Susanne's Adventures

Trapeze!

I've always wanted to do trapeze. Now I have my chance!

Ground School

Wedding Videography

Some clips from my latest videography adventures:

http://bardpro.blogspot.com

The Whirlwind

My improv team at FIST 2009: H.A.R.M. Local 412

2nd Annual Pumpkin Carving Party

Geoff and the star of the evening, his homemade pumpkin pie

Jason and Laura

Mr. Pumpkinpants with Mango

Amy's Piggy

The Blair Science Project

Mr. Pumpkinpants scared the little children

Cape Breton!

My Cape Breton Home for a week: Inverness Beach

Anne Helene flew in from Seattle to Boston to make the drive with me

Bald Eagle, Cape Breton Hightland National Park

Cabot Trail, Cape Breton Highlands National Park

Pleasant Cove, Cabot Trail

Bras d'Or Lake, an inland sea

Marc Boudreau plays the Red Shoes Pub in Mabou
Somehow I got roped into playing while Marc took a break.

Jerry Holland plays a noontime ceilidh in Judique

Letters Home: Grandfather's Diary on the way to Toretta

Here are a couple of excerpts from my grandfather's diary on the way to Toretta. A nice example of his potty humor, and there is plenty of potty humor in his letters, let me tell you, from mistaken bidets to ancient latrines, the man had a nose for poop. And he seemed to enjoy listing off all the diseases one could die from. He also mentions contraception. My grandfather!

It was a whirlwind tour of Brazil, West Africa, Morocca, then Italy and he flew the whole way. I should mention he was the pilot, and flying in a convoy. It must have been thrilling to see the Amazon intact.

We still have the Berber knife and powder horn he bought for $13.00 and said would be valuable one day. They are odd, but beautiful.

His observation of the Army giving Arabs bubonic plague when they came in for medical care shows a bit of his compassion and sense of irony. Blowing crushed fleas into peoples eyes and only a few would die. Good ol' Army, indeed!

I will add more of his amazing trip diary later.
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Lt. Col. Philip R. Hawes - Diary – 1944

February 21st:
Left Belem for Fortaleza, Brazil, at about 06:00 AM. About 900 miles. Altitude 9000 feet. Cloud coverage the same as the day before. Trip uneventful. The Brazilian Coastal regions were considerably drier as we approached Fortaleza from about 200 miles NW. We actually observed cattle grazing here and there as in Texas! Fortaleza is not quite the easternmost point of Brazil and South America but is close enough to be a good jumping—off point for Dakar, French West Africa.

February 21st & 22nd:
In Fortaleza, Brazil. Adjacento Field, Fortaleza, was booming with four—engine aircraft about to take the jump across the pond and a few two-engine aircraft heading for Natal, Brazil, for the shorter hop to Ascension Island. Most of the boys quartered in tents but I ‘finagled’ quarters in a very cool BOQ for the five officers on my ship. We had arrived at noon, and at about 2 o’clock I managed to get a staff car to take myself and Capt. Word into Fortaleza. Quite a city! The road to town is lined with thatched huts and giant avocado and mango trees. Natives, dirty, abject, walk to and fro carrying giant loads on their heads. As one enters town things look better and it turns out to be a city not unlike Monterey, Mexico - at the same time a Mardi Gras festival was going on, so between local beers at side-walk cafes we paraded in the streets with the others.

There were thousands of well-dressed Portuguese in town - white suits by the hundreds and gay varicolored dresses on the women. None of the women paraded - it is against tradition or modesty.
However a great number of the men were dressed as women in the parades. The ‘parades’ were numerous and consisted of bands and dancers with little organization, playing and dancing to the swingiest tropical music I have ever heard.

Everyone in town had “ether” squirt guns and we were squirted continually with fragrant ether as we walked the streets. The idea is that ether makes us more passionate. However, we had been briefed so continually on venereal diseases that we did not respond to the many amorous possibilities that presented themselves.

That evening we - in shirt sleeves - attended a formal ball at the “Country Club”. The attendance was approx. 1000 and it was entirely formal except Capt Word and I, a fact which did not faze us in the least. We drank Scotch and Sodas until 2:30 AM on a Senhor Purcell - Englishman who was in New York last in 1895. Drank also with the American Consul, the CO of Adjacento Field, who eyed our attire disapprovingly, also with a “big” banker Baker. Also with an old guy who ran society in Fortaleza and who had lived in Brazil 45 years --- so we got along famously & danced with many women to their tropical music which had plenty of fire to it. I often found myself in the center of a circle all alone doing a tropical jig and undoubtedly looking very foolish.

The next day at Fortaleza I had a slight hangover until about noon, but slept also in the afternoon until suppertime.

The mess at Fortaleza abounded in fruits - bananas and oranges were always present and at night mangoes and also giant avocados.

At the Officers’ Club on of the favorite drinks was ice-cold orange juice during the hot day — Coca Colas were also obtainable in the PX or Club. Lest I be misunderstood about the quality of post: the PX and club altho colorful were poor imitations of the real thing. The native waiters made them colorful and interesting. There were no white or colored (native) women whatsoever. At the P1 I purchased some mosquito boots for $5.75, a good imitation of cowboy boots, and also a riding crop in which is a stiletto about six inches long.

On the evening of the 22 at 10:00 p.m. we took of under a tropical starry sky for Dakar, French West Africa at 9000 ft. The usual misgivings and worries beset our minds. What if our engines should fail? What if our gas was insufficient? It was a trip of over 2200 miles with no land whatsoever along the route. We hit Dakar almost on the nose to our great delight (we were very nonchalant about it) at about 1:30 in the afternoon (Greenwich time - also African time) after a flight over water of twelve hrs and 30 minutes.

February 28th At Marakech, North Africa Morocco.

To resume the flight narrative — yesterday we took a good look at Tindauf — town of 3rd importance - and decided that the U.S. was the place for us. Tindauf was merely a Mohammedan village with a sand-swept desolate airport nearby. The population was about 300 or 400, I should say, and for hundreds of miles on all sides there was no sign of life — just stretches of light tan sand and rock.

The Sahara has proved to be one of the wonders of the earth for me. There is very little life on it for 1,300 miles on the route we flew — not even plant life. At times we flew over a hundred miles over dazzling white sands without seeing a plant, tree, bush of any sort be1ow us or in the distance. It would be horrible to be forced down there. Caravan trails are outlined on the maps but they are impossible find from the air and they are only sand anyhow. The distance between oases is sometimes 500 — 600 miles, a long stretch. We are briefed to remain with the airplane four days if forced down. ATC will search four days then give up. If one is not found in four days in that desert he might as well shoot himself.

At Marakech - French Morocco:
The field is cluttered up with hundreds of combat planes:
B-17’s, B-24’s, B-26’s, C-47’s and a few British and French ships. The living conditions on the post are primitive in comparison to past conditions - tents, mud, rain, dirty officer’s lounge, dirty mess, eating out of mess kits. The boys are rapidly becoming acclimated to combat conditions, and we are still 1000 miles from combat.
Being a field officer, I have been quartered in Marakech in the Hotel Mamounia, reputably one of the finest, if not the finest, hotels in North Africa. The city is French Mohammedan, built for the most part of a reddish stucco or clay composition and the hotel is no exception, but the hotel is exquisite throughout. Turbaned servants greeted us at the entrance and ushered me to my room. The room is very attractive and compares most favorably with the finer hotel rooms in the U.S. But in addition, has that foreign appeal that makes an American go for it in a big way. It is large-two writing tables, two very comfortable 3/4 beds, one side of the room glassed in with French doors opening out to a large balcony which overlooks an attractive garden. On the balcony I have another table - a circular wicker table with two chairs. Very large mirrors are found in the bathroom, the hallway, and in one wall of the main room. All are about six feet high. The floor is inlaid tile of Mohammedan design. The bathroom is very modern with excellent French fixtures - a bathtub I can almost swim in, a shower, a large wash basin, several cabinets, mirrors, a table, and - get this - a douche bowl. I at first thought the douche bowl was a water closet and I urinated in it. Then I started wondering how would excrement go down? For there was only the usual drain one finds in a wash—bowl. Then I noticed the hot and cold water handles and a nozzle shooting up in the middle of the darn thing. They say the French nearly always install these douche bowls in bathrooms arid they are often used instead of contraceptives. The water—closet was difficult to locate at first, and I finally discovered it behind a sliding door, all by itself in a little room next to the bathroom.
Finis de douche.

This morning our flight to Tunis was cancelled because of bad weather. Tomorrow the outlook is doubtful.
Purchases today:
1. 8 packages of cigarettes and 3 Raleigh Pipe Tobacco
6 Chesterfield & 2 Philip Morris 32 francs or 6¢.
2. A Berber knife supposed to be 400 years old and a powder horn with shot pouch. 650 francs $13.00.
Too much but will be valuable some day in. a den.

Tonight: Crap game at the field. Won $120. Lost $120.

February 29th: Hotel Mamounia

Weather poor. No clearance. Slept 11 hours. Had a wonderful piping hot bath in that tremendous French tub. This afternoon had 5 other officers in for baths and brandy and admiration of my douche bowl.

Went to French Town with Harrison. Bought a billfold for Jean. Note: Marakech is predominantly Mohammedan but Arabs are present in large numbers - women with veils can be seen everywhere. A most unattractive lot. They are very dirty for the most part. The French are clean. The natives – Mohammedans - and Arabs are filthy — they dress in grimy sacks, dirty rags.

Diseases in Marakech:

Typhus - We are immune for the most part.
Smallpox - We are immune.
Malaria - We are not immune.
Bubonic Plague - Most of the native section is “off limits”
because of this.
Dysentry - Never eat in any but the Mamounia or Mahgreb Hotels,
- controlled by army.
Venereal: Every known variety. French women and natives.
Solution: Abstinence and Prophylaxis, if weak.
A note on the Bubonic Plague: The Xray Medic tells me that they have been crushing fleas taken off of Bubonic patients, and for research sake blowing this dust into the eyes of Arabs coming to the Army for treatment of minor diseases - result is that about 80% catch the bubonic plague. However it is treated quickly and only a few of those who have this dust blown into their eyes die. They do not know, of course, that they are being subjected to the plague. The medico - a Capt. Bull - explained the few deaths to me thusly:
“Oh - Arabs are expendable!” The good old U.S. Medical Corps at work again!

Medina - the native section of Marakech - is off limits for the U.S. Army because of disease and because there are constant clashes between the French who rule and the Arabs. A French officer got knocked off last nite. Americans are not immune for four have been lost in that section of Marakech the last few months. Checked off as dead – still, they may have deserted.

Americans are as a rule in great favor in Morocco, for we have been pouring a lot of money down the drain. So we are troubled by the natives very little.

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(This diary is property of the estate of Ann H. Hawes and may not be used without written permission of Susanne C. Bard, Personal Representative)<strong>

Letters Home: November 26, 1944 - Crash Landing in London

The Glantzberg book refers to the mysterious crash landing in London. The crew was gorunded there for a fortnight.

My grandfather takes every opportunity in his letters to get fresh with my grandmother "my darling fluffy hair". The forties weren't so prudish, after all. I inherited the fluffy hair.

"Duke" was my great uncle, Philip's brother Howard Hawes. He was in the diplomatic corps much longer than my grandfather. He never had any children, and he cut us out of the will after my brother messed up his pool. I think he thought we were a bunch of cretins. Too bad. I should see if we were really cut out of the will, or if there's any record in the state of Florida of unclaimed inheritance...

Toretta 1944

Here is a photo of Col. Glantberg and then Lt. Col. Hawes (my granfather) at Toretta, the field in Italy they commanded. And a maop of the location of Toretta field. Also a picture of them raising a flag. Supposedly, this was my grandmother's flag. My bgrandfather is in the middle.

Actually, my grandfather is behind Col. G, but you can just make out his unibrow. I often wonder at how you go from a swarthy unibrow to blonde in two generations. Ah, genetics.

Letters Home: June 4, 1944 - Sunday Morning Blues

August 29, 2008 Update.
This has been my watershed year. I don't really know what a watershed year is, but to me it has meant getting through the rough seas of my mother's early death, and making it to the shore and regaining my land legs. I have never been happier than I am at this moment, but it has been hard won.

When my mother died, I found every letter my grandfather wrote to my grandmother during the war. My mother and I had planned to talk about family history more, but she declined too quickly for us to talk about it more. This was the greatest gift I could have asked for. Now I know where my sense of humor comes from (dry, sarcastic, and playful wrapped into one). Now I know I'm a third generation atheist, because he uses that word in his letters when describing his heathen ways. Now I know - just a little bit more - who I am and where I came from. Col. Philip R. Hawes wore many hats during his short life. He was a librarian before the war, a fact my mother didn't even know about. He enlisted in California, but ended up at West Point, graduating in 1938. He was apparently a talented gymnast, another fact I was unaware of until last year. He was a man of good, and devious, humor. He also commanded 5,000 men at Toretta, Italy after his CO went home in 1944. He was an extraordinary pilot, and saw many of his friends die untimely deaths. He bombed oil refineries all over Nazi Europe. He was a war hero, in a time when it meant something. I have his Silver Star. This letter will give you a little taste of how he saw the world and found humor in all things, including ancient dung, apparently. Oh, and since he was commanding officer, he got to censor all his own letters. But he never gave any details of missions, but his CO before, Col. Glantzburg kept the records, and his son published a book called "Al Ataque" that has all the missions my grandfather piloted outlined in it. He was also deeply in loe with my grandmother Jean.

Current Project

Worthy of the Nation, documentary, Smithsonian Networks.
Photos are courtesy of the Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, and are in the public domain. To view larger versions, go to: http://www.loc.gov/rr/print/catalog.html

D.C before it became D.C. LC-USZ62-12738

View from Arlington House (now Arlington National Cemetery) to Washington, D.C. LC-USZ62-15281

1863 D.C, looking west. Note the incomplete Washington Monument LC-USZC4-7673

Lincoln and his son Thaddeus in one of the last photos before his death. The Washington Monument was left unfinished for over 25 years, and the design changed dramatically over time. LC-USZ62-176