Blast From the Past

Been busy lately. Not only with my real job but working on my novel, Finding Rachel Davenport, due out this autumn. But I am conscious of not having posted in a long time, so I thought I’d dredge up one of my favorite posts from the past. This one is about the time I got sick and threw up while staying over with some friends in Bognor; it’s such a favorite, I included it in my second book, More Postcards From Across the Pond.

Well, enough about me. Here’s more about me, and The Night of the Loud Burps:

The Technicolor Yawn

14 December 2009

Hopefully, you won’t think this represents a new low for me, but while I was up last night talking to Ralph on the Big White Phone, it occurred to me that we haven’t really broached that subject, and now is the perfect time for it.  If you’re a bit squeamish, or would like to continue to think of this blog as a welcome oasis of quality writing, you might be better off looking at something else.

Giving your meal a round-trip ticket is no joy in any circumstance, but this particular episode took place while we were staying with friends.  We’d spent a lovely afternoon browning around Arundel, a quaint little town with a castle and a cathedral that, as a bonus, happened to be having it’s Christmas Fete while we were there.  There were bands and beer booths and the type of small town festivities you generally only see in Midsommer Murders.  Afterwards we retired to our friend’s manor for dinner and some postprandial libations.  We had a nice chat, then retired.

An hour later my eyes shot open and I found myself fully awake in an unfamiliar room wondering what it was that roused me.  And a voice, way in the back of my mind whispered.

“Get ready, you’re going to throw up.”

“Hey, who said that?  That’s a perfectly ludicrous idea.  Get it out of your head right now.  Think good thoughts.  Yes, that’s better.”

“No, I think you’re about to toss your cookies.”

“No, clearly not!  Stop thinking that!”

“Sorry, but it’s true.”

This went on for some time.  I don’t know about you, but this is necessary for me, it is a sort of coming to terms, my “seven stages” of nausea, if you will.  It suits me well because, by the time I reach acceptance and head for the porcelain bus, I am immediately ready to start driving, so to speak.  And that’s a good thing, because once you assume the position, there’s no sense in hanging about.

And so I stumbled through the darkness, found the little room and proceeded to serve up what looked like a Dulux color chart.

Over the years, having been in a variety of relationships, I have had occasion to be around other people while they were making friends with the toilet and I have always marvelled at the ones—and this means almost all of them—who manage this feat in relative silence.  I once had the opportunity to witness the young lady in the seat next to me making use of her air-sickness bag, and if I hadn’t known what the bag was for, I would have had no idea what she was doing.  (I have always dreaded having to make use of one.  Have you seen the size of them?  I could fill three with the first gastro geyser.  I’d have to have a line of people on one side passing them to me and another line to pass the full ones to.)

Anyway, you get my point, many people seem to be able to have dinner in reverse gear in relative silence—I, however, cannot.  When I start calling the buffalos, that’s exactly what it sounds like; this is an activity I like to share with the rest of the household, the neighbors, and the people down the street.

Chagrined as I was, I put it down to excess and returned to bed.  An hour later I was wide awake and arguing with myself once more, signifying that it wasn’t a drink-induced spewing, but a bonafied illness.  This continued on an hourly basis until I had fully reviewed the day’s menu.  My friend, who drank as much whiskey as I had, slept blissfully through it, but his wife, with her mother-radar, was not so fortunate.

In the morning, I felt like ten miles of bad road, but my wife and I managed to make our way home without incident (read: I didn’t make a carpet pizza on the train) and I slept the day away.

I feel marginally better now (thanks for asking) but, with another three day business trip beginning tomorrow at 5 AM, I find myself wavering as to my fitness for such a task.  Part of me wants to just stay in bed for the next few days, but the other part of me (that tiny portion some people call “responsibility” but I refer to as “that sanctimonious prig”) insists that is not an option.

I suppose the only thing I can do is pack, get ready, and see if I can go the night without yodelling down the porcelain canyon.

Out Of Time - Expat Angst

This post is another special feature of my Tin Jubilee Celebration: a journal entry from ten-years ago as I stood on the cusp of becoming an expat.  Postcards From Across the Pond already existed as a web log (remember those?) at that time, but this entry did not go into it.  In looking over the published posts of the time, I think I should have put this up instead; it’s a lot more interesting.

25 February 2002 6:34 PM
[Yes, I used European-style dates in my journal; I thought it looked classy.]

It occurs to me that I haven’t written in my personal journal in a while, and maybe that’s because I don’t know how I feel.  Or, perhaps, I don’t know how I feel because I haven’t written in my journal.  Chicken and egg—you decide.

The fact is I feel numb; I just quit a job where I was making 60k a year and had a good pension and comfortable future to look forward to.  I'm leaving my children (okay, they're adults now, but still) and my friends and moving out of the country to marry a woman I hardly even know.  Like most outrageous things I do, I simply make up my mind, do it without thinking and then deal with the consequences.  I like to think this time it's different, and to a large degree it is, but the pattern is disquietingly familiar.

Right now, I'm sitting in my apartment, at my desk, writing on my computer, surrounded by all that is familiar to me (granted, it's a little sparse in here, but you know what I mean).  I sat this afternoon on the balcony, smoking a cigar and having a brew, enjoying the familiar scenery.  On a purely intellectual level I know that this is all going to change in a few days, but there is no hint inside me that I believe any of it is real.  I'm simply getting a kick out of telling everyone the story and being the center of attention because I'm doing something so radical.  But now all that is over; I've had my good-bye party at work, I've gone out to dinner with my friends and basked in their admiration as they effused about how brave and romantic I'm being.  And now I've got to pay the piper.

My last view of New York; it wasn't really difficult to leave.

Tomorrow my furniture goes.  After that, I'll be sitting in an empty apartment, just waiting to get on a plane.  What is going to happen to me when I get over there?

I'm finding I can't conceive of it.  I have no thoughts beyond getting on that plane.  After that, it's all blank.  I suppose that shouldn't be unexpected.  After all, I can only get my head around so much.  I've been busy extracting myself from America, and that has proven to be a rather large job.  England will take care of itself.

Still, why am I doing this?  What on earth could have possessed me to quit my job and leave my country?  That's a little over the top, even for me.

On the other hand, is it really such a big deal?  People change jobs, move from country to country and get married every day.  Granted, they don't always do all three at once, but many of them have.  Maybe I think I should be feeling something only because I'm on the cusp of such a big change; the fact that I feel nothing makes me wonder if I'm making a mistake.  Shouldn't I feel excited, or happy, or elated, or terrified?  I feel nothing.  I feel like I still have my job, I feel like I'll always be here in America in this apartment and that life is just going to go on this way without any inconvenient interruptions.

Two days, twenty-two hours and thirty-five minutes to go.  I wonder—when I land on the other side—how real it will be then.  Will I miss my old job and old friends?  Will I miss my boys?  Will my guilt overtake me?  Will I be homesick?  Will I not like living there?  Will I be able to get a job?  Will I become depressed and screw up my marriage?  The opportunities for failure abound.

For now, however, the party continues because, after all, it's all about me.  Tonight is my last Irish Dance class and I'm sure to get more "Oh you're so brave" and "That's so romantic" thrown at me.  Tomorrow I’m making one last visit to some close friends where I’m sure to get more of the same.  It won't be until I land at Gatwick that the ego stroking will stop and I'll have to decide, for myself, if I've done the right thing.

But, of course, by then it will be too late.

In re-reading that journal entry, two things struck me: One, that my Americaness has softened over the past decade, and Two, I did not, after all, make the wrong decision.  I thought you might like to know that.

POSTCARDS FROM IRELAND – the making of an expat

…the tale of how all this came about…

Release date: 1 March 2012.

Once We Were Herftones

In the manuscript for Postcards From Ireland, I talk a bit about cigars because, as the opening line points out, Ultimately, it was all because of the cigars.  Without cigars, I would not have gone to Ireland, I would not have met the woman who would become my wife and I would not have moved to England.

Writing that story was an exercise in nostalgia, but not simply due to reliving how I found love among the leprechauns, it was also due to recalling those days when I was involved in the cigar culture.  Cigars are still apart of my life but, back then, they were a huge part; this blog (or, to be exact, the web log it grew out of) was originally a chronicle of my cigar-related adventures.  It was, believe it or not, a magical time.

I don’t go into that era very deeply in the book, because I didn’t think it would be of great interest to the average person, but it was nothing short of astounding.  My then girlfriend, who I now refer to as She-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, used to dabble in cigars.  She and her college buddies used to go to a cabin in the Adirondacks and spend the weekend smoking cigars around the fire, so we revived the tradition and found it very satisfying.

After a time, we discovered a few people at work who were also cigar smokers, and then we started haunting newsgroups (for you youngsters, that was the precursor of Facebook and Twitter) and invited some of the local members to meet up with us.  We all got along like a house on fire (and judging by the smoke we produced, you would think the house really was on fire), so we began having regular meetings.

Incredibly, this same thing was happening simultaneously in other cities throughout the US and even in other countries.  Eventually, these individual groups began hosting cigar exchanges, where members of other cigar groups would come to the host city for a weekend of organized cigar-related events, including cigar dinners, visits to regional landmarks, raffles and tours of local cigar shops.

It was an enchanting time, the sort of thing that happens so spontaneously and so perfectly that you know you are involved in something special.  I don’t recall ever wishing it would go on forever, or worrying if it would end, we were just all caught up in the moment.

Our cigar group called itself The Herftones—being a combination of the music group The Nowtones and “herf” which is the cigar-world term for smoking cigars.  Our annual cigar event was called ASHCAN—Albany, Saratoga Herf Crawl and Nosh—and we even had a Long Island chapter where we went every summer for ASCHANOLI, or ASHCAN on Long Island.  The other city’s cigar crawls had equally tortured acronyms, such as HITS, the Buffalo chapter’s Herf In The Snow, and SALT, Syracuse’s herf event that I can’t recall the translation of.
 

At a Herf Event in Boston. Don't let the size of the group fool you; this is merely a fraction of the people who attended. Also, though this photo is 100% male, we had a surprising number of women in our ranks. The small suitcases many of us are carrying are called Herfdors, and they are filled with cigars.

This went on for years.  But the important thing (or the thing that is relevant to my new book) is that this activity was directly responsible for my going to Ireland (you’ll have to read the book to find out how), and going to Ireland was directly responsible for me moving to England.  No cigars, no England, and no Postcards From Across the Pond.

I left the US while the Herftones were still going strong, and in a way I am glad I did.  Shortly after I left, the no smoking regulations came into force, which made organizing cigar crawls much more difficult.  Eventually, they stopped, and then even the local get-togethers faded away.

Now, those of my herfing buddies who still continue to smoke cigars, are pretty much like me—solitary herfers who continue to enjoy a solitary cigar (“Thought in the early morning, comfort in time of woes, peace in the hush of twilight, balm ere my eyelids close”—this is what a cigar provides, as Kipling points out in his epic ode to cigars, The Betrothed) but rarely, if ever, do we meet up with other cigar aficionados for a proper herf.

But solitary as our herfing now is (what, I wonder, is the sound of one man herfing) we can, as we muse on the soft blue veil of the vapor, know that for one, brief, shining moment, we were Herftones.
 

We even had shirts made; the oval logo on the left breast reads, "Herftones"

Happy Birthday to Me

You’ve been waiting for it, and now it’s here!  No, not the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee, or the official launch of the London Olympic Games hype, or the year of the Mayan Apocalypse—2012 is my Tin Jubilee Celebration, and I’m kicking it off today.

Today (or tomorrow, if you got here early, or last week, if you got here late), the 5^th of January 2012 marks the 10-year anniversary of Postcards From Across the Pond.  (We will, of course, celebrate other milestones throughout the year, such as my actual arrival in the UK; the blog was started when I was still in the US.)

Ten years is quite an age for a blog, and in that time, the blogging world has changed dramatically; well, first it was actually created, then it changed.  In the early days, I maintained Postcards on a website using HTML; it wasn’t until after the publication of the first book that I moved—at my publisher’s insistence—to a blog, and that didn’t happen until November 2008.

I suffered a brief and frightening flirtation with Wordpress during my early months, but scurried back to Blogger with my tail between my legs after only a few weeks.  In June of this past year, however, I made a second attempt and managed to establish a beachhead, and eventually a full-blown blog empire, in Wordpress.

Since publishing the first book and abandoning HTML, I have published a second Postcards book, and have recently completed the manuscript for the third—Postcards From Ireland, the final book of the Postcards Trilogy.  You’ll be hearing more about that in the coming weeks, but for now, I offer the very first post on the Postcards From Across the Pond web log (that’s what we called ‘em in those days, sonny).

I think this maiden post is remarkable for a variety of reasons: first, that I was able to locate it after all this time and, second, that three books actually resulted from what—to be kind—was a less than auspicious beginning.  But, of course, back in those days, having a website was still rare enough that, simply having one made you stand out; scintillating posts weren’t altogether necessary, as you will see:
 

The Original Postcards Logo

05 January 2002

Preparations:

This is, without a doubt, the most drastic undertaking of my entire life.  For all that, I think I have it fairly well under control.

There are so many variables and so many things to co-ordinate, not the least of which is disentangling myself from my civil service job where I have been working for the past quarter century.  After that much time, your life becomes so pervaded by the 'culture' of civil service you begin to take it all for granted.

The money isn't great, but it has always been comfortable, and lately it has been very good.  The job, for the most part, is at my convenience, thanks to liberal holiday, personal and sick leave.  I have, for my entire adult life, had excellent health benefits, a good dental plan, eye care and a host of other perks.

All of that is about to change in ways I cannot even imagine.

I have never been unemployed before, and the thought is frightening.  Not only will I have to find a new job, but I'll have to do it in a strange culture.

There is also the unsettling thought that this is all irrevocable.  Once I quit, once I move out of my apartment, once I get on that plane and head for the UK, there is no going back.  Well, I could go back, I suppose, but I'd have no job, no place to live and no money.

Does all this give me second thoughts?  No.  Pause for thought, yes, but not second thoughts.

Despite the problems in selling my car, getting rid of all my stuff, trying to wade through the red tape of immigration and tax laws and the daunting thought of having little money in a culture where the cost of living is much higher than it is here, I have the deep conviction that I am doing the right thing.

In my mind, I have only two choices; continue to live in America and finish out my life working at a cushy and undemanding job or accept the hardships inherent in such a move and build a life with a woman who is deeply in love with me and who I love dearly.  When looked at that way, the choice is obvious.

And so I spent the day sorting through my stuff and making multiple trips to the dumpster.  I arranged to sell my furniture and worked out a plan to get rid of my car.  I studied the tax laws and checked into my financial situation.  All in all, things don't look all that bad.  Not yet, at least.

Right now, everything still seems surreal and England seems very far away.  What I have to hang onto is the knowledge that, when I am there, I feel at home and happier than I can ever remember being.  For now, that's going to have to get me through.

The Santa

Okay, here’s my other Christmas poem; that should hold you until Boxing Day.

My favourite season and my two favourite poems welded into one; what more could I ask?

.

The Santa

By Edgar Allen Moore

Once upon a yuletide dreary, while my brain with sleep was weary

and sugar plum fairies danced in children's heads beyond the bedroom door.

Not a creature here was stirring; mamma in her kerchief was worrying,

I in my winter's cap was touring presents lying on the floor.

Train set, race cars, aircraft carrier and a purple dinosaur;

all in pieces on the floor.

.

Ah distinctly I remember it was in the chill December

and the moon its eerie light upon the fallen snow did pour.

Presently I heard a clatter, wondering what was the matter,

straight I spied an elf much fatter than any elf I'd seen before.

Drawn by reindeer in a sleigh this elf drew up outside my door.

Parked and sat, and nothing more.

.

Then this burgundy elf beguiling my wan spirit into smiling

By the jolly countenance and fir trimmed uniform he wore.

“Elf,” I said, “these reindeer brought you, but really don’t you think you ought to

let them go.  If PETA caught you, they’d firebomb your house for sure.

Are you immune from PC zealots?  Tell me why,” I did implore.

The fat elf smiled. “I’m Santa Claus.”

.

Then, me thought, the air grew colder, and my flagging spirit grew bolder,

cheered by memories of my pleasures drawn Christmases of yore.

“Santa,” I cried, “these memories hold you, like angels wings they do enfold you,

Sweet Virginia could have told you: doubters tried and failed before

to bend you to their narrow purpose and make you something to abhor.

Quote the Santa, “Never more.”

.

Be that word our sign of parting, elf or saint, I said, glad heartened.

Whether Coke created or sent by legends from the lusty days of yore,

you remain the true Yule Spirit, Scrooge himself was glad to hear it,

my soul is light, my mind is clear; it sadly was not so before.

But now this light will shine its tiding ever from my bosom’s core

I’ll keep the season evermore.
   

The Santa

The Night Before a Politically Correct Holiday

Christmas is coming, so it must be time to trot out my holiday poems again.  There must be someone out there who hasn’t read this yet:

A Politically Correct Night Before Christmas (um, I mean, A Holiday)

T'was the night before a Holiday, which one I can't say

or the politically correct will come take me away.

And I couldn't decide, for the life of me

if that thing in the corner was a bush or a tree,

when in front of my house a car horn did blare

so I put down my egg nog to see who was there.

A clean-shaven man in a gabardine suit

stepped out of a taxi cab near my front stoop.

"On Driver!" he said, and paid the cab fare

"Are you Santa?" I asked of the man standing there.

"I was once called Saint Nick," he said with a gleam,

"But lately that 'S' word has become almost obscene."

"I've been corrected for certain, though improved, I doubt it,

"Let's get out of this cold and I'll tell you about it."

I offered him cake, and bid him to try it.

"I can't," he replied, "You see, I'm on a diet.

"I'm not to have cookies or candy or sweets

"I must set an example for what children should eat.

"Overeaters Anonymous and dentists both feel

"that I need to stay slim and eat healthy meals.

"My clay pipe, of course, was the next thing to go

"The Cancer Society's lawyers said so.

"My fur suit and leather were found to offend

"militant vegans, so I had to change them

"for a synthetic blend in this neutral color.

"And I shaved off my beard to please one group or another.

"My reindeer all invoked their animal rights

"then the elves unionized and now they're on strike.

"But I no longer need toys, so they're free to go.

"Leaving presents in houses; that's illegal, you know.

"And my name has been changed, it's no longer St. Nick.

"It's now Shirley Abdul Jacob Dinosovitch."

I shook my head sadly, stunned by his speech,

was nothing beyond special interests groups' reach?

"But you aren't Shirley or Jacob or Abdul," I said,

"If you pretend that you are then you're out of your head.

"These groups want you to act as they think you should

"as if they are the ones who define what is good.

"I don't have a society, lawyer or cause

"but I do enjoy Christmas, and I want Santa Claus

"the way I remember, a jolly red elf.

"You're Santa, godamnit, get hold of yourself."

"You're right," he replied, "it's to myself I belong

"they've been holding me hostage to their values too long.

"I'm through taking cab rides, it's back to sleigh power

"and I'll offer the elves another dollar an hour.

"Let's cap this epiphany with a cup of good cheer,

"And for God's sake don't give me non-alcohol beer."

.

Coming soon: The Santa

A Tale of Two Thanksgivings

Excerpt from my second book, More Postcards From Across the Pond

Sorry I couldn't come up with anything original, but it's a busy day for me...

1968

I’m 13, and there’s no school, so I’m up early.  Not as early as my mom; no one ever gets up as early as my mom, but today she is up extra early, singing in the kitchen, rattling pots and pans.  She isn’t preparing a turkey—we have Thanksgiving dinner at my grandma’s house—but she is making pancakes for breakfast, pumpkin pies to bring to the dinner and sugar cookies for later.

Soon the whole family is up.  We have a big breakfast together, which is, in itself, unusual.  At ten o’clock, it’s time for the first tradition: gathering the ground pine for the Christmas wreath.

I take two brown paper bags and my little brother, Marc.  He’s nine now and old enough to be useful though still too young to be very interesting.  We walk down the dirt lane and then cut into the woods.  There is no snow yet, but the fields are frosty and the puddles in the marshy ground are thick with ice.  We amuse each other by smashing them; as much fun as breaking windows and with no undesirable side-effects.

I know where to hunt for the ground pine and sweep away the frosted leaves with a gloved hand to reveal the little tree-like evergreen shoots.  Together we pull up long strands, stuffing the bags full.

At home, my sister is on the phone with her boyfriend and the Macy’s Day parade is on the TV.  We watch it while wrapping the ground pine around a bent coat hanger, adding layer after layer while the big, balloons float by on the TV screen.  By the time the finale arrives—Santa in his sleigh heralding the official start of the Christmas season—the wreath is done.  My mother makes it more festive with some red ribbon and aerosol snow and hangs it on the front door.

Then we leave for grandma’s, the five of us kids stuffed into the backseat singing, “Over the river and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go!”  After a while my mom joins in.  My dad stays silent.

Grandma’s kitchen is warm and redolent with the smell of turkey and fresh baked biscuits.  My uncles are there, with their wives and children and various boyfriends.  We horse around in the chicken coop and play hide and seek among the farm machinery until dinner is ready.

This is a special year, I’m promoted to the grown up table with my older sister, Melinda, while Marc, Matt and Michelle have to sit with their young cousins at the kiddie table.  Then the feast appears: stuffing, hot and moist, yams, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans with slivers of almond, creamed corn, boiled carrots, cranberry sauce out of a can, biscuits and, as the main event, turkey, golden brown and steaming as my grandfather cuts into it.

After we’ve eaten so much we think we can’t take another bite, out come the pumpkin pies, mincemeat pies, ice cream, whipped cream and that strange concoction made out of marshmallows, Cool Whip, Jell-o and slivers of tangerine that I never see at any other time of the year but always look forward to.

And after the feast there is a long, languid afternoon that turns into evening with an impromptu dinner of, what else, turkey and stuffing and gravy and…

Much later, on the verge of sleep, my aunts, uncles and grandparents draw a reluctant end to their jovial conversations and we all trundle into the car and back home.

It’s late, and I’m stuffed but there is still time, and just enough room, to sample one of my mom’s sugar cookies.
 

Happy T-Day

2010

I’m (you do the math) and my cell phone, which doubles as a travel alarm clock, buzzes me awake.  I’m on yet another business trip and I wander around the tiny hotel room, checking my e-mails between showering and getting ready for the day.  I have toast for breakfast and head to the client’s offices.  It’s another long and grueling session; we don’t break for lunch.

Back at the hotel, I have the steak and kidney pie for dinner because there is nothing on the menu that remotely resembles turkey.  No one remarks that it is Thanksgiving; no one knows.

After dinner, I sit outside in the crisp night, watching the cars and the people go by, smoking a cigar and drinking a pint of ale.  It’s a lonely business, traveling for work.  But it’s not a bad sort of loneliness because I know it will soon be over and I will return home to my wife.

This isn’t where I thought I would be those many years ago, sitting by myself in a strange town thousands of miles from where I was born.  I miss the holiday, and I miss gathering with friends and family on this day that is special only to Americans.  But we go where life takes us, and even though I did not have a dinner of turkey, stuffing and cranberry sauce, I’m still grateful.  When you take away the feast and the fellowship, that’s what Thanksgiving is really all about, counting your blessings, and remembering that you have much to be thankful for.

And so, here on my own, I count them; they are many, and I am thankful for each and every one.
 

Eat Beef.

Denny's Diary -- One Soldier's Story

In honor of Remembrance Day, I am posting a transcript of my grandfather’s diary, kept while he was serving in the front lines during World War One with the 102^nd Machine Gun Battalion of the Yankee Division.

While at the front, Private 1^st Class Benjamin Franklin Denison (Denny) made brief (and sometimes nearly illegible) entries onto the 1918 Standard Diary and Daily Reminder diary booklet he carried with him.  The diary recently came to me from my Aunt Ann, Denny’s oldest daughter, who was entrusted with its keeping.  I made a few notes for clarity and spelled out some of the words he abbreviated but otherwise kept the words as he wrote them--including his best-guess spelling of place names.  The diary is not exciting, but it is a true account of a soldier’s life during The Great War.

NOTES: 1) The term "fatigue" refers to any work that does not involve going to the trenches.  2) The abbreviation G.L appears throughout and I cannot, with any certainty, claim to know what it means.  However, Denny does make a few references to “Got L.” and “Got Lit” so it is safe to assume those entries are a code meaning he got drunk, which is certainly in character.  He was, after all, my grandfather.
   

Diary and booklet about the Yankee Division on a photograph
of a commemoration of the 102nd Machine Gun Battalion

Tue 01-Jan-1918
Got L. Had day off

Wed 02-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Thu 03-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Fri 04-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Sat 05-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Sun 06-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Mon 07-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Tue 08-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Wed 09-Jan-1918
Drilled.

Thu 10-Jan-1918
Drilled at trenches, no dinner.  Skipped and came home.

Fri 11-Jan-1918
Trenches.  Cold.

Sat 12-Jan-1918
Drilled at trenches.  Had hot dinner there.  Inoculated.  Barracks

Sun 13-Jan-1918
Short AM inspection.  Bemis came down in PM.  G.L.

Mon 14-Jan-1918
Drilled in AM.  Got "busted."  On stable guard.

Tue 15-Jan-1918
Pay day.  Change of quarters.  Rained all day.

Wed 16-Jan-1918
Drilled on hill.  Had dinner there.  Went to town.  G.L.

Thu 17-Jan-1918
Drilled, same place.  Dinner.  Went to town.  G.L.

Fri 18-Jan-1918
Drilled and had dinner same place.  Sun and I went to town.  G.L.

Sat 19-Jan-1918
Drilled at trenches.  Went to town.  G.L.  Made Private 1st Class.

Sun 20-Jan-1918
Inspection.  Breiver came over.  Went to town.  Very warm.

Mon 21-Jan-1918
Shot on range.  Went to town and Emersons and I G.L.  Warm.

Tue 22-Jan-1918
Fatigue at corral and cook shack.  Late for reveille.  Raining.

Wed 23-Jan-1918
On range and field practice.  Warm.

Thu 24-Jan-1918
Fatigue at cook shack.  Pretty soft job.  Warm.
 

A WW1 Cookshack

Fri 25-Jan-1918
Drilled.  Warm.

Sat 26-Jan-1918
Fatigue.  Warm.

Sun 27-Jan-1918
Reveille at 5:15.  Shot on range with both 168 guns at once.  Warm.

Mon 28-Jan-1918
Reveille same time.  Shot on range again.  Saw all the old boys.  Warm.

Tue 29-Jan-1918
Went to range.  Went to town and got feed.  Not feeling well.  Warm.

Wed 30-Jan-1918
AM sick call.  Did nothing today.  Had bath.  Warm.

Thu 31-Jan-1918
Went out with mules in AM.  Gas house in PM.  Got rubber boots.  Warm.

Fri 01-Feb-1918
Drilled with bombs.  Went on guard at night.

Sat 02-Feb-1918
Stayed on guard (indistinct) on range.  Came off guard at 7:30.  Warm.

Sun 03-Feb-191
Reveille at 6:45.  Pease and Abbot passed in stripes.  Fine day.

Mon 04-Feb-1918
Filled ammunition strips.  Easy day.  Fine and warm.

Tue 05-Feb-1918
Fisk and I skipped drill and explored caves.  Fine weather.

Wed 06-Feb-1918
Made packs and had inspection.  Packed Bar. Bags.  Started to rain in PM.

Thu 07-Feb-1918
Hung around in day.  Left R'irlle at 8 PM for Chat. arrived at 11:30 and loaded cars.  Felt fine.

Fri 08-Feb-1918
Train left Chat. at 8:30 AM.  Slept all day.  Fine weather.

Sat 09-Feb-1918
Arrived at Brainsine at 4 AM and began to unload.  Hiked to Chaserny.  Got to (indistinct) at  10 AM.  Slept in dugouts.  Saw air battle.

Sun 10-Feb-1918
Company left for front at 2:30 PM.  I stayed back to guard supplies.  Band is playing.

Mon 11-Feb-1918
Left Chas. for Valley.  Town in ruins.  Went over battlefield.

Tue 12-Feb-1918
Fisk and I got lost on battlefield.  Saw Bosche plane bring down 3 French balloons.  Hell of a place to live in.  Had bath.
 

Diary entries

Wed 13-Feb-1918
Stable guard.

Thu 14-Feb-1918
Made 2 trips to trenches.  Got back at 4 AM.  Some mud.

Fri 15-Feb-1918
5 G. airplanes came over corral.  3 came down.  On guard again.

Sat 16-Feb-1918
Hung around kitchen.  Got new dugout.  Cool.

(Margin note at top of page beginning 17 Feb 1918)  One G. came down.

Sun 17-Feb-1918
Heavy firing going on.  Went to trenches on saddle.  Saw a fine air fight.

Mon 18-Feb-1918
Fred and I took Capt. Trunk to Base.  On stable guard.  Heavy bombardment at 12:30 AM.

Tue 19-Feb-1918
Hung around all day.  Cleaned harness.  Warm.

Wed 20-Feb-1918
Went after Co.  Got back at 12 AM.  Raining.

Thu 21-Feb-1918
Had bath.  Hung around.  Got letter from Glad. and Clyde.  Lots of mail.

Fri 22-Feb-1918
Hung around.

Sat 23-Feb-1918
Hung around.

Sun 24-Feb-1918
Walked to Chavonine with Fisk and Asgood.  Turkey for dinner.

Mon 25-Feb-1918
Company went to trenches.  2nd platoon stayed here.  Cold and Rainy.  Got mail from Ava. (his wife)

Tue 26-Feb-1918
We left for trenches.  Quiet.

Wed 27-Feb-1918
Quiet.  Went for chow in PM.

Thu 28-Feb-1918
Heavy barrage from 9 to 10:35 AM.  Many wounded and few killed.  Quiet.

Fri 01-Mar-1918
Heavy artillery fire at right of section.   Raining.

Sat 02-Mar-1918
Pretty quiet.  Some snow and cool.

Sun 03-Mar-1918
Quiet, cold and wet.

Mon 04-Mar-1918
Pretty quiet.  Cold.

Tue 05-Mar-1918
Quiet.  Cold.

Wed 06-Mar-1918
Quiet and cool.

Thu 07-Mar-1918
Some artillery and air fights.  French relieved us.  Glad to get back.

Fri 08-Mar-1918
Went to trenches for AM.  Got back at 2 AM.  Hell of a time.  Big air raid and lots of mud.  Pay day.

Sat 09-Mar-1918
Moved to Chaseniy. Fine place.  Airplanes.  Hung around at supply line.

Sun 10-Mar-1918
Cleaned up and went to trenches for carts in PM.  Saw plane come down.  Got some of it.  Fine and warm.
 

The Trenches

Mon 11-Mar-1918
Hung around.  Fine weather.  Got box from Borne.  Don't feel good.

Tue 12-Mar-1918
Got letter from F. Cole.  Fine and warm.  Stomach on the burn.

Wed 13-Mar-1918
Hung around.  Not feeling well.

Thu 14-Mar-1918
Great weather.  Nothing doing.

Fri 15-Mar-1918
John Harvey came back.  Not much doing.  Not feeling very good.  Cool.

Sat 16-Mar-1918
Laid around.  Had inspection of helmets and masks.  Wass came back.  Warm.

Sun 17-Mar-1918
Hung around.  Warm and nice.

Mon 18-Mar-1918
Left Chessemy at 7 AM for Braine.  Warm.

Tue 19-Mar-1918
Left B. at 7:30 AM.  Raining.  AM guard in car.

Wed 20-Mar-1918
Arrived at Brainsine (indistinct) chateau at 2 AM.  Unloaded and hiked to villa la Teire.  Raining.  19 Kilo

Thu 21-Mar-1918
Laid around.  Fine place here.  Warm.

Fri 22-Mar-1918
Went through church.  Parked wagons.  Had feed.  Fine day.  Got ready to move.

Sat 23-Mar-1918
Hiked to Dommatry St Piere and camped.  Fine place.  Warm.  14 Kilo

Sun 24-Mar-1918
Stopped at Nome court.  Fish and I had feed.  Warm and nice.  15 Kilo

Mon 25-Mar-1918
Hiked to Armonville.  Fine and warm.  19 Kilo

Tue 26-Mar-1918
Went to (blank).  Cold and snowy.  Carried packs.  14 Kilo
 

WW1 Barracks

Wed 27-Mar-1918
Reached camp.  Cool.  14 Kilo

Thu 28-Mar-1918
Hung around.  Went to St. Blin at night.  S.O.L. on B.  Cool.

Fri 29-Mar-1918
Raining.  Packed up stuff.  Ready to move.

Sat 30-Mar-1918
Raining.  Started trip.  Stayed in farm.

Sun 31-Mar-1918
Company went on in trucks.  We went to Maryey.  Cold and raining.  Only 1 meal.

Mon 01-Apr-1918
Had breakfast.  Left M. at 5 AM.  Got in (indistinct) at 8 PM.  Hung around.  Cold and rainy.  No grub.

Tue 02-Apr-1918
Got in bed at 4:30 AM.  Still raining.  Got up at 9 AM.  Breakfast.  Left at 9:30 AM.  Arrived at 12.  No grub.

Wed 03-Apr-1918
Hung around.  Some mud.  Raining.

--

Sun 07-Apr-1918
Hung around.  Peggy got hit and 4 of Eddy's mules killed.

Mon 08-Apr-1918
Went to trenches with Hanson.  Got by OK.  Raining.  Got back at 1 AM.

Tue 09-Apr-1918
Hung around.  Cool.  Worked for Barrows.

Wed 10-Apr-1918
Fish and I went to trenches.  No trouble.  Got back at 3 AM.

Thu 11-Apr-1918
Hung around and slept most of day.  Warm.

Fri 12-Apr-1918
Hung around.  Garfield came up.  Warm.

Sat 13-Apr-1918
Hung around.  Cloudy.  Went to Battalion headquarters to guard.  Peggy came back.

Sun 14-Apr-1918
Went back to own quarters.  Pretty quiet.

--

Sat 20-Apr-1918
Raid started at 3 AM.  We lost 6 killed, 9 wounded and 22 men and 1 officer are missing.  On Battalion guard at Ar'ville.
 

Trenches

Mon 22-Apr-1918Company came out of trenches.

--

Mon 29-Apr-1918
Emmon and I went up on ration cart.  Quiet.

Tue 30-Apr-1918
Hung around.

Wed 01-May-1918
Hung around.

Thu 02-May-1918
Hung around.

Fri 03-May-1918
Went to town.  Saw Garfield.  Had feed in stable.  Got 10 francs from Jack.

--

Sun 09-Jun-1918
Fine and warm.

--

Wed 17-Jul-1918
Stared out with rations.  Got lost and hiked all day.

Thu 18-Jul-1918
Drive started.  Lost 5 men at Vearix.  I found the train near Chateau Thierry.

Fri 19-Jul-1918
Camped at Veiddlywith company.  Some shelling.  Friedman and Norton were killed.

Sat 20-Jul-1918
Hung around Veidilly

Sun 21-Jul-1918
Bosche shelled Verdilly.  Lost 10 mules.

Mon 22-Jul-1918
Moved from V. up to the company.  Stayed in woods.  Lots of shelling.

Tue 23-Jul-1918
Got relieved.  Saw a plane come down.  American.

Wed 24-Jul-1918
Camped in woods near Chateau Thierry.

Thu 25-Jul-1918
Still in woods.  Raining.

--

Thu 08-Aug-1918
Wrote home for $50.

--

Fri 30-Aug-1918
Rode on train load at night.  Wet and cold.

Sat 31-Aug-1918
Unloaded.  Had lots of beer.  Hiked all night to woods.  Cold and wet.

Sun 01-Sep-1918
Lost job of driving mules.  Put in 3rd (indistinct).  Hiked all night.

Mon 02-Sep-1918
Fine weather.

--

Fri 20-Sep-1918
Father died at1:3 AM.

--

Sat 19-Oct-1918
On guard.  2-6 AM.

Sun 20-Oct-1918
Got $50 from Muriel (his sister).  Raining.

Mon 21-Oct-1918
Good day.  Hung around.

Tue 22-Oct-1918
Good day.  Hung around.

Wed 23-Oct-1918
Fine and warm.  Sully came back from hospital.

Thu 24-Oct-1918
Jim Tahanan was killed.

--

Sun 03-Nov-1918
Kitchens moved back to Beville.  We moved back to barracks.  Slept in stable.

Fri 08-Nov-1918
Went to barracks with Wilkins.

Sat 09-Nov-1918
Got ready to move.  Went to trenches on ration detail.

Sun 10-Nov-1918
Shorty's birthday.

Mon 11-Nov-1918
I am 23 years old.  All hostilities stopped at 11 AM.  Went to Verdun in PM.
 

In Remembrance

Wed 13-Nov-1918
Went to barracks for stuff.  Left camp slept in small barn.

Thu 14-Nov-1918
Went to Wixeirlle for rations.  Left camp for new place.  Slept outdoors.  Had feed.

Fri 15-Nov-1918
Left for Nubecourt.  Slept in barn.  Cold.  Damp.

Sat 16-Nov-1918
Stayed in Nubecourt.  Saint Berry  G.

Sun 17-Nov-1918
Left Nubecourt for Belrain.  Slept in barn.  Fine place.

Mon 18-Nov-1918
Left Belrain for new place.  "Bon"  Slept in wagon.  On guard.  I did no G.
 

Barracks and Cookhouse

Tue 19-Nov-1918
Left for new place.  Fine weather.

Wed 20-Nov-1918
Left for Lymirth.  Had feed from woman.  G.L.

Thu 21-Nov-1918
Left for La F.  Went to dance.  Saw Tray.  G.L.

Fri 22-Nov-1918
Left La Frenche for Consighy.  Fine day.  Had feed.

Sat 23-Nov-1918
Left for Poylangny.  End of hike.  Fine place.

Sun 24-Nov-1918
Hung around stables.  Signed payroll.  Saw 101st boys.  Jack and I got lit.

Mon 25-Nov-1918
Hung around.  Went on guard at night.

Tue 26-Nov-1918
On guard.  Company washed carts.  S. was drunk and didn't do his guard.

Wed 27-Nov-1918
Went to Mense on horse detail.  Some ride.

Thu 28-Nov-1918
Came back from Mense on truck.  Swell feed.

Fri 29-Nov-1918
Finished cleaning up.  Hung around.

Sat 30-Nov-1918
Fine day.  Inspection.  Pay day.  G.L.

Sun 01-Dec-1918
Went out with carts in AM.  Fine day.

Mon 02-Dec-1918
Drilled with company in PM.

Tue 03-Dec-1918
Warm.  Drilled with company.  Fine day.

Wed 04-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Thu 05-Dec-1918
Drilled with company.  Missed retreat and fell asleep on guard.  May be shot.

Fri 06-Dec-1918
Sent 12 mules away.  Got letter from Ava.  Had fatigue in PM.  Washed carts (Co).

Sat 07-Dec-1918
Don and I went to next town.  G.L..

Sun 08-Dec-1918
Fatigue.  Went to next town.  G.L.  Fine day.

Mon 09-Dec-1918
Fatigue.  Café all closed.  G.L.

Tue 10-Dec-1918
Fatigue.  Saw 4 girls in PM.  On guard.  Raining.

Wed 11-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Thu 12-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Fri 13-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Sat 14-Dec-1918
Raining.  Inspection.  Fatigue.

Sun 15-Dec-1918
Fine day.  Walked fatigue.  Went to Fonlain.  Had feed.  Came back and had feed.

Mon 16-Dec-1918
Went on range.  Raining and cold.

Tue 17-Dec-1918
Shortarm inspeciton.  Fatigue all day.  Got Xniax boxes.

Wed 18-Dec-1918
Drilled.  Got off fatigue.

Thu 19-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Fri 20-Dec-1918
Went on guard.  Had feed at Laula.

Sat 21-Dec-1918
Inspection all day.  On guard.

Sun 22-Dec-1918
Some (indistinct) got pay.  Started to clean up town.  Don and I got lit.

Mon 23-Dec-1918
Hung around.

Tue 24-Dec-1918
Started on hike.  Got there at 3 PM.  21 kilo.  Abbott and I G.L.  On guard.

Wed 25-Dec-1918
Went to see President Wilson.  Came back.  Some hike.

Thu 26-Dec-1918
Had Xmas dinner.  Got paid.  Got (indistinct) from Clyde.

Fri 27-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Sat 28-Dec-1918
Kitchen police.

Sun 29-Dec-1918
Kitchen police.

Mon 30-Dec-1918
Kitchen police.

Tue 31-Dec-1918
Drilled.

Wed 01-Jan-1919
Got transferred to C Company.

Thu 02-Jan-1919
Drilled in AM.  Packed up in PM.

Fri 03-Jan-1919
Hiked from Ponlangy to Enoirisveaux.   Rotten place.

--

Fri 28-Mar-1919
Went to all our friends to say good-bye.

Sat 29-Mar-1919
Left Mansigne in AM.  Left Mayet in PM.

Sun 30-Mar-1919
Reached Brest in AM.  Hiked to camp.  Slept in beds in tents.  Some sleep.

Mon 31-Mar-1919
Had inspection and bath in AM.  On K.P. at night.

Tue 01-Apr-1919
Came off K.P. at 4:30 AM.  Some job.  Saw Laudeu and Peabody.

Wed 02-Apr-1919
Had inspection in AM and inspection at 2 PM and inspection at 7 PM.  First one in 5 minutes.  Some day.

Thu 03-Apr-1919
On detail at 15 kitchen.  Soft job.  Saw Tony M.  Fine day.

Fri 04-Apr-1919
A company left for the boat in AM.  Went to see Peb. in PM.  Hung around.

Sat 05-Apr-1919
B Company left for boat at 8 AM.  Got paid in PM.  Had some beer.

Sun 06-Apr-1919
Left camp in AM.  Got on Patricia in PM.  Left France at 6 PM.

Mon 07-Apr-1919
First day out.  Fine weather.

Tue 08-Apr-1919
Second day out.  Stormy.

Wed 09-Apr-1919
Third day.  On guard.

Thu 10-Apr-1919
Fourth day.  Off guard in AM.  Pretty stormy.

Fri 11-Apr-1919
Fifth day.  Emergency.  Stopped 2 hours in AM.  Good weather.
 

A WW1 Troopship

Sat 12-Apr-1919
Sixth day.  One-half way home.  Fine weather.

Sun 13-Apr-1919
Seventh day.  Fine and warm.

Mon 14-Apr-1919
Eighth day.  Fine sea.  Foggy.

Tue 15-Apr-1919
Ninth day.  Cold and foggy.

Wed 16-Apr-1919
Tenth day.  Foggy.

Thu 17-Apr-1919
Eleventh day.  Landed at 2 PM.  Some time.  Went today to land.  (Indistinct)  Had bath at 1 AM in camp.  Slept in tent.

Fri 18-Apr-1919
Finished bath at 5 AM.  Slept.  Moved to barracks in PM.

Sat 19-Apr-1919
Bill and I went home.  Ava came down in PM.

Sun 20-Apr-1919
Stayed at home with Ava.  Back to camp at night.

Mon 21-Apr-1919
Hung around camp.  Went to Fitchboro in PM.  Saw Clyde.

Tue 22-Apr-1919
Sick.  Got up at 2 PM.  Big (indistinct).  Saw Clyde.  Wrote letters.

Wed 23-Apr-1919
Hung around.  Fine weather.

Thu 24-Apr-1919
Hung around.  Raining.

Fri 25-Apr-1919
Went to Boston.  I went to hospital.  Fine place.  Cold.

Sat 26-Apr-1919
Ava and father came up in AM.  Cold.

Sun 27-Apr-1919
Fine day.  Saw Eustance.

Mon 28-Apr-1919
Transferred to 151 Brigade.  First lot got discharged.

Tue 29-Apr-1919
Rest of boys left.

Wed 30-Apr-1919
Hung around.

Thu 01-May-1919
Got pass to go home.

Fri 02-May-1919
Hung around.

Sat 03-May-1919
Hung around.

Sun 04-May-1919
Hung around home.

Mon 05-May-1919
Hung around home.

Tue 06-May-1919
Came back to hospital.  Saw Larry and Betty.

Wed 07-May-1919
Went to Dept. Brid.

Thu 08-May-1919
On K.P.

Fri 09-May-1919
Hung around.  Shaved.

Tue 13-May-1919
Day set to get out.
 

Private 1st Class Benjamin Franklin Denison