Whenever we meet an old friend that we have not seen for several months, inevitably the first question (or at least the second or third) is: "Where are you going this year on vacation?"; or if the year has pretty well run its course the question may vary to: "Where did you go this year on vacation?" This can become not only rather tiresome with so much repetition in always thinking of us and travel as being one and the same, but can become darn right annoying when we haven't gone or aren't going anywhere! It's rather like being asked how one likes his new job and being forced to answer, "I was fired!". It's especially annoying to answer that inevitable vacation question this year after that fabulous trip to the Middle East in 1974 and our visit last year with nephew, Rahn Beeson, and his wife in Germany with a side trip to Rome (started as a Christmas letter but never finished). This year we can only reply: "We stayed home and painted the house!" At first, the questioner comes back with: "You're kidding!" Then seeing that we are not, the confused friend says somewhat lamely: "Well, that has to be done!" So if you expected another exciting travelogue with this year's Christmas card, stop right here and toss this report into the pile of last year's Christmas cards. Read no further. This report will be as boring as looking through some one else's family album...without the cute nude on the bearskin rug who has now grown up to be the rather stunning and quite embarrassed young lady seated across the room from you.

No mention of the events of the past year would be complete without dwelling briefly on the terrible winter. I am reminded of the old timer who claimed to be 120 years old telling his great, great grandchildren of the awful winter of '77. As his description went on and on, ever more vividly, one of the great, great grandsons interrupted, "Boy, Grandpa, things were certainly terrible in 1877!" "1877," snorted the old man, "I was talking about 1977!" All I know is that we are always glad to see the first flowers poking up through the ground in the spring, but this year we were especially glad. To have survived was no mean feat!

April not only brought spring flowers but also Rahn and Elfriede Beeson back from five years in Germany where he had been employed as a civilian working for the U.S. Army. Now officially, Rahn is only a nephew, but having been raised with me, he is more like a brother, and it was as a brother that we welcomed him home. He was assigned to the Rock Island Arsenal and once again began the tedious task of buying a home and with Elfie's help turning it into a home. It's. great to travel as part of one's job and see the world, but I'm the "stick in the mud" type who prefers to let his roots sink ever deeper into the soil and become rooted in one place.

April 23rd was an important day of the year. This was the day that Miss Paula Carter became Mrs. Thomas Laub. It was an exceptional day for me, an honor a childless man never expected, as I was to give away the bride! The wedding was held in St. John's Catholic Church in Galva, Illinois, and as I walked down the aisle of this beautiful church with the radiant bride on my arm, I couldn't help but think that this honor belonged not to me but to my younger brother, Loren, who had died so horribly with cancer. This was his daughter, he had lavished time and love and material things on her, and now on this day of days, he was denied the honor that I had usurped. And so the sadness mixed with the happiness of the moment....with laughter soon to follow. I reached the end of my walk, turned the bride over to the groom, pivoted smartly in a military left face, and stepped right on her train. As Tom pulled her toward the altar, I stood on her train, which tightened around her neck and began choking her. It was a funny moment, and one that did not go unnoticed by those in attendance as several audible chuckles reached my ears. As I slunk into my seat, I noticed her mother, Lola, grinning while on her left, Grandfather Paul Grosse was trying to hide his laughter behind his hand. Later at the reception I offered two excuses: (1) we had not practiced with a train, and (2) I was known as the family comedian and was only living up to my advance billing.

We took the first two weeks in June as part of our vacation, mostly to clean the house (Irma also did some painting) and work in the yard and garden. Rahn and Elfriede spent the Memorial Day weekend with us (you will notice how often they enter into our plans now that they have returned from Germany!), one day of which we journeyed to the Great America Amusement Park in nearby Gurnee where Irma and Elfie watched in open mouthed astonishment as Rahn and I rode the roller coasters. The shows were not only great but afforded one the chance to get off his feet for an hour or so; dinner in Old New Orleans was excellent. Great America is not a Disneyland, yet it is well worth a visit. Four exhausted people finally found their way home. Another day Irma and I spent browsing through the antique shops and dining on the wonderful food (we prefer the Hobson House) in Long Grove, a tiny and all but forgotten town where former homes have been turned into antique shops or fabulous eating places. We enjoy our visits to Long Grove, but as more and more people discover it, it becomes more and more commercialized. Now new homes are being built, and fast food chains are moving in. Too many people (or is it too much money?) ruin everything. Even the world itself. Glad we are that we visited the National Parks years ago before everyone else started to go. What is left of the United States that is untrampeled, unspoiled? Alaska, perhaps. Another day we visited the King Tut Exhibit at the Field Museum. We got to the museum at 7:45 am (the doors open at 9), had our tickets by 9:15, entered the exhibit at 9:30, and were out by 10:30. Contrast this with the report of one woman in our bank who went in August with her husband and children, arriving at 3 am to find 5000 people waiting outside, got her ticket at 10:30 and saw the exhibit at 4:30! Don't think I would have waited that long, but it was a fabulous exhibit; at least in Chicago, where huge panels of statements made by Howard Carter at the time of the discovery of the tomb were erected on the walls by each item on exhibit, explaining in detail how and where he had found it. We preferred this exhibit to our visit to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, which while it featured much larger items, was displayed in such a dirty and dusty museum. The exhibit cases must still be marked with the fingerprints of those who visited the museum in the 1920s or whenever the fastidious British left, while the "workers" stood around idly brushing with feather dusters in one hand with the other hand extended palm upward toward any tourist who might venture into range.

June was also the month of the Carter Reunion at Kennel Lake, outside of Washington, IL. Brother Marvin and his wife, Virginia, drove in from California and for the first time since I managed a weekend pass from Ft. Clark, Texas for Christmas 1941, all of the living members of the George Carter family were together! Which is rather sad, when one realizes that in those intervening years, we buried both parents and three brothers. Not that we hadn't seen eachother in all that time, but this was the first time in nearly 36 years that we had all been together. We had a great time and all too short a visit with so many to visit with, but for the first time ever my side lost the softball game. It's hard enough keeping up with nephews and nieces, but now when nieces and great nieces bring husbands and boyfriends who are bigger and stronger than I was in my prime, it gets a bit tough for a 60 year old (in January, send condolence cards!)

June was also the month for the Cub Old Timer Game, the 25th was the day. A friend who had promised in February to get tickets for this game forgot his promise, but this was one game I was not going to miss. At 7:45 am I was standing in line waiting for the gates to open, and I not only managed to get in but found a seat in the first row for real dyed-in-the-wool Cub fans (I've been one since 1932!). I could have cried when so many of the old stars I had read about and listened to on the radio were introduced. The then first place Cubs made the day complete with a miraculous rally in the last of the 9th to beat the Mets, but to me it was anti-climatic after the Old Timers Game.

The July 4th weekend we drove back to Rock Island to see the new home of Rahn and Elfie. Imagine our surprise to see a "For Sale" sign in the front lawn! After purchasing the house, they decided it was much too large for them, and so they have since sold the house and purchased a condominium. We not only had a great visit but toured the sights and landmarks of the city; we were especially gratified for the chance to visit the arsenal museum. There is a lot of military history stored here. We had always pictured Rock Island as a dirty, grubby river town, so we were quite surprised to find it a rather beautiful city. The last weekend in July we took another day of our vacation and drove to Detroit for the Midwest Sport Collectors Convention. This is the big event of all of the conventions, and more than 3000 collectors were there. We had planned to sell our Bazooka Gum card collection, which aren't really "cards" at all, but "package designs" as they are cut from the boxes containing the gum, and our set of Signal Oil cards drawn by Al Demaree, who pitched for the Giants in 1912-14. Imagine our surprise to find that some of the 1959 Bazooka cards were selling for $25 a card! What with cards sold at my table and in the auction, the fund I am building up to have my book of war experiences published was enriched by another $785. Dollars are certainly building up faster than chapters! This convention was filmed for CBS News, so you may have seen us on the August 8th newscast. That is if you weren't feasting your eyes on the lovely young lady seated next to us: Karen Michalowicz, card collector, wife, mother, and friend. We never watch the news on TV, but had intended to do so the following week to see ourselves on the boob tube, but we missed it.

August 6th-7th were the dates of the 112th Cavalry Reunion, and this is always the biggest event of my year. This was another great weekend. Not only did most of the "regulars" show up, but my old top kick, John Coppinger and his wife Susie, from Abilene, Texas made their first visit to the Midwest Reunion, and Otis Reed, whom I had last seen in New Guinea in 1944, drove over from Michigan. With 45 in attendance at the Holiday Inn in Joliet, this was our "finest hour". Two weeks later we drove up to the Czerniejewski Farm (Ray was my lieutenant overseas) for a pool party. We enjoyed the food, the drinks, and visiting with other G Troopers and the Czerniejewski clan, but no one was brave enough to break the ice that covered the pool! (Not really, but it did seem that cold!) I took a week's vacation in August and painted the outside of the house; a job I planned to finish in three days, but found myself finishing up at 4:30 on Saturday just ahead of a sudden downpour. Painting the house certainly didn't do the pinched nerve in my neck and good, but I've learned to do anything and everything without regard to the consequences.

In September the pace slowed a bit, for which we were grateful. We attended the Chicagoland Sports Convention, but compared with the Detroit Convention, the action seemed sadly lacking, and we left early both days. To illustrate how much the hobby of card collecting has changed in the past ten years, I would like to offer this little episode. I was chatting with Frank Nagy of Detroit, who with over two million cards valued at over $100,000.00 is recognized as the No. 1 collector in the United States, and showing him some of the rare cards from my own collection that I brought along to show but not to sell, when a young collector strolled up and said, "I'll buy that card", pointing to a small colored slide mounted on a card that had been issued by Signal Oil in 1948 (listed as set U09 in the American Card Collectors Catalog, if you are a collector). "It's not for sale," I replied, perhaps a bit testily. "I'll give you $50 for it," he retorted. "It's yours," I responded, removing the only card I had from that set from its place of honor in my collection. This illustrates the way money has invaded our hobby, which used to be a "fun hobby" where the rule was to be sure the other fellow got the best of any deal, but today it is almost entirely the attitude of getting the best of the other fellow. That is why I have lost interest in the hobby and am selling many of the sets I am the least interested in. In September Irma and I celebrated our 24th wedding anniversary with dinner at Cafe Provencal in Evanston. Written up in several articles in the Chicago Tribune, this was Irma's selection of our special day. It proved a gourmet's delight for a couple of gourmets. A truly outstanding meal. If you live in this area, do try Cafe Provencal. Of course, if you are satisfied with the food at McDonalds', Burger King, or Kentucky Fried Chicken, don't waste your money!

November 12th was another important day. This was the day that Mona Carter and Gary Cole were married in the Methodist Church in Colfax, and once again I was chosen to give away the bride. Since Mona would not be wearing a train, I guess she felt safe in bestowing the honor upon me. Once again I walked down the aisle of a church with a radiant bride on my arm, and once again my thoughts drifted to my brother, Loren, as once again I usurped his honor. It also befell me not to forget my lines, nor stutter on them for that matter, for when the Rev. Bassard asked, "Who gives this woman?", I was to answer, "I do!", and I succeeded on both counts. Nancy Grieco, my former clinician, would have been proud of me. (I used "light contact", Nancy!). Where I had expected to give no brides in marriage, I had now given two away in one year! May they both have long and happy marriages!

Death also paid uninvited calls in 1977. In June, Otto Batterton, a barber in Colfax for nearly 60 years, was called by the Grim Reaper. Nearly every day of my early formative years, Chick and Liz and Spud Batterton were at our house, and if they weren't, the only reason was that Loren and I were at their house. Mr. Batterton ruled our comings and goings with a firm, yet understanding hand. To me, he ranks with the Rev. Osceola McNamara and Dr. N.S. Beebe, as the greatest men I ever knew. I could have, but I never did, consider him a second Father. My second mother, however, was Mrs. Theresa Paulsen, Mother of Harold Paulsen, my army sergeant, as I adopted her as "Mom" when I lost my own Mother. Attending her funeral with another old army pal, Dunk Powell, in Atlanta, IL on Oct. 17th was almost as sad an occasions at attending my Mother's had been, and the love was mutual, for Harold was to write: "Mother thought as much or more of you than she did us boys." Even in her 90's she remained my greatest home movie fan, and a visit to the Paulsen farm would result in hours and hours of running movies while the rest of the family and Irma slipped silently off to bed, and she would still be pleading, "Just one more reel, Carter" long after my eyes and my endurance had been exhausted. She was also the greatest booster of my writing efforts, and as far back as 1963 sent me $10 for a copy of my still unfinished book. Would that I had labored on this project much harder and longer, that she might have enjoyed reading it! Death, too, made other visits to Colfax during the years, selecting John Scholl, our long time neighbor, and Stanley Clark, husband of Dorothy Clark, my wonderful boss at the Colfax Hotel where I worked during my high school days. At this time of year Christmas cards are not always bearers of happy tidings, and I am always fearful of return addresses where only one name is listed where previously two had always appeared. Last year cards arrived without the names of Loyd Caton, close friend of our days with the 112th Cavalry, and Hal Dowd, much respected lieutenant of the same outfit. Time and death are thinning out the ranks of old G Troopers, and these two will surely be missed.

If Mrs. Paulsen was my second Mother, then how do I rate my eldest sister, Margaret Blankenship, at 80 the leader of our family, who passed away on December 2nd? For it was Margaret as often as my Mother who "kissed it where it hurt" in my childhood, who with her surprised, pained look told me better than words that I had taken the wrong step or the wrong turn of life's path during young manhood, and who always welcomed me on any visit as if I was the proverbial son returning after an absence of years instead of months. Perhaps "second Mother" would not do her justice, for she was more than that; she was also a sister, teacher, leader and special friend. Neither a dreamer or a schemer, she was instead a doer; she did the job while others were still planning how to do it. All her life, she was a worker, but yet a rare one in that species: an uncomplaining worker. She forsook the cloak of the martyr that most of the Carters wear in favor of pleasant understanding; she so respected the rights and opinions of others that she left few hurt feelings in her wake and could not have made an enemy in her lifetime. And finally she laughed at Death, twice in the last two years she had suffered severe heart attacks and been given up as a hopeless case by her doctor and by the hospital to which she had been rushed, and twice she came back with a smile on her lips and pride in her achievement. A lesser individual would have pitied himself and moaned of his misfortune. But now her weakened heart was no match for a new adversary, pneumonia; and we were left only with the comforting thought that she had not suffered, yet this did not diminish our feelings of the great loss we had sustained. Road conditions on the day of the funeral were so severe that only four members of the Carter family were able to attend: sisters, Mrs. Lola Furry and Miss Geraldine Carter who along with Irma and I had arrived the day before. It was as if the heavens had wept, but the tears turned to ice and snow. My own tears were too salty to freeze.

Our selection of this years Christmas card should come as no surprise to our good neighbors, Ralph and Millie Friedman. After all, their yard often becomes the final resting place of seed hulls dropped by our feathered friends as they feed upon our kitchen window sill. Of course, our furry friends have a hand in scattering the seed hulls, too, along with not a few nut shells. Our favorites are two cardinals, who usually nest across the street, but seek out our window sill well stocked not only with sunflower seeds but also with their favorite peanuts. This summer they became so tame that they would sit within ten feet and watch the supply being replenished. One hardly had time to close the door in a return to the house before they were down on the window sill. We could even go outside and by clacking our tongues against the roof of our mouth, call them from across the street, so that they would roost over our heads in the flowering crab to see if we had some peanuts. We did! Of course, if you raised three broods of babies in one year, you'd come around begging for food too. They were still feeding (on our window sill, of course) the last baby male as the chill of October approached. Three times we watched the courtship of the female, the stuffing of food down the throats of the babies, and then the complete change in attitude of the parents as they chased the young away from the same feeding perch where they had taught them to feed themselves and out into the hostile world. At close range we watched the baby males change from non-descript gray feathers to a patchwork suit of red and gray and finally into a gorgeous red. But our window lunchbox is not limited to cardinals. While eating our breakfast each morning we watch a procession of juncos, chickadees, blue jays, grackles, starlings, mourning doves, and sparrows. Depending on the season, of course, robins will drop over to see what has attracted the other birds, and we are always fascinated by the great number and varieties of warblers and kinglets we see around the feeding area. But our special treat was the day that three beautiful evening grosbeaks looked the situation over, but decided a window sill was too much of a risk. It takes time and patience to get our feathered friends to feed at our sill. Squirrels aren't that difficult to attract, and sometimes we think about chasing them away so that the birds can feed, but we never do. For we also like the squirrels. For years Piggy the Squirrel entertained us with her antics and begging. Not only would she take peanuts from your hand, but it was possible to stroke her nose while she ate them! She is gone now but we have Susie, just as friendly but a bit grabby; Rufus, like all males, timid; and Dummy, the stupid one.

For the curious, our next vacation will take us half way across the ocean, but we'll still be in the United States. 1978, we hope, but at least 1979. MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL!