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.
As kids, we probably all admired comic book superheroes. We may have even fantasized about being rescued in one of their stories. Superman wore a cape and saved the cities of the earth from annihilation. Wonder Woman ran super-fast and used her tiara as a boomerang to catch the bad guy. Spiderman hid his identity and shot webs from his wrist to entangle his enemy. Captain America had an indestructible shield and extraordinary strength. The Hulk was a mean green superpower machine, able to travel miles with one jump and breathe underwater. These heroes had the same goal in mind, to overthrow evil and balance the scales of justice.
A hero isn’t necessarily someone who rescues damsels in distress. Heroes are everyday people. They are often someone unassuming who we pass in the aisle of the store and not give them another thought. Every day heroes don’t wear capes. They don’t have a magic wand to wave and make all things right. Some are facing life’s hardships. Some are caregivers fighting against illnesses and diseases that claim body and mind. Some are young widows raising their children. These heroes don’t throw tiaras to knock the weapon from the hand of the obstacles in front of them. Their superpowers and weapons are love, compassion, kindness and perseverance.
I know heroes who have captured my admiration. A friend is caring for her husband who has Alzheimer’s. She awakens to a new world every day, never knowing if her husband will try to drive or wander away, or even if he knows her. Another friend is facing an overwhelming trial caring for her mother who is bedridden with ill health and mind. The toll is taken not just on the patient but more so on the caregiver. Another friend is a young widow with three teenage daughters. She has devoted her life to raising her girls. I watch in amazement as she maintains and teaches them life skills and gives them spiritual guidance in preparation for their future. These are just a few among many who have my utmost respect. I’m sure they have all questioned if they have made right choices, yet they made their decisions based on the need of the moment. They learn to laugh to keep from crying. They put on their “big girl panties”, dig in their heels and do what they must.
You may well be a hero to someone who needs a champion. Just an ounce of kindness toward someone can lift the weight of the world from their shoulders. A gentleman stopped by my desk one day to tell me the story of a young man who was his hero. The gentleman had every intention of taking his own life. He had pulled off the road in a remote location and contemplated his suicide when a young man stopped and began talking with him. He offered words of encouragement and prayed with the older man. That one simple act gave hope to someone who had nothing to live for. Years later, this gentleman still thanked his hero for saving his life.
You may not wear a cape and fly faster than a speeding bullet, but with just a single act of kindness you might just be someone’s hero.
“Give, and it will be given to you. A good measure, pressed down, shaken together and running over, will be poured into your lap. For with the measure you use, it will be measured to you.”
I have two daughters – a tall daughter and a short daughter. I gave birth to my short daughter. My tall daughter wears a wedding sapphire given to her by my son. I like traveling with both of my daughters.
Traveling with my tall daughter is always an adventure. In fact, my tall daughter adds extra adventure to our adventures. The last trip with my tall daughter was to Montana along with our spouses. We booked a room at a motel close to the airport since we had an early flight. It was rainy, cold, and dark when I got to the car early the next morning. My tall daughter stood at the back of the car with the hatch opened. She pointed to a pair of boots and said, “Do you notice anything?” “They don’t match.” They were different colors and it looked like they were different sizes, too. “Do you notice anything else?” “They are both for the same foot.” Well, I guess a new pair of boots would be the first order of business upon landing in Montana. That’s a great trick to get a new pair of boots! She makes the most of the opportunity.
A few years ago we went on a trip with some of the extended family and retraced the trail our ancestors took from New Mexico to Montana. We traveled down winding mountain roads, climbed through ancient cliff dwellings, and explored old family stomping grounds. Along Route 66, we stepped back into the ’50’s at the iconic Galaxy Diner. Before I could blink, my tall daughter was standing with the performing musician singing Rocky Top. She’s spontaneous.
Golden Spike National Monument
My tall daughter is an Elementary School teacher. She is always seeking places of special interest that serve as teaching aids to her students. On the road through Utah, my tall daughter wanted to make such a side trip. As we wound up the road through the hills to Promontory Point, the white crusty Salt Flats in the valley below glistened like snow. On Promontory Summit we visited Golden Spike National Monument where the first transcontinental railroad was completed in 1869 when the Union and Central Pacific Railways met and opened up the west. After leaving that bit of history behind, we took back roads that led into Idaho and then into Montana. We met up with a newfound cousin, a fellow teacher who was quickly captured by the southern belle’s exuberance. She’s engaging.
There was one trip I took with both my tall daughter and my short daughter. We went to North Carolina to a conference. When we got to town, we went to the B & B we had booked. Upon arrival, we discovered that the hostess did not set us up in the rooms we had paid for. My tall daughter took charge and soon the hostess was moving out of the room that was supposed to be ours for the night. When my tall daughter is along, she speaks up for us all. She’s our champion.
I have been on various trips with my tall daughter. My husband and I have been “camping” with her and her groom in their motor home. We have visited various National and State Parks. We have traveled out west. We have traveled to Michigan. I have traveled with them in the winter across the frozen Northwest. We have hiked, picnicked, gone to weddings and family reunions or just gone out to dinner. She likes all kinds of adventures.
I get a wild hair on occasion. It’s like getting an itch that has to be scratched. I don’t know where these ideas come from. They just pop into my head from who-knows-where and bam! I have to scratch that itch.
A couple of years ago, I got a box in the mail that weighed about ten tons. Inside was an older model KitchenAid Mixer. It was sent as a gift, purchased for twenty dollars at an estate sale. One day I got it out of the pantry and decided to use it. Since that time, I’ve gotten kind of attached to it.
before
sanded and taped
The other day one of my wild hairs stood straight up on my head. What a good idea! “I’ll paint the mixer.” The old mixer was cream colored. In a few places the enamel was worn off. It had definitely been used through the years. Operation face lift!
I took a few videos as I removed the screws so I’d know how to put it back together. Then I taped up the places I didn’t want painted. That was a challenge! How do you put tape on those itty-bitty screws? Next I sanded the mixer with 100 grit and 320 grit sandpaper.
A normal person might get a less drastic color to use on a perfectly good appliance but if you have a wild hair to paint, why not go with the brightest color you can find? Candy Apple Red! It sure was bright. The next day I got Colonial Red. That toned it down a bit, so it was no longer fluorescent. Lastly, a clear coating was sprayed on.
Candy Apple Red
Colonial Red
Impatience is not a good thing when you have to wait for all the various coats to dry. I managed to restrain myself before I yanked off the tape. Actually, I tried to do that gently, even taking the time to warm the tape and then I pulled gently – very gently. Once the tape was off, I had to put the mixer back together. Hmmm…. All the pieces went together. I held my breath when I plugged it into the outlet. It purred like a new kitten! I haven’t used it yet. I think I’ll put my “new mixer” back in the pantry so it doesn’t get dirty.
Completed project
If the person who sent the mixer is reading this – thanks for the twenty-buck mixer – and I didn’t even get electrocuted.
Now, if I can just find where this extra screw goes.
The Autumn morning rain peppered the earth. Trees adorned in the colors of Fall shivered as they cast off the last of their clothing. A cool breeze joined in the dance as the leaves twirled and floated gracefully to the ground. The wind tugged at the remaining stubborn leaves that clung to the branches. With the washing away of the colors of Fall came the song of life promising that the chorus of fall would be sung again next year.
A moment of thoughtfulness washed over me just like the Autumn rain washes away memories of summer and ushers in the cold north winds. As each season comes to an end, another emerges to take its place.
Life is brief. Seasons come and go. The cycle of life continues. New life bursts forth in the spring of our youth. Spring turns to summer when we run and play in the sun. Summer turns to fall when the earth prepares for the snows of winter. Winter brings its own beauty as it waits for the earth to awaken from slumber. Each season makes preparation for the next.
So it is in our lives. How quickly things change. Unexpected events take us by surprise. One season slips into another. We have experienced the new life of Spring and the joys of Summer. We have shared the falling leaves of Autumn and have felt the cold winds of Winter. Even in the season when our heroes, friends and family go to eternal rest, we can still be assured that life will be reborn in the Spring.
