OLD PICTURES

"Here's the last one that I ever took of daddy . . . "

 "You must be going through your archives," my cousin wrote.  I had sent her some OLD family photographs.  (Except the one above is not old; it dates just to 1992.  More on that later.)

  The Statler Brothers sang about "Pictures" and the song has been 'playing' in my mind today.  Several of the lines were  especially poignant . . .  such as "Can you believe the dresses that you wore ?"; "Here we are at graduation"; "And here I am when I was just a kid"; and, apropos of the above picture: "Here's the last one that we ever took of daddy".  I took this one in September  1992, just a few weeks prior to dad's death.  He had wanted us to ride over the old dry-cleaning routes we had known in the 1940's and early '50's.  Mr. Markham's rural store had been one of his collection locations.  I have great memories of snacks he bought for me there, especially strings of black licorice.  In the intervening years, nature has overgrown the edifice and I could barely see it when we rode by it this past Spring.
  
    The song continues, "it's so much fun to be reminded of how we used to look and what we used to do. . . "  That sentiment is not universally held.  I do not believe that any of the lines quoted above were intended to be derisive.  Ridiculing pictures of the past can be a mean precedent for looking at today's prized pic's in, say, 30-50 years from now.

   The faces in the pictures that follow will be known and recognized by but few of those who read this.  I post these as encouragement for you to review your 'family archives', especially if those can be reminders of 'the goodly part of your heritage'.

"And can you believe the dresses that you wore . . ."

(With due apologies to high school classmates. Early 1950's)




                

"And here we are at graduation" . . .

May 1956.  Delana and I received an award.

"And here I am when I was just a kid . . ."

    Probably 1940 in the Southern U.S. mill village where we lived until I was approximately 5 years old.







  "It's so much fun to be reminded, of how we used to look and of what we used to do . . ."

Dad's foster-sister, Louise, and her son, around mid-1920's.










                                                             My mom (who would be 97 were she living) on right and her recently deceased sister-in-law around 1942.

   As mom grew older she had a distinct aversion to being photographed.











How the 'younger generation' looked:

My daughter on far right and her cousins, around late 1970's







   Take lots of pictures . . .  you and others probably will be  glad "one of these days".

       Satchel

MAKING A LIST . . .

         Okay; I admit it. This has nothing to do with Santa, or Christmas, or have you been a good or bad child.  But I did not want to insert a picture of my own list of 'to do's'. 

   Do you make lists ?  Perhaps here is a pertinent research topic . . . what percentage of persons make lists.  I am sure that folks other than card-carrying obsessive compulsives write reminders.
Even the smart phone  has an app for 'Memos'.

     All this came to mind just now as I was packing my brief case and consolidating items to take to my office tomorrow (Monday) morning.  And there it was . . . the yellow legal pad with already two-thirds of a page of 'forget-me-not's'.  Some are extra important . . . tomorrow is a grand-son's birthday.  Those kinds of things must not be overlooked.  Other  items, while  important, are less 'right now', perhaps 'soon'.

     While it might be a temptation to claim that this is a  recently adopted practice . . . [a kind of hedge against elderly 'intellectual interludes', a term that a friend recently offered as an alternative to the pejorative,  "Senior Moment"] . . . I have kept lists since at least high school (Now well over a half century ago). For a time, I also had a 'socially acceptable' rationale for lists . . .  I was an 'absent minded  college professor'.  That cover is long gone, not having been in a college classroom to teach since 1982.  

    I derive great satisfaction in marking through a task completed.  And I have been pleased to hear other 'listers' acknowledge that sometimes after a task has been done that was inadvertently omitted from the original list that they add it for the pure delight of striking through.

    Try it; you might like it.
        The next item on my list now is  "Publish this non-sense and go to sleep".

      Satchel

          



     

     

" . . . HOW DOES YOUR GARDEN GROW ? "

A view from the upper balcony

  What  color is  your  thumb ? . . .  for  growing  flowers, fruit, and veggies?  Mine once was reasonably green, but years  of  disuse have likely wilted and discolored it. 

   At one time I had almost a passion for growing zinnias.  Had a sizable portion of the yard devoted to multiple colors and varieties. Even had a few rose bushes. When serving a United Methodist parish, I continued the practice.  I even branched out with sunflowers,marigolds, and cockscomb.  Results with the latter were mixed even though the areas were reasonably enhanced with "nature's fertilizer" provided by dairy and poultry farmers in the parish.  

    Once in the 1970's, the zinnia 'crop' was so abundant that I loaded a Radio Flyer wagon and urged my daughter to offer them for sale to neighbors to supplement her allowance.  She initially was resistant, thinking that I was having her do it for the family budget.

    Today I thought of 'green thumbs'  and landscaping after an area newspaper's insert yesterday featured several residential lawns and gardens.  Then today the publication was 'spotlighting' lush vegetation from other gardens.  In the former, there was a picture of a boyhood friend practicing his skills on his backyard putting green.

     Unlike me, my wife has a luxuriously verdant thumb and our yard reflects her talent. In addition to various Annuals and Perennials, over the years she has regularly added to the rows of daylilies and from late Spring there is an on-going competition with the deer as to who will enjoy them more.  A few years ago, she surrendered to the deer and removed several rose bushes that were regularly serving as Breakfast Buffet for the wildlife.

Survived the Deer

The only Roses are  now grown in a pot on upper balcony 

 Moreover, she regularly spots items that to me seem just curiosity pieces but with her eye for design and placement those are transformed into art.  Such as this angel:

     Or, this 'guard dog':

      Despite the gruesome face of this sentinel, the second sign really does reflect our sentiment:

      
     The overall effect is enhanced by the professional landscaping talents of our friend, Jim. 

Jim and a recent 'project'

    As well as the fence mural by son, Tommy. (See  earlier post:"Tommy saw(yer) fence").

Earlier this Summer during his "vacation", he worked several LONG days moving lilies, removing ivy, digging out wisteria roots, and assorted other tasks.

The work of yet another artist 

     Among the 'projects' she and Jim have designed and executed :

Meditation spot; Chair out of the view

Bridge and Gate to upper side yard. Note the different view below.

Gazebo

     To accentuate the current seasonal pleasure, here are a couple of views of the 'lawn and garden' from another season.  

              Vive the Summer !
      
                   Satchel

SIGNS OF THE TIMES . . .

They were  everywhere !

    At my age, antique malls can be a "mixed blessing". . . often wondering how an item used in my youth has suddenly been  deemed 'Antique'.

 Yesterday, we were poking around one of our favorite 'treasure chests' when I spotted the above beauty.  Quite likely the picture will not resonate with many below 'a certain age' because

the signs are no longer a feature of the American highways.

In 1960, John Steinbeck travelled across  the United States with   his French Poodle, Charles le Chien, and from that trip wrote Travels with Charlie.  Interstate highways, aka 'Superhighways', were just becoming  common and Steinbeck lamented  that the time was soon coming when it would be possible to travel coast to coast without seeing anything distinctive on the landscape.

    Hasn't always been that way.  Until thirty or so years ago, rare was the town or city with its own bypass for avoiding the numerous stoplights. Consequently, it required much longer just to get from here to there.  Today, billboards along the Interstates loom large in order to be read quickly when cars  are zipping along at high speeds.  Among the first highway advertisements, Burma Shave jingles 'were everywhere'  until around 1963.  The slower speeds of those years permitted reading the poetic segments which were placed on slats, each on a pole about ten feet above ground and placed perhaps fifty yards apart.  So the 'poem' pictured above likely was not a solitary entity.

(To read about the history of the Burma Shave signs, enter that in your  search engine.)

Between my hometown and Raleigh, the state capital, on a rather winding  road, I remember this ditty:

Spring has Sprung/

The  Grass has riz/

Where last year's/

Careless Driver Is/

Burma Shave

Always the tag line was the  same:  Burma Shave.

If 'ubiquitous' means 'everywhere', then the only  ubiquitous competition those advertisements had in this region was "SEE  ROCK  CITY", the admonishment painted on the side of many farmers' barns.  I never felt deprived during my youth that I never saw the place which is just outside Chattanooga, Tennessee.  

I wrote my own little jingle about these signs from another time:

While traveling down/

 the 'Road of Life'/

A sign you'll see/

'No turning back'/

For you or me/

Not even to find Burma Shave signs, though Rock City still awaits my visit.

Satchel

"LATE AFTERNOON AND EVENING THUNDERSHOWERS . . . "

       
             At 6 p.m. today, I had an appointment, via FaceTime, to provide supervision for a woman working on her LPC license.  At 5:30,she texted a request to delay due to thunderstorms in her area. Soon the weather issue was resolved and our session completed.

     Reading her text, I remembered a common 'weather forecast' heard over the years here in the American South, predicting "late afternoon and evening thundershowers." Old-timers could survey the sky and warn, "It's comin' up a cloud", meaning a thunderstorm was imminent. And, as my dog knows, there can be no thunder without lightning.

    Last Winter I promised that I would not complain of Summer heat. I must acknowledge that the pledge has been severely tested as we have had many days with 90+* temperatures, often many of them in succession. Add high humidity readings and there is a recipe for discomfort.  A long ago neighbor, a native of England, said of the local weather conditions, "It's damned de-bil-i-ta-ting !"  The heat and humidity sometimes seem to conspire to produce the storms.

    According to a long-circulated story, Ben Franklin flew a kite with a key during a storm and confirmed some kind of theory about electricity.  It was fortunate for Ben and his experiment that he was not my mom's son because she would not have allowed him outside during the storm. As a matter of fact, my brothers and I remember
being allowed little activity during those events.  And, for goodness sake, stay away from windows and doors and unplug all electrical appliances, and do not go near a telephone. 

    While mom may have been a tad over-cautious,common sense indicates the high risk that lightning poses.  In just the past three days, two persons in our state have experienced lightning strikes and a church several miles away totally burned after being hit by a bolt. 

    Only when my siblings and I became adults did we learn the origins of our mother's fear: as a barefoot young girl, she had been standing on wet ground when an unexpected lightning strike nearby provided more than a tingle.

    As a teen, my now mid-40's daughter was  speaking on the telephone as an ominous cloud formed. As a precaution, I had her end the call and within a couple of minutes, a tree near the corner of our house took a hit from top to bottom.  The voltage continued down the embankment just outside her window.  The furrow was deep, wide and long enough that I could have planted a small vegetable garden.  

   Well, what do you know, maybe there are occasions to take mom's counsel.

    Take care . . . you never know when it will be 'raining cats and dogs'.

     Satchel

    
    
       

Can you 'make music'?

        How I wish that I could play a musical instrument !

       In previous posts I have written about my appreciation of several genres of music, how I have no rhythm, how even Stan Brown with his great talent and patience could not overcome my limitations and teach me to play the banjo, how I cannot carry a tune in the proverbial bucket, etc.  I also wrote with awe about the talents of Stan, Everette, Willard, Julie, Odell and several other friends.  

    Last week we visited the pottery of our friend, Al, in Seagrove, North Carolina, hailed by many as the ' Pottery Capital of the World'. (Several members of his family are also renown potters.)  Al is something of a Renaissance Man.  Not only world-class potter, he has been a Registered Pharmacist, fiddler extraordinaire, and now he is crafting beautiful instruments.  (If interested, put your search engine on Fiddlin' Al McCanless. And, no, this is neither a requested nor reimbursed commercial.  Al is unaware of this writing.)

      I did not know J.B. Prince who died this past week.  He was a friend and mentor to many musicians.  He was only 58 at his death.  My wife remembered him as a youthful prodigy (although he disliked the term) who sometimes played with the Bluegrass Experience, a band co-founded by her deceased husband.

     Today I preached at a nearby church while the minister is away. Greeting folks after the service, I fell into conversation with Bobby Gales whose family I had known from long ago.  When I told him that he plays 'a mean banjo' (that's a compliment, meaning he plays it well), he said, "Well, it's a mean instrument to try to play sometimes."

    These recent occurrences have reminded me of how I wish I could play . . . and particularly what someone has termed a portable instrument.  My parents paid for me to have piano lessons for seven years, although truthfully (as I wrote earlier), I had one year seven times.  My Uncle Frank Durham played guitar very well.  In the 1920's, he and a group of his friends formed a band called "The Chatham Rabbits" and occasionally performed on WPTF radio in Raleigh.  Why, I now wonder, did I not ask this kind and patient man to help me learn to play.  While largely disinterested in piano practice, had I given just a portion of that time to Uncle Frank's tutelage . . . well, I can dream, can't I?

    Actually, before I became enamored with string instruments, I had made another brief effort at 'portable musicianship'.  I wanted to learn to play bagpipes.  One of my colleagues in the Music Department began a class for learning to play the Chanter as prelude to playing the bagpipes.  He assured us that once we had mastered the fingering on the chanter, we could learn how to inflate the 'windbag'.  After a few lessons, it became obvious that I had three thumbs on each hand, and that was that for talent.

      Retrospectively, it has likely been a good thing for relationships that I do not play that instrument. Hearing bagpipe music is largely an acquired taste for many.  Once I saw a lone piper playing just off a busy highway near Duke University.   I wondered if spouse, friends, family, landlords or someone else had 'suggested' he take his pipes and go elsewhere.

     'Wisdom' would indicate that I make peace with the fact that my  fingers can not decipher the code. At least I can 'pat my foot' as long as no one notices that I don't quite have the  beat.

      Satchel
    

William wants a doll . . .

           "Free to be you and me" was an early 1970's project of stories and songs by then-current celebrities "to encourage post-1960's gender neutrality, saluting values such as individuality, tolerance, and comfort with one's identity.  A major thematic message is that anyone -whether a boy or a girl -can achieve anything." (Wikipedia)  One song by Rosey Grier, "It's Alright to Cry", I sometimes play for my male clients.

       Another favorite is "William Wants a Doll" sung by Marlo Thomas and Alan Alda ("Hawkeye" of MASH). Young William at five years of age announced that his choice for a birthday present was a doll.  Somewhat aghast, mom and dad attempted to steer him towards more 'gender appropriate' toys such as baseball bats and gloves.  While William liked these, they were not his request.  Peers also  teased and berated him.  Finally, Grandmother pointed out that he wanted a doll so that he could learn how to be a father.
One later critic asked why it was not o.k. for him to have a doll simply because he wanted a doll.  (These videos are readily available on YouTube.)

     The 'acculturation' of young boys to be real boys begins early ... often with the result of squelching and shaming their ability to experience what are usually regarded as feminine traits, such as tenderness, empathy, dependency, receptivity.  In their stead, we are encouraged, overtly and subtly, to value competitiveness, externalizing or outright denying our emotions, and bravery (or bravado ?).  The therapist, Terrence Real, calls this a form of trauma that begins early.  In his book, How Can I Get Through to You?: Reconnecting Men and Women, he cited a study that  indicated that boys and girls til the age of four or five "rest comfortably in the 'expressive-affiliative mode'" with girls being allowed to remain there longer while boys are subtly - or  - forcibly pushed out of it. (p. 123) (Young girls have yet another form of trauma that can move them away from their true selves.)  While it is o.k. for young girls, say 8-12, to be called Tomboy, think of the negative cultural connotations of calling a young boy, Sissy.  There have been many long-term effects of this process, which Real calls emotional amputations.

     So, back to the matter of little boys and dolls . . .  The late author, Reynolds Price, wrote of gifts received on his fourth Christmas. "Santa" brought  what Price termed "an odd array" that included an Indian outfit complete with Headdress, a Shirley Temple doll, as well as an imitation double-barreled shotgun.
There was also an unrequested "and perhaps as a slightly unnerved nudge toward manhood" midget car.  At that time an only child, he frequently told Shirley his "private woes".  (pp.94-96 of his Feasting the Heart).

    Some (much?) of the cultural objection to allowing young boys such "feminine" toys as dolls is homophobia.  While Price as an adult readily acknowledged that he was indeed homosexual, having a Shirley Temple doll was hardly a "cause".  And, what, then, of straight, heterosexual men such as my brother and I who had dolls in our early years.  Mine was Nancy Jane by now long lost but who bore a strong resemblance to the one at the top of this post.  My brother had (and still has) Bob Junior.  Along the way, we each received our share of masculine toys.  In addition, to those pictured below, I recall the complete football uniforms another brother and I received one Christmas when we were pre-teen.

The next Christmas. I have vague memories of this.

Probably age 3.  Note the boots and goggles

      But no pictures of Nancy Jane have been located.  I hope that she is doing well, wherever she may be.  She played an important part in my early years.


     Satchel  (my first name really is William)

"Everything nailed down is coming loose"

            "EVERYTHING   NAILED  DOWN  IS  COMING LOOSE"

      So lamented the angel Gabriel in the play, Green Pastures.
Looking down on all the chaotic and contentious conduct of mortals, he often implored the Almighty to let him blow his trumpet and put an end to the whole sorry mess of the human experiment.  Each time the Lawd instructed him, 'not yet'.
Hence the angel's lament.

    If Ecclesiastes is correct that 'there is nothing new under the sun',
Gabriel's observation foreshadowed many repetitions.  Fifty-two years ago (almost to this date), American scholar Marshall Fishwick wrote in The Saturday Review (6/29/63) about the "ever fluctuating formula of history".  He sought to identify 'changeless things' within that phenomenon. A year later, Bob Dylan wrote the anthem of the '60's, The Times They are a Changing. Then, of course, there followed 'Nam, assassinations, the pill, political upheavals, Woodstock and events forever associated with that era. 

    If there is a constant within the human story it is change.  And, CHANGE provokes an array of human reactions and responses (not necessarily the same thing. But that for another time.)  Things can seem to rock along with hardly a ripple for extended periods and then comes a tipping point and nothing is ever the same thereafter.

    The past two weeks rank among the more transitional in recent times. Predictably, voices and opinions across the political, religious and social  spectrum have either applauded or attacked. 

    Perhaps the 'tipping point' was the nine murders at the Charleston Bible Study. Despite what some pundits allege, this was not an attack on 'Religion' even given the venue in which it occurred.  Subsequent information makes clear that it was motivated by racial hatred.

    "Take down the flag" has been a significant aftermath.  Whatever else the 'Stars and Bars' may have meant in the 1860's (and to me as an academically trained historian, it was racial at its core even though many Confederate soldiers owned no slaves), since World War II the banner has become the symbol for opposition to civil rights.  Well overdue, politicians and other public figures have discovered the hurtfulness which that symbol carries for substantial numbers of the human race.

    Then this week in rapid succession, the Supreme Court of the United States  issued opinions on two polarizing subjects . . . 'Obamacare' and 'Same Sex Marriage'.  I think the word obfuscation aptly defines much of what has since occurred : "a practice that is used to intentionally make something more difficult to understand".  (This from the on-line dictionary Tech Target).  Honest differences of opinion are essential for a free society.  But, good grief, there has  been a lot of name-calling, holier-than- thou, and finger-pointing posturing, as well as just plain hypocrisy by many.

    In his book, The True Believer,  the late Eric Hoffer noted that "hatred is the most accessible and comprehensive of all unifying agents."  In hearing and reading much of the rhetoric of recent days, I am hard-pressed not to see much demonizing occurring. And, I have no doubt that electioneering 'speeches' and posturing raise the temperature.

    Unquestionably, throughout our relatively short history, citizens and residents of the United States of America have experienced a quality and quantity of life's gifts quite different from those known in other parts of the world.  Out of that grew the notion of "American Exceptionalism" . . . that somehow America was God's chosen and special place.  While I am grateful to have lived my life here and consider myself 'patriotic',  I still find such a notion of extra God-blessed-ness rather arrogant. Yet, there it is from many of those who say things such as 'God is going to get us' because of this or that decision.  Contrary to a lot of mis-interpretation, this country specifically was not founded as a 'Christian' nation.  I think it was H.L. Mencken who observed that "patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel"  --- hardly the same as implying that all patriots are rascals

    When I was in Graduate School for my History PhD, one course in particular sought to examine the currents and counter-currents of the American 1920's . . . a particularly "things coming loose" era. (My major professor, George Mowry, published an aptly title book of that time, Fords, Flappers and Fanatics.) Along with all the changes occurring in those years, Professor Miller also called attention to the many reactionary events.  Likening society to a "package", he adroitly noted that for many, "the looser the package, the greater the need to tie the strings tighter," implying 'nail them down'.

      Where, then, is there an 'anchor' in the midst of all this . . . without being either simplistic or Pollyanna-ish ?  We deceive ourselves if we deny that there is a 'force', a 'vested interest', call it what you might, that is Evil and deeply institutionally intertwined.
Something on the Internet caught my eye today: a tad overly optimistic but at least a good beginning: "We don't have to agree on anything to be kind to one another."  And, at least in many facets of life, "live and let live" does not mean 'selling out' of values.  Somethings are very much in the public interest or domain . . Racism being a huge one.  In other matters, somethings are just none of my (and perhaps your) business.

   Satchel

       

GETTING THERE IS HALF THE FUN . . ..

    "Getting there is half the fun", or so proclaimed a travel commercial of long ago.  I think I even remember seeing it posted on the MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority . . . the Boston subway system) cars around 1960.  Even then, on that conveyance, I knew the slogan did not exactly fit.

Now, this really was a Fun Ride !
White Pass Railroad
Skagway, Alaska

   








  A friend once called this blog my  "3 M's".  "Mutterings" was included in the name because I realized that occasionally there would likely be things about which I might want to 'mutter', i.e., complain. 'Kvetch', if you prefer it in Yiddish.  And, while I do not consider myself a 'kvetcher' by nature, occasionally this dormant  side of my being comes to the fore.  So it was over the past couple of weeks when we went on our  second Alaskan cruise within the past three years.  This time, however, we opted to add several days on land and head North into Denali National Park.

       I do not consider myself a 'white-knuckle' flyer; still, flying  Economy class in a 'stump jumper' (as smaller aircraft are  sometime labelled) does not add to 'the fun'. At six feet in height, I am not 'large'; nor am I tiny.  When the dimensions for seats and the space between seats were determined, foremost in the designers minds was not the comfort of passengers of my stature and larger.  This discomfort has happened on previous trips; but this time, the image of sardines in a small can became vivid.  After the couple hours flight to Toronto, the 'real fun' began with the five hour jaunt to Vancouver.  I had remembered it as more like  10-12 hours, but a check of the itinerary corrected the 'fun' distortion.

     The time on the ship went well overall.   Upon disembarking, the 8+  hour bus ride to Denali added more  posterior challenges.  The next day, the six or  so hours on a bus 'safari' into the Park were mitigated by the beauty of Denali (Mt. McKinley) and the numerous wildlife sightings.  The most comfortable and spacious ride of the entire time was the four hour train ride back towards Anchorage.

Best ride of entire trip

 Even so, that journey required yet another couple of hours on a bus (only slightly larger than airplane seating accommodations).

     Now it was time to 'get home' and I did not realize how much 'fun' lay in store.  Perhaps there should be a prohibition of persons over seventy years of age riding the 'Red Eye', late night flights. Looking for a place in the overhead bins for our carry-ons, I missed but my wife overheard a Flight Attendant  say, "Get your hands off our stuff."  Perhaps not a good portent of things to come.
There were thirty-two and one-half rows of  seats; we were on Row 33 . . . just in front and across from the toilets and maybe five feet from the Flight attendants gathering area.  And, they gathered --- often, and not quietly.  There was little sleep during those six plus hours. 

    But the most 'fun' of the entire trip was still to come. When we reached Chicago, we learned from the family in front of us that their flight number  to our common destination differed from ours and that there were only a couple of minutes in departure times from a gate  different from ours. In that our flight had been booked several months  prior to theirs, we sought clarification from ticket agents.  The initial response was that indeed there were two nearly concurrent flights to Raleigh.  When I approached the ticket counter, the agent told me that she was about to begin the boarding for a flight and please come back in ten minutes.  When her task was completed and I returned to the counter, she told me that she couldn't assist me and to return when another agent arrived.  A check of the departure board provided no definitive clarification.  In the meantime, she and a couple of her co-workers stood at the station and seemingly enjoyed talking about how they had dealt with an obnoxious person on the previous flight,

    In time, another agent appeared to be setting up for the flight to Raleigh-Durham.  What transpired next was inexcusable.  Before I could even make my request for clarification, she launched into a condescending diatribe ("I'm not talking to you. I don't have to talk to you until one hour before the flight leaves. Check the departure board")  There was no one else there asking for her time and assistance.   Well, neither she nor any other agent was there until twenty-five minutes before boarding time. As of yet, we did not know the status of our flight, time, gate,when we could expect to be home, etc.  Again, she was surly. We learned that we were at the correct location when she tersely asked for my photo ID, then my wife's.  She muttered something to the effect that our original flight number was now  for a flight to Dallas. I never bothered to check that out. (Confirming that  small piece of data took about ten seconds.)When she took our I.D. cards prior to printing the boarding passes, she virtually slammed them down onto the desk.  Another passenger, after dealing with her, said to no one in particular,  "so much for customer service !"

Is this the part where we have 'Fun' ??

        For next year's vacation, I am lobbying for  camping in our backyard.  In that way, the only airborne entities of concern will be the mosquitoes.

     Satchel

   
      

      

Family in the Military

Some names and faces that perhaps have parallels within your own:

Bob 

Ken

Lewis

Morris

Wade

Jack, on left, the immigrant's son, in WWI

Sam

Jack

Worth and Daughter 1945

Billy

Phil, second from right,front row. Many years after Khe Sanh

Den in his first uniform 1943.
(Yes, his hair is long.  Read blogpost "Shave and a Haircut".)
Picture of him in Saigon is MIA

Den with wife and first child, 1970

"Battle of Fort Jackson" 1962

Memorial Day . . . it conjures all kinds of imagery and memories.  In more recent times, it is taken as the unofficial beginning of Summer . . . 'the Lazy, Hazy, Crazy Days of Summer'.  This weekend will be filled with cookouts, large retail salestravaganza's, ballgames, trips to the beach; for many, a time not to have to report to 'the job'.

    Those kinds of events, however, do not lie at the origins of Memorial Day.  Wikipedia has a good account of the origins on the observance.  A key distinction is made between Memorial Day which is for persons who died while serving and Veterans Day (formerly Armistice Day, November 11) which is set aside for recognition of all who served in the military.

    During World War II, I learned a new term, "Gold Star Mother" . . . for those women who had had children to die while on active duty.  Our family experienced such a loss.  I have written on an earlier post ("For Whom the Bell Tolls") about the death of my Uncle Bob in a B-29 crash in 1944.  Soon thereafter, a small flag appeared in my grand-parents' window with three stars, one for each of their sons in the military.  Two stars were white, the other, gold.

    As Memorial Day approached, I was reminded again of that post and from that I remembered that several other members of our family have spent time in uniform . . . some in harm's way; others, like myself, not so. Still, it was time away from our civilian lives given, we believed, for a high purpose. . . being prepared to protect and defend our country.  Since it is still six months or so until November and Veterans' Day, I decided to proceed naming my relatives who have served.  (I need to note that there were many others, like my dad and younger brother, who were willing to serve but were disqualified when they failed the physical exam.)

    Mom had three brothers  on active duty during World War II.  In addition to Bob, there was Ken who enlisted in the Navy after his brother's death and was deployed to the Pacific, notably to Guam. Lewis was in the Aleutian Islands. There is somewhere a newspaper clipping with a photograph of him and his squad on patrol duty, guarding against possible Japanese incursions.  Additionally, her brother-in-law, Morris, was deployed to Newfoundland.  Uncle Wade served stateside.

    At least one of my paternal grand-father's siblings, Jack, was in World War I.  In the 1950's, two of dad's siblings ... Sam and Jack  (the namesake) . . . were in the Army.  After the above picture was made, Uncle Sam ( I have a real 'Uncle Sam') earned a commission and completed his stint as an officer.  Jack told me of his experience when in Basic Training of having his officer brother visit him, to the amazement of his friends who saw him enjoying a conversation with an officer.  Jack spent some of his enlistment in Germany.

     My wife's father,Worth, served in the Navy in World War II.  My brother-in-law, Billy, served three years in the US Army, much of that time in Germany during the 1970's.

    Two family members were in Vietnam. Lewis's son, Phil, my cousin, was a medic and was wounded at the Battle of Khe Sanh. My brother, Dennis, spent time as an Orthopedic Surgeon at Saigon General Hospital during that time and was promoted to Major prior to his discharge. They both saw some horrendous stuff.

   I am somewhat embarrassed to speak of my military experience within the context of those named here.  I passed the Air Force Officer Training School Exam and Navigator Exam only to flunk the physical exam the following day.  "You could have eye surgery and try again later", the examiner told me.  I decided not to have a scapel (or whatever instrument might be used) for this procedure with unknown outcomes.  So, in 1962, I enlisted in the Reserves with an Army Aviation company.  After basic training, I did  OJT in aircraft dispatch.  Within a month of my leaving active duty, my outfit, the only Army Aviation company in the state, was dissolved and the men reassigned. There being no aircraft to dispatch, I was placed on Inactive Duty which meant no weekly drills,no two-week Summer camp.  It was a total  fluke.

    Perhaps the time for a universal military draft has long since passed. While I hardly consider myself a "Hawk", I am grateful for the service of these other men pictured above.
Many families had variations of this same story. Recently I saw statistics of US casualties in each conflict since World War I. Whether it's Memorial Day or Veterans' Day, the issue is not to glorify war but appreciation for those who served.

     Satchel (E-1)