shown here for the Gentle Reader's enjoyment, along with a splendid photo (courtesy of Diane's camera) of some the Women of Waverly. Kudos to Cynthia for another triumph; she certainly knows how to make everyone feel warm, welcome and at ease. (Left to right: Theresa, Betsy, Cynthia, Helen, Mrs. Hall, Diane and June, and in the chair, little Jay.)

Update from Parris Island

2010-09-26T11:27:00.004-04:00

The Hall has received a few missives from Recruit McMahon at Parris Island, but this was the most exciting one. In case the Gentle Reader can't make out his hand writhing, here is the text:

Just finished rifle range and qualified with…

A 222 out of 250 possible points!

Expert Badge!

I shot two possibles, which means during the 200 yard sitting and 300 yard prone rapid fire, all ten of my shots fired in 60 seconds hit black for both.

And on that note, here are my current standings:

PFT (Private First Class)

-15 pull ups (when I got here they went down to 12)

-120 Crunches

-20:18 3 mile run

-A class PFT

Rifle Range
-222/250
-Expert

Platoon
-Squad Leader (Just today)

4 more weeks, I’ll see you soon.

RCT McMahon

A time of clearer twitterings

2010-09-25T19:00:00.010-04:00

The sun peeked over the golden hills surrounding the Hall Saturday morning and the preternaturally chipper voice of one of the local news bunnies revealed it was only 50 degrees outside. Perfect weather, said Mrs. H. for cider doughnuts and pumpkins. Since the departure of the younger set, the family flivver sees less use than is desirable for optimum maintenance, so they opted to give it a little airing out.

About ten miles out of town and located on a hill between Otisco and Skaneateles Lakes, Tim's Pumpkin Patch has been steadily increasing its business over the last five or six years. After finally raising its prices from $1, to $2 dollars a pumpkin, they have managed to expand the spread to include not only pick yer own pumpkins, but hay bale mazes, exotic pumpkin and gourd varieties, spooky displays, horse drawn hay rides and a coffee and doughnut shop, filled to the brim with all manner of store bought drollery. They drove into the parking lot and got out. A wave of nostalgia overswept Mrs. H. as she got out her camera to take a few morning shots.

Usually, when Mrs. Hall pulls in, at least 6 to 8 screaming, laughing teenagers explode out of the van and immediately disappear into the fields. After an hour or so of serious deliberation and sacrifice, the pumpkin choices are whittled down to 20 or so odd mega-squash. They are then crammed in the remaining air spaces in the van, and the vehicle manuevered, creaking heavily up and down the hills, until it returns barely clearing the driveway, to the Hall. This morning it was peaceful on the hill. The crowds hadn't arrived yet and the farm dogs roamed lazily around the coffee shop porch, vying for the best spot in the morning sun.

Mr. Hall munched on the warm donuts and wandered around a bit and then noticed Mrs. Hall was not around. After a short search, she was discovered inside the shop, dickering on the price of a huge papier-mache white pumpkin on display. "It's too expensive, " consoled Mr. Hall, as he lead her away "And I'm sure it wouldn't fit in the car." "Then perhaps we can just ask where they acquired that little toy-" and she pointed to a machine bearing the legend: The Donut Robot. As useful an item as he was sure it would be, he assured her, their kitchen was really quite complete without it.

"It's too early to purchase pumpkins right now, anyway" Mr. Hall remarked. "We'll come back in a couple of weeks." Wiping the remaining doughnut sugar off their lips they climbed back into the van and headed home.

You are what you eat

2010-09-18T14:45:00.011-04:00

Daylight came about three hours too soon to Mrs. Hall. For some reason, her eyelids weren't working- no amount of effort seemed capable of opening them. Some Saturdays, after particularly jovial Fridays at Daniel's, were harder to cope with than others.
"Com'n, it's a beautiful day. Let's get up and have breakfast at Wegman's", said Mr. Hall, in a voice that seemed altogether too bright for the early hour. The prospect of someone else attending to the coffee however, was sufficient to the cause; Mrs. H. rose and threw on something approximating appropriate attire.
It is common knowledge around central New York (and/or possibly the five or six million strong viewing public of David Letterman*- see below...) that everyone goes to Wegman's. A wonderful grocery store in it's own right, it also manages to draw a healthy crowd of coffee swilling, dessert addicted New York Times reading people watchers. While Mrs. Hall is more likely to be taking advantage of the free wi-fi than reading the newspaper, Wegman's still represents to her the quintessential (highly caffeinated) watering hole to the masses.
Today was no exception. Despite the early hour, the parking lot was already showing signs of becoming the dangerous death match that it usually is, as patrons jockey their luxury SUVs for the closest slots. Parking a safe distance away, they wafted through the automatic doors on a breeze of freshly brewed desire. The coffee carafes stood patiently at attention, filled and steaming. As they paid for their pistachio and walnut muffins, Mr. Hall suggested they sit upstairs for a better view of the action. "There, there, " he soothed, "Isn't that better?"
They sat and looked over the expanse of fresh baked goods, deli meats, specialty foods and flowers. Slowly, Mrs. Hall could feel her senses coming back to her as she inhaled the sweet, sweet smell of copious discretionary spending. The coffee was pretty good, too.
"I'm alright. Let's sit here for a little bit. After we hit the freshly flown in overnight from Washington State organic/probiotic produce section, I think I'll slide over to the magazine rack and indulge in some of those guilt-inducing home and lifestyle issues. I love the way the houses look in them but that Stewart woman always makes me feel like a slacker." Satisfied that Mrs. H. was finally her old self, Mr. Hall just smiled and followed behind. Another weekend was well on it's way.

You saw them here first....

2010-09-14T11:27:00.006-04:00

During Chris' sojourn to Seattle to participate in PAX 2010, he worked his way up through the ranks of the Omegathon to win 5 out of the 6 rounds. Happily, most of the gamers at PAX are also familiar with digital recording devices and were most likely packing at least three devices that could record in HD on them personally. One of them posted a video of round 4 wherein our intrepid omeganaut Chris was part of a four person band called "Telekinetic Sweaters", performing to Foreigner's "Cold as Ice". Posted here for the Gentle Reader's amusement and delight, is a copy of it. Please enjoy:

Wax stax

2010-09-12T19:41:00.006-04:00

Over the course of several years, Penguin Hall has been the happy beneficiary of a record wealth of records. Friends and acquaintances, long familiar with the Halls' philosophy of no vinyl left behind, have willingly donated or willed scores of scores, vocals, broadcasts and other recorded buffoonery. The catacombs at the Hall are bursting with technicolor covers and Mr. Hall decided it was time to do something about it.

"Break out the turntable, dear, and dust off the old digital recording software. I require fresh tunes for the MP3 player, and heaven knows, there's nothing on the radio these days worth listening to." Mrs. Hall was just about to open her mouth and offer a favorable opinion of Lady Gaga, but, thinking better of it, held her peace. While occasionally Mrs. H. would hear the lilting strains of Lerner and Lowe, or the Beach Boys rising from his computer at work, she knew that Mr. Hall primarily liked to have music in the big black car. The Halls were looking at a busy traveling schedule looming ahead for the next year and nothing filled the hours on the road like singing along with their old favorites.

It's common knowledge that anything composed after 1965 is suspect in Mr. Hall's mind, so she wisely headed for the section labeled "~~Oldies"~~ "Classics". She returned upstairs, and brushing the cobwebs off her shoulders, offered up a few selections. "I found these right off the bat and thought you might like some of the tunes. Pick out whatever you like and I'll make sure they get to your player."

Mr. Hall perused her choices. "They're terrific. Get as many of the songs out of them as you can." Mrs. Hall blenched. "There's almost 200 songs just in those albums-" she started, but he cut her off. "Tut-tut! Our next trip's not til mid-October; you have a whole month. Get cracking!"