Tag Archives: History

Hometown Heroes

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I live in a small town. Banners decorate the street lights downtown showing veterans in uniform and a notation of when they served. I have never looked into participating in the program as it is my understanding that the locale where the banner is hung is within the hometown of the veteran. As I have shared several times, my father was career Navy. What I might not have shared is that he was born in a very rural area where there are still no street lights or sidewalks. Fortunately, my father is enrolled in the US Navy Memorial in Washington DC.  When it was established, he took pride in knowing his time in service would be immortalized. His picture is there, in uniform, smiling for prosperity.

Again, living in a small town doesn’t always give one the opportunity to appreciate the information that is shared on the banners. There are few street lights here and I don’t often have the opportunity to stop at a red light and take in the name and timeframe of service. The subtext varies, but many of them note the individual was missing in action or killed in action. It is hard to believe that a small town could have made so many sacrifices.

Today may be observed as Veteran’s Day but the sacrifice made by our brave service members is something that we should carry with us for more than just one day. I look at those pictures, frozen in time, and think about those same individuals walking down these very same streets. Their clothing may have been different but I imagine their dreams were much the same as ours. For some those dreams were transformed to a greater sacrifice that gives us the opportunity to comfortably walk down these same streets safely and securely.

I imagine the Hometown Heroes program will continue to flourish. I hope it does. It’s a wonderful way to pay tribute to those who served. Our gratitude may be nudged by those banners fluttering in the breeze but I hope that is not the only thing. I also hope that remembrance is a part of us always, and not just one day in November.

The Greatest Generation

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(It is not lost on me that Tuesday, November 11, is Veteran’s Day. I posted this blog over two years ago in lieu of Memorial Day. I have never forgotten the experience, nor the man, and felt strongly about sharing it again. I will pick up my figurative pen and post something more on Tuesday in honor of our veterans.)

An elderly man was pushing his shopping cart through the check out and I didn’t realize that I was blocking his exit. His white hair was neatly trimmed and combed into place. I noticed that although it was spring, he was wearing a flannel shirt. It looked as if the tags had recently been removed as it appeared new. Work pants completed his outfit. His cart contained two boxes of Cheerios and a bag. He politely let me know that he was trying to move around me and I stepped to the side. With a smile I asked him if he had a license to operate his shopping cart.

What I thought was a humorous passing comment opened a conversation that I didn’t anticipate. Not knowing if he misunderstood my remark, he chose to tell me that he was 99 years old and has been able to maintain his driver’s license. I didn’t get a sense that he said it in a condescending way but rather with understated pride. I could see that he was someone that didn’t take his independence for granted.

Although I have played our conversation over in my head several times, I am still unable to remember how he introduced the fact that he was a veteran of WWII. He was an infantry soldier and it has left a mark on him that is evident to this day. Ironically, he was soft spoken, yet his words suggested that during those years he experienced hell on earth. He spoke of the heat and the bugs and how collectively it had played havoc on their health. There was no relief at night as they slept on the ground and the morning dampness only added to the damage to their skin.  However harsh the environment might have been, it played only a small part of what they contended with regularly. His battalion saw heavy fighting and heavy losses. With pride he shared that there was a monument erected as a result of their service.

If he shared the particular information identifying his battalion or the actual location where he fought, I don’t recall. I do feel I heard what was important. Here was a man who selflessly put his life on the line for what he believed. I had been given the perception that he questions why he was able to survive when so many others didn’t. He has done more than survive as he anticipates celebrating his 100th birthday by the end of summer. He has had many years to reflect upon his life and what his purpose might have been as he made his way on this journey. After our conversation came to an end he smiled and said he was going home to read his Bible.

I don’t know who this man is and I am certain I will never see him again. I know nothing of him other than what he chose to share. I have no name to identify him and no way to congratulate him on his anticipated 100th birthday. He could say the same of me. Yet the universe felt it was necessary for our paths to cross. An elderly man was able to share a part of his life that was traumatic yet deemed necessary. Although I was a receptive audience, I look at myself and wonder what the purpose might have been.

It might be natural to think of the greatest generation during this Memorial Day weekend. How many of that population never had the opportunity to grow old? They experienced the Depression and made it through to the other side. They did their part in the sky, on land and sea. For those not serving, they kept the home fires burning with ration books in hand. They raised families where many of their offspring let their hair grow and questioned the necessity of war. Yet this resilient group of people continued to move forward. Every day their numbers dwindle and their lives full of service and sacrifice go with them. I felt like I was given a gift to have a window into this stranger’s life. By accepting this gift I feel I must pay it forward. I chose to make payment by honoring this individual, those like him, and most importantly, those who gave their lives. This blog doesn’t scratch the surface of recompense for their sacrifice but it comes with a profound sincerity.  

See You, Hubbell

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Lately I have noticed that entertainers that I grew up watching and listening to, are making their transition. Their names catch my attention and depending on my attachment I usually let out a slight gasp or sigh. The level of my connection usually matches the level of my vocalization, never anything loud or close to a shriek. I can’t think of anyone, outside my family and friends, whose death would truly impact me. That being said, when we lose entertainers in the future, the like of Alan Alda or Elton John, I will bemoan the loss of their talented offerings. I will remember the years of enjoyment they gave me. That is much of what I felt with the recent loss of Robert Redford. Although he was up in years, he like the others, appeared immortal to me.

I mentioned in a previous blog that I recently joined with my former classmates for a reunion. It was a landmark occasion and it has been decades since we gathered to accept our diplomas and embarked upon our adult adventures. We shared stories and laughter over the weekend. I was surprised that Robert Redford was highlighted in a few of these stories. I’m not proud but will admit we would regularly sneak into the drive in theater. We would maneuver through a farmer’s field, adjacent to the theater’s lot. I can remember going that route to see The Way We Were more times than I could count. It was worth it to see Robert Redford on the big screen. The farmer became wise to our bad habit and one night he sprang up out of his crops and pointed a rifle at us. I was just happy it came after the run of The Way We Were was complete.

That was not the only exposure we had to Robert Redford. In our senior year we traveled to New York City for a conference. Although our school won an award, none of us were present to accept it. We were making merry in the Big Apple. One of the most outstanding memories was the night we crashed the premier of the Great Waldo Pepper. What possessed us as unruly teenagers to walk into a New York theater as a premier showing was letting out, is beyond me. It net us quite the reward for being so brash. We found ourselves up close and personal with Robert Redford, Paul Newman and John Denver. Seared into my memory is how Redford flashed that famous and charming smile. So much time has passed that all three of the celebrities are now gone yet at the time of our reunion we would still have Redford for three more days.

I offer this as a remembrance of a talented individual and how I had the good fortune to have a brief experience when my life intersected with his. He doesn’t need my accolades yet in his lifetime he realized he was in a position to make contributions to aid others. Redford initiated the Sundance Film Festival to give those lesser-known film artisans an opportunity to explore and highlight their talent. Why not follow his lead? Maybe we can offer brightness and optimism to others not by Sundance but by Dancing in the Sun. It can be our way of lifting others by acknowledging them and offering praise. It won’t cost us a thing other than taking the time to share a positive thought. It would be a wonderful habit to establish. There will be no awards and no one will look at us and say we remind them of Robert Redford. Wouldn’t it be wonderful though, at the end of our lives, we could smile and say that was The Way We Were?

Reunion

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As a blogger, I consider myself fortunate that inspiration comes easily and in a timely manner. I knew this week I would be focusing on my class reunion. What I didn’t know is what emotions would be elicited after seeing my former classmates. Decades have passed since we embarked on our own personal journeys and our paths were different from one another. I have admitted to initially being a cynic where reunions were concerned. For the longest time I felt our connection was random due to being the same age and having parents with a desire to have us attend parochial school. I couldn’t imagine what else would have brought us together. Now that I have a bounty of life experience under my belt, I appreciate that what I thought was random was actually a collective of those with whom I have a shared history.

Our gatherings this weekend were evidence that our conversations reflected our current status in life and we have not been stagnant. Years ago we spoke of higher education and opportunities. With the addition of years, we shared news of our profession, marriage and children. It is not an exaggeration to note that the greater portion of our lives is behind us. Now we speak of retirement and those who proudly wear the title of grandparent. There was such a sense of joy to be in one another’s company. No competition, no cliques, nothing but cohesion and acceptance carried us. Time has not tarnished our relationships and it was so easy to share conversation and memories.

There appeared to be an overriding opinion, spoken by many. We were fortunate to live safely in our little communities, untouched by danger and unrest. Even though the world was facing difficult times, we felt privileged to grow up where and when we did. Although somewhat naïve, we might not have recognized that there were some classmates that were challenged by issues at home. At the time we weren’t aware and if we were, I doubt we would have had resources to offer support. Everyone put on a brave face and met life with a belief that faith would safely bring us through it. Constantly reminded of the golden rule it would take years to take it to heart and develop a profound sense of empathy. Being in the company of my classmates proved that they have not only acquired empathy but admirable traits and personalities.

After all these years we made up for lost time in a period of two evenings. Laughter ensued as memories were shared and stories repeated. We recalled the times we pushed the envelope, and reveled in our immortality. We recognized the loss of classmates who were not as fortunate to enjoy a long life. The loss of parents and some siblings have become the norm. How will we choose to honor our connection in the future? I have the sense that those students, who once wore uniforms and walked silently in double file, will choose to continue to figuratively walk with one another. The scenery looks different than it did as angst filled teenagers but the unity we enjoy will help guide us through the next stages. Who better to understand than one with a shared history?

Lessons

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It’s not unusual for me to go to a live performance by myself. I feel I am there to hear and see what is offered onstage. I don’t need company or someone to engage in conversation. There is a college within the region that has an excellent performing arts center. Although there are smaller, historic venues locally, this particular location is my favorite. They bring in high quality acts. I mention that I go solo and there is reason for my choice. Even after the tickets have been on sale for an extended time, I usually can find an open single seat close to the stage. It is so enjoyable to sit close enough that you can almost reach out and touch them and see the expression on their face.

Recently I attended a comedy show. Again, sitting close to the stage allowed me to see them as well as I would while watching television. I laughed so much that often I had tears in my eyes. The show seemed to go by so quickly. As the program ended, the lights went up and the ushers began to go through the aisles, straightening and cleaning. A couple, who had seats in front of me, decided at that time they would start a conversation. Being the social being that I am, I often engage in conversation with strangers. I anticipated a quick exchange that would send us on our way. I was wrong.

The man told me he had attended four Paul McCartney concerts. There was almost a hint of condescension in his voice as he told me that there were no concerts that could compare. I did not have the urge to share my concert history with him. The memory of attending my first concert still brings a smile to my face. I can recall the excitement of seeing Elton John in his purple sequins. I then realized that somehow the conversation turned from concerts to marriage. Did I miss something as a result of my Elton John revery?

He and his wife stood side by side, smiling at me. She appeared to be older, but some people age better than others. It was not my place to judge. I believe he stated they had been married for 25 years. He said he takes her everywhere. Again, his tone annoyed me. In my mind I thought his comment sounded like a pet owner who bragged about taking their well-behaved four-legged companion out with them. I envisioned a Chihuahua tucked in someone’s purse or pocket. I began to bristle when he asked about my status. When I admitted to being divorced, he had the gall to ask how old I was when I married. My gut told me not to answer, but I did. He proceeded to lecture me about the appropriate age to marry. I noticed his wife did nothing but smile and nod. Finally, good fortune smiled upon me and an usher asked if we could take our conversation out to the lobby. Silently I looked at her and mouthed “thank you”. She not only saved me from that situation but lead me to the side of the building where I could exit without having to continue to the lobby and risk any further contact with the couple.

My reaction was not typical for me. I was annoyed that after an evening of comedy this brief conversation robbed me of my light hearted feeling.  I have always enjoyed those random conversations where you can quickly find some commonality with another individual. I was not in the mood for a lecture from a total stranger. I never took my divorce lightly but twenty years after the fact I am settled into a lifestyle where I am content. I don’t fall into the black hole of would of, could of, should of. I questioned why this individual got under my skin and then I realized what the lesson might have been. I commented about his wife and her age. I claimed that I don’t judge, yet I did. Although I kept my thoughts to myself, I was annoyed by his arrogant manner and her appearance of timidity. I adopted the motto of live and let live, yet that evening it appears it escaped me. Rather than carry the aggravation of that encounter I will focus on the positive. I won’t stop talking to strangers but when I come across someone who’s lifestyle is divergent, I will be grateful that I have created a life perfect for me, one of independence and the ability to chart my own course.

When Dad Speaks

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My father has been gone for more than half my life. Every so often my mind wonders what it would have been like to have had him remain longer in our lives. My thoughts don’t allow me to have him age although in reality he would have hit the 100 year old mark by now. In my imagination he would still be able to perform those handy man tasks that were common place. More importantly, I could ask him questions about our family or his youth, things I wasn’t prepared to ask earlier in my life. Once again, I could hear the soft southern accent that he never lost.

Years ago, when traveling to New Orleans, my father came to me in a dream. I recall he was wearing his dress blue Naval uniform and we were at the mobile home where we had spent a summer. We were there only temporarily as he was recruiting in a town far removed from where we called home. At some point in my dream, I became aware that death had robbed me of his presence and I clung to him. With tears in my eyes, I begged him not to go. I soon woke up and realized I was sitting upright in bed with my arms outstretched, tears still flowing. I could feel his arms around me. Although I was more than grateful for the visit, I realized he didn’t speak. Comforted by his presence, I wanted more. I wanted to hear his voice.

I hadn’t given it much thought growing up, but I never heard my parents argue. My mother commented, after his death, he never raised his voice to her the entire time they were married. I am not so naïve to think that they didn’t argue but it wasn’t something that we heard. In reality there could be a deafening silence until things were settled. My mother was the main disciplinarian and you knew when she was angry with us. My father would remain even keeled when he was making a point, advising me when I had done something wrong. He would tell me what he thought and then finish his comment by saying, “you know”. His simple comment would have a devasting affect on me. I felt so very small. I did know, I knew not to repeat the transgression.

Very often, as I share my thoughts in these missives, I don’t hesitate to reveal what lesson I might have learned along the way. With the advent of technology, we now have the capability to record the unusual and exciting to the mundane. I wish I had the opportunity to record some of the ordinary things that my father would say to me. Would I have had the foresight to record him when he would ask me to put my pinky in his glass of ice tea, just to sweeten it a bit? Would I have known that I would miss his rendition of the Shake and Bake commercial when the little girl would say, with a very pronounced southern accent, “And I helped!” I continue to feel the love and the longing for my father and I wish I could have preserved his voice. I would love to hear Dad speak one more time. You know?

Pennies From Heaven

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My grandfather died two years after suffering a stroke. The image of him standing in the kitchen, smiling, the night before it happened has always remained with me. It was not unusual to find a smile on his face. He was charming and had a delightful sense of humor. That stroke robbed him of so much and ultimately the onset of another one would take his life.

A few days after his death I had a vivid dream of him. I held a note in my hand that read: I didn’t leave you much as you have what you need. To this day, I can clearly see it in my mind’s eye. The message was clearly written in his handwriting. Startled by the dream I woke up. My attention was drawn to the corner of the room. It was there that I saw him. He was dressed in the blue suit in which he was buried. It was all so clear, even down to his Marcasite tie tack. He was smiling, the smile that I had known my entire life. Then as quickly as I saw him, he faded. Although it has been over forty years, I can recall it as if it was yesterday.

Stay with me as I make what looks like a leap into another subject matter. How often have you noticed spare change in a parking lot? So often it is only a penny but without embarrassment I will stop and pick it up. I have an understanding that it is a gift from my grandfather, pennies from heaven. Better yet, it is a gift, from his pocket to mine. Recently that came to mind as I thought I spotted a coin in the parking lot. It was only a circular piece of gum, discarded and now ground into the macadem. Kiddingly, I invoked my grandfather. I asked him why he had been so stingy lately and not left any change for me. I continued to run my errands and as I departed the next store I spotted change in the parking lot. He must have heard me and wanted to ensure I didn’t think him stingy. This time I was gifted a dime! Maybe it is time for a new song referencing dimes from heaven rather than pennies.

My grandfather has given me a bounty of memories. I was young when he came to live with us. I would sit on his lap and we would rock in the swivel rocker in the living room. He would entertain me with a rhyme that perfectly accompanied the rhythm of our rocking. It began with the line: See saw, knock at the door. It would continue and eventually end with a silly verse. There were other aspects of his life that have all but been forgotten. He drove a white Cadillac, the model with fins. He confessed to my friend that he was addicted to duck pin bowling. Laughing, he told her he couldn’t pass by an alley without going in for a game. Sunday would find him playing pinochle with his friends, ironically all from the same town in Italy.

I recently had the good fortune to obtain Grandpop’s secretary desk from my brother. It gives a sense of joy to now have it in my home. My thoughts go to his giving nature. I am moved when I think of the effort he made to come out one last time after his stroke. My son was being baptized and he didn’t want to miss the event. The last picture we have of him is on that day, one arm in a sling, the other holding my son as an infant. I have received wonderful gifts from my grandfather, a lifetime of love and memories. Now I gladly accept those pennies from heaven as a tangible reminder of him.

Karma

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What goes around comes around or as my mother would say, God will punish you for that. If your mouth was accidently injured it was the result of the time you talked back. If you hurt your hand, it was the result of the time you smacked your sibling. I am sure you get the picture. I don’t recall my mother ever using the word karma but I think, in her own way, she understood the concept.

I learned much from my mother but there are things she did that I am certain Doctor Spock never addressed. One favorite was the time she sent me to my room without dessert because I complained about her serving rice pudding. There was another time that she must have found my stuffy nose annoying. She repeatedly told me to blow my nose and I am sure my response was something spiteful. Her solution was to make me sniff black pepper. I believe her theory was by producing a hefty sneeze I would rid myself of the congestion. To this day, even the smallest whiff of pepper, will induce an immense amount of sneezing. Karma?

A recent trip to the cemetery brought back another incident involving karma. As a young bride I shared with my father the desire to adorn my house with beautiful flower beds. He disapproved by saying that you can’t eat flowers; a vegetable garden would be more practical. The thought of putting nasturtiums in a salad would have been lost on him. I do think it was rather hypocritical for him to always surprise our mother with freshly cut bouquets from our yard’s bounty as she couldn’t eat them. Out of all the flowering bushes we had decorating our landscape, he did have a very strong opinion about forsythia. It was the bane of his existence as he would often try to remove the plant yet it always seemed to return healthy and ready for growth. Visiting his grave at the cemetery would always make me chuckle. Behind his plot was a magnificent hedge of forsythia. I have even been known to place a few sprigs of forsythia in the silk arrangements I would leave to decorate the gravesite. His guidance in horticulture has provided me with years of humor. No good deed goes unpunished.

I have said often, more times than I can count, that what comes back to you is the result of how you live your life. While at the cemetery I felt like my father had been redeemed. The forsythia had been removed and replaced with evergreens. I, too, felt like I was the beneficiary of good fortune. It is rare that I find the office open when I am visiting on a weekend. I crossed paths with the cemetery administrator and was able to inquire about the family bench being restored. I was content, not only because of what was accomplished, but in conversation I learned this individual and I shared many of the same experiences in our lives. Preparing for my departure, a woman in the car next to me made a point of advising me that one of my tires was extremely low. It was on the passenger side of the car, unbeknownst to me. As simplistic as it seems, my observation is that karma centers on human relationships. Treat others as you would have them treat you. I advise you look for the common factor in others; do the figural walk a mile in their shoes. It isn’t necessary to focus on recompense, karma will handle it. Trust me on this one.

One Enchanted Evening

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Years ago, I found pleasure in belonging to a local Civil War Round Table. Once a month we would gather for dinner and then enjoy a presentation by a scholarly individual. I wasn’t as interested in military tactics and equipment as I was in the actual people. I found it fascinating that both sides, not just soldiers but citizens too, felt they were ordained by God. I found their sacrifice and ingenuity inspiring. In time I let my membership to the group lapse. Life changed with divorce, loss of employment and a move. Recently when my friend and her husband offered to treat me to dinner prior to attending a presentation related to local Civil War history, I was more than happy to accept. I was reminded of a time that I enjoyed, now committed to memory.

The location holds its events in a barn rather than the house that is the actual museum. Parking is in a stone laden lot and it appeared to be filling up quickly that evening. We parked and as I exited the car, I began to converse with a man who was parked next to us. We spoke as we made our way on the path to the barn. I found this gentleman attractive and conversation came easily. In that short period of time we found commonality. He opened the door for me as I knew he would. When we moved into the barn, we parted ways. The seating was arranged in rows of three seats, separated by an aisle. As I was attending with friends, we naturally sat together. I wondered, if I had come alone as I often do to events, would this gentleman and I sit together. Would we have continued to engage in conversation? I realize I am putting a lot on this total stranger. It could be he is married and his wife doesn’t enjoy history, heaven forbid we belong to different political affiliations or maybe he is an ax murderer. I was surprised by my thoughts. I am independent and not in the market for a relationship. It is very rare for me to entertain a “what it” scenario.

In all fairness, I will admit that in the early stages of being divorced, I looked online for dating material. I thought that was the acceptable thing to do. After twenty-six years of marriage I found that dating had greatly changed. It continues to bother me that you are expected to pay for a subscription in order to meet someone, yet I gave it a try. I did meet someone and we had progressed to the stage of talking by phone. I am sure he was a very nice man but his slaughter of the English language made me wince. After a dozen years of parochial school, his disregard for proper grammar was too much to take. Much later, I waded into the pool of online dating again. I was beginning to chat with a man that was a professional, held a high office in a civic group and enjoyed travel. I was open to getting to know him better until I found him with another profile that had glaring discrepancies from the original one. In both I realize he might have left out something important. Most likely he was an ax murderer. I pulled my profile and that marked the last time I entertained meeting someone online.

You might think I am exaggerating about my disinterest in dating, but it hasn’t been something I have focused on for the past 20 years. One of my brothers, a musician, had lived an hour and half away from me. His band had a job booked close to my home and I was looking forward to hearing him play. It was a rare opportunity. It happened to be a Sunday night singles dance. I was familiar with the location and the dances. I wasn’t sure if they were held weekly or monthly but I knew this one night I would be there. I took a seat up front, close to the band. My focus remained on my brother and his fellow band members. At one point a man came over to me and asked me to dance. I think I responded with an incredulous look. No, I didn’t want to dance, I was there to hear the band. Now in hind sight I realize he might have been more shocked than I was by my response.

Now you have heard all my confessions, there is one more. The man attending the presentation will never know that he is held in high regard. His conversation had me think companionship might be enjoyable. Job well done! With a smile on my face I will return to reality.

One Is Not Like the Others

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My brothers and I were transplants. When our father left Georgia, as a young man, he was never again to make it his home. He met our mother in Philadelphia. We would live there until Navy recruiting duty would have us move. We left a metropolitan area and moved to a small town whose livelihood was centered more on blue collar employment. It almost felt like we were in our own little bubble. We didn’t live close enough to spend holidays and special occasions with our extended family and our celebrations found us together, as immediate family.

I always thought we were a pretty tight family unit. Although we were not carbon copies of each other, there was still evidence that we were family. Our childhood memories are the same, incorporating the same neighbors and friends. Although we may possess the same facial expressions and laughter, our independent natures eventually did emerge. Two of my brothers are tall and blue eyed. They favor our father’s side and are both talented musicians. My other brother and I favor our mother. He was always the athlete in the family and in later years has developed an eye for photography and other artistic endeavors. It wasn’t until recently that I realized that our lives have led us down different paths and we are far from being the same.

It was a startling wake up call to realize that although we were raised with the same values, as adults, our belief systems have gone in different directions. I have come to learn that it can be wise to stay away from the topics that are considered taboo: politics and religion. Although I consider myself independent and one who thinks for herself, I have always felt comfortable following in the footsteps of our parents. It wasn’t forced upon me; it was a natural choice. I will admit that as adults, my brothers and I have led different lives. Professionally, socially and education wise there was nothing cookie-cutter about the paths we followed. I feel rather naïve to admit that it wasn’t until the past few years that I have come to recognize our differences.

Although our mother was a constant in our lives, she must have perceived differences in us. When her time was growing short, there were issues that she felt were important to discuss. She expressed her concerns, that being her only girl, that I was not in a relationship. It would have eased her mind to think that after my divorce there was someone to take care of me. I believe her concern was the result of a generational norm. Ironically, my brothers have all been in relationships and I still bristle at the thought of losing my independence. Her main request was that I would ensure the family stays together. I promised her that would not be an issue. She never shared what she thought could cause a division. Upon her death there were no squabbles about her estate. It is not lost on me that in today’s politically charged environment that families are being torn apart. I would never allow that to happen. I love my brothers too much. We were brought up together on the same foundation and the same blood courses through our veins. I will celebrate our connection and accept our differences. Most of all, I will keep the promise I made to our mother all those years ago.