Each part of the country has its own culture, dialect and language, the South included. That’s the place where you can get by with talking about someone if you add, “Bless her heart,” and somehow that is supposed to magically negate any unflattering remark.
I have often thought a book should be written that contains sayings from all across the country. Maybe an audio book could be included so the reader could also hear the accents to give a more accurate picture of each culture.
Working with the public for 35 years, I have heard all kinds of things. There are times I have to ask someone to repeat what they just said. Sometimes it’s a matter of not being able to understand them, but sometimes it’s a matter of disbelief. Did I really hear what I thought I heard? No verbal response is necessary for such a statement. A shake of the head and an eye roll is sufficient. Of course, that is only after the customer leaves.
One day a sweet Southern lady came to my window. She was one of those Southern church-going ladies who always wore a dress. Her hair was poofed up just so and she wore a smidgen of makeup with a splash of color on her cheeks and bright lipstick. Her Southern drawl couldn’t have dripped any thicker or sweeter if it had been honey. We took care of her business and then she asked what I thought was a strange question. “Is it alright to wear a flared dress to a wedding?” I looked a bit shocked and amused and said, “I don’t see a problem with wearing a flared dress to a wedding.” The conversation continued as to the appropriateness of a flared dress. I found out what the wedding party was wearing as well as the mothers of the bride and groom. Finally, she said, “So something like this would be okay?” She stepped back a few steps and lifted her skirt slightly so I could get a good look at it. That wasn’t a flared dress! Then it hit me! “Oh, you’re talking about a flowered dress.” “I think a flowered dress would be fine to wear to a wedding.” She smiled, thanked me, and walked out the door completely satisfied. After all, our institution is full-service!
Some people are fortunate enough to have a few special friends along the path of life. Others surround themselves with a whole network of friends. That describes my oldest grandson. He’s the guy that would come to Sunday dinner and have one to six friends with him. He carried that characteristic with him to college.
A few months ago, we took a quick trip to Montana where he is attending school. We landed, make a side trip to get boots for my tall daughter (see previous post about My Tall Daughter) and then headed to the apartment my grandson shares with another student.
He was excited to see us. When he knew we were coming, he said he wanted to cook for us. Several of his friends were already there when we arrived, having come through his revolving door. We sat down at the table set with a complete set of English china made by Johnson Brother’s around 1940. (He is a bargain shopper and got the whole set of dishes for $15.) He made antelope stew, which was delicious, baked wild rice with various herbs and dried beets, fresh green salad with avocado and other healthy food, rolls, two kinds of bread from the bakery, and pecan pie.
Everything was wonderful! But the best part of the meal was the fellowship with those who sat around the table. As I watched and listened to the interaction between friends, I couldn’t help but be impressed. There was great diversity among those sitting around the table. I was surprised to learn that some of them didn’t even know each other before that day. As far as I’m concerned, these young people are the cream of the crop.
Among the guests was a young man majoring in Economics and Finance and is an IT specialist. He has traveled several places including working on a fishing boat in Alaska and hiking across Nicaragua. Several of the students that sat at the table are Art majors. One young lady spent time in Italy for an art study and hopes to be able to explore French art as well. One wants to teach at a college level eventually. A vibrant charming young lady from Colorado graduates this month with a degree in Psychology. Her passion was infectious as she talked about her love of scientific studies focusing on the relationship between Alzheimer’s and gut microbiomes. A Music major with a focus on production and writing, talked of his passion for production and writing songs. He sang one of his compositions and played his guitar for us. He also studies Engineering and is an extreme kayaker. One young man works at Gibson Guitar. He also does wood working, having learned the art from an older gentleman. Among the friends was a student practicing sustainable farming and agriculture. She has been so successful, professors use her practices to teach others. A couple of the students also play in a band. Some do archival work at the Art Museum and set up exhibits. Others take part in community service at a local church. There was also an English Lit major working on a minor in Photography. He’s my favorite!
Many of these students that shared our table are outdoor enthusiasts. Their sports include skiing, ice climbing, rock climbing, snowboarding, hunting, biking, rafting, kayaking, backpacking, camping, rafting, and extreme sports. These young people are passionate about what they do – whether it’s their studies, work, outdoor activities, or community service. They are able to look to the future, not hindered by obstacles. They are all intelligent, motivated, talented and fun to be around. I felt it a privilege to sit around the table with that group of friends. Sitting with them, I was given new hope for the future.
“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”
Sunlight filtered through the needles of the giant trees. Webs that hung from scraggly limbs refracted rays of light shooting rainbows toward the ground. Drops of moisture looked like strands of pearls laying against the moss that clung to misshaped branches. A thick canopy stretched across the top of the forest, branches reaching from tree to tree embracing each other to form a network of protection for the life that lived and moved beneath their boughs. Huge ferns and other plants formed a dense carpet under the umbrella of trees, digging roots into the earth to drink from the rich soil. Some of the giants rested their weary feet in the creek that wandered through the primordial woodland. The smell of saltwater from the Pacific Ocean hung heavy in the air, the only breeze in the top of the tall gentle giants.
“Come to the forest for here is rest.”
Trails led deep into the woods. Hollowed out tree trunks gave the perfect place to find refuge from wind and rain or a place to hide. Eerie shadows danced along worn paths and moved from tree to tree. Walking along the path was like stepping into one of Tolkien’s magical forests, a mystical land, a realm where elves are kings and black deer their mighty steeds.
The Redwoods in Muir Woods are gentle giants that have stood their ground for years, the oldest over 1200 years old. The majestic cathedral of ancient trees is opened to those who would venture through its doors to capture the reverence and awe that moved the hearts and minds of men like John Muir. The Redwoods beckon visitors to enter their peaceful kingdom and to serve as advocates to preserve their heritage and their future.
“The world’s big and I want to have a good look at it before it gets dark.”
I turned down our street and there in the middle of the road was a little black puppy. My traveling buddies immediately said in unison, “awwwww.” I stopped and the little puppy sat down. He stood up and walked toward the car. Not knowing which side of the car he was on, I rolled down my window. There, looking up at me with sad eyes was the little black puppy. It looked like he was wearing white socks on his front legs and white shoes on his back paws. He whimpered and whined and said, “take me home with you.”
Look at those puppy eyes
I drove slowly toward the house. The little puppy ran as fast as his little legs would go. I had to drive really slow so his little legs wouldn’t fall off. The girls were cheering the little guy on. I only had to stop once for him to catch up. He almost beat me into the garage. After some discussion, the dog whisperer said, “I’ll have to take him to the pound.” The cute little black puppy with big white feet is now getting settled in pretty good at our house and eats everything in sight. There has been some discussion as to what his name should be. Some are calling him “Socks” but one of my granddaughters and I think his name should be “Two Socks.”
Is he just the cutest little thing?
The little puppy brought back some memories. When my daughter was little, she fell in love with all the strays and abandoned puppies and kittens that were dropped off by our house. There must have been a sign on the mailbox that said, “Hey, dump your unwanted puppies here!” One day, we heard whimpering coming from the ditch. It was the mangiest scrawniest dog I have ever seen. The dog obviously had not had anything to eat in quite some time. It also had mange. There were only just a few sprigs of hair on him. No one would “awwwww” over him. Ugly is the best word to describe the poor little skinny hairless thing. I don’t know of anyone who would scoop that little dog up, hug him, and think he was the greatest thing ever – well, no one except my daughter. She begged us to keep him. She promised to feed him, doctor him and most of all, to love him. True to her word, that was the most pampered dog in the world. Her love for that little dog was rewarded by a faithful companion.
When my daughter saw that little black puppy with big white feet, I wonder if she remembered back many years to that mangy mutt that she promised to care for and love. Something must have tugged at her heart because when she cut her eyes over toward her husband, he took one look and said, “No!”
By the way, there is no longer a sign hanging on our mailbox! If you’re so inclined, you’ll need to make your delivery elsewhere.
Lights twinkled all around me. The mantle was elaborately decorated with purple and pink round ornaments in garland laced with silver leaves. Splashes of teal, fuchsia, green and various colored ornaments and sparkly flowers completed the arrangement. It blended in with the wreath that hung over the mantle. A tree decorated in the same colors reached to the ceiling. Mirrors and a tall cabinet that served as a home for dolls were dressed in garland with colors to match the rest of the room. Visitors walked through the room admiring the festive decorations of Christmas.
As I reached the doorway to continue the tour, a lady walked in. Another woman was holding on to her arm as they entered the room. The lady began describing the room, starting with the huge colored garland over the mantel. It immediately grabbed my attention. Then I noticed that the woman to whom the words were directed was blind. As I stepped into the hallway, I heard her words of description giving minute details of the plethora of colors, the lights and even the placement of all the decorations.
I was touched by the lady’s enthusiasm to share the gift of sight to someone who had none. Not only did she have the opportunity to paint a picture for someone with unseeing eyes, but her own vision was expanded to every little seemingly insignificant detail. I also thought, “What a good friend!” Were they family? Was the woman born blind? Had she been able to see and lost her vision due to sickness or disease? I don’t know the answers. All I know is there was a house elaborately and elegantly decorated and someone took the time to take a guest to experience all the color, glitz, lights and atmosphere of the holiday through her eyes.
I imagine the blind woman may have seen more through the eyes of the one who guided her than many who saw all the glorious sights with their own eyes. There is more than being able to see – it is being able to share your vision with someone else.
The last time I was at Mount Rushmore, I wouldn’t have known where I was if it weren’t for the faces on the wall of stone. The place was full of people going in and out of the gift shop as larger than life stone eyes watched every movement. Some tourists walked by with ice cream cones in their hands. Others stood along the wall gazing up at the mountain while children peeked through viewfinders to get a closer look at the faces.
It certainly wasn’t like the first time I saw it. I was actually a bit disappointed that my grandchildren would never see it like I did as a child. I traveled back in time to my first trip to Mount Rushmore. That’s the year I rode in the back window for a good part of the long trip from Georgia. I remember seeing the stone faces in the distance growing bigger as we drove up the winding road. We pulled off the side of the road and stopped at a picnic area. Mama made sandwiches and we had lunch under the watchful eyes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. A narrow trail led to a closer view. I was fascinated that someone was able to chisel away the stone to make recognizable faces with eyes that seemed to be looking at us. When we drove up to the observation deck, there was no grand entrance like there is today nor were there distractions to divert our attention from the amazing massive work of art that rose out of the earth.
In 1963 there were 1,272,800 visitors to Mt. Rushmore. In 2018 there were 2.31 million.
The sculptor of the faces of Rushmore, Gutzon Borglum, had a grand scheme to carve a room in which to store documents of our country’s heritage. His plan did not come to fruition wholly but there is a repository of records placed in the hall entry of the “secret room” behind Abe Lincoln. Etched on the capstone is the following quote of Borglum, “…let us place there, carved high, as close to heaven as we can, the words of our leaders, their faces, to show posterity what manner of men they were. Then breathe a prayer that these records will endure until the wind and rain alone shall wear them away.”
Our plates were buttered and ready. Mama finished stirring the hot taffy and took it from the stove. Some of the hot sweet syrupy candy was poured into each dish. We had to wait until it was cool enough to work. I always managed to stick my buttered hands into the sticky goo while it was still too hot. Once I could get my hands in it without burning myself, I would start working the taffy.
almost ready to pour out
Salt Water Taffy is what Mama made. We would have people over to share our Taffy Pull. It was often the Youth Group in our church. I don’t think any of those kids knew about a Taffy Pull. Taffy was something they bought in the store twisted in waxed wrappers.
If anybody was walking by the house and looked through the window, they would have wondered at the sight. All hands were pulling taffy. The object was to pull and twist, put end to end and go at it again. Sometimes someone else would grab one end of the taffy to help pull and twist. We’d see how long we could stretch it before it broke. The taffy was a soft yellow color when it was first poured into our dishes. After it was worked for a while, it was almost white. My forearms and hands would be sore for a day or two. When it was all done, I wrapped my taffy in waxed paper, took it to my room and hid it in the nightstand drawer by my bed. One time I ate so much taffy I got sick. For weeks, I couldn’t even open the drawer because just the sight or smell of it turned my stomach.
When my kids were little, I decided we needed to have a Taffy Pull. We invited some people over, some well over my age, who had never even heard of a Taffy Pull. The plates were buttered, and I poured a little bit of hot taffy in each. It was fun to be able to pass along something from my childhood. It didn’t have quite the allure as when I was young. I could still see that wrapped up taffy stuck in my drawer! Maybe it’s time to have a Taffy Pull will the grandkids!
“I want to be just like you when I grow up.” You might think those are words a kid says to their mom or dad or grandparents. Actually, they are words I say to my short daughter even though she’s taller than me.
Heroes come in all sizes, shapes and ages. (In fact, my littlest grand-daughter is a hero because she brought life to a little old man for 3 years.) Sometimes they do great heroic deeds. Sometimes they are loud and brash. Sometimes they are quiet and reserved. My daughter is one of those quiet heroes. She doesn’t crash into a room with drama and demand attention. When she comes into a room, she brings a spirit of calmness and peace.
She is a wonderful wife and mama. She’s also magic. If the kids get into trouble, she takes them aside and whispers in their ear. I don’t know what she tells them, but when they return, they behave and aren’t even screaming or crying. I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s magic! She is resourceful, very frugal, creative, good cook, musician, carpenter, wood burner, drywaller, hard worker, always busy, teacher, outdoorsman, listener, counselor, seamstress, quilter, wonderful wife, patient, painter, caregiver, excellent mother, trusted friend, gardener, chicken whisperer, lawn manicurist, tractor driver, employee, can work at least three jobs at a time while juggling all those other things.
This gal can start up the tractor and plow her garden, build a fence for the chicken pen, pamper her seedlings for the garden bed, frame up a door, build a shelf or chair, install a sink and plumb it, lay out a nice meal, take care of kids and find time to do one of her regular jobs – all in the same day. You can give her a mitre saw or power tool and you would think she had been handed the greatest gift ever.
Though she can do all those things, and do them well, it is her personality and qualities that are most endearing. She is beautiful inside and out. As a kid, she was the one who loved the mangy old mutts and befriended those kids no one else would talk to or play with. She is kind, compassionate, loving, giving, forgiving, encouraging and the list goes on. I want to be just like her when I grow up. She’s my hero.
The sound of uneven footsteps coming down the long hallway echoed through the wing of the trauma unit. The steps stopped at the doorway of the corner room at the end of the corridor. A soft rap on the door was followed by the door being opened slowly. In walked a hero, a fellow veteran who had shared war stories with Daddy, he of Viet Nam and Daddy of WWII. There was something else unique about this man. He had one leg. He lost his other leg in a biplane accident.
Daddy roused out of his stupor to see a fellow veteran beside his bed standing on one leg and a metal rod with a shoe attached. He leaned lightly on the crook of his cane. “How are you doing, Robert?” He was the only person I knew, besides Daddy’s mother, to call him Robert. They chatted a bit and soon the sound of footsteps faded as Daddy’s visitor walked back down the hall.
I appreciated him coming to see Daddy, but it wasn’t until later that I realized the importance of his visit. My mother had just died as a result of an automobile accident. She was in the hospital for a few days but there was nothing that could be done to save her life. Though Daddy did not receive life threatening injuries, his health rapidly declined. Daddy was planning on checking out of life. He promised Mama he would take care of her until parted at death. Since she was gone, he thought his job was done. He simply gave up. Sometimes the battles take place in the mind.
When the one-legged hero walked through the door, Daddy was slapped in the face with his self-pity. There was a change in Daddy. Though he still had many more days in the hospital and rehabilitation, that day was a turning point. We still had many obstacles to overcome, but he had been given the gift of another chance. For over eleven years, we had Daddy with us, thanks to a one-legged hero.
Artillery shells screamed as they fell like rain. Some hit the ground but never exploded. Others burst without warning. The flat open fields near Flossdorf made the soldiers open targets for machine gun and rifle fire. Bullets sprayed the ground. Artillery was hidden behind a low hill that overlooked the beet field. The enemy aimed for the legs of the soldiers as they ran across the open fields. Some were hit. Caught in a barrage of fire, Lieutenant Lovell called for “Little One” to “get them to raise the artillery.” Pvt. Ward got the radio message through. The enemy unleashed everything they had. “Little One” was knocked to the ground by something that felt like a sledgehammer in his back. He fell back into the shell hole where his Lieutenant lay. The Lieutenant had been hit with the same blast. Pvt. Ward bandaged the Lieutenant’s legs the best he could. He reached for the boot that lay ten feet away. Part of the Lieutenant’s foot was still in it. Pvt. Ward stuck the rifle in the ground, bayonet down, so the medic was alerted that a soldier was down. He then gave the Lieutenant his sulfa pills and threw his raincoat over the bloody legs. He managed to dig the hole deeper then went for help. The word went down the line. Lieutenant Lovell was taken off the field that day but he did not survive the conflict.
Pvt. Ward heard another call from the beet field behind him. A soldier from F Company, Pvt. Leo Halash, was lying in the field. His helmet was sticking up among the beet tops. Every time he moved, a bullet whistled over his head. Pvt. Ward bellied his way to the wounded soldier. A bullet had torn a hole through the soldier’s leg. Pvt. Ward bandaged the wound and gave him his wound pills. He used a belt as a tourniquet and then dug into the ground for a trench deep enough to get the wounded soldier below the ground. Again, he jabbed the bayonet end of the rifle in the dirt to signal the medic. The trench wasn’t deep enough for two, so Pvt. Ward crawled away, hoping his helmet would deflect shots that came his way. He crawled sixty feet toward a voice that called to him from a foxhole. He slid into the hole with Robert Kendall who administered sulfa pills to Pvt. Ward, bandaged the hole in the back of his ribs, and covered him with a raincoat. Robert Kendall lost his life shortly after that action.
Robert Ward
Leo Halash
Pvt. Halash did survive. He spent countless days in hospitals fighting to keep his leg. For two and a half years, he was in VA hospitals. He steadfastly refused amputation and underwent numerous bone and skin grafts and various treatments. He kept his leg despite being stricken with osteomyelitis but walked with a limp and couldn’t bend his knee. Back home, he married and had seven children. A heart attack claimed his life in 1971 at the age of forty-six, but that’s not the end of the story.
Years later, in 2016, Robert Ward received a call from the Library of Congress asking permission to give his phone number to someone in the Halash family. They had found the story of the events of December 2, 1944 as told by Robert Ward. In no time at all, the call came. One of the sons of Leo Halash thanked him for saving his father’s life. Other calls came from other family members including the wife of Leo Halash. Soon a letter arrived from Mrs. Halash. Robert Ward said, “I didn’t do anything. The belt saved Leo’s life.” It was the soldier’s quick thinking, his passion for life, his willingness to sacrifice himself, love for his fellow man and his available hands that saved Leo Halash’s life. God placed him there that day.
Not long after that, Robert Ward spent some time in the hospital. He received a letter from the Halash family. When I handed it to him, he asked me to read it because his eyes were blurry. By the time I was done, he had silent tears sliding down his cheeks. He recounted the story of December 2, 1944 again. That time, he gave a fresh description of the incidents of that day, even telling how the enemy weapons were lined up low at the edge of the field. It was like he was seeing it all over again, adding descriptions I had never heard before. He showed me where Halash was wounded. He described the kit he carried with the bandages and pills and gave the step by step administration of those:
“I gave him his pills and I bandaged his wound. If I had not put the belt on his leg, he would have bled to death. But time was critical. If the tourniquet was on for too long, he would lose his leg. It had been raining so I was able to take the claw-looking tool and dig into the soft ground. I don’t remember the first time I saw Leo Halash, but I sure remember the last time. When it was all over I looked through the list of casualties and didn’t find his name listed among the dead. So I knew he survived.” He said, “For over seventy years I have had flashbacks on December 2. I see Frank Svoboda. I see Lieutenant Lovell lying on the ground – wounded – and his detached boot with his foot still in it. I see others who lost their lives. I see a soldier in the field and hear him call for help. I hear enemy fire all around.” A tear escaped and he continued, “But now I have been given a good flashback. After seventy years, I can now see life – that of Leo Halash. I thank God that I was there that day and that Leo survived and had a good family. That’s a good flashback!”
Pfc. Halash and Pfc. Ward were both recipients of the Purple Heart and Bronze Star. They also studied at Purdue University at the same time where they saw one another in passing, not knowing that their lives would cross paths so intimately on the battlefield or that their stories would be intertwined.
Some call my father a hero, and that he is. But I find other heroes in this story – those who gave their lives in the line of duty – those who administered aid to their fallen comrades – those who fought for our freedom. Another hero emerges as well. The family of Leo Halash is my hero. They brought closure and gave an old soldier peace after seventy years. For the first time since December 2, 1944, he did not have flashbacks on the anniversary date of the battle. Memories that rose from the ashes of loss and death were met with hope and a smile.
