Chloe's Gone - Obit

   Chloe a Lhasa-Poo and Carol's companion for 16 years died Friday, July 10th, 2026. She was an intelligent, determined, alert and beautiful little dog.. As legend has it Lhasas have been used for decades as mobile burglar alarms roaming in small packs vast Tibetian monestaries. 

    Sixteen years ago Chloe, age 12 weeks was enrolled by Carol in a course for puppies at the Humane Society of Sarasota County, The Certificate she received with her picture is framed on the wall in  front of my desk. It reads "This certifies that CHLOE has completed the HSSC Pawsitively Positive Dog Obedience Training Class." OK - it's not a Pulitizer Prize but the puppies had a great time and we were very proud!  

    Chloe had a comfortable life living summers in Fly Creek, NY (nearby Cooperstown is part of Greater Fly Creek) and wintering in Sarasota FL She and Carol walked every day and covered through the years many miles, meeting and greeting people and dogs.  Chloe's grooming was always excellent. Her haircuts were three times more expensive than John's, a close friend, but happily much less than Carol's.  As she aged Chloe required a special chicken/rice diet received in packages requiring refigeration. A picture of the inside of our freezer stuffed with Chloe's food is available for purchase.

    Chloe's passing has left a dark lonely void in our lives. Run free little dog    Look for Max, Dusty and George.  Perhaps in the future we . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

                                                

                                                    

                                                           

Tonka's Gone - Obit

 

   

                                                       

                                         

     Tonka died April 19th, 2026 at age 13. She was always a very good dog with issues. Her "breed" was a subject of debate but a mix of Terrier, Pit Bull and perhaps a dash of Thai Ridgeback were possibilities. Her home for the past decade was Satchel's Last Resort in Sarasota. She was my friend across that time. Together we made 518 trips to Myakka State Park and over 300 visits to Twin Lakes County Park. She absolutely loved Smoked Pig's Ears ("light chew") until most of her teeth were extracted. Then her love switched to my especially created meat soup - water with hamburger AND/OR grilled hot dog, chicken, pork, salami, turkey, liverwurst.

      Tonka is sorely missed. Run free my friend - wait for me.

                                          

  For Tonka's bio see "Define Humane" in this blog.

   

 Dulce's Visit

                                                       -   Dulce's Flower and Chloe

                                                           Dulce's Home

                                          

                                                        Top - Ana;  Dulce, Swede

       Our duplex has a horseshoe shaped driveway with two drives that connect with the county road. A power pole occupies a small area where the left drive ends. The space around the pole was Dulce's. Every morning around 8:30 our neighbor Ruth an accomplished person and retired florist, would open her door  to allow Dulce out for her morning relief walk. Dulce a brownish, Cocker/Springer Spaniel was resolute, looking neither left nor right would quick-step up the right driveway to the road. There she made a sharp turn right and traversed the remaining 40 yards carefully staying along the road's edge. Arriving at the pole she would sniff about, quickly wiz, move her bowels, then sniff again. Refreshed, her toilet complete Dulce resumed a kennel club posture and proceeded down the drive's left side, around the "U" and up the walk to Ruth's open front door. 

Dulce was always cool towards me - but she loved my dog Swede, a Great Pyrenees/Husky mix. If Swede was in the front yard Dulce would charge at him, stop and then jog away expecting him to follow. (Honesty forces me to note that she was something of a tart.) If he did not she repeated the exercise. Swede usually followed after the second display. Together they would happily run off toward the pond, into the trees and abandoned pastures. They would return within an hour occasionally muddy, stinking or both. Once they proudly jogged toward the house with Swede's jaws clutching a deceased woodchuck. He saw me dropped the corpse and came running. Dulce stopped, clamped on to the woodchuck and brought it home to a surprised Ruth. "DULCE - GET OUT!!!  Dulce died in 2005 from complications  associated with 13 years of age.. Ruth a wonderful person died at age 92 in 2009. 

Late in August 2020 I walked out the driveway and passing the power pole noticed that a yellow flower had blossomed. It appeared to be some variety of a Daylilly but my research was inconclusive and incompetent. Wind, rain, a bird, a human or an auto had deposited a seed in Dulce's special place and a flower blossomed. So What? As my 6th grade daughter Liz once said after I tried explaining to her about life, death and quantum mechanics, "Well, that's not very satisfying". 

So I wish to believe that Ruth recently opened a cosmic portal and out marched sweet Dulce determined to check on her former home. She arrived and looked for Swede (but he would be waiting for me at the Elysian Ridge). Dulce walked the property, drank from the pond, sniffed among the trees, ran and played predator in the fields. Two grazing rabbits ignored her. Before returning to Ruth she proceeded back to the power pole area. Now at some earlier point Dulce playing in Ruth's celestial garden had ingested some seeds. The stuff Dulce now deposited at the pole was of course ethereal matter dissipating before even touching down.  But one seed survived the process and plunked down on warm, moist earth. The result was a perfect yellow flower and warm memories for me. (For further explanation consult a physicist).

An Obit for Ray

                                             

                                                    Delaware River
      Pushing between bodies, amid smoke and loud chatter I eased into the kitchen. There wife Annette, her friend Hedy and the priest were pressed together in intense conversation, their twitching hands grasping glasses of Ray's punch.  Across the room he was charging another batch.
     "Do you have a recipe for this" I almost yelled.
     Ray, a bottle in each hand was pouring vodka and brandy into a brindled ceramic punch bowl. Four empty liquor bottles stood nearby. From the freezer he extracted a half gallon of ice cream and dumped it into the brew. "A recipe? Not exactly." But Ray was always an excellent host. It was October 1966.
     Ray Schillmoeller became a national sales representative for TRW and did well. He had an office in Manhattan provided by one of his clients, J.C. Penny and a house in Closter, N.J. Ray's wife Roberta Griffith, was a Professor at Hartwick College and creative artist specializing in ceramics. She had a house in Otego, N.Y. Together they raised two intelligent, handsome sons, David and Mark. For almost two decades Ray worked out of Manhattan and spent weekends in Otego.
     In the mid 1970s he introduced me to jogging. Our first race was around a block in Closter. He wore state of the art running shoes - I ran in black wingtips. For the next fifteen years we frequently jogged on weekends in the hills along the Susquehanna River or occasionally on the Palisades overlooking the Hudson. We gossiped about careers, acquaintances, women, politics and recipes. There were two heated discussions I remember over the proper preparation and presentation of "steak au poivre" and Chicken Tetrazzini. During these years Ray would also compete in two New York City Marathons.
     Schillmoeller was raised in Detroit (he once made a zip gun for his self-defense) and now labored in a tremendously competitive industry. At one extreme he was abrasive, sarcastic, tough - at the other engaging, empathetic and very funny. In 1975 I had 25 Hartwick students in New York City for a ten week term. I invited Ray over one evening to lead a seminar session. His opening remarks were provocative, humorous and sexist. Three women in the group were offended and glared at him. Aware that he had lost three of his audience he jumped up and moved in their direction dragging a folding chair. Ignoring the other 23 of us he sat down face to face with the offended three. Quietly he began to talk to them - we could not hear what was said. But I watched as the faces of three strong, young women softened, smiled and finally laughing. Ray then popped up, returned to his former location and proceeded to inform and entertain the group for two hours. Ray had a talent.
     Years later we were both divorced and occasionally "double dated". For a brief period we were involved socially with two lovely psychiatrists - or perhaps we were simply unwitting research subjects in a study of errant, narcissistic, middle aged men.
     Ray would leave high tech sales, semi-retire and then reemerge as a "chef". One of his first jobs was in an assisted living facility in New Jersey. He promptly began the practice of circulating among the residents asking "Charlie, what do you want for breakfast?" "Ruth, what would you like for lunch?" Within the limits of time and resources he would then prepare as many "to order" meals as possible.  Ray was summoned to the Director's Office and told to stop the practice. "What the hell do you think this place is - a restaurant?" Some years later when told he should consider entering an assisted living facility he less than politely declined.
     During the fourth week of July, 2018, Ray died in his house located on a wooded bank about 100 yards above the Delaware River. I wish to believe that Ray then immediately hooked up with his two long-gone dogs, Tuffi, a gentle German Shepard and a dark colored, sofa loving Akita. At this moment the dogs are happily sitting close to Ray waiting as he meticulously prepares for them gourmet dinners.

Cartographic Thoughts

 
                                                           

                                         

   The cartography section of Professor Sydney MacFarland's undergraduate course required the creation of a map. After instruction each student was given access to rudimentary instruments, a tall, portable table and a folded sheet of paper.  Our assignment was to map a single square block of Utica's Oneida Square. By the time I turned a second corner my projection was "off the chart". Oh well - I pushed on, taping additional pages to the original sheet. My final submission resembled a large, lumpy tarp - it was not a success. But I did retain a long-term interest in maps.
    My collection is small (75 or so pieces) and unpretentious. It includes for instance the 12 maps of the Royal Commission on Local Government in Greater London 1957-1960. If you Google "London Metro area maps" - with a single click access is acquired to over 100 representations. In addition to maps of metro areas; Baku, Berlin, Moscow, Vienna, others, I have subway maps - Boston, Moscow, Tokyo and of course London. The most influential was the London Tube Underground map created in 1931 by Harry Beck. Examine a Paris subway map - on one side the system utilizing Beck's model - turn over and there is a more distance and curve accurate representation. Beck's provides the user with "elegance, simplicity, order". * It has been emulated by subway maps around the world. But ultimately my map collection is just "stuff"- but for me it is "thought provoking stuff".
    Paris, a magnificent city and state of mind. Looking at a map I see the Av des Champs-Elysees. Walking west on a sunny afternoon I glanced into a shop and saw a rather striking, black-haired woman attired in silver slacks, dark belt and loose, white blouse. I continued walking - for 100 feet then abruptly reversed direction to have another glimpse. There she was - curious she lifted her head, embarrassed my head sank - I turned and walked away, but she remains etched in memory.
    Near the Metro Station Luxembourg.  A busy Friday evening, hotels full - but I secure a challenging room. The door was plywood cut to almost fit the opening, no door knob but a lock, the dull glow of a single light bulb. I slept there one night awakening occasionally to the sounds of inebriated citizens mumbling and whizzing outside my window.
    Cathedral Notre Dame. Two British ladies stop me and speaking "Frenclish" asked for directions. I responded in English. One shouted, "Oh thank God! He's an American!"
    London, legendary for courage, finance and friendliness. Near the Imperial War Museum a gentleman in suit and tie took my picture. Smiling he then approached and offered to develop the photo and mail it to me for $10.00. I thought he was joking. After 15 minutes of stimulating conversation he convinced me that he was wonderfully articulate and extremely interesting. I did not pay him - but I wanted to.
    Victoria Station. Waiting for a train I sat down at a table with a beer and sandwich. A man in a sports jacket, tie came over and uninvited sat down. With a broad grin he commenced a conversation. "What's your name?" A pause, "what do you do?"
    "Joe" I replied. "I am a welder from St. Louis. What's yours?"
    "Winston" he responded.  This introduction was followed by a solid half hour of deeply informed and absorbing conversation none of which I remember. At no time did talk of any possible "business" opportunity intrude. I had to depart and rising broke the spell. I wanted to ask my new friend, "Winston, what the hell was this all about - what were you after?" But I did not and shall never know.
    There are more maps of other cities and . . .

    *Daily Mail online 5/8/2010.
 

Go Maribor !

                                                     

                                            Maribor - Mother of Mercy Basilica

    Tuesday, August 22nd, 2017. Slovenia's finest soccer team, NK Maribor played Hapoel Beer-Sheva (Israel) in a UEFA Champion's League event. The winner would advance to Group Play against some of the world's greatest teams. Maribor (not to be confused with Marienbad, the Czech resort town) has a population of 95,000 and is at the heart and core of the nation's soccer. The Republic of Slovenia's total population is 2,000,000 (and should not to be confused with the Slovak Republic).

    The first "leg" of the series was won by Beer-Sheva 1 - 0.  In the second game Maribor scored first, Beer-Sheva matched it, and Maribor scored again - the aggregate score in the second half was 2 - 2. Play was furious. Beer-Sheva players were a red blur swarming the Maribor blue defense and goalie. Then a "header" streaking toward the far post - the frantic goalie is air born, horizontal to earth, stretching left . . . 

     Saturday in November, 1977. Annette and I rented a car and proceeded south on the three hour drive from Vienna to Yugoslavia. Early afternoon we crossed the Yugoslav border (that ceased to exist in 1991) into the province of Slovenia and arrived in Maribor. The city appeared tired, used, medieval and swathed in various hues of Soviet brown. We checked into the central hotel  and went for a stroll - finally ending at the hotel bar waiting for a dinner table. The bar filled with soldiers, smoke and chatter - the hot spot on a Saturday night. To my right two young Army noncoms, seriously discussing life, drinking draft beer, dining on a mountain of French fries and well-done meat. As we left I bought them a couple of beers. No smile but a "Thannnk youuu."

     We drifted into a nearby park. The evening was dark, the temperature mild, the air scented by grilled chestnuts. The occasional street light cast a yellowish "I am about to burn out" glow. Family groups squeezed around individual soldiers on park benches. Soldiers and girls sat close together sometimes holding hands. Families meandered over cobbled walks and cracked cement with children dangling from many hands.

    The next morning we went to church. I rarely attend church but when I do I prefer a church being harassed by state authorities. To my complete surprise the church we attended was wall to wall with worshipers all inhaling clouds of incense. Happily there were also souvenir tables available in the back where I purchased for my devout mother a pair of rosaries.

     . . .  his fingers scratching the side of the ball enough to slightly alter its flight away from the net to out of bounds. Beer-Sheva's corner kick fails to produce a goal - time expires - part of the crowd becomes euphoric - aggregate score is 2 - 2, which means of course that on the basis of "away goals scored" Maribor wins !  NK Maribor will next face Sparta Moskva (Russia), Sevilla (Spain) and Liverpool (England).

Bazilike - Matere Usmiljinja - Wikimedia.

    

Seafaring Moods

                                                 

                                       

                                                   

                                       

     "Queasy" is the best word to describe it - the emotion experienced when thinking about Ensign Kevin Burns, a grandson in a submarine underway and engaged in servicing a nuclear system. The Oklahoma City, SNN 723, has been in south Pacific seas training with ships of the Australian Navy - now as the predator, then the prey. Mentally, emotionally I am with that "boat" much of the time.
     Soothing the angst I remember a visit to another Los Angeles class submarine, the Newport News around 2000. Of the select spaces we were permitted to inspect was of course the galley. There four civilians chatted with four sailors amidst the aroma of  cookies fresh from an oven. These submarine sailors (and three others I met aboard) were articulate, smart and professional. They are the kind of people that Kevin is working with now. The memory of these conversations and the cookies reassure. Moods follow food.
     Hand shaking my shoulder - "Watch in 30 minutes! Go to the mess deck." A training cruise, I was 18. Dressing quickly - I passed through a dim, red lit passageway and dropped down a ladder into a dimly lit Destroyer Escort mess deck. There galley crew were passing out to those on midnight watch a sandwich - fresh, warm bread enclosing thick slices of Spam, slathered with yellow mustard and a cup of steaming, black coffee. That snack rushed me up to an edge - from midnight till 4:00 AM that DE had the most alert, far sighted, stern lookout in US naval history. Today, when thinking about that splendid sandwich and coffee I spring to a heightened vigilance and scan the Florida horizon for alien vessels.
     On the other hand - another cruise - another DE - having just completed a 4:00 to 8:00 AM  watch and exhausted, I dropped down the ladder into a noisy, crowded mess deck. On a steel tray I collected breakfast; beans, franks and two hard boiled eggs. In the ship's vernacular, "rat turds, dog turds and a pair of knockers". Finding a place to sit I glanced up just in time to watch a sailor with a tear in his jeans ascend the ladder - his ass crack flashed back and forth with every step up. My gaze returned to my tray and spoon. Words suddenly began pounding on the back of my head.
     "Get UP! Get your ass out of here! Now! Are you deaf?"
     I turned my head and considered an angry petty officer's face just inches away. He continued hollering as I was rising to address him. Then I was screaming at him - using "fuck" as noun, verb and direct object - threatening phrases, "your teeth in your hands" and "your nuts in a knot". He backed away to a bulkhead and slumped down into a semi-crouch. I paused, sensed a silence, then returned to my tray. The buzz on the mess deck revived back up. The sailor across from me looked sad, "you can't do that" and scooped up some beans.
     More screaming. "Stand up sailor!" I kind of jumped up and faced a Chief - almost - he was half my height. Again the mess deck was quiet.
    "You looking for a fight boy?"  -  "No Chief."
    "You pretty good with your hands?"  -  "No Chief."
    "You want to fight me?"  -  "No Chief."
    Disgusted he looked me over, up and down, turned and stormed out a hatch, almost without ducking, Again the mess chatter revived.
    As I sat down the sailor on the left, "Probably means a Captain's Mast." My sad eyed friend nodded in agreement and kept on eating. I skipped breakfast that morning. My flirtation with a mutiny did not result in a disciplinary hearing. Three decades would pass before my next meal of beans and franks. But now I have a deep affection for the sight, smell and taste of sugar cookies.
     US Navy photo: SNN 723 Breaching - by Fabio Pena.
     US Navy photo: SNN 723 - Chris Oxley.