A B C Anthony Bennett Champion: Tobe Champion

By Edward C. Mendler

Having written nonfiction articles and books __ about law, science, religion, politics and even epistemology __ Edward Mendler has now put all of that into this book. Is it fiction or nonfiction? Either way, you will possibly learn something ___ and will surely enjoy and benefit from this story of the life of Anthony Bennett Champion, known as Tobe, a Great American of the 21st century. You dont know about Tobe Champion? Well, you surely wont want to miss knowing all about his life and adventures __ sailing in the Atlantic and the Caribbean, traveling in the US from Massachusetts to Washington, D.C., to California, touring and doing business in several foreign lands, and engaging in the droll and bewildering politics of America __ and finally, learning about his various amorous escapades.
In the process of becoming a Great Man, Tobe Champion had to have come from a great family __ including his great grandfather, known as Nappa, his Champion parents and his relatives, the Stanfelds of New Mexico, whose adopted daughter, Honor, partly of Navajo descent, plays a very important role throughout Tobes life. He also had to have had wide and diverse contacts with others of his contemporaries __ dozens of friends, associates and supporters who recognized his greatness, all of them being fascinating characters.
This is a story of some length and complexity. It is actually three Books in one! Each of Book One, Book Two and Book Three has its own introduction and table of contents, and the volume is introduced with a family tree and lists of persons involved other than family members.
So if you find it a bit hefty and possibly pricey, remember that you are getting Three Books __ and that the subject is A Great Man!

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491837900

Book preview

A B C

Anthony Bennett

Champion

The Whole Story About an Extraordinary Man of the Twenty-First Century and his many Friends, Escapades and Achievements

Edward C. Mendler

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© 2013 Edward C. Mendler. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/16/2013

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3792-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3791-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4918-3790-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013921317

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

BOOK ONE: The Formative Years

PART ONE:       A GREAT GRANDFATHER

Chapter One:       Briard’s Early Years

Chapter Two:       The Champions

Chapter Three:       Sailing in Maine

Chapter Four:       Friends and Lessons

Chapter Five:       The Hammer

Chapter Six:       Doldrums and Snow

PART TWO:       COUSINS AND FRIENDS

Chapter Seven:       The Stanfields

Chapter Eight:       An Andover Year

Chapter Nine:       Another Andover Year

Chapter Ten:       Wohnthier Wheels

PART THREE:       THE PRINCETON YEARS

Chapter Eleven:       Lessons and Politics

Chapter Twelve:       Lessons and Honor

Chapter Thirteen:       Doubts and Disclosures

Chapter Fourteen:       Adventure at Sea

Chapter Fifteen:       A Little Business

Chapter Sixteen:       Junior Year

Chapter Seventeen:       Earthquake

Chapter Eighteen:       Grauation and Europe

PART FOUR:       LAW AND LOVE

Chapter Nineteen:       Getting Underway

Chapter Twenty:       Big Brother Summer

Chapter Twenty-One:       Honor and Despair

BOOK TWO: The Achievement Years

PART ONE:       A LAWYER’S BEGINNINGS

Chapter One:       Learning and Yearning

Chapter Two:       A Sailing Interval

Chapter Three:       Clerkship, Graduation

Chapter Four:       Dilemmas of Law and Love

Chapter Five:       HC Co. is Formed

PART TWO:       POLITICAL INTERRUPTIONS

Chapter Six:       Steps Ahead

Chapter Seven:       Party Chairman

Chapter Eight:       Resolving the Rivalries

Chapter Nine:       Politics, Love, Duty

Chapter Ten:       Adventures Abroad

PART THREE:       SUCCESSES AND STRESSES

Chapter Eleven:       Business, Home, Family

Chapter Twelve:       A Trip to Japan

Chapter Thirteen:       Family, Elections, Business

Chapter Fourteen:       And More!

Chapter Fifteen:       Onward: Family and Politics

Chapter Sixteen:       Approaching Strife

Chapter Seventeen:       Important Decisions

BOOK THREE: FULFILLMENT

PART ONE:       A NEW SENATOR

Chapter One:       Victorious and Vulnerable

Chapter Two:       Learning Curves

Chapter Three:       Family Visits

Chapter Four:       The Home Question

PART TWO:       RISING PERILS

Chapter Five:       Ties, Tears, Temptations

Chapter Six:       A Major Speech

Chapter Seven:       Visits in Washington

Chapter Eight:       Problems and Choices

PART THREE:       Goals Achieved

Chapter Nine:       Important Decisions

Chapter Ten:       Rivals and Supporters

Chapter Eleven:       Plans, Plots, Politics

Chapter Twelve:       The Campaign

Chapter Thirteen:       Victory and Vacation

TOBE CHAMPION

The Biography of a Great Man

Recollections and Reminiscences About and By Anthony Bennett Champion

The Stories and Details of His Interests in Life—including Family, Education, Sailing, Sex, Politics, Law, Business, Science, Love, Success, Government, Religion and Philosophy

One Volume Comprising

Three Books and Ten Parts

Compiled and Edited By

Edward C. Mendler

Introduction to the Biography of Anthony Bennett Champion

The biography of a famous person is usually written long after his or her death. The author starts by making a thorough search of the historical sources and archives, wherever they may be found, review of the works of others who have knowledge of or are thought to be authorities on the subject, consultations with descendants of the subject person and his or her acquaintances, if any are still extant, and certainly the writings and other creative products of the biographee.

In the ordinary course all of that eventually produces a thorough and detailed narrative, sometimes even a chronicle, of the famous person’s life, activities, achievements, and often diversions. It is of course an account of the facts, the known data, and the relevance thereof to the conclusions of those of the current members of the public who are qualified to evaluate, that the person was in fact worthy of fame and of being the subject of an historical biography.

Such accounts are, it must be admitted, often rather dry and tedious, and it is only the very fame of the subject that makes it worth reading about at all. At the same time, being well aware of the tedium that such accounts and narratives frequently evoke in many readers, even devoted students of historical biography, most modern authors in the field, do their very best to find in their subject’s history some events and occurrences that may present a feeling in the reader of contact with a real living personality. That often derives from personal correspondence left behind which reveals in some ways the emotional responses of the biographee to the persons and events to and about which he wrote in his letters.

Sometimes also, the authors of such volumes venture beyond the strict confines of historical reportage and introduce episodes which, while not found in any historic record, may be induced or presumed to have occurred, based upon the author’s knowledgeable inference or deduction from the actual know facts. In the course of such episodes the famous person may sometimes even be heard or quoted to speak words that were never actually said.

That practice is nowadays rather well accepted as an important element of the art of historiography. It is at least supported by authors who want their books to be read and by their publishers who bear the costs of editing, printing, advertising and distribution of the books, and want to earn a profit. It is also accepted by most educators, who want their students to learn and to gain an interest in the biographies of famous persons, and who recognize that the dull tomes lacking any such embellishments will not be read.

It is of course a rare occurrence when a biographer has access not only to a detailed historical record of his subject’s life, but also extensive and detailed accounts of his or her real-life personal activities and sayings, even actual conversations. That is, happily, the condition in which I find myself as compiler and editor of the biography of Tobe Champion.

He was indeed a Great Man, whose life is fully worthy of detailed and scholarly biographical examination. I apologize at the outset if I have failed you. There are surely many others in the field of historical biography who are far more learned and talented than I could ever aspire to be. Nevertheless, even though my book does contain many pages of narration and accounts of records of rather diverse events that may, I fear, induce tedium at times, I have had the great advantage of having direct access to, and thus being able to include, quite a few of the true real-life events and encounters of Tobe Champion described in this book. My hope is that the stories of those events and encounters will enliven your attention sufficiently that your interest in this Great Man will not be lost or wane.

Among the fortunate circumstances that enabled me to write this biography of Tobe Champion, two of them, each of some peculiarity, stand out. The first is that Tobe Champion does not exist. He never did. He is entirely fictional. The second is that I am not a historian at all, but am, at most, a fledgling novelist. A third circumstance, equally contrived, is that a good deal of this story occurs in the future.

It is my sincere hope that none of those circumstances will deter your interest in reading on. I do insist that Tobe Champion is a Great Man, and that your reading every word about his life is well worth your while. I recognize that there are many passages of narrative recital (as necessarily occurs in biography) and that some of them may possibly drag a bit for those of you who have little interest in, say, sailing, political squabbles, technology, business or science, or perhaps none in religious philosophy.

However, Tobe and I are personally interested in all of those things, and I persist in my belief that every page of my narrative is vital to the telling of the story of Tobe’s life. Anyway, for those of you whose interests lie elsewhere, perhaps more in the types of events that are common in modern novels than in historical biography itself, I suggest that you will find adequate accounts of, shall we say, romantic escapades and adventures.

Now, having conceded a fictional basis to my work, I am presumably obliged to declare that every person, event, place and thing in the book is purely fictitious and has no relationship to any reality, particularly not to any persons living or dead. That is, however, patently untrue. In fact, I do not understand how any author could say that with a straight face. Where did your ideas, your characters, places and events come from? Have you no home, no places visited, no family, no friends or acquaintances, no experiences, no observations? Of course you do. And of course that is exactly where your fictional creations came from.

And so is that where mine came from. The synapses in my brain have (I certainly hope) fired from time to time in ways that provoked and produced imagination. Yet, nevertheless, lying behind everything I dreamed or conjured up in my imagination there had to be something that earlier came in through my sense organs and formed memory in my brain, long term and active. Excuse me for being technical, but it is important that you know. This book is not entirely fictitious; there is a good deal of reality behind it. If that were not so, I could hardly keep on insisting that Tobe Champion is in fact a Great Man.

Of course I have changed the names to protect the innocent. Also, I doubt very much that any reader (other than, perhaps, my wife or my children) would be able to associate any character herein or any event herein with any real person, living or dead. If anyone has claims or guesses, I would be delighted to learn of them. If such an unlikely event should occur, and you are offended, please accept my apology: I didn’t mean you.

As noted above, biographies do tend to go on and on. This biography is unavoidably a lengthy volume. In order to help the reader through the years and the complexities, the volume has been divided into and comprises three books. Each of Book One, Book Two and Book Three has its own Introduction and its own Table of Contents, and each comprises several Parts. Also, recognizing that there is quite a large number of persons mentioned in these three Books, and that Tobe Champion has a rather complex family tree, all of which are important to the story, I include two items on the following pages as helpful guides:

The first is a Family Tree diagram of Tobe Champion’s extended family, from it’s origins in America up to the present time, including of course Tobe himself and his younger sister, and eventually his wife and offspring. The second guide is a List of Additional Persons—other than members of Tobe’s family—who appear in this volume. That List of Additional Persons is extensive, but still selective in that (i) it does not include at all many persons mentioned, real and fictional, who do not actually speak in the book, and (ii) it differentiates (in columns and by type size) between persons of continuing interest in this and the subsequent Books of this volume, and those of possibly only passing interest. All of these persons are listed essentially in the order of their appearance in the three Books of this volume and the Parts of each Book.

In light of the complexity of the narrative, it may be worthwhile from time to time to leaf back to these resources (pages vii-ix). The Tables of Contents, which list the Parts and Chapters of the three Books (pages 3, 335 and 605), will also be helpful in that they indicate a chronology and give some hints as to the actual contents.

Edward C. Mendler

October, 2013

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LIST OF ADDITIONAL PERSONS

TOBE CHAMPION

The Biography of a Great Man

BOOK ONE

The Formative Years

PART ONE

A GREAT GRANDFATHER

Chapter One

Briard’s Early Years

On a warm day in late June of 1941, sitting on his bike in front of the home on Sunnymede Avenue in South Bend, Indiana, of his friend, Ben Stover, Charlie Briard asked, Hey, Ben, wanna go over to the Royal Bumps on Portage?

The site he referred to, about two miles away and on the other side of the St. Joseph River, was a former city dump on Portage Avenue which had over the years been irregularly filled with trash and covered with sand, ultimately producing a series of undulating and winding paths over which local boys had learned to pedal their bikes as fast as possible to achieve the maximum airborne bounce.

In a city the size of South Bend news and knowledge of the availability of such thrills was rapidly transmitted by word of mouth throughout the whole bike-riding community from ages of about 8 or less to 16 or more. Parents and City officials learned of it later, with some delays in communication, and generally concluded that, although the boys thought it was fun, there were risks and potential liabilities involved, and that something ought to be done about it.

Nah, we were there last week, Ben replied. Anyway, wasn’t there a bulldozer smoothing them out or something?

An article in the South Bend Tribune, which the boys had not read, reported that indeed the former dump site on Portage Avenue was about to be leveled and graded for redevelopment. The popular Royal Bumps were soon to be no more. The trolley car that had once run along the middle of Portage Avenue had disappeared some years before, replaced by a bus.

Let’s go to Eagle, Ben said.

What do you mean? Charlie asked, although he had already guessed that Ben was suggesting that they ride their bikes up to Eagle Lake at Edwardsburg, Michigan, where Ben’s family had a summer cottage.

We could ride up to Eagle Lake, Ben proposed. It’s only about fifteen miles, I think, and wouldn’t take long.

But my Mom said I should stay in town, Charlie explained.

She wouldn’t mind if I went to Notre Dame or to Mishawaka, but she sure wouldn’t want me to ride up to Michigan!

Yeah, mine, too, Ben conceded, but they don’t have to know, and it isn’t dangerous or anything, he added for assurance. We’re old enough to take care of ourselves, he declared, knowing that Charlie could hardly disagree with that.

Ben and Charlie had both reached the age of fifteen earlier that year. They were going to be in the 10th grade in the fall. Ben Stover was on the football team and did pretty well in math courses. Charles Briard was regarded by his teachers, as well as his classmates, as very bright. He had been the star pupil in the first year Latin class, and he already spoke French, his father being a language Professor at Notre Dame.

Well, okay, Charlie agreed, let’s get going!

That quick response had not been expected by Ben. Charlie was usually much more inclined to follow parental norms, and to delay and to think for a while about the often rash proposals of his contemporaries. Accepting Charlie’s quick response as a welcome endorsement, Ben hopped on his bike.

Riding their 28 inch wheel, balloon tire, three-speed bikes, with sandwiches for lunch in the handlebar baskets, they headed north on Twyckenham, cut over to Ironwood Drive, pedaled north up past Morris Park to South Bend Avenue, and followed the route towards Edwardsburg. Whenever they saw a car or truck coming towards them or approaching from behind, they pulled off the road and waited for it to go by.

That did not happen often, and it was not yet noon when they arrived at the lake. They sat on the edge of the water at South Shore Drive and ate their sandwiches. They both wished they had thought to bring their bathing trunks with them, but decided it didn’t matter. They took off their shirts and sneakers and went into the water for a quick swim, wearing their shorts. While sitting on the grass drying themselves off in the sun, they watched a few 16 foot Snipes sail by.

The Snipes brought memories to both boys, but they did not speak of them. Ben’s Dad owned a Snipe, and Ben sometimes got to skipper it in races scheduled every Saturday. He usually took his younger sister, Judy, along as his crew, and they rather consistently came in last or next to last in the race. Ben then asked Charlie to come up to the lake and be his crew, but that didn’t help; they still were last. Ben thought the culprit must be the old wooden hull of their boat that couldn’t compete with the new plastic-hulled Snipes that were beginning to appear.

Then one week Ben was away visiting grandparents in Chicago and asked Charlie to skipper the boat with Judy as his crew. In that race the Stover Snipe came in First! Out of mutual respect neither Charlie nor Ben ever mentioned the obvious implication that skippering skill was involved in the boat’s performance record.

Actually, Eagle Lake was not a good place for sailboat races. Being long and narrow, it offered only two opposing tacks. Among the many small lakes in southern Michigan, Diamond Lake, near Cassopolis, was far better suited to sailboat races, having an island in the middle around which one could tack at various angles to the wind. It was also a popular spot for summer cottages of South Bend residents, and Charlie Briard had often visited other friends at their cottages on that lake, too. In fact it was mostly on Diamond Lake that Charlie had honed his sailing skills, serving as crew to several Snipe-owning friends, and occasionally as skipper.

On that lake some of the older (late teen) boys also had access to C Class scows, and Charlie sometimes had a chance to join the crew. Those scows are very shallow-drafted-three or four inches—very fast and very tender, which means tippy. Instead of a centerboard they have leeboards; that is, retractable metal plates extending at a slope from each side of the hull. When the boat heels, one board is straight down and the other often rises out of the water on the windward side.

To balance the boat the skippers (usually aged 17 to 19) would have several members of the crew (usually aged 10 to 14) climb out onto the leeboard. Then of course it was impossible for a skipper to resist suddenly heading up into the wind and thereby submerging the leeboard and dumping off all the kids riding on it.

Recollecting the occasions, Charlie remembered that we all shouted imprecations at the dastardly skipper and his impetuous and unseamanlike actions—but of course we always knew it was coming—and we loved it!

Dried off after their swim and happy with the achievement of their adventure—their first out-of-state bike trip—the boys remounted their steeds and headed back home.

We’ll be there before 4 o’clock, Ben said, and I don’t think we need to tell our mothers where we’ve been; just out for a bike ride.

Charlie wasn’t so sure, but said only Yeah, I suppose, not wanting to contradict his friend. In order to be sure to get back home in plenty of time, the boys shifted into high gear and moved down the road at a good clip, the terrain in southern Michigan and northern Indiana being pretty flat, and there being very little traffic on those roads, although some of them were numbered highways.

Coming around a corner they suddenly faced a horse-drawn shay in the process of turning around in the middle of the road.

Must be an Amish farmer, Charlie said, there being quite a few of them in northeastern Indiana. They stopped and waited for the shay to depart, waiving at the bearded driver, who did not respond. And then they saw another man, standing in the road, facing them and holding both hands up with his palms towards them.

He did not have a beard, wore no hat, and seemed to be clad in an odd, pale colored, draping shirt and slacks, with flimsy sandals on his feet. As Charlie and Ben approached him, riding slowly on their bikes, he pressed both palms forward and shouted a word that sounded like ahway. Then he said pahcay. Charlie and Ben didn’t know what to make of it or to do. It was an odd place for a man to be standing out in the road—with no house, car or buggy nearby, and no sign of how he got there or what he wanted.

Let’s go, Ben said. One of his Amish friends will come and get him.

But that Amish man just drove away, Charlie said, and this guy doesn’t look Amish—he has no beard, no hat, no black clothes.

Stopping the bike ten feet away from the man, with his foot on the peddle and ready to zoom off, Charlie said Hi! Is something the matter? The only response was ahway, pahcay, then wayno in pahcay.

Charlie tensed; he thought the words were Latin. He said "ave, pace, veno in pace, and then Latine loquis tu?"

The result was astounding; the man in the highway fell on his knees, shouted "salus and followed with a great spate of words that Charlie recognized as in fact Latin. Charlie understood only a few of the phrases, but could tell that the man was declaiming that he had finally been saved by finding someone who could speak Latin, that he spoke only Latin and not any linguae alienae."

Charlie thought that there were still a few places in the world where Latin was spoken—maybe a monastery in Italy, he thought—or maybe this man is a Priest who has forgotten any other language—or maybe he’s just nuts! But how and why does an insane person declaim in Latin? Charlie saw that Ben was anxious to get going, to get out of there, and he wanted to do the same, so he decided to try to tell the man that he would send the police to help him. With only one year of Latin behind him the best he could do was to conjure up a few words, with the verbs only infinitives. He said "vigiles-advenire-adjutare." The man seemed to understand. So that he could tell the police who to look for, Charlie asked him his name—"tuus nomen." His answer, clearly articulated, was Gaius Julius. He did look kinda like the pictures of Gaius Julius Caesar in our book, Charlie thought.

With Ben already rolling, Charlie sped after him. They found someone in Edwardsburg who promised to pass the word along to the proper officials about the odd foreigner out on US 12. By 4:30 they were back home in South Bend, sunburned, weary, and hungry, but very pleased with their accomplishments of the day.

To his mother’s query as to what he had been doing today, he replied that Ben and I took a long bike ride.

Where did you go? she asked, and Charlie knew he had to answer.

Well, uh, we went to Eagle Lake—where the Stovers have a cottage, you know.

Eagle Lake! his mother said, her look and voice indicating more astonishment than anger, as Charlie was very glad to observe.

You rode right out on the highways—up into Michigan!? It was both a question and an exclamation.

There was hardly any traffic—and we always pulled off the road and let them go by when a car came, he explained, seeking absolution.

I’m glad you were careful, she said, but wouldn’t it have been better if you’d asked me or your father first?

Well, yeah, maybe, Charlie hedged, but then you’d probably want to drive us up to the lake, and we wouldn’t have had the fun—or exercise—of riding our bikes.

Yes, Charlie, that’s probably true, she admitted. Still, I’d like a bit of advance warning. You and Ben wont bike to Benton Harbor—or to Ft. Wayne—without telling us first, will you?

No, Mom, I wouldn’t go as far as Benton Harbor—unless I had one of those new racing bikes with a 12-speed gear shift, Charlie said, meaning to tease. "It’s called a dérailleur, or something like that."

Well, maybe we’ll go to the beach at Benton Harbor this weekend, she proposed, ignoring the high-speed bike suggestion. The beach at Benton Harbor was, as Charlie well knew, on the shores of Lake Michigan, where there were real sand dunes, and occasionally a semblance of surf, with waves up to three feet. Do you think Ben would like to come? Or are there other friends you’d like to bring with us?

I’ll think about it, Charlie said, recognizing that the conversation had come to an end and that he had survived without a serious reprimand—or really with none at all. His mother, Marie, was a very thoughtful parent.

He felt sure that he was right to have told his mom the truth, and he wondered if Ben had done the same. It occurred to him also that he had opened a door to further tests of the limits of personal conduct that were acceptable to adults. Many of his pals were starting to smoke cigarettes and some to slurp an occasional beer, but neither of those had much appeal to Charlie. Of course playing around with girls—kissing and, uh, touchy-feely, or whatever the boys called it. That was something else again. Charlie decided to think about that.

While musing on such subjects, it came back to him that he had not told his mother the whole story; he had omitted any mention of Julius Caesar out on the highway. He decided to try that out on his father that evening. He began to think up subtle and indirect questions. Possibly, Are there any places in the world where people still speak Latin? Or Do Amish or Menonite people, or any of those sects like that still use Latin? Or possible even How would an ancient Roman say Hello; I’m lost; or Help me."

The possibility of subtlety largely evaporated when at dinner his mother told of his bike trip to Eagle Lake, and his father then wanted to hear the whole story related. His father asked particularly about the route they took and the traffic on the roads. Charlie could not avoid telling him about the Amish man in the one-horse shay, and then that there was an odd looking man who spoke Latin. Intrigued, Charlie’s father wanted to hear all the details and to have Charlie recite every word he remembered hearing the man say. He also praised Charlie’s quick, if truncated, responses in Latin, and felt a swelling of pride in his bright son’s linguistic ability.

When Charlie came to the end about asking the man’s name—and his reply that it was Gaius Julius—his father, Francois, roared with laughter. Gaius Julius in person, right here—ten miles away!"

He had no answer to Charlie’s questions as to who might be speaking Latin, where he might have come from, where he might be going, and what he was doing out on Route 12.

He spoke in and responded to Latin; he said he was Gaius Julius; you said he looked like Julius Caesar. What else? He must be Julius Caesar! Charlie’s father chuckled at this thought. If we can find him, I’ll take him to the leading Latin scholars at the University, his father said. They’ll figure out if the old boy has come back in a Time Machine!

Charlie had not yet read H.G. Wells’ book, and thought of time machines, like space ships, as only fantasies of the movie cartoons of Buck Rogers in the 25th Century that he saw from time to time at the Colfax Theater downtown. His father’s mention of Latin scholars made him think that the man on the road might be one of those—who had lost his marbles, and now thought he was Caesar. As Charlie said to his father, that seemed to be the most plausible explanation.

That thought brought to mind—at least to the mind of a fifteen-year-old always seeking new truths or new explanations—an old family story that Charlie had previously not raised, or been embarrassed to raise, with his father. The essence of the story was that family lore, overheard from time to time by Charlie, referred, jokingly, to an ancestor as Napoleon. Charlie had assumed that was an insane person who thought he was the Emperor Napoleon. When Charlie now mentioned that, his father stood up, walked over toward his library, beckoning Charlie to follow, and pulled down an old tome. In it he showed Charlie a chart of the family genealogy, at least on the Briard side.

Here’s your great-grandfather—Napoleon Jean Briard, born in 1842 in New York, a man of some distinction—and quite sane, his father assured Charlie. Actually, you met him once—on one of our trips to New York—when you were six or seven, I think. Rubbing his chin, he added: Use of the name ‘Napoleon’ became popular among some French people after Bonaparte defeated the Jacobins at the end of the Revolution in the 1790s. I expect there were ‘Napoleons’ among our ancestors who came to America before 1842, and your great-grandfather was not the first of that name in the family.

Charlie was glad to learn that it was not insanity in the family, but opposition to the excesses of Jacobin brutality that accounted for ancestral Napoleons. He decided forthwith that Napoleon was a worthy family moniker.

The search for the Highway Caesar (as Charlie’s father had come to call him) produced no leads or even any clues, and was ultimately abandoned as in vain. No sheriff or highway police in Michigan or Indiana had ever encountered anyone of that description or had any record of such a person. He simply vanished. When asked, the local Amish people reported as usual that they had seen and knew nothing. Giving up the search that fall, Charlie’s father said Maybe he took the time machine back home, and Charlie acknowledged that as a possibility, whatever it might mean. If his father really meant that time travel was conceivable as a possibility, who was he to dissent? On the positive side, Charlie really dug into his second-year Latin course and book, determined to become able to read, if not speak, in that language.

On Sundays Charlie often had the chore of riding his bike down to the Ma and Pa grocery store eight blocks away to buy the Sunday newspapers. When his father received the Chicago Tribune on Sunday, December 7, 1941, in accordance with his habit he passed the Comics and Sport pages along to Charlie and the Rotogravure to his mother, and then he read all the news articles, particularly about the status and developments of the ongoing war in Europe, which gave him increasing worry.

It was not until the evening of December 7, 1941 that they heard the news on the radio of the attack on Pearl Harbor. The effect on Charlie’s father was visible; he slumped in his chair and released a puff of air from his lips. Looking up and turning directly to Charlie, his son of fifteen and a half years, he said: You’ll be in it before it’s over. And he was right.

Charles Briard continued his High School education, performing with distinction in practically all his subjects. After December 7, 1941, there was a new focus, a new seriousness, to the goals of education in most of the high schools of the nation. All the students and the teachers knew that most of the graduates would soon be in the military services, many of them in Europe or in the Pacific in actual combat, as many of their older brothers were within a very few months. They knew also that skills, thinking, the ability to analyze, the willingness to decide and to lead, would make a lot of difference in military careers and outcomes. Some of the boys would become officers, some enlisted men, some goldbricks, some heroes. Some would live and go on to distinguished careers; some would die.

While thoughts of that kind came to everyone’s mind—teachers, parents, and the students themselves—the usual patterns of High School life continued. There were practical jokes played on teachers, frolics of various kinds. There were stage plays—in some of which Charlie had parts, including one romantic scene that greatly amused his mother. There were playoffs in basketball—known as Indiana Madness, there were football games, including one in Elkhart in which Ben Stover was the star, making three touchdowns. There were dances and proms, to which Charlie took a different girl each time, often double-dating with Ben, who had a steady.

And then, because of the war, there was a new kind of activity—a Blackout Party. The City of South Bend, like many other American communities, had instituted periodic air-raid drills, Police and Fire response training, and also evening blackouts in which all citizens were required to turn off all electric lights. That afforded of course a great opportunity for a teenage party. When all the lights were out, there was a lot of—well, smooching and groping. Some of the couples were more—uh, advanced—than others. A question posed in the dark at one of those parties by a friend of Charlie’s—maybe it was Ben, he wasn’t sure—became a sort of favorite or mantra among Charlie’s friends. The phrase was, simply: Hooks or snaps?

In May 1944 Charlie’s class was graduated from High School. He was valedictorian. Several of his classmates had become 18 and already registered for the draft. That included Ben, who enlisted and went off to an Army training camp a month later. Charlie did not become 18 until that following month, and he ducked the draft by quickly enlisting in the Air Force. He did not become a pilot, but was trained and served as a navigator. In mid-1945 in the South Pacific he was aboard a somewhat battered B-17 which then went out on a couple more combat missions, but was not again fired upon.

A month after the surrender of Japan in August 1945 his group flew into Japan, where newly-commissioned Lieutenant Charles Briard was stationed for the ensuing ten months.

The following years of the second half of the 20th century served Charles Briard well. He completed his education, prospered in his profession, married and fathered children, and ultimately left his own legacy in the 21st century and in the memories of his descendants—of whom we shall hear much more!

Chapter Two

The Champions

In 1978 Charles Briard’s second daughter, Caroline, married Anthony Champion, scion of a long-established Boston family. Their son, named Alexander Hamilton Champion, was born the next year. He was called Ham throughout his life, although his full and proper title later became Dr. Alexander H. Champion. He was graduated from Harvard College in 2001 and from Harvard Medical School in 2004, and soon became a resident in ophthalmologic surgery at Massachusetts Eye and Ear Hospital, and a few years after that, its leading surgeon.

When Ham was an undergraduate at Harvard, he met a classmate named Kathryn Ohara. Katie, as she was called, and Ham shared the birth date of December 24, 1979, which accounted for their meeting on Christmas eve in 2000 at a party in Eliot House organized by fellow students. After being impressed by their exuberant friends into portraying Mary and Joseph in a Christmas skit, and subjected to comments ranging from irreverent to salacious about the immaculateness of their liaison, they escaped to Grendel’s Cafe on Brattle Street for dinner, something of a splurge with a bottle of Almaden.

I guess I should ask, Ham ventured, How did a nice girl like you get mixed up with those guys?

Katie took the question at face value, but parried:

They go for my immaculate conception ideas. Don’t arch your eyebrows.

Katie continued, I’ll explain. Most of them—your pals—are pre-meds—except Mike Schwartz; he’s prelaw, but interested in forensic medicine. I wrote a paper about the research being done by Dr. what’s-his-name at Berkeley on genetic engineering to duplicate reptilian regeneration in mammals. And…

Oh sure, Ham cut in, it’s your brilliant mind that attracted them! We pre-meds are a dedicated lot, but if there’s one of those guys who hasn’t made a pass at you, I’ll…

You’ll what?, Katie interrupted. Not one of them has—so?

Ham laughed: So, I guess I’ll just have to do it myself!

Ham explained that he was going home—to Wellesley—for Christmas, and asked Katie if he could see her again on New Year’s Eve.

That party at Eliot will still be going on, he said, but maybe we can pay our respects and escape again—before they have me dress up as the Old Year and you as Baby New Year, or Baby New Century.

I celebrated that last year, Katie said. I belong to the school that thinks the year after Jesus’ birth was zero.

I celebrated last year, too, Ham said, but I’m neutral and I’ll give the one-ers their due. My theory is that these are the only two chances I’m going to get to ring in a new millennium, and I’m not likely to have another crack at a century either, notwithstanding your genetic manipulators.

They met for lunch on December 31, walked along the Charles, stood for a while on the Weeks footbridge in the light drifting snow, watching bits of ice float down the river, and went back to the Square for supper and an early movie, a space epic spoof which had them both laughing aloud. Arriving late at Eliot House, they found the party in full swing, and stayed long enough to whisper earnest condolences to the couple who were portraying Old Man 2000 and Baby 2001.

Alone again, they continued to exchange their family histories, anecdotes of their sporting achievements and mishaps, their tastes in books and films, and their plans for the future. Ham was surprised to learn that Ohara was in fact a Japanese name. Katie’s complexion was that of milk chocolate and her features were, Ham thought, certainly negroid. That was partly true, but Katie’s grandmother, she explained, had served as a US Army nurse at Atsugi AFB near Tokyo in the late 1950s, and had married Kensaku Ohara. The couple returned to California and Katie’s family had been there ever since. She recalled that Japanese cousins had come to visit from time to time. Ham told Katie about his grandfather, his mother’s father, Charles Briard, who had been in the US forces fighting against the Japanese in 1945, but later became a Nipponophile and often travelled to Japan. Ham himself had been studying the language for several years, and was pleased to find that Katie knew enough of it to conduct a simple conversation. They ended the evening speaking Japanese, and finally welcomed oshogatsu with an embrace that lingered long enough to make each of them wonder what it might mean.

During their final semester in 2001 Ham and Katie got together as often as possible. But after their graduation they did not see or even hear much of each other for years. Ham of course became wholly occupied with his new studies at Medical School. Katie returned to San Francisco and become an obstetric nurse. It was not until the spring of 2008 that she returned to Boston, and took a position as an obstetric nurse at New England Medical Center. Learning of that, Ham called her and took her out to lunch.

Ham’s family and professional circles brought him in contact—in Wellesley, where his parents lived—with the Bennetts, whose ancestors had been prominent (and proper) Bostonians for two centuries and included more than one who first arrived in Massachusetts Bay on the Mayflower. The Bennett’s daughter, Alexandra, was bright, charming and beautiful, and Ham’s fondness for her grew into a long courtship. She and Ham were married in 2008.

They bought an old house in Cambridge, at 17 Fayerstone Street, a wooden structure with clapboard siding currently painted slate gray with white trim and black shutters. Typical of the eclectic colonial reproductions erected in New England in the late 19th and early 20th centuries were the corner pilasters in federal style and the large widow’s walk on the shingled roof rising from the third floor, an architectural affectation from which the sea could not have been seen even if every building and tree in Cambridge and Boston were leveled to the ground.

Their first child, a son, was born on May 13, 2009, in his mother’s bedroom, the left front room on the second floor, at 17 Fayerstone Street. Alexandra (usually called Sandy) regarded herself as a modern woman and had chosen to deliver her son at home with the assistance of an obstetric nurse, rather than with a doctor at the hospital in Boston where she and prior generations of her family had been born, still often called the Boston Lying-In, although that had ceased to be its official name quite a few decades before.

There was no doubt that the obstetric nurse to be chosen could be anyone other than Kathryn Ohara. Sandy had met Katie before and was well aware of Ham’s fondness for her, although she had never heard about the details of their relationship at Harvard. Sandy accepted Katie as a friend, giving comfort and reassurance, as well as a midwife of unquestioned competence.

When Ham entered the room, memories flashed through his mind. Catching sight of Katie across by the window, he saw her taking clothes out of a basket and putting them into dresser drawers. Sandy was propped up in bed holding the baby to her breast. Ham looked adoringly at his wife. She’s become a woman, he thought. Five years ago she was a child—a ravishingly fresh, golden haired, slim, long-legged, ebullient child. Now she’s a woman. There’s character in her eyes. Her smile is more than a reflex. The flush on her cheeks, the tinge of amber in her hair. A mother. More beautiful than ever.

He’s a winner, Sandy, Ham exclaimed. Our boy is a winner!

Sandy beamed, and Ham went on:

Had to be, sweetheart—with you as his mother. God you look beautiful, especially with the tousled hair—you know how that sends me!

Don’t tease me, Sandy said, trying to put a coquettish petulance in her tone. You know I don’t like to look ‘tousled’! She turned to Katie.

Katie, he’s teasing me. Could I have my hair brush, please?

I’ll brush it for you in a minute, Katie replied, and with a nod towards Ham and deliberate mockery in her voice, continued:

He means well, Sandy. Then, turning to him, she asked:

Ham, have you finished setting up your new room on the third floor?

Yeah, Ham acknowledged, actually feeling a bit patronized.

The nursery is all ready. I’ve moved out my desk, my files, my books, my computer, my sofa, my daybed, my TV. The private office-den precincts of the, ahem, master of the house are now located third floor rear. You ladies will be invited at an appropriate time to come for a viewing.

We’ll look forward to it, sir, Katie said.

I can’t wait to see the nursery, too, now that it’s finished, Sandy added. I want the baby here with me for at least a few more days, but he’ll be sleeping in the crib next door in his own room before we know it.

Which pace of events brings up an important subject, Ham pronounced.

We can’t keep on calling him ‘the baby’—he needs a name, maybe just a nickname. I know you’ve already said that he is to be Anthony Bennett Champion, but Anthony seems a bit formal for someone his size, and you know as well as I do how my Dad feels about ‘Tony’. He wouldn’t ever tolerate anyone calling him that, and he’s not about to let his grandson be tagged with it.

Yes, dear, I know, Sandy said. I’ve thought about it. What would you say to ‘Toby’?

Hmm, Ham intoned, That may be it. We could write it tee oh bee ee. I think my Dad would like the e better than a y.

Ham’s father did indeed approve of Tobe. He felt fulfilled by a namesake born to the son of whom he was so proud. He remembered the day of Ham’s graduation from Harvard with honors, his graduation from Harvard Medical School and acceptance for the prestigious residency at Eye and Ear, his marriage to the beautiful and popular Alexandra Bennett. On each occasion he had praised his son with his best expressions:

Congratulations, Ham, a great showing, or Good job, keep it up, or Lovely girl, fine family.

He meant by these phrases to convey his deep admiration and even his love, but he knew that to others (but not, he hoped, to Ham himself) they seemed remote and unfeeling. He had not expressed to anyone by any words (but felt sure that Ham knew) the few respects in which he disapproved of Ham’s actions: in particular, Ham’s relationship at Harvard with Kathryn Ohara, who had, happily in Anthony Champion’s view, departed for California immediately after graduation and not reappeared in Boston until a year ago. He was not pleased at her presence now in Ham’s house, and in fact he rather disapproved of Alexandra’s not having gone to the Lying-In to have the baby.

Besides that, Anthony Champion, having pursued a long and successful career in investment management, regarded the political views espoused by both Ham and Alexandra as disappointingly lacking in adherence to the conservative traditions on both sides of the family, and far too readily expressed in public. But as was his wont, he kept his counsel, recognizing that similar views were harbored by his wife, Caroline, and openly declaimed by her father, Charles Briard, who had been, since George Bush’s election (or steal, as he characterized the Supreme Court’s decision in December 2000 barring a recount in Florida), highly critical of various policies of the Bush administration, and particularly of the rejection of the UN and instigation of military action against Iraq, which Briard called Cheney’s War.

Caroline Champion came to her son’s house the day Tobe was born, and almost every day thereafter for several weeks, helping out with household chores and shopping. Anthony Champion came to Fayerstone Street a week after Tobe was born and stayed for over an hour. He smiled broadly and spoke at least four sentences of praise and good wishes.

Chip off the old block! Eh, Ham? he said, forming a lopsided grin, indicating it was one of his rare attempts at humor. In their family his father’s trite phrase had always had, for reasons never explained to Ham, the special reference to a man with at least an eye for the ladies, as it was put, actually meaning philandering tendencies. It seemed to Ham a bit premature to associate his son with such family history, if it existed, and he, Ham, certainly did not want to be so implicated, particularly in that room at that time.

Sandy had, of course, heard anecdotal tales of Ham and Katie’s friendship in their Harvard days, but neither of them had ever alluded to any sort of romantic involvement. Ham wondered what Sandy may have surmised, if she knew about the Champion family connotation of the metaphor, and whether she had noticed his blush.

She had surmised, she did know and she did notice, but she gave no indication discernible to Ham.

Preparing to depart, Sandy’s father-in-law said:

You look lovely, Alexandra; now take good care of yourself and of that fine boy.

Then he went downtown to his lawyer’s office and arranged to establish a trust for the benefit of his grandson in the amount of $50,000, which he later told Ham was meant to be a nest-egg for Tobe’s Harvard education. Alexandra’s father, Stimson Bennett, a lawyer, followed suit soon thereafter.

Charles Briard was at that time away on a trip to Japan, visiting Nomoru Kanazuchi, an old friend from years ago. Upon his return a week or so after Tobe’s birth he went to Fayerstone Street to meet his new great-grandson. He was more enthusiastic than even Anthony Champion and Stimson Bennett had been. He was lavish in his praise of both Ham and Sandy, and at one point announced:

That boy is a winner! which greatly pleased Ham because he had used the same expression.

Possibly even more meaningful to Charles Briard himself, and maybe to his daughter Caroline, who was there to hear it, he declared:

There’s some real Briard in that boy! I can tell by looking at him!

Ham and Sandy both knew enough of Charles Briard’s history to accept that as a compliment, although of mixed implications. They admired Ham’s grandfather for his independence of mind and determination to speak out, but wondered if he was fully aware of the effects on others of his sometimes arrant statements and his formidable self-assurance.

Charles Briard had long been called Nappa by Ham, who assumed that was a childish nickname for grampa, coined by his mother, Caroline. Actually, it had been initiated by her older sister, Catherine, meaning to mock the family stories of an ancestor named Napoleon, which she had heard from her grandfather. In any event, since Charles Briard had surely arrived at the age and status of patriarch of the family, or at least pêre-de-famille, the name Nappa had come to be used by all members of the branching family, except on more formal occasions when a proper name was required.

Whether or not Tobe was born with any real Briard in him, it became inevitable very soon that some Briard traits would appear in him. From Tobe’s earliest years he and Nappa became great friends, very fond of each other, and always eager to get together.

Tobe’s sister, Angela, was born in 2011, and she and Nappa also took a great liking to each other, but fell a bit short of the closeness of Tobe and Nappa.

Chapter Three

Sailing in Maine

Having learned as a boy in Indiana to sail small boats in freshwater lakes, mostly in southern Michigan, Charles Briard’s interest in sailing never waned. When he moved to Boston, he took up sailing in the ocean waters of Massachusetts and Maine. As his law practice and his economic status progressed, he acquired, step by step over the years, larger and more elaborate sailing vessels. His latest, which he still skippered, was Souvenir, a forty-eight foot sloop. While still fit and active in many ways in his 80s, he had had the boat rigged with powered winches and furling gear, and he no longer sailed it without taking along a skilled crew. To keep me company, he said, and relieve me of galley and anchoring duties.

In June 2016 Nappa Briard invited Tobe and his best pal from the first grade, Freddie Silvano, to come on a cruise on Souvenir in Maine. For this summer his crew consisted of Monique Picard, a first-year law student at Harvard, and Bill Schanzlen, a senior at MIT, both of whom were experienced sailors. Bill had crewed in a race to Bermuda, a biennial event in which Briard had participated many times in years gone by. Briard (or the Skipper, as his crew called him) and Schanzlen looked forward to exchanging anecdotes and rehashes of their respective experiences in the Atlantic.

Monique had sailed and raced small catamarans on lakes in New Hampshire since she was 10, and had at 18 won second place in the Cheetah Cat one-design nationals. She was a newcomer to blue-water monohulls, but she had sailed with friends in Buzzards Bay, and possessed other useful talents. As Briard explained to Tobe’s parents, who were skeptical of the whole idea, Monique has Red Cross certificates in life-saving, first-aid, CPR, and all that. That girl knows what she’s doing. She has young brothers and sisters at home and knows how to handle them. And she’s a good cook!

Sensing that his arguments were taking hold, he pressed on:

You know we have safety netting on all the lifelines. We wont let the boys go on deck without life jackets on—Monique will see to it. And we’ll all wear harnesses and strap in if the wind gets over 5 knots, for Lord’s sake! We’re only going from Camden to Northeast Harbor and back. I think we’ll go down Eggemoggin and come back through Merchants Row and the Thorofare. We wont run at night, and we’ll be out only four or five days.

Sandy and Ham insisted on meeting Monique and Bill, and after a few hours of discussion were satisfied that the young people were in fact sensible and reliable. It was almost inevitable, anyway, both of them thought without saying so, that Ham’s grandfather would eventually get his way. He usually did. Actually, for Ham it was not a hard sell. He had been taught to sail by his grandfather, and both he and his younger siblings, John and Angela, had in turn spent summers crewing for Nappa, as they always called their grandfather, on vessels predecessor to Souvenir, and all of them had become avid sailors.

Tobe and Freddie will be in good hands, Ham reassured Sandy, and she smiled agreement.

Now we’ll see what Tobe has to say, and we’ll talk with Freddie’s parents, Sandy concluded.

Tobe was eager. He had already accompanied his parents on a few day trips on Souvenir, and he liked to sit on Nappa’s lap and turn the big wheel. Also, he liked the way Nappa talked and played with him—at his level and on his terms. He was in fact very fond of his great-grandfather, and accepted without question the patriarchal status afforded to Briard by everyone in the Champion family, including Alexandra.

As they all knew, the old man was outspoken, articulate, alert, and sometimes considered to be rather learned. He had, at least, an unusually retentive memory, and a vast store of anecdotes and information. They knew he had enlisted in the Air Force just before his eighteenth birthday and served in the South Pacific and in Japan. They also recalled that when he retired from law practice in Boston at his firm’s mandatory retirement age, he had announced I’m not through quite yet, and I think I’ll hang out my own shingle in Maine. He did just that, and conducted a successful part-time practice until he finally did retire at the age of 84 in 2010.

The decision about the sailing trip was made, and Sandy reported to her husband’s grandfather:

Nappa, we’ll drive Tobe and Freddie up to Camden, and I’ll bring along some food that I know the boys like and will eat. Ham and I are going to stay at that new resort in Rockport while you’re out and you can call us there if anything comes up.

She gave him the telephone number, but made it a point later to be sure that Monique had it written down and was briefed on foods and beverages that were and were not suitable for the boys.

Early on Saturday, June 16, they motored out to Souvenir’s mooring in a boatyard launch, the newest model of jet-driven Whaler, which Tobe and Freddie found very exciting. Once aboard Souvenir, they explored every compartment, climbed into the bunks assigned to them and with much jostling and giggling made tents out of the lee cloths and blankets. A half hour later when Tobe’s parents were climbing into the launch to return to shore, he clung to his mother as if he had expected her to stay, and curled his lip in disappointment when he realized that she was departing. Two minutes later, however, his glumness disappeared in the activity of weighing anchor and raising sail for departure from Camden harbor.

Soon they were in West Penobscot Bay, reaching out to Lasell Island and then beating northerly toward Cape Rossier in bright sunlight sparkling on the blue water. The wind picked up and the boat pitched through three foot seas. Bill reefed down the main to flatten the boat, but Freddie paled, tears came to his eyes and he threw up. Tobe watched with interest when Monique brought a damp cloth to wipe off Freddie’s mouth and a cup of cola for him to drink. Tobe asked for some cola, too, a rare treat which his mother seldom allowed, and he had a feeling of accomplishment in having his request honored even though he didn’t throw up.

They stopped in Buck’s Harbor and had a late lunch aboard, followed by a trip ashore in the dinghy for a brief walk. Then they proceeded down