THE PEARL HARBOR ATTACK THAT NEVER HAPPENED
By Al Cooper

When waves of carrier-based planes of Japan=s Imperial Navy appeared over a sleepy Hawaii early on the morning of December 7, 1941 ushering the U.S.A. into World War II, they were carrying out an ingenious war plan conceived by Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto. The premise behind Yamamoto=s plan (which he had only reluctantly proposed to his nation=s military leaders), was that by crippling the U.S. Pacific fleet and thus opening up our pacific allies and the west coast itself to attack, a largely isolationist America would quickly seek to negotiate a peace in accord with Imperial Japan=s plans for a AGreater East Asia Co-Prosperity Sphere@. He stressed his conviction that for his plan to work, the mission must be carried out in absolute secrecy, and the destruction of the Pearl Harbor facility and our Pacific fleet must be complete. To this end Admiral Chuichi Nagumo the operational commander was instructed to launch a second attack after rearming and refueling the planes from the first two attack waves.
Entire books have been written around the question of why Nagumo failed to launch the second attack, especially when he knew the crucial U.S. carriers were not present in the anchorage as believed. Of even greater import to America=s ability to recover quickly was the failure of the Japanese attackers to destroy the gigantic fuel reserves and dry dock repair facilities which were left virtually untouched. In Nagumo=s defense, wildly exaggerated claims of destruction by the returning aviators, the fact that his pilots were untrained in the nighttime landings the second sortie would require, and his fear that the Amissing@ U.S. carriers might show up and destroy his unprotected fleet at any time seemed to dictate the wisdom of withdrawal.
In actual case, Yamamoto=s grim predictions came to pass. Despite six months of absolute domination everywhere the rising sun flag was planted, the tide began to turn against Japan with Midway, Coral Sea and a series of air/sea engagements in which the forces of Imperial Japan were met by many of those same ships which had supposedly been destroyed at Pearl Harbor, and which had been raised Afrom the dead@ to fight again in one of the greatest engineering feats in world history. But there is another - seldom-told - story.
Realizing that the Pearl Harbor mission had fallen short of its goal, an equally ingenious plan unfolded in the far reaches of the northwest Pacific within two months of the December 7th foray.
(Here, it is worth noting that one of America=s great failures of the Pacific War was to totally underestimate the genius of Japan=s war-making industry, particularly in the area of aviation technology, the legendary Mitsubishi AZero@fighter plane being but one example.)
Accompanied by a Zero float-plane, a Kawanishi H8K Emily flying boat approaches the WW II fortress of Rabaul harbor in the southwest PacificFrom a seaplane base somewhere in the Marshal Islands, tons of bombs and torpedoes were loaded on three Kawanishi flying boats. Designated the H8K by the Japanese Navy, this remarkable airplane came to be known as theAEmily@ by American pilots, in keeping with the doctrine of giving male names to enemy fighters, and female names to bombers and transports. With a wing span of 125 feet and a flying range of more than 4000 miles at an altitude of nearly 30,000 feet, this four-engine amphibian was capable of carrying a sixteen thousand pound payload at speeds close to 300 mph. Out of respect for its two canons and at least four machine guns, it was usually viewed only from a safe distance by Allied pilots who called it the AFlying Porcupine@.
On March 4th, 1942 two (some accounts say three started out) Emily flying boats headed for Hawaii to finish the job Nagumo had started with such fanfare. Even with their amazing range, they needed to refuel for such a round trip, and so a rendezvous with two submarines, the I-15 and I-19, each carrying ten tons of aviation fuel at a remote atoll known as French Frigate Shoals was organized. A third submarine - I-26 - accompanied them as protection and back-up, while I-23 was stationed ten miles south of Pearl Harbor with a radio beacon and rescue capabilities.
Alas for the Empire of Japan, after extraordinary planning and coordination, the two flying boats arrived at the appointed place and time to find the entire Hawaiian Islands socked in by weather.
A second try was made two months later, but by that time, U.S. Navy code breakers were onto the French Frigate Shoals submarine station, and that effort too was thwarted. All part of the Pearl Harbor attack that never happened.

CAPTURING SUMMER IN A JAR

From glowing cling peaches to corn-and-bean
succotash, each jar is filled with bits of summer
and pieces of tradition.

Some of my earliest and most pleasant boyhood memories had their genesis in one particular corner of the cellar which ran under the hundred-and-fifty-year-old home place. My father had built a storage area made up of glass-fronted shelves salvaged from some previous location, and it was behind those hinged doors that my mother stored the bounty of woods, orchards and gardens – the provender which would grace our table during the cold weather months of winter. One of my great pleasures was to make my way to that corner, and count the jars of “canned” tomatoes, corn, beans, beets, fruit, pickles and relishes my mother had carefully lined up there. Some of my favorites were the tall quart jars of wild blackberries, blueberries, raspberries and huckleberries I had helped to pick myself – each jar just the right size to make one of Mom’s prized pies.
Behind each of those bail-lidded Ball jars was a story: the green tree snake I met up with picking huckleberries in a Jersey swamp; the smell of kerosene into which I dropped hundreds of Japanese beetles from our concord grape vines, the sheer labor of turning the crank on the food chopper from which poured the minced ingredients of Mom’s famous pepper relish, and the arm itch I always suffered from picking green beans and their yellow-wax cousins; the surprise rain storm which caught us when harvesting blueberries in the pine barrens, and my father’s devotion to Stone tomatoes, Country Gentleman sweet corn, and Early Wakefield cabbage; and then there was the salt shaker he carried in his back pocket for “sampling” good things from the garden as we picked.
In our extended family today, the rich chili sauce my mother taught me to make is every bit as much of a mainstay as it was in the household over whose kitchen she presided seventy years ago.
The ethic of “home canning” which is so much an American institution actually had its birth on the other side of the Atlantic. During the Napoleonic wars, France experienced widespread food shortages, especially during the winter months when even the traditional grains and other dry staples the world had long depended on became scarce. In 1791 the French government offered a prize of 1200 francs to anyone who could come up with a method of preserving otherwise perishable foods from season to season. Around 1809 an inventive citizen by the name of Nicholas Appert discovered that by heating fresh garden vegetables and fruit to various high temperatures before sealing them tightly in suitable containers, spoilage could be greatly delayed or halted. His experiments caught the attention of Peter Durant who patented the process in England in 1810. Neither Appert or Durant had any idea why this method worked; it remained for Louis Pasteur to discover what was first called “the germ theory”, finally identifying bacteria, yeast and mold organisms as the culprits which for tens of thousands of years had limited the possibilities of intra-seasonal food preservation.
At first the search for the “suitable container” led down several paths: earthenware crocks and jugs sealed with paper and wax; small-mouth bottles capped by hard-to-find corks of various sizes or tin cans with lids soldered into place. In fact it was a 26-year-old New Jersey tinsmith named John Landis Mason who came up with the idea of a threaded glass container, to which a metal cap with matching threads could be screwed down over a rubber gasket making an airtight seal. Here at last was a viable commercial procedure which could be duplicated in the home kitchen. Patented in 1858, the famous “Mason Jar” would revolutionize the science and practice of food preservation and lead to a succession of improvements and challengers. Mason’s main competition came in 1882 from Henry W. Putnam’s “Lightning jar” which featured a wire bail securing a glass cap over a rubber ring, a system which allowed the jar to exhaust air during the heating process, and yet be firmly tightened by depressing the loosened bail immediately afterward.
In 1885 the Ball brothers began manufacturing their line of canning jars, destined to become one of the two most well-known and long-lasting brand houses, turning out first bail lid jars, and then mason types. In 1903, with nothing behind him but $100.of borrowed capital and a deep religious faith, Alexander H. Kerr established his glass company in Sand Springs, Oklahoma, introducing a whole new concept with his two-piece cap and lid sealing system on the traditional Mason jar foundation. Despite the fact that over the years there have been more than 400 jar manufacturers serving America’s army of home canners, Ball and Kerr (now owned by a single corporation), remain the dominant names in a field which claims a one hundred year history and en epic which has seen an estimated 150 billion jars produced.
The popularity of home canning received a big boost with the advent of World War I, and a gigantic impact from the Great Depression years of the 20s and 30s, reaching an all-time high with Pearl Harbor and the food rationing spawned by the Second World War. During the 1940s, it is believed that up to 60% of America’s fresh and preserved perishable food came from home gardens and canning kitchens.
Today, at a time when some of the same economic issues face us, I take some comfort from requests from our grandkids to teach them the nearly-forgotten art of home canning. Meanwhile, I get the same thrill I felt as a kid each time we open a jar of last year’s corn relish. Now . . . if I could only find a patch of wild huckleberries.

Antique canning jars from a personal collection
reflect one hundred years of preserving history.
(Blue glass indicates age & silica sand origins.)

APPRECIATING FINE CHEESE

Here is a freshly-cut wedge of aged Dutch Gouda as the center piece of a luncheon plate featuring fresh figs, strawberries, grapes, apple slices and home-made whole-grain bread.

As the seasons change from spring to summer and from late summer to fall, a time-honored ritual is played out in Switzerland’s dairy country as the milking herds are moved, first from the barns and fields of the low country to the high pastures of flower-covered grass, and then back again before the snows of winter. Leading each procession is a special cow known as the Herrkuh, whose neck bell rings more loudly, and with a different tune than those of all the other herd members. The honor which goes with that clarion leadership role is further underlined by the hand-decorated leather strap, festooned with folk art and strung around her neck, and from which the bell bearing its distinctive number is suspended. In many villages that springtime procession will be preceded by a parade in which the Herrkuh is led through town bedecked in wreaths of flowers. It is also traditional to retire that number, and hang the bell-and-collar in an honored place on the barn wall when that animal dies.
When I sit down to a repast, at the center of which reclines a wedge of Swiss Emmentaler, nutty Gruyere, or an aromatic cube of raclette, I cannot help but reflect on the pride in tradition and passion for perfection which lies behind the road to my table that piece of dairy history has traveled.
I know of a French affineur and cheese-buyer, named Denis Prevent who travels between the mountain farms of Savoie regularly, searching for fresh farmstead-made cheese to stock the curing shelves of his cheese cave and, finally, his retail shop in Chambery. He looks for farms with south-facing pastures, whose sun-warmed wild flowers will add high flavor and color to the milk coming from the local herd. His grandfather, born in 1860, did the same thing, with a horse-drawn cart. Knowledgeable wholesale buyers from the U.S. and other countries have learned to seek out people like Denis who add one more key link in that international road to our dining pleasure.
I think back to the proprietor of a small-village country store in central Vermont, who took the time to explain to a teen-age farm kid why he ordered his huge wheels of Cabot Co-op cheddar by month and pasture number. “The best flavor”, he said,“comes from the summer clover grown in pasture No. 14”. That neighboring farm kid has never forgotten that random experience and a lesson in staying “connected” with the food traditions which dine with us at our tables.
High on my list of things to do this year, is a visit to Rockhill Farm and Creamery in Utah’s Cache County where a new chapter in artisanal cheese-making is going on. There Pete Schropp and Jennifer Hines are turning out some truly great hand-crafted cheeses from their small herd of six spoiled Brown Swiss cows – one forty-gallon batch at a time. In the meantime, I have already enjoyed sampling their Apple-smoked, and Lightly-buzzed offerings.
As promised in a previous column, here are a few recommendations for getting the most out of fine cheese.
• Always bring cheese up to room temperature before serving.
• When possible, buy your cheese from a monger who will cut your wedge from a
wheel.
• Between uses, rewrap the cheese tightly in new, clean plastic wrap for
refrigeration.
• Freezing is extremely harmful to cheese.
• With a bread accompaniment, choose a bread which matches the cheese.
The same advice applies when choosing a wine beverage.
• Natural companions for a cheese plate include slices of pear, apple,
strawberries,figs, dates, or a variety of olives. A dipping sauce of olive
oil and balsamic vinegar for fruit & bread goes well.

As one well-known chef has said, “cheese is the purest and most romantic link between humans and the earth.” I only wish I had said it first. !

ENJOYING THE BIRDS OF SUMMER

All during the cool days of late winter and early spring, we are treated to the gallantry of gaudy, red male finches, parading their avian testosterone in feats of vainglorious acrobatics above our rear deck. Below, their female audience busy themselves at the two hanging feeders overflowing with black oil sunflower seeds, feigning either a planned indifference or outright disdain for all the aerial foolishness going on. The finches come, seemingly by the hundreds, far outnumbering the juncos, sparrows and noisy red wing blackbirds who vie for our daily handouts, as we watch from our grandstand seats.
Because we overlook both a river and a pond, the coming and going of seasonal waterfowl is a constant in our observing hours, and it is not unusual for the latter to play host to more than forty or fifty Canada geese; and ducks in the hundreds. Now and again a pair of snow geese will overnight with us, seeming to fit right in. Three pair of great blue herons nest and raise young in our tall grove of cottonwoods each year, and pose for us on one leg apiece in their patient waiting game in the pond’s shallows.
Red-tail hawks and an occasional kestrel patrol all this activity, just in case they spot some easy pickings, and they favor the power pole in our back yard as a gazing gallery, a spot which also appeals to a barn owl we love to see and hear. Twice this spring we admired a pair of golden eagles who glided by us at house level as well as a single bald cousin.
At least one pair of geese we kept an eye on this spring, chose not to nest near the water, but on a high rocky hill where their young sang a noisy chorus at every take-off and landing by their food-bearing parents. We watched in amazement early one morning as a parade of two adults and seven baby geese picked their way down the hill, across our backyard, over rocky barriers and through the tall grass of an irrigated field to the safety of the water – and the launching of their first family swim.
With the arrival of summer, the picture changes, and so does the palette of nature’s colors. Bluebirds, swallows, fly catchers and swifts cruise the sage country on one side of our house, and yellow-headed and Brewer’s blackbirds join the ground crew under our finch feeders. Ever since the first of May, our two hummingbird feeders will have been under constant assault by first dozens, then hundreds of starved black throats, broad-tails and the occasional “lost” rufous. But. . . those busy hummingbirds no longer have an exclusive claim on all that hand-mixed nectar. About three years ago, some “wandering” orioles discovered our sweet shop, and apparently marked us on their built-in GPS system. To be exact, one pair of hooded orioles and another belonging to the Bullock’s race stopped by and did a taste test. They and their growing progeny are now our summer regulars, and between the two colonies we are probably feeding a dozen of these wondrously-colorful members of the blackbird family.
At one time, all orioles were labeled as “Baltimore orioles”, to which was later added a group known as “Northern” orioles. Because their ranges are subject both to change and overlapping, there have emerged the two races we see here in the southwest. Except for the Lazuli bunting and the western tanager, I believe our two oriole visitors are about the most beautiful of all American song birds. They bring an eyeful of delight to our back window. Along with their usual fare of insects and seeds, we are happy to supply their built-in sweet tooth with the nectar they love.
As well as a great sense of color, Nature also has a sense of humor, and proof of that is embodied in a big bird, who seldom resorts to flight, has been known to “knock” on our sliding glass door, and enjoys coming to watch the antics of our hummingbirds (hungrily and with malice aforethought) almost daily. So, along with a photo of one of our cherished orioles, I am including a shot of our favorite roadrunner “The Beeper”.



Al welcomes audience call-ins during his weekly radio program Provident Living – Home & Country heard each Monday at 4:00 PM on KSUB (590), Cedar City.

Dad's recent article regarding the lost art of listening helped me enjoy a morning run in foggy San Francisco more than I otherwise would have. I actually don't listen to music while running but I'm certainly guilty of looking at my watch more than my surroundings. I actually took my iPhone on the short 7-miler and took the time to enjoy what the city has to offer. A beautiful old sailing ship and the obligatory shot of Alcatraz across the bay. I also saw a magnificent old pelican but wasn't quick enough on the draw to capture the image. Thanks for the inspiration Dad....life is short.

THE NEGLECTED ART OF LISTENING

In his 1970 landmark book Future Shock, Alvin Toffler described life in the coming 21st century with such depressing terms as the concept of transience, the throwaway society, the hurry-up welcome and the economics of impermanence. He predicted that change itself would become the greatest challenge to the personal sense of well-being on which most of us base that thing we call happiness. With this in mind, it’s not hard to explain why many of us take refuge in objects, rituals, old photo albums, and places . . . especially places, that become touchstones with our past while reassuring us that not everything has to change in the twinkling of a mega-byte.
Part of my personal love affair with much of rural and coastal New England, lies in the perception that there, change is not quite as rampant, nor as discordant as elsewhere; there I can walk on wide board floors laid three centuries ago, and kneel in lovingly-kept cemeteries where Revolutionary war veterans sleep beside sea captains whose billowing sails plied still-uncharted oceans; where stone walls were laid by the great, great, great, great grandfathers of those who still tend them, and even the white picket fences are mended and painted by the legatees of a present generation who have walked on the moon.
Even within this setting, I weep inwardly to see old barns surrendering to gravity, and paving machines burying the history of road-builders long dead. And so I cherish most those outposts of continuity which remain outside the heavy hand of change. I especially love to walk beside the flowing waters of Furnace Brook, which passes by our annual destination site on the ancient graded dirt road whose name is eponymous with that of the waterway. First, a little history.
Vermont is not about counties, although it has fourteen of those. Vermont is all about towns, and it has 237 of those (plus 9 cities and 4 gores). The town of Chittenden is one of the largest in land area, and has a very long pioneer history. Even before the Civil War, (and certainly during it), the region’s dense forests, plentiful water sources, and limestone and manganese deposits fed the iron foundries of an era when cannons and equipment fostered a family of industries. The forging of iron spawned a need for charcoal, and charcoal furnaces and kilns grew up close to the very resources which enriched an otherwise agricultural area. The famous Pittsford Furnace gave identity to the brook I love and the road which parallels it.
For nearly forty years, I have sought the peace and solace found along Furnace Brook at the end of each annual sojourn. Even if our arrival is in the dark of night or in the course of a rain shower, it is usually no more than minutes before I have changed shoes, donned a wind breaker if necessary, snagged my favorite walking stick, and left Toffler’s world behind me. With this groundwork having been laid, perhaps it will be easier to understand the thoughts provoked by the simple experience which prompts this column.
It was early on a cool October morning, the air still a pearly white from the last of the night’s dew fall, the beckoning autumn-tinged foliage draping the empty road ahead of me as I strolled upstream. A lone jogger came into view, approaching from the opposite direction at a steady but relaxed pace, both arms swinging rhythmically at her side. As she got closer I noted the wires leading from one jacket pocket to the ear phones plugged securely into both ears. “Beethoven, Bach or Bluegrass” I wondered as we silently passed each other. Only a slight wave of one hand indicated that my presence registered. “Dedicated runner”, I thought. Allowing for the fact that I knew nothing about her motivations, I allowed myself the indulgence of wondering at how much she was missing. And so I began to listen intently as I built a mental list. Furnace Brook itself dominated the aural scale as it passed over rocky rills, lengthy riffles, occasional rapids, and long stretches muffled by a few extra meters of distance from the road. The Doppler effect of a varying geography changed the rhythm and decibel level by the moment, from a mesmeric murmur to a crashing exclamation point, diminished by the intrusion of a small bridge it passed under, and reawakened by a stone weir which once empowered a long-ago mill race.
There were other sounds, just as much a part of the morning: a white throat sparrow called its hear sweet Canada, Canada, Canada pronouncement from the top of a lightning-struck spruce, far above the humble chickadees which sprinted from branch to branch right overhead amid their always-cheerful chatter. Pausing to admire a grove of new maples, I heard the bleat of a lamb farther downstream somewhere, as well as the complaining raucousness of eastern blue jays. A red squirrel announced his noisy presence while surveying the riches of this year’s beechnut harvest. Bending to examine the exquisite symmetry of a thistle bloom, my ears registered the hum of honey bees exploring its pollen potential against the complaining of crows holding a convention in a nearby pasture. From deep in the surrounding hardwood forest, I caught the glissading song of a hermit thrush, perhaps my favorite of all back-country sounds, its notes capable of resurrecting an endless procession of boyhood memories.
Many other notes were added to my early-morning musical collage: The crowing of somebody’s rooster, the distant clatter of a chainsaw starting up; the cry of a red tail hawk high up on one hilltop, and the common-day contribution of a barking farm dog, and a screen door being slammed.
Often today, when at home or afield, I picture the stranger and her ear plugs, and I think about the neglected art of listening.

ALL THE WAY FROM A VILLAGE NAMED CHEDDAR

Scattered across the rolling green countryside of Somerset, in England’s southwest, are farming communities with names like Lower Weare, Compton Bishop, Lulsgate Bottom and Rodney Stokes. It is in this land of ancient fences, flowing brooks and old pastures, that the village of Cheddar lies. It was in this region, probably 600 years ago, that a tradition was born. The “genesis” of all cheddar cultures came from nearby caves where early farmhouse cheeses were taken to cure. The term cheddar denominates not only the place of its birth, but the type of cheese itself, and the method by which it continues to be made today in other countries and places. Of all the world’s hard and semi-hard cheeses, cheddar is by far the most widely recognized. Its unchallenged popularity arises in large part from its versatility, and the wide range of possibilities it brings to even the most humble table. In future columns, we will visit other great cheese families, but it makes the greatest sense to begin such a journey with the cheese that came to our own shores with the earliest English settlers. Originally, all cheddar was made on the farm, and was a true hand-crafted dairy product. Today, most cheddar is produced in a factory environment, with cow’s milk accumulated from multiple sources before being blended, pasteurized, and subjected to the three basic steps which make use of heating, culturing and curd management to produce cheese ready for pressing and finishing. It takes about ten pounds of milk to make one pound of cheddar in a process which preserves 96% of the protein and a high concentration of the milk’s vitamins and minerals, in a compact form with a long shelf life and multiple layers of flavor. The supermarket cheese buyer can be forgiven for believing that cheddar cheese comes in rectangular orange chunks that are marked mild, medium and sharp, and are otherwise all pretty much alike. In fact, real cheddar is a creamy-white in color, starts out- in most cases – in various size round wheels, and can be as distinctly different in sharpness and flavor as a random array of varietal wines. What causes the color confusion is the practice of American factory producers of artificially coloring their product to conform to a market expectation of what cheese should look like. A cheddar aficionado would probably not give the time of day to a product in which a manufacturer-added color can cover up a multitude of negative signals, especially when so many great U.S. cheddars are readily available, among them a number which consistently take “best of show” and “grand master” awards in national and world competition every year. As one who grew up on a small dairy farm, and who made his first home-crafted cheddar at the age of 14, my own preferences reflect the subjectivity of a life-long devotee. While I enjoy a wide range of cheeses from around the world, with cheddar at the top of the stack, I have some clear-cut views on what constitutes a real winner. Here is a breakdown of what I would look for: A true farmstead cheddar, made preferably from raw whole milk from an evening and a morning milking, in small batches, from a single herd of cows pastured and fed on a consistent regimen, in a farm-family setting; aged and managed for at least 18 months- but hopefully longer – in a temperature and humidity-controlled environment, and cut to my specifications from the original wheel as I watch. Among my favorites are: Grafton Village (3 yrs old) - Shelburne Farmhouse – Crowley-
Cabot Private Stock – Cloth-bound Cabot and – Tillamook Vintage White (2 Yrs old)
The first five choices are all from Vermont (reflecting a prejudice born of many personal visits, and hands-on familiarity), while choice number six represents a considered exception to most of my rules. (Despite the fact that Tillamook is a huge “factory-like” operation, their Vintage White is both very good, and quite available throughout our region.) The question of pasteurization is worth some explanation, since only Shelburne Farmhouse is true to the raw milk standard mentioned. Most pasteurization in the American dairy industry involves heating the milk to 160 degrees F. for 30 seconds – it’s quick and cheap, but changes the flavor for cheese-making. The alternate method is to raise the temperature only to 140 degrees, but for 30 minutes. The second method involves time and cost, but protects flavor. Mention is made of a new arrival on the scene ­– Clothbound Cabot - mostly because of the significance of the story behind it; at nearly $20.00 per pound, not too many of our readers are apt to place it high on their shopping list. It involves an institution common in Europe, but new to America: the role of the affineur. Making cheese is relatively simple and straight-forward once you have the bacterial culture, equipment, a source of milk and some experience. But 60% of the flavor of the finished product is all tied up with what happens after the cheese is pressed into the final form; the process known as “aging” or “curing”. It also represents the major part of a cheese-maker’s investment, because it means he has to protect, finish and inventory his product for many months – or even years – before it becomes income. (That’s why you pay more for a fine aged cheese !) Enter the affineur; practitioner of the fine art of affinage. The person who literally becomes the foster parent of the selected wheels of well-made cheese, positions them at exactly the right shelf-location in the aging cave, regularly rotates and turns them, cleans and brushes them, and guides them one-by-one through the long and demanding mentoring period. Clothbound Cabot describes a cheddar which is the product of a partnership of Cabot Creamery and Jasper Hill Farm. Cabot makes the cheese, and Jasper Hill Farm guides each 38 lb. wheel through the months of attentive handling and aging in their three million square foot cheese cave built into a hillside in Greensboro, Vermont. In an upcoming column, we will share some suggestions for enjoying all kinds of cheese, and introduce some new culinary masterpieces coming from a small Utah creamery.

Searching for Sammy

When the Korean War broke out on June 25th, 1950, the first American service men to find themselves engulfed in that unique conflict were drawn from the ranks of occupation forces already stationed in Japan. As “peace keepers”, they faced a traumatic transition to an unremitting combat environment, for which they were largely untrained and grossly unequipped. That they fought so well and literally “saved the day” for the gathering phalanx who would follow only adds to the measure of their contribution to a cause whose dimensions were still unforseen and unforeseeable.
For the 1,800,000 American soldiers, sailors, Marines and airmen who would follow that vanguard, the transition was no less challenging, especially since they had experienced no prior introduction to the people of East Asia. The Korean culture is vastly different, even from that of the Japanese, and their distinct history and language reach back tens of centuries. The typical G.I. had neither the time nor much opportunity to bridge that knowledge gap, and besides, they were locked in a daily struggle just to stay alive in a harsh and very unfriendly piece of real estate.
The closest most American servicemen came to “rubbing shoulders” regularly with South Korean civilians, was through a uniquely US/Korean wartime institution known as “the houseboy”.
Once some stability in battle lines was established, most of us became residents of well-worn, WW II canvas squad tents, each housing ten or twelve men. If we were fortunate enough to stay in one place long enough, we might even lay a makeshift floor of old crating material, and install a kerosene-fueled stove. (It is a characteristic of American fighting men that given the chance, they will quickly convert whatever shelter they have at hand into a replica of the home they left behind.)
The typical houseboy was a young teenager, not old enough to be in the ROK Army, but often mature beyond his years, and probably the principle or lone bread winner for his war-ravaged family. To earn his keep he performed all the house-keeping chores for residents of at least one tent ful of G.I.s, airing sleeping bags, filling water basins and personal canteens, cleaning and polishing boots, emptying the ever-present cigarette butt cans, running errands, arranging for laundry duties with villagers, and guarding the property of that handful of gum-chewing visitors from a foreign land he quickly adopted as “big brothers”. All of this for a carton or two of cigarettes - the universal currency - or Korean whan paper money of questionable and varying worth. The most sought-after “boys” were also accomplished “scroungers”; expert in locating whatever odd thing was needed, no questions asked. (Rolls of bathroom tissue, the occasional light bulb, and bottles of real Coca Cola were of particular value.)
Perhaps even more important, and less appreciated was the bridge between cultures and language represented by this humble ambassador of good will dedicated to serving others, and willing to forgive the unintended indifference and lofty hubris of those they cared for with such loyalty.
For me, that unforgettable companion and mentor of all things “Korean” was a thirteen-year-old boy known to us as “Sammy”. His real name was Ho jin Ko, and he lived in the nearby village of Chi Hyang ri. For nearly a year, he saw to it that my jump boots were the spiffiest, my sleeping area the neatest, and the field jeep I sometimes used, far cleaner than any other in the unit. His attentiveness was indefatigable, and I tried always to show my deep appreciation.
When asked by the documentary film crew from Korean National Television who accompanied our group of Utah Veterans on our 2009 revisit if there was someone from the past I might like to locate, I told them about Sammy. But such a reunion seemed so unlikely, even impossible given the passage of so much time and the vagaries of wartime memory that I held no real expectation of success. In fact I was more amused than anything by the enthusiastic effort being made by my Korean hosts in their persistent search for Sammy.
I was still doubtful when, on May 30th we drove south from Seoul to the distant city of Deagu where the researchers at KNTV claimed they had located Ho jin Ko, now in declining health and impaired memory in a care facility. Even as the wheelchair-bound patient, with his younger sister at his side was pushed from an elevator into the room where our small party waited, I was uncertain; time had indeed taken its toll on the young boy I had once known. As we talked and friends interpreted, his memory began to come back, and his recollection of small details brought a smile to his face and a glow to his countenance. My own son who had just flown to Korea to be with me managed to snap on unplanned picture with his cell phone as I once again shared a hug with a friend from out of the past. The search for ”Sammy”had come to an end.

This is a picture of Al with "Sammy" who was Dad's houseboy in Korea while serving in the Air Force during the war. The story that goes with this picture is moving, profound and worth telling. Look for it here soon!