The Unholy Trinity: Resolution – Dear Ole Dad

Posted on 23/10/2012 by Bobo

Resolving ‘Dear Ole Dad’ took a bit more time and effort…

The last time I saw Dear Ole Dad was in August 1992.  I had gone to San Antonio specifically to confront him about his behavior over the years toward us – toward Mom, my brother and sister, and me…

Dad used to take pride int he fact that he “didn’t drink before 4.”  But when he did drink, Holy Cow!  It wasn’t social!  So, when I went to Texas that year I stayed with Mikey.  Then I headed over to my folks place just after 4.  Dear Ole Dad had just poured his first drink.

I had not told him I was coming so he was somewhat surprised when I showed up.  He offered me a beer, and I took it.  I had had 2-3, maybe 4 before I left Mikey’s.  When I sat down he asked me what I was doing in town.

“Well, I came to talk to you, Dad,” I replied.  “I  just want to know if it made you to feel more like a ‘man’ to beat the shit out of all of us over the years?”  He was shocked.  I had never talked to him anywhere near like that!  But he just sat there, so I continued…

“Did it make you feel good, Dad?”  “Did you enjoy beating the shit out of us?”  “It hurt Dad!  It hurt a lot!”  And he sat there…

“You know Dad, if we ever mentioned the word ‘drunk’ you went into a rage.  Well, guess what.  Your oldest son – me – is a drunk!”  How does that make you feel, Dad?  Are you proud of me now, Dad?”  And he continued to sit there, not saying anything…

“Do you have any idea what it’s like, listening to your Mom get beat up, and not being able to do anything about it Dad?  I will carry that shame for life…

I continued a bit more along this line, and then got up to leave.  He ‘walked me out,’ still not saying anything.  My last memory of him was standing on the sidewalk outside his house – a pathetic, decrepit old man… Yep, Dear Ole Dad…

He died that December, 1992.

I went back down to San Antonio that December, but not to mourn Dear Ole Dad; I went down to drink.  After all, I had just lost my father…

In going through his things, I came across a copy of the Serenity Prayer – in an old footlocker out in the garage.  I had never seen, nor heard of it before.

Such peace in that simple prayer.  And I wondered to myself, “Dad, why couldn’t you ave lived this prayer.”  And, I tossed it back into the footlocker…

When I returned to Whitehouse, I first went to the cemetery before going home.  I had the flag from his coffin and took it to my grandmother’s grave.  I knelt and asked her, “Gram, what more could I have done to have made him love me?”  It was a gut-wrentching ordeal, that evening.  And today I know, there was nothing I could have done…

Eighteen months later I had the occasion to hear this prayer again – just after I entered into treatment for alcoholism.  When I recognized it for what it was, I just stood there and cried.  Damn!

When I got out of treatment, I headed back to San Antonio – to that old footlocker in the garage.  When I found the prayer, I just held it.  And then I turned it over and saw, “Fellowship Group, Westover AFB, Mass.”  We had been at Westover, 1960 – 1962.  Dad had been to AA, but “it” didn’t work!  At that instant I had a totally different appreciation of him.  I came to realize how fortunate I was, and felt empathy for him.  And I prayed that he was at peace.

As I continued to recover I began to develop a different perspective toward Dear Ole Dad.  From Robert Frost’s poem, “The Road Not Taken,” I saw where I would have ended up had I chosen to continue on Dad’s path – that of drinking.

A facet of my recovery is “spirituality.”  In this endeavor I have gravitated toward Native American spirituality.  It is nature based and I seem to be able to relate to it more than religious dogma.  In 1999 I came across this from Chief Joseph, “I love the land of winding waters more than all the rest of the world.  A man who would not love his father’s grave is worse than a wild animal.”  And I knew I had to visit the grave of my father.

So, back to San Antonio I went, to Ft. Sam Houston National Cemetery.  I had to look in the index to find Dad.  I eventually found his grave, sitting peacefully under a young sapling.  It was a warm, sunny day with a light breeze.  I stood there for a bit, then came to attention and saluted.  Then I told him, “Maybe in another Life Dad, things will be different…”  And I left it at that.

That fall, as I raked leaves, I decided to build a fire.  Then I retrieved a letter I had written to Dear Ole Dad in early sobriety.  I rendered a short prayer, then tossed the letter into the fire – with the hope that the smoke would carry my message of forgiveness to Dear Ole Dad… and that was that.

I harbor no animosity toward him today at all.  And while I have forgiven him, I will never forget what he did – to me, and to our family.  Nobody deserves to be treated that way…

In closing here, I look at Dear Ole Dad’s life as having saved mine!  With his drinking and subsequent behavior, he showed me where I was heading.  I traveled the road Dad took for many years myself, then I took the one less travelled – and that has made all the difference.

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The Unholy Trinity: Resolution – Sandy

Posted on 23/10/2012 by Bobo

Oh hell, I was so in love with Sandy.  The “love of my Life;” the One!  Then on 17 August 1967, at 1330 hours, it all came crashing down.  I was dumped!

For years upon years every year, on August 17th, I would get drunk.  I would be either very angry, or very hurt, or just numb.  It didn’t matter, I just drank!

When I got sober, August 17, 1994 was an interesting day for me.  I was in treatment and it came and went.  Imagine that.

The next year, as the blessed anniversary approached, I discussed it with my AA sponsor, Beverley.  I told her how much “being dumped” bothered me – that I didn’t know ‘why.’  She, in turn, said, “Why don’t you call her, and ask her?”  And that’s why I choose Bev as my sponsor – for her wisdom.

After we hung up, I thought about it for a moment, then began a “telephonic search” for Sandy’s number.  It didn’t take long to find her.

I knew that her folks had moved into Bowling Green, OH off the farm.  So, I called her Mom, explained who I was and asked for Sandy’s number.  She remembered me, and it was  hardly no time at all before I had the number.

After I hung up, I sat on the porch, wondering if I really wanted to call her.  Well, hell, why not?  So I called, and the damn phone was busy.  I suspect her Mom “speed-dialed” to give her a “heads-up.”  Ahhh…

A short time later I redialed and Sandy answered the phone.  When I told her who I was, she exclaimed, “Oh Bob, it’s so great to hear from you!”  And at that instant, all the “crap” that I had carried for all those years, released!  Gone!  It was an amazing “spiritual” experience.  I no longer needed to know “why.”  It didn’t matter anymore.

We talked for the better part of an hour and then hung up.  And until now, I have hardly thought of her at all.  Amazing…

So, what do I take from this?  Well, exactly what Bev used to tell me.  “No event, place, person or thing can have any more power over you than you choose to give it.”  It took me years to get this, but it is so true.

August 17th comes and goes every year, and I hardly give it a second thought.  I am glad I called her that year; I’m glad she is doing well and I am glad for the gratitude I feel for the experience…

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The “Unholy Trinity”

Posted on 23/10/2012 by Bobo

( My ‘mentor’ continues to encourage me to keep these posts shorter.  So, at his urging, I am going to break this thread into 4 parts.  The first will introduce the thread; the following 3 will discuss their eventual resolutions.)

August and September 1967 were 2 “bummer months” for me.  On 17 August 1967, at approximately 1332 hrs. the gal I was dating – the “love of my Life” at the time – told me “we” were through!  Came out of nowhere…

1. It was a warm, sunny day in NW Ohio, 17 August 1967.  I left her place and drove home, stopping only by Grand Rapids, OH to see my best friend and his fiance.  I walked in Betty’s house, saw them sitting there, and just broke down.  I didn’t stay.  I got back in my car and drove home.

When I got home, I just went upstairs to my room, and for 3 days I didn’t come out.  Told Gram (my grandmother) I thought I ‘had the flu.’  And for 3 days I languished in my anger, my hurt and anguish.  When I eventually came down, I vowed I would never allow anyone to “get that close,” ever again.  And until sobriety, I didn’t.

2.  Just after I came out of my self-imposed isolation I went over to my folks place in Rantoul, IL, to Chanute AFB, IL.  Dear Ole Dad was a commissary officer there, and I could get a good job as a ‘carry-out boy.’  I could also get fired pretty quick,as I had in the past.  Anyway, it was a good job, and I immersed myself into the work.

After I had been there for about 2 weeks or so, I came home one evening to find my parents engaged (yet again) in a fight.  Dad had been drinking, and my arrival didn’t affect him at all.  Soon he threw a jar of mustard at Mom.  I then “lipped off” at him, and made a threatening move toward him.  He rose from his chair and told me to “get out of his house!”  I thought about it, and was on the road within 10 – 15 minutes.  It was a 5-6 hour drive to Whitehouse, OH and I arrived home sometime around 0300… back up to my room.

3.  Entering my senior year at college I had been accepted into the AF ROTC Flight Instruction Program (FIP), contingent upon passing a flight physical.  A childhood dream about to be realized.  In early September we were all bussed down to Wright-Patterson AFB, OH for two days of physicals.

When I got to the color vision portion of the eye exam, I failed!  I am not able to see all the numbers in the color plates.  I am “borderline” color deficient – unfortunately from the ‘wrong’ side of the border!  So, I failed – rode the bus home, drove home to Whitehouse and went back up to my room…

Kind of a shitty way to begin my senior year of college I thought… and that’s why I call the experience my “Unholy Trinity.”

Before leaving here I need to mention a couple things.  First, I didn’t have the “Life skills” to cope at that time – so I eventually turned to alcohol to escape.  I didn’t drink because of any or all three of these events – I drank because I am ‘alcoholic’… just this simple.

The second thing I need to mention is, when I took my physical and the medics saw where I failed the color vision exam, they gave me a ‘color threshold’ exam.  This tells us to what degree of color vision deficiency I actually have.  That one, recognized by the FAA (Federal Aviation Agency),  I ‘passed.’  But it didn’t matter, the USAF standards were “higher.”  However, this test would come into play 2-3 years later…

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“Super?”

Posted on 20/10/2012 by Bobo

In early ’76, Lt. Col. Dick Hansen reported to the squadron (25thFTS) as our new commander.  Dick was an ‘energetic’ individual; always with a big smile and an ‘upbeat’ demeanor.  Upbeat to where it was contagious.  Refreshing.

One of the first things he did was to visit each flight over the first couple-3 weeks to meet everyone.  He came to our flight, “O” Flight, on “early week.”

Typically the IPs met 10 minutes or so prior to ‘Report Time.’  Report Time was predicated upon the first scheduled takeoff time; usually about an hour and a half before the first scheduled takeoff.  So, when he visited us, it was around 0515 or so.

After we were all introduced to him, Dick talked for about 10 – 15 minutes about his vision for our squadron.  Again, it was a very positive experience – inspirational.  Two minutes before Report Time a student would knock on our door to let us know we had two minutes before Report.  This particular morning, as we were all rising after “knock-knock,” our kiss-ass flight commander took the opportunity to stand up and say something like, “See guys, didn’t I tell you he was ‘super!”  And he gave a big ‘thumbs up,’ accompanied with a big smile!  Oh, give me a break!

Once we all took our places at our respective desks, our illustrious flight commander in all his glory, began his briefing.  And I began to take a ‘beating!’

As the Assistant Flight Commander at the time, my place was in the rear of the room, behind the scheduling desk.  That way I could keep an eye on everything.  One by one, our IPs began looking at me, mouthing the word, “Super?”  First Mike O., “Super?”  Then Marty M., “Super?”  Followed then by Geoff K., “Did he tell us he was ‘Super?'”  And then Jack D. turned in his seat, scratching his head with an inquisitive look on his face, “When did he tell us he was ‘Super?'”  They were killing me!  It was all I could do to keep from laughing myself – my stomach was in knots – and they knew it!

I think in the end it took the better part of 3-4 weeks before the guys quit asking me when the moron told us our new squadron commander was “super!”  I thought they were never going to let up… Gawd, the price I paid to be a Flight Commander!

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I Can Live My Life, or, My ‘Story’…

Posted on 20/10/2012 by Bobo

A few years ago I had the opportunity to attend a ‘lifestyle workshop.’  One of the exercises was to take a facet of out lives – one that continues to trouble us – and write about it.

We were given about an hour to complete the assignment.  Then we were paired up and had to take turns reading what we had written to our respective partners.  When we each had to share, we had to read our sad or tragic stories again to each other.  Then again…

I chose to write about “relationships;” the relationships I had been in since I began dating.  One after another- and their tragic endings.  I hardly made it through the first page of the first reading when it screamed “Bullshit” at me!  Gawd, what a load of crap!   I mean I had poured my soul into this assignment, and here it was – screaming “Bullshit” in my face!  And I saw it for what it was – bullshit!

This was a “story” that I had perfected over many, many years.  Then I lived it!  A self-fulling prophecy, if you will, with always the same ending.  When I put my story to paper, then had to look at it, even I saw it for what it was…

After the exercise it was explained to us that we have ‘choices’ in life.  One of the choices we have is to either live our stories, or our lives – but not both!  What a revelation for me!  How many times did I share my “story” with anyone who would listen?  Over, and over, and over, ad nauseum!

Ever since that exercise I have been able to “let go” of my story, and live my life.  It’s my choice!  Yes, there are moments when I want to slide back into it, but these are just “moments” today – not days, or weeks, or months.  I catch myself today, when I find myself sliding back into my story, and I’m able to make the ‘choice’ I want for myself.

Today I am choosing to live my life – for whatever it brings me.  My “story” is just too heavy to carry around anymore – too full of BS!  My own BS!

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Jokes – 1

Posted on 20/10/2012 by Bobo

As much as I love telling ‘stories,’ I love telling jokes.  Often I will begin a joke as a ‘story – you might never know!  I love integrating actual people I have met into my jokes.  That way, we both get to laugh!  And, on occasion, I will insert myself into a joke.  After all, it’s only ‘fair.’

So, this is the first I have to offer.  Enjoy…
BUFFALO GAP CHILI COOK OFF……………

If you can read this whole story without laughing, then there’s no hope for you.  I was crying by the end This is an actual account as relayed to paramedics at a chili cook-off in Buffalo Gap, TX.

Note: Please take time to read this slowly.  If you pay attention to the first two judges, the reaction of the third judge is even better.

For those of you who have lived in West Texas , you know how true this is.  They actually have a Chili Cook-off about the time Halloween comes around.  It takes up a major portion of a parking lot at the Old Settlers Reunion Grounds.  Judge #3 was an inexperienced Chili taster named Frank, who was visiting from Springfield , IL .

Frank: ‘Recently, I was honored to be selected as a judge at a Chili cook-off.  The original person called in sick at the last moment and I happened to be standing there at the judge’s table, asking for directions to the Coors Light truck, when the call came in.  I was assured by the other two judges (Native Texans) that the chili wouldn’t be all that spicy; and, besides, they told me I could have free beer during the tasting, so I accepted and became Judge 3.’

Here are the scorecard notes from the event:

CHILI # 1 – MIKE’S MANIAC MONSTER CHILI
Judge # 1 — A little too heavy on the tomato.  Amusing kick.
Judge # 2 — Nice, smooth tomato flavor.  Very mild.
Judge # 3 (Frank) — Holy crap, what the hell is this stuff?  You could remove dried paint from your driveway.  Took me two beers to put the flames out. I hope that’s the worst one.  These Texans are crazy.

CHILI # 2 – EL RANCHO’S AFTERBURNER CHILI
Judge # 1 — Smoky, with a hint of pork .. Slight jalapeño tang.
Judge # 2 — Exciting BBQ flavor, needs more peppers to be taken seriously.
Judge # 3 — Keep this out of the reach of children.  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to taste besides pain.  I had to wave off two people who wanted to give me the Heimlich maneuver.  They had to rush in more beer when they saw the look on my face.

CHILI # 3 – ALFREDO’S FAMOUS BURN DOWN THE BARN CHILI
Judge # 1 — Excellent firehouse Chili. Great kick.
Judge # 2 — A bit salty, good use of peppers.
Judge # 3 — Call the EPA. I’ve located a uranium spill.  My nose feels like I have been snorting Drano.  Everyone knows the routine by now.  Get me more beer before I ignite.  Barmaid pounded me on the back, now my backbone is in the front part of my chest.  I’m getting sh*t-faced from all of the beer.

CHILI # 4 – BUBBA’S BLACK MAGIC
Judge # 1 — Black bean chili with almost no spice.  Disappointing.
Judge # 2 — Hint of lime in the black beans.  Good side dish for fish or other mild foods, not much of a chili.
Judge # 3 — I felt something scraping across my tongue, but was unable to taste it.  Is it possible to burn out taste buds?  Sally, the beer maid, was standing behind me with fresh refills.  This 300 lb. woman is starting to look HOT .. just like this nuclear waste I’m eating!  Is chili an aphrodisiac?

CHILI # 5 – LISA’S LEGAL LIP RE MOVER
Judge # 1 — Meaty, strong chili.  Jalapeno peppers freshly ground, adding considerable kick.  Very impressive.
Judge # 2 — Chili using shredded beef, could use more tomato.  Must admit the jalapeno peppers make a strong statement.
Judge # 3 — My ears are ringing, sweat is pouring off my forehead and I can no longer focus my eyes.  I farted, and four people behind me needed paramedics.  The contestant seemed offended when I told her that her chili had given me brain damage.  Sally saved my tongue from bleeding by pouring beer directly on it from the pitcher.  I wonder if I’m burning my lips off.  It really ticks me off that the other judges asked me to stop screaming.  Screw them.

CHILI # 6 – VARGA’S VERY VEGETARIAN VARIETY
Judge # 1 — Thin yet bold vegetarian variety chili. Good balance of spices and peppers.
Judge # 2 — The best yet.  Aggressive use of peppers, onions, garlic.  Superb.
Judge # 3 — My intestines are now a straight pipe filled with gaseous, sulfuric flames.  I crapped on myself when I farted, and I’m worried it will eat through the chair.  No one seems inclined to stand behind me except that Sally.  Can’t feel my lips anymore.  I need to wipe my butt with a snow cone.

CHILI # 7 – SUSAN’S SCREAMING SENSATION CHILI
Judge # 1 — A mediocre chili with too much reliance on canned peppers.
Judge # 2 — Ho hum, tastes as if the chef literally threw in a can of chili peppers at the last moment. **I should take note that I am worried about judge number 3. He appears to be in a bit of distress as he is cursing uncontrollably.
Judge # 3 — You could put a grenade in my mouth, pull the pin, and I wouldn’t feel a thing.  I’ve lost sight in one eye, and the world sounds like it is made of rushing water.  My shirt is covered with chili, which slid unnoticed out of my mouth.  My pants are full of lava to match my shirt.  At least during the autopsy, they’ll know what killed me.  I’ve decided to stop breathing. It’s too painful.  Screw it; I’m not getting any oxygen anyway.  If I need air, I’ll just suck it in through the 4-inch hole in my stomach.

CHILI # 8 – BIG TOM’S TOENAIL CURLING CHILI
Judge # 1 — The perfect ending, this is a nice blend chili.  Not too bold but spicy enough to declare its existence.
Judge # 2 — This final entry is a good, balanced chili.  Neither mild nor hot.   Sorry to see that most of it was lost when Judge #3 farted, passed out, fell over and pulled the chili pot down on top of himself.  Not sure if he’s going to make it.  Poor feller, wonder how he’d have reacted to really hot chili?
Judge # 3 – No Report

 

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“Persent – Arms!” …or, Putters!

Posted on 18/10/2012 by Bobo

In 1978 MGen. Ralph S. Saunders, Commander, Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Service, came to Vance AFB to speak at a student graduation.  I had met General Saunders in 1974 when I was in the 56th Aerospace Rescue and Recovery Squadron at Korat Royal Thai AFB, Thailand.  As it turned out, Sue and I just happened to be at that particular graduation.

As the festivities were winding down, the Wing Commander, Col. Tom Magner, and Sue and I happened to be visiting with General Saunders in the O’Club lobby.  Col. Magner mentioned to General Saunders that the next time he was in town, we could take him up for a T-38 ride.  The General didn’t miss a beat. He asked Col. Magner if he could take him home to Scott AFB, IL in the morning.

“Sure,” Col. Magner replied.  He then looked at me, knowing I had met the General before, and asked if I was “okay” to fly.  “Sure,” I replied, as I sat down my drink…

I think our departure was set for 0900 the next morning.  I showed up early and did the flight planning.  Someone else took care of orienting the General, with respect to the jet.  It wasn’t until I got to the jet that I discovered “they” were putting the General in the front seat!  We usually didn’t do that.  There were just too many things in the front cockpit that the guy in back didn’t have access to.  But, what the hell…

I think the General was a “little under the weather” from the night before, and was just then realizing what he had asked for!  He was real quiet as we strapped in.

All in all, it was a good flight, until we arrived at Scott.  He wanted the landing, and who was I to say anything else but, “You bet!”

The approach looked fine, until he flared for landing – at 50 feet!  That got my attention!  I tactfully took control of the aircraft and we went around.  I then asked the General if he would like to see a T-38 landing pattern before our full stop.  He agreed that might be a good idea.

So I configured the jet with gear and flaps and as we rolled out on final approach I let it settle into “the weeds!”  I think that kinda watered his eyes, but he got the idea.  We then went around and I gave the jet to the General.

With my exaggerated demo, his final approach was acceptable and we landed without further incident.  I think we were both glad to be down!

We had a travel pod on the jet so after I unpacked his personal stuff, I put his chute and helmet in the pod, and pre-flighted for departure.  Start and taxi were without incident.

To use this one runway at Scott I had to back-taxi to the end to be legal.  As I taxied I noticed these 3 guys on the golf course staring at me.  That’s odd I thought.  Then I turned and aligned the jet for takeoff.  When I received take-off clearance, I released brakes, and lit the burners.  Then I just happened to look over to the golf course and all 3 of those guys were standing at attention – saluting!  YGBSM!  I had never seen anything like that!  So I just casually waved, and was on my way…

It wasn’t until some time in flight that I figured out why “Larry, Curly and Moe” were saluting.  As I pre-flighted the jet before departure I neglected to notice the 2-star General officer plaque attached to the front canopy railing!  Well, okay, that makes sense now…  still funny, to think of those 3 guys standing at attention, with putters or whatever, by their sides…

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The “National Stupid Quotient”

Posted on 18/10/2012 by Bobo

I have thought for years now that we should have a “National Stupid Quotient” (NSQ).  Analogous to the ‘Chill Factor,’ or ‘Heat Index,’ or ‘Smog Index,’ the National Stupid Quotient would alert people to just ‘how stupid it is out there.’  On our highways, in stores, in bureaucratic offices and so forth.  I would use a ‘1 to 10’ scale, with “10” being the stupidest.

Just this morning I had to travel north of Toledo.  It was raining when I left and I wondered to myself, just how stupid is it going to be out here?  It didn’t take me long to find out.  “Bumper car” all over the place!  And with that comes gridlock!

On the way home I decided to come an alternate route.  Foiled again – another wreck, more gridlock!  Dumb asses… On the Toledo highways this morning, NSQ = 9.2.

And who gets to train the raters?  Well, I do, of course!  LOL!

 

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Uncle Bob: State Bureaucrats

Posted on 17/10/2012 by Bobo

My Mother, ‘Mom,’ had 4 older brothers, and 4 older sisters.  Of my uncles, Uncle Bob had the best – maybe some folks would say ‘the sickest’ – sense of humor.  I tend to emulate his humor every chance I get.

Uncle Bob built and operated a slaughter house/meat packing plant.  It was more or less, a family business that he ran for the better part of 30+ years.  (I think he might take exception with some skinny, community organizer from Chicago, telling him he didn’t build his business.)  Typically he might have 5-6-7 employees at any given time; family and friends.

One day a state bureaucrat showed up on the property.  Besides fools and meat inspectors, Uncle Bob didn’t suffer bureaucrats very well either!  He told me that when this guy showed up, he decided to see just how far he could “push him.”  (I wish you could hear the laughter in my mind as I recall how Uncle Bob told the story.)

The State of Oregon wanted to know how many folks were working in small businesses, and in what capacity.  Uncle Bob played it straight with his first 4 or 5 employees: cutters, butchers, etc.  When he got to the second-to-the-last guy, Uncle Bob told the state bureaucrat that he was their company “flunkie.”  The “suit” was beside himself – he didn’t have a position listed as a company “flunkie.”  And soon, around and around they went.  Uncle Bob would not budge an inch.

The “suit” suggested that they guy might be a errand boy.  “Nope,” replied Uncle Bob, “flunkie.”  Then the kid suggested he might be a “general hand.”  “Nope, flunkie,” Uncle Bob responded, as he held his ground.  Finally after a half hour or so, of going back and forth, the kid felt it useless, and wrote down “flunkie.”

Clearly flustered now, the kid asked about the last guy.

“Oh,” Uncle Bob replied, “he’s the flunkie’s assistant.”

Without another word, the kid got in his car, and left!

 

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The Swiss Family Holliker: Johannes – Life in Switzerland

Posted on 16/10/2012 by Bobo

I am defining the “intermediate years” as the years between 1818 and 1833, when Johannes came to America.

I received an email from Max last week (Oct. 2012) that lends a great deal of insight into Johannes during this period.  The first thing he told me was that Johannes was not a felon!

In 1994 I received the following letter from the State Archives of Argau.   This is the canton (country) where Rein is situated.  In this letter I was told Johannes had been arrested and prosecuted for stealing wood.

    Well, in Max’s email, he tells me that, in actuality, the ‘Johannes’ referred to in this letter was a cousin of (our) Johannes’ father.   Whew!  He then goes on to tell me a bit more about (our) Johannes’ life before he left Switzerland.

Johannes’ parents, Johannes Holliger and Maria Hirt, were married at the church of Rein in 1797.  They then had 3 children: Anna (born 1799), Johannes (1803-1881) and Hans Jacob (1806-1853).

The elder Johannes was very ill.  In 1806 the community of Rein had to provide money for his doctor and pharmacy bills.  After his death, in 1807, Maria was able to make a little money by spinning cotton and doing odd day labor jobs when she could find work.  They were very poor.

In 1810 Maria remarried, to Jakob Bachofner.  When they relocated to Birrhard, the community of Rein was still responsible for providing money for the kids’ lodging, food and clothing.    (I found this kind of interesting…)

After finishing school, the council of Rein felt it time for Johannes to find a profession.  So in 1818 he was sent to the master tailor, Johann Kasper Hirt of Lauffohr to study and learn the trade of sewing.  This took about 2-3 years.  Upon completion of his education, Johannes “may have gone wondering around, working here and there” as was the tradition in Switzerland at the time.  It is also thought that during this time he entered and completed his military service.

In 1831 Johannes returned to Rein and bought a small house, for 645 old Swiss Francs.  The mortgage on the house was 635.45 Francs, so he only had to pay 9.55 Francs cash!

After he bought the house, his mother – widowed again – and his brother moved in with him.  His sister had married in1 824.  At this time, Johannes worked as a tailor, as a part-time farmer of a small plot of land, and a day laborer.  But he probably realized that this was the best “it was going to get,” so he decided to emigrate to America.

In 1833 he sold his house to his brother for 751 Francs, and began his trek to Whitehouse, OH…

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