A couple of weeks ago, my cousin, Mike Koehler, from Mt. Pulaski telephoned. Mike calls at least twice a month, and at the beginning of this call he asked, “Do you know what day it is?”
Actually, I had no idea what day it was, although I was fairly certain it was December.
“December 19,” he said. “Sixty-six years ago today, I was captured by the Germans. You know that recipe I sent you? That is what I had to eat on Christmas Day.”
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