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Also, a selection of vegan food from "Conscious Fork" restaurant in Warwick, or pack a lunch of your own. This month we're featuring the photography of Aldo Troiani in the tasting room!
Love to see you! Additional info Sunday 4: The Great Divas of Gospel have spent years paying tribute to the female queens of Gospel music and are now touring to raise money so that they can film a documentary of these tribute performances.
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Our Kids' Open Mic has become a popular favorite, and is always full of surprises and incredible talent.
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Listen to selected songs from local Hudson Valley musicians. Musicians — add your songs for free. Locally owned and run since Share this page with your social networks: Free Music at the Beach!
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The common denominator here is, of course, the date, October We crossed the Baltic and passed through Poland without crises. We left Düsseldorf days before the major offensive that captured Aachen on October 21, the day before my eighth birthday.
On the morning of 24 March , an enormous air armada crossed the River Rhein near Wesel. The column of aircraft, two-and-a-half hours long, consisted of more than 1, IX Troop Carrier Command airplanes and gliders.
Their mission was to capture key points and so assist the advance of the ground troops. By 26 March , the entire western front of Europe was east of the Rhine River.
Dusseldorf Bahnhof, passenger building. We have detrained to await assembly of a new combination of carriages, including the ones on which all our possessions still remain, for the purpose of transporting us to Munich.
It is a large space, people are milling about, a double door is open to the tracks. A tall German soldier walks in through the door.
He is wearing the classical black uniform with medals, a peaked cap, shiny jackboots, and is carrying the inevitable riding crop in his right hand. Until I encountered Darth Vader, this was the image I carried of the embodiment of pure evil.
Without much pause, the German raps loudly on a metal cabinet with his riding crop, rocks back on his heels, and imperiously intones the single word, stretched out over what seemed like one full minute: Back to the present.
This episode describes my one and only personal encounter with Nazi officialdom. You might say, and I would agree, emphatically, that it is difficult to imagine a less devastating encounter.
Let's not even talk about killing or torture. This experience did not even include violence - just some overbearing, gratuitous disrespect, discourtesy, and insult.
Yet, for me, this image is built into the foundations of my value system, supporting my personal concept of how one interacts with people, and when I see it reflected in the actions of my fellow humans, I come the very closest to acting out of pure, red rage, with no reference to reason.
You would think that I would ever after associate this behavior with Nazis or perhaps Germans in general, but that's not so.
I hung it on policemen instead. To this day I am prejudiced against policemen. Yes, I know about enforcing the law and the dangers that law-enforcement officers suffer on our behalf.
But to me, until proved otherwise, a policeman is a guy who took the job so he could wear a gun and be gratuitously disrespectful to people, reflecting the image of my paradigm for this kind of person, namely, the jackbooted German in Düsseldorf in My degree of democratization goes even as far as to consider the possibility that the German in Düsseldorf, who was the source of my indelible reaction, may, in a broader sense, be exonerated of the charges on which my ego arraigned on him.
It was no secret to him, certainly, that the third Reich was toppling and that his personal future was not very bright. Let me continue this line of thinking with a more recent example.
It is January 15, I am sitting in my office in Building 33 on Lindbergh Ave. The door opens, without announcement, and Don Kotansky walks in, accompanied by Bill Bower.
These are my colleagues in the laboratory, of approximately similar rank. Don sees me sitting at my desk and says brusquely: Skip forward, perhaps one year later.
I had learned quite a bit about the subject from the seminar, and had asked several questions on technical issues I did not understand, which Don proceeded to clarify to my benefit and satisfaction.
On the way out the door he taps me on the shoulder and says, in a confidential, hushed tone: To finish the story, Don Kotansky was a member of a volunteer, adjunct civilian police force in St.
In this capacity he was issued a police uniform, and a 38 caliber police side-arm, which he was trained to use. He spent several Saturdays a month partnered with a full-time policeman, patrolling the streets of St.
Louis County, conducting police business as part of the team. One day in the mids I came in to work in the morning to be greeted with the news that Don Kotansky had killed himself the previous afternoon, with his police revolver, in the basement of his home, where his wife had found him upon returning from her workplace.
What conclusions to draw? Don confided to colleagues that he enjoyed the sense of personal power his uniform and gun provided.
But it is almost impossible to envision the enormous, devastating conflicts and tensions that we must ascribe to his internal world if we are to understand his action from the very few pieces of data that I have listed here!
So, to finally draw full circle, today I am much less ready to condemn the German in Dusseldorf in Who knows, perhaps he too ended his own life with an army-issue revolver.
Also 8 years old, he is teaching me the essentials of German, or German from the bottom up. A single, long building, built according to Bavarian tradition, it has stalls for horses on one end, a two-story part for people in the middle, with a second-story balcony running the length of it, and, on the other end, stalls for oxen.
In front of us is a 5 foot wide concrete walkway, spanning the full length of the building, and separated by a sturdy wooden railing from a 6 foot deep manure pit, whose far side is level with the yard, and which stores the material output of the inhabitants of both ends of the structure and from the cow barn across the yard from us.
They are in the other end of the cow barn. I suppose the pit had pig manure in it also. Let's leave the discussion of how all this smelled for a later time.
The place is run by Mutti, the very old, to my eye, mother of her only son, Hans Perseis, who would normally be overseeing the work and hiring farm workers to help him and his family, but who can't do so because he is away at war.
And whom, by the way, I met in when I went back to Bavaria and stayed overnight at Hilgersode. She does so with the help of Ottilia, a maid, Emil, a French prisoner of war assigned to the farm, twice as big as Mutti and perfectly capable of running away anytime he wants to, who nonetheless does not, and now us, my father, mother, two sisters, and me.
From Munich to Altoetting, a couple of days in another barracks, then to the farm. It is early November We are about miles east of Munich and about 50 miles north of Chiemsee, just outside a small town called Lohkirchen, 10 miles from Muhldorf-am-Inn, in the middle of beautiful, rolling countryside with the Alps visible as a white, jagged slash on the horizon, in Austria.
This is picture postcard country. It is hard for me to travel back to and leave behind all that I know in about the Nazis, the atrocities, and the evils sanctioned and practiced by one of the world's most modern countries.
Especially so because in the Muhldorf region is rife with slave labor camps associated administratively with the Dachau death camp, just 20 miles north of Munich.
Then he or she becomes redundant and is transferred to Dachau for disposal. Let's look at the time line for this period. The Normandy invasion was on 6 June, , while we are still in Latvia.
By November we arrive in Bavaria. On January 9, the Marines land in Luzon, Philippines. On February 13 the Russians occupy Budapest, Hungary.
On April 6, the Marines land in Okinawa. On April 12, President Roosevelt dies. At hours, they drop 1, one hundred pound bombs I see the escort fighters overhead.
They all have white, five-pointed stars on the wings and fuselages. No flak is encountered during the mission. One aircraft lands at Zara on the Adriatic.
During these last months of the war, slave labor camps near Muhldorf are emptied by forced marches terminating in Dachau, where the survivors are gassed.
All U-boats are ordered home and all armies are ordered to cease fire. During these last months of the war, while all the interlinked European and Pacific theater campaigns are coming to a close, we are living, all told, under very civilized conditions, not unlike those we would have experienced had the Bauernhof belonged to a family member and we had moved there to help out with the chores and to wait out the war in safety.
In a very attenuated form, I experience an inner conflict in writing about my experiences as an eight-year-old that must be similar to those of a German of my age, thinking about his childhood in the context of what he has learned about his own country and people as he grew into an adult.
Picture yourself as a German parent, having to explain to your eight-year-old about Germany's role in the just-finished war. You might expect this to be a topic that is not visited frequently.
And there are few Germans of my age who can not point to a family member who was directly involved in one of the nightmares of the civilized world.
Eight years is just about the age limit beyond which realities of the world cannot be shut out. An eight-year-old in Germany would be joining the Hitler Youth movement, and teenagers very likely would have experienced the war in a very direct fashion.
It's not surprising that some escape this conflict by denying the Holocaust, denying the atrocities, as if wishing would make it all go away.
It's winter, and Heribert is going to school in Lohkirchen, one valley over from ours. It is decided that I will go also.
I attend the little German grammar school in Lohkirchen with Heribert for several months, but all that remains in memory is my surprise at being handed a small slate tablet with a wooden frame on it and a stylus that appears made of stone, with a point on one end, with which one can write on the tablet and, at the end of the exercise, erase all that had been written, to start over again with the next lesson.
One lesson sticks in my mind indelibly, and it has nothing to do with school. It is an observation I make on the way to school.
It is a bright, cold morning with snow on the ground. There is no wind and everything is very still and quiet. I am walking toward school, alone, up the hill, away from the farmhouse.
I am perhaps a half mile away, when I look back at the sound of wood being chopped. Indeed, there is my father with an axe, getting ready to swing it overhead, aiming for the log, propped up on its end, ready to be split.
And indeed, I watch the axe travel the arc over his head and connect with the log, which obediently parts into two separate pieces.
This is all as it should be except for one thing. There is no sound at the moment when the axe connects with the log.
Instead, I hear the noise only as my father reaches over and begins to arrange the next log to be split. I check once more.
Yes, indeed, it is true. I hear the sound at a time that is several seconds later than when I see the motion. I walk up the hill and keep looking back, and the time interval between the chop and the noise increases.
At that moment the concept of sound propagation solidifies in my mind, and the essence of it hasn't changed in 60 years. As I watched the fighter planes overhead in Latvia and watch them now in Bavaria, I am puzzled that the apparent location of the airplane, according to the sound I hear, is always considerably behind the location of the airplane as determined by my eyes.
These two observations are still with me and are the indelible foundation of the theories of aeroacoustics that I have since learned, and many of which I have since forgotten.
And when Kurt calls me on the telephone and says: But, in the back of my mind, it is again a bright Bavarian morning and I am alive to my last fiber, fascinated that it should take almost 3 seconds for the sound of the axe hitting the log to reach me on the snowy hillside.
One Sunday Heribert and I go to church in Lohkirchen. Many young people of our age are at the service. It is a modest country church, with a very tall spire, Catholic by denomination.
Heribert and I are sitting in a pew. I watch all the goings on with great interest. There is much color, many candles burn on the altar, and the priest is swinging a chain with a little basket attached, from which fragrant smoke emanates.
He talks in a singsong manner, people sing, and I understand nothing. Suddenly, Heribert stands up next to me, along with other children, and starts slowly moving out of the pew.
I stand up also, intending to go with him. He motions to me, with some urgency, to sit down, but I don't understand what he is whispering to me.
My plan is to stick close to him and do whatever he does. Heribert kneels down by the railing in front of the altar, and so do I.
I can't imagine what's going to happen next, but here we are, some 15 youngsters, all kneeling, facing the priest, who proceeds to talk some more, and the young people all answer him in unison several times.
Finally, he takes a small gold dish from the altar, goes to the end of the row of kneeling figures, slowly takes something from the dish and moves it toward the mouth of the first person, who opens his mouth, the priest puts something in it, upon which the recipient closes his mouth and proceeds to chew slowly.
He then goes to the next one, and the next one, and repeats the procedure until he gets to Heribert, who is kneeling next to me.
I know I will finally find out what is on the little dish. This, however, is not to be, because, having finished with Heribert, the priest walks past me without giving me anything, and goes to the next youngster on my other side.
Once he is done with the whole group, he puts the dish back on the altar and picks up a gold cup from which he proceeds to give something to drink to everyone.
By now I know what to expect, and, sure enough, he skips me again and goes to the next person until once again he's finished with the last one.
A little more talk, a little more singing, and we all get up and walk back to our pews again. I feel puzzled, understanding that I have just received the message that I don't belong, although I don't understand what it is that I don't belong to.
While the priest delivered the message with no particular unkindness or intensity, he did so with undeniable clarity.
Heribert and I walk home and resume our German lessons. I used to think that he would have said that, being a good soldier in God's Army, he was just obeying orders, the same answer as that given by soldiers in Hitler's army, though I would have thought that God might have given different orders.
With time, however, I have come to think more kindly of him. For me, however, this early encounter with organized religion, while not repelling me entirely from the institution, indicated even then that my chances of turning into a standard churchgoer were not very promising.
The Unlucky Chicken Low-flying airplanes become more and more a part of the scene as the winter wears on. They fly low enough so that I can distinguish their markings.
There are two kinds, one with white stars, and the other with blue and red bull's-eye markings on the wings and fuselage. Although I have never been there, I am told that on the other side of the other hill, in the opposite direction from school, is an airfield.
Indeed, the star and bull's-eye airplanes appear to be strafing the airfield. They circle high in the sky above the farmhouse and then descend as they disappear over the hill.
In preparation for their strafing runs, many of them drop large, elongated objects. I know these are not bombs, because I have seen bombs being dropped and I know they whistle as they descend, and these make no noise at that distance.
Besides, they are much larger than bombs. I stand on the second-story balcony, watching the airplanes some distance away, dropping what turn out to be wing-mounted fuel tanks, and follow their trajectories to the ground.
But I never see the one that almost kills me. I watch leisurely as the air show unfolds. I think I hear a light, rushing sound that is different from the previous mix.
Nothing has changed in my field of vision. A chicken is scratching busily at the edge of the manure pit. My immediate thought is that a large explosion is about to follow, and I instinctively stick my index fingers in my ears so that the noise will not hurt them.
My experience has not taught me about explosions damaging anything, so I feel I have covered all contingencies and return my attention to the object that just dropped from the sky and clobbered the hell out of my chicken.
There is no explosion. I pull my fingers out of my ears. I also know that the presence of British markings indicates that the airplanes were based in England.
The fact that they were dropping their wing tanks meant that they were empty and the mission had only one leg left, namely, to return home.
I don't know if they ever dropped just one tank -- I surely would not want to fly with that unbalanced a load.
I also know that, to make sure there was a clean separation of the tank from the airplane, the feedline contained a glass segment mounted in such a way that it broke upon separation.
The eight-year-old in me, however, still carries vividly the scenes of the aircraft wheeling in the sky, unencumbered by any knowledge of their intent or effect, totally unconcerned with the possibility of injury, fascinated with the ongoing, private, instructional exhibits being presented to me, one after another, by a world that has chosen to provide me with a superb and unique education at untold cost.
Junior-year-abroad pales in comparison. As one industry tycoon said from his 50th floor corner office overlooking New York City: But, Terkel did not talk to any dead people.
The Crystal Palace As my grandfather used to say: A little is fine as fertilizer, but one should not wallow in it. So far, I have described everything that I can remember, which is astonishingly little, considering that in the years leading up to age 7 or 8 one learns a language, a culture, how to read, how to write, and how to pick up after oneself, maybe.
Perhaps one accumulates tools before one accumulates memories. Learning the tools doesn't count as a memory. Why is a red light flashing on my monitor?
Oh, the time-travel software. No, I do not wish. Munich, 2 November, Fade to… Munich Bahnhof. We are just pulling into the station.
I look up at the ceiling of the enclosure. What looks like a gigantic, vaulted greenhouse roof has twisted pieces of checkerboard trusses hanging with a few shards of glass still clinging to the wreckage.
Look at the neighboring track through the window on the opposite side! All the tracks except ours and one other are buried under twisted and jumbled railroad equipment.
Most outlandish is the sight of a locomotive with all 24 wheels pointing skyward and the front-end canted at an angle, resting on a crushed passenger car.
This is what's left of the famous Munich railroad station that was fashioned after the Crystal Palace, the focus of The Great Exhibition of in Hyde Park in London, as were half the railroad stations in Europe, so profound was the influence of the building that was intended merely to display the exhibits of interest.
Conceived by Prince Albert, Queen Victoria's German husband, it was designed by Sir Joseph Paxton in only 10 days, viewed by over 6 million visitors to the exhibition, and showcased over 13, exhibits.
Among the exhibits were the Jacquard loom, an envelope machine, tools, kitchen appliances, steel-making displays, and a reaping machine from the United States.
National exhibitions were also staged within its glass and iron walls, including the world's first aeronautical exhibition held in and the First National motor show, plus cat shows, dog shows, pigeon shows, honey, flower, and other shows.
But it was the building itself that contributed, for years, to Britain's social, scientific and sporting history, until November 30, , when it was destroyed by fire.
It is clear that our perusal of the wreckage of Munich's once elegant Bahnhof is being conducted on my monitor in the safety of my study in and holds none of the shock and sense of impending danger of the original experience.
Let's take a small detour, therefore, in Betty's brand new, shiny, black Lexus ES , complete with his and her climate controls and a her-button that raises the drivers seat, adjusts the rearview mirrors, AND, incredible as it may sound, raises the pedals so that she can sit high enough to use the visor to keep the sun out of her eyes while having the brake and gas pedals at an elevation where she can reach them.
And, of course, a his-button that returns it all to settings that I find most comfortable. Down Elm street, take a right on 5th Street, a left on Riverside Drive, and arrive at The Ameristar Casino, the showcase and financial sugar daddy of St.
Originally, the law stated that, while gambling was taking place, the boats had to be in motion on the river. Several scary accidents led to a more pragmatic concession to our delicate Bible Belt delicate sensibilities, and now no Missouri gambling customer is in danger of drowning while spending Sunday mornings feeding pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters dollars, anybody?
Charles with the photograph of the real Crystal Palace which I, knowing ahead of time that there would be a need for it, brought with me.
The tree is gone and, where in there used to be shops on the left side, now there is discrete iron work shielding the twin elevators that take customers to the luxurious Star Club, reserved only for Elite Members.
How do you become an Elite Member? That, at least, has not changed in years. The answer is - you spend enough money to earn 10, points in six months according to a complicated formula that keeps track of all your gambling activities in the Casino and you become an Elite Member.
Betty is worried that she may not be able to remain an Elite Member because the casino raised the threshold from points last year to 10, points this year.
I rub my rabbit's foot assiduously, but so far it hasn't helped much. The Glow of Embers Some 3 or 4 miles from Eichfeld, as the camp is named, generally following the railroad tracks to the river Inn, just beyond the railroad bridge, on the riverbank lies a good, flat meadow, edged by a civilized forest, whose wild, jungle aspects have long since been tamed by centuries of human attention, bisected by a brook that holds little danger and offers drinkable water.
The distance is just right so that the orderly column of scouts, perhaps 20 to 30 young men marching two by two, singing as we go, can reach it in a comfortable march of 45 minutes early on Friday afternoon.
The tents, cooking gear, food, and other necessaries have been transported ahead of time and await us at the destination. Our scout leader, Osvalds Klavenieks, is an ex-soldier and walks with a slight limp.
He is a lively, organized person with a ready smile, and organizes the setting up of tents, cooking stations, digging latrines, and, most important of all, preparing the site of the campfire.
Our intention is to spend two nights camping, and to return late Sunday afternoon. Scouting consumes that part of my time that is not taken by school, studying, reading, piano, ping-pong, basketball, choir practice, and other, mainly supervised, activities.
It is a source of self-respect for me. I am proud to belong to an organized, disciplined group with slightly military overtones, in the sense that we march in a column rather than wandering as a crowd, and we sing as we march, somewhat like US soldiers at boot camp, although I have never seen marching songs in the U.
Army used the way we used them in Boy Scouts, namely, to accompany the cadences of long, orderly periods of marching. The activities of the camp move forward, there are games, competitions, study assignments, meals, and, finally, after the sun has set, comes the magic of the campfire period.
The fire starts out as an imposing conflagration, built initially to a respectable level, and burns steadily to produce illumination, and crackling, and warmth.
Then comes the magic moment that, for me, ties the entire experience of being a Boy Scout over the period of four years in southern Germany into one symbolic memory.
It is the singing of the traditional song that ends each day at a Latvian Boy Scout camp, in the light of the dying fire, slow, wistful, in a minor key, gentle, affirmative, always the same.
When it ends, we rise, someone banks the fire, a guard is posted, and we retire to our tents. It is a more personal and emotional equivalent of the single trumpet, blowing taps.
The song is the following. I give the first verse here, because I don't remember the rest verbatim. The rough translation in parentheses follows the exact text.
And a fine, fine mist begins to fall. The melody is simple. Any musician can construct a series adequate singable musical phrases to match the harmonic and rhythmic structure given above.
Why does this simple song constitute the core of my memories of Scouting? Or, to put the question in a different form, how is it possible that it should do so?
It is a symbol, an icon at the pinnacle of a hierarchy of specific experiences, faces, names, activities. I did not get to go to the so-called scouting jamboree, which was reinstated in or , and which was held for the first time in the postwar years in Paris.
But somewhere under that symbolic icon is my recollection that I belonged to a Latvian Scouting group that did send a representative to Paris that year, and the corresponding pride that this should have happened.
Let us leave the campfire for now, return to the present, and propose the following hypothesis. Is it possible, that the effect I just described is, in fact, one of the central mechanisms for transmitting an oral culture?
Committing long texts to memory was a skill that was necessary when wisdom was passed from generation to generation orally. The capability for remembering extremely long melodic and rhythmic passages is one of the very remarkable characteristics of the human mind.
How, for example, can a piano student remember an entire Beethoven Sonata? Is it any wonder that the compilation of teachings that one generation wishes to pass to the next should make use of the efficiencies of transmittal made possible by compacting a lesson into, first, the form of a rhythmic, four-line poem, and, secondly, selecting a subset of poems to be combined with a melodic structure, assuring that the inherent properties of the mind are used to the utmost in guaranteeing that the message transmitted will be retained in permanent storage and will be given an emotional emphasis through the natural attraction of the mind to an aesthetic musical experience.
As I look back on the significant events and experiences that shaped me during the years I spent in Eichfeld, I count being a Boy Scout as one of the primary positive, beneficial influences.
And when I touch that bank of memories in my mind, I am always carried back to the banks of the river Inn, it is a late hour of the evening, the campfire is low, and I hear the melody, in a minor key, that whispers to me across the years: Life in Hilgersoed We sleep upstairs in the farmhouse.
It is winter, with snow on the ground, but the windows stay open all night. The beds are covered with Federbetten, or eiderdown quilts, with matching pillows.
I am burrowed in like a squirrel in a nest with only my nose sticking out. The facilities are outdoors, across the yard -- a proper one-holer -- or was it two?
But there is no need to make the trip, should the call come during the night. There is a chamber pot under the bed. But the call doesn't come that often.
Supper is the smaller of the two major meals, and foraging at the fridge is a concept that doesn't arrive in my life for many years to come.
Hence, when one goes to sleep, digestion has long since been completed, and all that is left is restful sleep for the entire night.
As spring arrives, work begins on the fields. I am not of much help, but I am usually in the field anyway.
Ottilia comes up the hillside, carrying a basket. The beer is so weak that it is considered an OK drink for children.
This combination remains one of my all-time gourmet highlights. I have recently found Grolsch beer here in St. Louis, which is also sold in green glass bottles with fliptop ceramic corks, which actually turn out to be made of plastic, as evidenced by the one that melted when it got too close to the heating coil in the dishwasher, and fat, red, rubber washers, the whole top held down by a cleverly levered heavy wire locking mechanism.
I use the bottles to store cold water in the refrigerator, which I consume throughout the day. There's no point to opening my water bottles with any flair, but, back during Brotzeit on the Bavarian hillside, there is a distinct protocol to opening a beer bottle.
One lifts it in one hand, shakes the bottle vigorously, then positions both thumbs on each side of the release mechanism and pushes rapidly, whereupon the cork flips off the bottle and the whole procedure results in a satisfyingly loud and cheerful popping noise.
But this is anything but our regular Brotzeit beer. The tasting is held outdoors, in the yard, late in the afternoon, and it's a good thing, because the standard bottle-opening procedure has a very nonstandard sequel.
The requisite pop is there, though much louder and more authoritative than usual. The cork clicks loudly against the neck of the bottle, having been ejected, very forcefully, by some seriously aggravated beer.
The totally unexpected, nonstandard result is the white, foaming fountain that issues from the neck of the bottle, as if from a fire hose, and reaches easily a height of 25 feet in the air.
When the astonished potential beer drinker looks at the bottle again, it is totally empty. No one again uses the standard technique for opening beer bottles that evening.
I admired my father for many skills he possessed that I have not learned to this day. These included brewing beer, pickling cucumbers, making sauerkraut, making butter, making curdled milk, making little cones of stinky cheese that he would put on the windowsill to cure -- they were ready to eat when the sides were dripping with teary rivulets of stinky goo; a kind of Latvian Camembert, or better yet, a version of what is referred to universally as THE stinky German cheese, namely, Limburger -- making soap, butchering pigs, and one skill that he possessed, which I think I would just as soon omit from my list of things I wish I knew how to do.
From something he and eaten, the horse had blown up like a balloon, with his belly sticking out as if he were about to have triplets. But what he was actually about to do was die from a ruptured stomach instead.
Horses have internal plumbing that is not all that different from humans. The horse is a nonruminant herbivore, which means that horses do not have a multicompartmented stomach as cattle do.
The horse esophagus terminates with the muscles of the cardiac sphincter valve, leading into the stomach, which are very strong, so that it is almost impossible for a horse to vomit.
Therefore, if a horse is in digestive trouble, it is quite possible that his stomach may rupture. Well, my father actually knew the procedure, having taught it to students in the agricultural college that he headed.
He asked for a bottle of alcohol. Then he pulled out his pocketknife, cleaned the shorter of the two blades, and carefully placed the blade against the spot on the horse's belly that he had cleaned previously.
Having prepared everything, he proceeded to make a very quick jab into the horse's side, rapidly pushing the blade in to the hilt and drawing it out again.
The effect was one of having punctured a balloon. A whooshing sound of gas escaping was accompanied by a visible decrease in the size of the horse's belly.
The horse, instead of complaining, appeared to be grateful for the decreased pressure in his stomach. He recovered fully and continued to perform valuable service.
Spring is advancing and the war is grinding to a halt. Now and then we still have overflights of fighter planes. If we, the children, are in the yard, and if the airplanes are directly overhead, mother pulls us into a makeshift bomb shelter next to the huge pear tree by the well.
It is merely a hole in the ground, deep enough so that we can duck our heads below ground level. We jump out as soon as the airplanes are gone.
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