My family gathered together this Christmas for my father, now 90 years old, to read the Christmas stories he has been reading for 62 years now. Every year we get out the 1947 Giant Golden Book with the beautiful illustrations by Corrine Malvern and his once strong voice falters over the words to “The Cobbler and His Sons”, “The Peterkins’ Christmas” “The Harper”, and finally “The Night Before Christmas.” In recent years we have discussed having one of us younger people read the stories, but his is the voice of them, and sadly will be extinguished sometime in the future.
When St. Nicholas had finally wished everyone a happy Christmas as he drove out of sight, my father raised his hand for silence and said, “We have to remember one of us is not here, but in Korea, and we must think of her tonight. (My youngest daughter, a captain in the Air Force Intelligence is currently on active duty at Osan AFB in South Korea.)
He then continued, “We all have Christmases that stand out above all others. Mine was the Christmas of 1944.”
In the dark of December 14, 1944, the 104th Infantry Division, of which he was a platoon leader, was lying on the ground outside of the German village of Merken, on its drive into Aachen. The village, currently held by the Wehrmacht, was to fall victim to a Time On Target, an artillery operation in which every available gun, from small mortars to the largest howitzer is fired in such an order that the entirety of the fire falls at once. The effect, not only on the buildings, but the people in them is devastating. In the aftermath of the TOT, the 104th scrambled forward into the rubble to clear out any remaining resistance. Coming upon an anti-tank gun in a bombed out house, my father ordered his platoon to cover him while he and another man rushed in, releasing a salvo of semi-automatic fire into the basement where the enemy had taken cover, killing one and wounding another. The remainder of the stunned Germans stumbled out, blood flowing from their noses and ears, to surrender. In the course of the night, he doesn’t know exactly, as shock can deaden pain, he was hit in the knees by shrapnel, probably from a hand grenade and given first aid by a German medic, a veteran of the Russian front, happy to be a prisoner of the Americans, and then evacuated to a MASH for surgery.
“I was in Paris on December 25 and put on a plane with other wounded and flown to England,” he said. “I’ll never forget when we arrived: they were singing Christmas carols. They were singing about peace on earth, and yet we were out in the mud doing just the opposite.” His voice choked for as second and continued. “At that time the Germans we were fighting were often 12 and 14 year old kids. We captured this one young soldier and brought him back to our orderly room. He broke down crying. All he wanted to do was to go home for Christmas to be with his mother.” He paused. “I wonder if he is still alive.” And then he wept.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Sunday, December 20, 2009
The Christmas Pageant
In those days a decree went out for children third grade and above, who wished to participate in the annual church pageant, should gather at the church vestry at the appointed afternoon in early December. I do not remember which afternoon, but it was probably a Saturday. Gangs of us showed up, as the prospect of being a shepherd, wise man or angel was as much of a part of getting to Christmas as opening another window of an advent calendar, which, at the time, we did not have.
The annual director was Mrs. Leighton, a woman short in stature, but a giant in spirit and patience. The younger boys were automatically assigned roles as shepherds, the girls as angels. For the latter, the only other option fell to one anointed older girl, that being the part of Mary. For the older boys there was the opportunity to be a wise man or Joseph, but the former was the role to which I aspired because of the cool costumes available.
Along the north wall of the vestry was a bench, which unknown to those of us participating for the first time, opened to reveal a wonderment of costumes made from old curtains and bathrobes, pie tin halos, and interesting things like a brass lamp that appeared to have escaped from Aladdin, a brass incense burner, small jewelry box, two crowns and a fez, probably from antique lodge paraphernalia.
Once a week, we trekked down to the church, each rehearsal a step closer to the great day.
The final product was extremely simple: there were no speaking parts for us. The church, a unique wooden structure from the late 1840’s built in the self-supporting Gothic style, was lined with fir garlands and behind the pulpit a large tree with white decorations. Candles were placed in holders at the end of each pew and lit by the ushers. Then, the Dean of Bowdoin College would climb into the pulpit and the voice of Christmas would resonate throughout the church as he read from the King James bible, with the “lo’s” “Fear not’s,” and “swaddling clothes,” now eliminated from the modern, “relevant” story.
He would begin with the decree from Caesar Augustus, at which point, Mary and Joseph would take places in the front while the congregation sang “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he came to the shepherds and the visitation of the angels, we would all take our places in the front along with singing of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
During the latter, we shepherds would scurry down the side aisles to the back of the church only to troop back up the center aisle to adore the Baby, with the singing of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then it was the turn of the three older boys who played the kings. Each would solemnly pace down the aisle, one to each of the verses. When all the players were in place, the other children in church were invited to bring their gifts down front to place in front of the manger. In my early days, these were still gifts of items like warm socks and small toys which were sent to the recovering countries of Europe. (That’s how old I am.)
The lights would then be dimmed, the church illuminated only by candle light, and we would finish with “Silent Night.” As the last verses fell away, we would put on our coats and head for home, for whatever traditions our families had, darkness would take its deep winter hold, and we would sleep, awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
The annual director was Mrs. Leighton, a woman short in stature, but a giant in spirit and patience. The younger boys were automatically assigned roles as shepherds, the girls as angels. For the latter, the only other option fell to one anointed older girl, that being the part of Mary. For the older boys there was the opportunity to be a wise man or Joseph, but the former was the role to which I aspired because of the cool costumes available.
Along the north wall of the vestry was a bench, which unknown to those of us participating for the first time, opened to reveal a wonderment of costumes made from old curtains and bathrobes, pie tin halos, and interesting things like a brass lamp that appeared to have escaped from Aladdin, a brass incense burner, small jewelry box, two crowns and a fez, probably from antique lodge paraphernalia.
Once a week, we trekked down to the church, each rehearsal a step closer to the great day.
The final product was extremely simple: there were no speaking parts for us. The church, a unique wooden structure from the late 1840’s built in the self-supporting Gothic style, was lined with fir garlands and behind the pulpit a large tree with white decorations. Candles were placed in holders at the end of each pew and lit by the ushers. Then, the Dean of Bowdoin College would climb into the pulpit and the voice of Christmas would resonate throughout the church as he read from the King James bible, with the “lo’s” “Fear not’s,” and “swaddling clothes,” now eliminated from the modern, “relevant” story.
He would begin with the decree from Caesar Augustus, at which point, Mary and Joseph would take places in the front while the congregation sang “Oh Little Town of Bethlehem.” When he came to the shepherds and the visitation of the angels, we would all take our places in the front along with singing of “It Came Upon A Midnight Clear” and “Hark, the Herald Angels Sing.”
During the latter, we shepherds would scurry down the side aisles to the back of the church only to troop back up the center aisle to adore the Baby, with the singing of “Oh Come All Ye Faithful.”
Then it was the turn of the three older boys who played the kings. Each would solemnly pace down the aisle, one to each of the verses. When all the players were in place, the other children in church were invited to bring their gifts down front to place in front of the manger. In my early days, these were still gifts of items like warm socks and small toys which were sent to the recovering countries of Europe. (That’s how old I am.)
The lights would then be dimmed, the church illuminated only by candle light, and we would finish with “Silent Night.” As the last verses fell away, we would put on our coats and head for home, for whatever traditions our families had, darkness would take its deep winter hold, and we would sleep, awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Christmas 1952
The graying December sky and a rare trip to church this morning bring to mind Christmases so long ago to me now that they are almost just a whisper in time.
By December 12 (today) we would be well into the gathering excitement of the season.
The big Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs arrived early with a hint of what was on the horizon.
Coming home from my cousins’ on Thanksgiving Day in the late afternoon, would find the fire department in Brunswick, Maine stringing fir garlands woven with colored lights across the width of Maine St. Santa Claus would have already made an appearance, standing in a cardboard chimney mounted on the back of a Treworgy’s furniture store pick-up truck, as he cruised the streets of town, tossing candy to the kids who lined the way. The store itself would have been transformed. The basement would have found the customary beds and mattresses hidden away to replaced by a toy department with the Big Guy himself sitting on an elevated chair at the far end, awaiting the horde of over-stimulated, runny nosed kids standing in line out onto the sidewalk. Christmas was here!
On Maine Street, the windows were decorated with ornaments, merchandize and snowflakes stenciled from Glass Wax window cleaner. Woolworth’s and Grant’s expanded their toy departments to include anything any kid could want, and the Firestone Store at the end of the street advertised new, shiny bicycles, Flexible Flyers, and sports equipment.
Early in the season we would drive down to Harpswell, which in those days, was driving out into the country and hike through the dense thickets off High Head Road (now Mountain Road) and drag out of the frozen low grounds a spindly fir tree which we would take home and store in the garage. To be Christmas, it could only be balsam fir.
We decorated our classrooms at Longfellow School with paper chains, and snowflakes had drawn names for the party, and soon a Christmas tree would appear in the back corner of each room.
In the afternoon we all gathered around frozen puddles and stumbled between the tufts of grass on our skates or ran and belly flopped onto our sleds to slide across the ice. The sky would become a deep purple as lights came on up and down the street. I used to think of the verse in the Bible about the lion and the lamb lying down together as even the neighborhood bullies became decent for the time, as even the skeptics wanted to make sure they didn’t blow it with Santa Claus.
My first memory of church on Christmas Eve was the candlelight service held at the First Parish Church in Brunswick in 1952. My father had just returned from Germany and his active duty during the Korean War. The church was actually lit by real candles in an event that insurance and fire codes have long since ended. The “big kids” put on the pageant with a reading of the appropriate Bible verses by the dean from Bowdoin College, whose voice, for years, was the sound of Christmas in Brunswick, ME. At the end of the service everyone, even this six year old, was given a candle, with the flame passed from person to person. The congregation filed out to the front of the church and stood on the sidewalk in the lightly falling snow (I remember snow, whether from reality or nostalgia) and sang “Silent Night.” I could not wait until I was old enough to participate in the service.
When the last notes died away, with much “Merry Christmasing,” we all dispersed and came back to our own Christmas tree, with the lights glowing in the darkened room, my father reading the Christmas stories he still reads to his grown grandchildren today, hanging a stocking my mother had dyed red and affixed our names with Elmer’s glue and glitter dust, and wondering if I would ever fall asleep.
Sleep would eventually come and Christmas would pass into another memory.
By December 12 (today) we would be well into the gathering excitement of the season.
The big Sears and Montgomery Wards catalogs arrived early with a hint of what was on the horizon.
Coming home from my cousins’ on Thanksgiving Day in the late afternoon, would find the fire department in Brunswick, Maine stringing fir garlands woven with colored lights across the width of Maine St. Santa Claus would have already made an appearance, standing in a cardboard chimney mounted on the back of a Treworgy’s furniture store pick-up truck, as he cruised the streets of town, tossing candy to the kids who lined the way. The store itself would have been transformed. The basement would have found the customary beds and mattresses hidden away to replaced by a toy department with the Big Guy himself sitting on an elevated chair at the far end, awaiting the horde of over-stimulated, runny nosed kids standing in line out onto the sidewalk. Christmas was here!
On Maine Street, the windows were decorated with ornaments, merchandize and snowflakes stenciled from Glass Wax window cleaner. Woolworth’s and Grant’s expanded their toy departments to include anything any kid could want, and the Firestone Store at the end of the street advertised new, shiny bicycles, Flexible Flyers, and sports equipment.
Early in the season we would drive down to Harpswell, which in those days, was driving out into the country and hike through the dense thickets off High Head Road (now Mountain Road) and drag out of the frozen low grounds a spindly fir tree which we would take home and store in the garage. To be Christmas, it could only be balsam fir.
We decorated our classrooms at Longfellow School with paper chains, and snowflakes had drawn names for the party, and soon a Christmas tree would appear in the back corner of each room.
In the afternoon we all gathered around frozen puddles and stumbled between the tufts of grass on our skates or ran and belly flopped onto our sleds to slide across the ice. The sky would become a deep purple as lights came on up and down the street. I used to think of the verse in the Bible about the lion and the lamb lying down together as even the neighborhood bullies became decent for the time, as even the skeptics wanted to make sure they didn’t blow it with Santa Claus.
My first memory of church on Christmas Eve was the candlelight service held at the First Parish Church in Brunswick in 1952. My father had just returned from Germany and his active duty during the Korean War. The church was actually lit by real candles in an event that insurance and fire codes have long since ended. The “big kids” put on the pageant with a reading of the appropriate Bible verses by the dean from Bowdoin College, whose voice, for years, was the sound of Christmas in Brunswick, ME. At the end of the service everyone, even this six year old, was given a candle, with the flame passed from person to person. The congregation filed out to the front of the church and stood on the sidewalk in the lightly falling snow (I remember snow, whether from reality or nostalgia) and sang “Silent Night.” I could not wait until I was old enough to participate in the service.
When the last notes died away, with much “Merry Christmasing,” we all dispersed and came back to our own Christmas tree, with the lights glowing in the darkened room, my father reading the Christmas stories he still reads to his grown grandchildren today, hanging a stocking my mother had dyed red and affixed our names with Elmer’s glue and glitter dust, and wondering if I would ever fall asleep.
Sleep would eventually come and Christmas would pass into another memory.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Political Correctness Run Amok
I’ve waited a few weeks to comment on the events at Ft. Hood in which Maj Nadil Hasan gunned down his fellow soldiers in a processing center there. The inevitable gnashing of teeth, finger pointing and the “how could this have happened?”elicit a big “Duh” from me. For anyone who has served not only in the military but in any other public/governmental agency, it is no surprise: political correctness.
Personnel in Maj Hasan’s chain of command were aware of his radical Islamic leanings, but no one did anything. Why? Simple, it was a matter of self preservation. Had anyone complained about him, his career would have been over. He/she would have been branded racist and if not summarily dismissed, would have been referred to sensitivity training and the resulting comment on their records would have prevented any further advancement.
In the American military, one cannot remain, say, at the rank of captain even if that is the level he or she is most comfortable or competent. All must stand for promotion and if not selected, they are removed from active duty. So absurd is the system that promotions are often based on a mandatory full length picture of the applicant. If one “does not look like a major,” that person can be denied promotion. Thus a comment on one efficiency report can finish a person who has rendered good and faithful service for many years. The easiest way to kill a person’s career, it is said, is to “condemn with faint praise.” Only water walkers need apply.
And what about Maj. Hasan himself? His performance had been described as “inadequate” but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of major. There are many former officers not promoted thus, simply because it was noted that 12 years before as a brand new lieutenant, their uniforms did not fit exactly as the rater wanted. This in spite of the fact that their service had been exemplary. Again to not promote someone in a minority group would be career suicide for someone.
I often wonder what has happened to our meritocracy, when promotions can be made based on racial quotas rather than skill and quality of performance. Discrimination against any group is wrong. In this case the political correcting of our society has ended the lives of 14 good people and ruined the lives of many more.
Personnel in Maj Hasan’s chain of command were aware of his radical Islamic leanings, but no one did anything. Why? Simple, it was a matter of self preservation. Had anyone complained about him, his career would have been over. He/she would have been branded racist and if not summarily dismissed, would have been referred to sensitivity training and the resulting comment on their records would have prevented any further advancement.
In the American military, one cannot remain, say, at the rank of captain even if that is the level he or she is most comfortable or competent. All must stand for promotion and if not selected, they are removed from active duty. So absurd is the system that promotions are often based on a mandatory full length picture of the applicant. If one “does not look like a major,” that person can be denied promotion. Thus a comment on one efficiency report can finish a person who has rendered good and faithful service for many years. The easiest way to kill a person’s career, it is said, is to “condemn with faint praise.” Only water walkers need apply.
And what about Maj. Hasan himself? His performance had been described as “inadequate” but he was nevertheless promoted to the rank of major. There are many former officers not promoted thus, simply because it was noted that 12 years before as a brand new lieutenant, their uniforms did not fit exactly as the rater wanted. This in spite of the fact that their service had been exemplary. Again to not promote someone in a minority group would be career suicide for someone.
I often wonder what has happened to our meritocracy, when promotions can be made based on racial quotas rather than skill and quality of performance. Discrimination against any group is wrong. In this case the political correcting of our society has ended the lives of 14 good people and ruined the lives of many more.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
The Thoughts Of An Old Army Friend
I thought I would share the kind words of an old Army friend, with whom I was stationed at Ft. Hood and after our tours in Vietnam at the Army Intelligence School at Ft. Holabird, MD. I received it in an email a week or so ago. I am humbled.
"…when I read it, I went into an unusual (for me) slow-down mode. As agonizing as it was to read your experiences (much worse than my being a REMF who only spent about 12 days and nights with ground-pounding units), I needed to read every line carefully to get the full flavor… I loved the book and only wonder why you didn’t call it a memoir rather than a novel. Even though I knew the author had survived, my heart was in my throat every time I started a new chapter. I agonized over every firefight, even every decision you had to make. I had fewer worries about my ability to function under fire, which I had to do a few times. I was less confident of my ability to lead troops without getting anyone killed unnecessarily. I would have been glad to have been led by a leader like you developed into. I know command is not a popularity contest, but I enjoyed the interaction of you and your men. There seemed to be a far smaller asshole quotient in the field, even with your first six, than what you faced in the rear. I anguished over your plight with the 191st and grieved when some soldiers I’d come to respect in your old unit were killed. I share your feeling of helplessness and rage at the injustice…
Your book has inspired me to dig out the series of taped messages I sent my parents during my year in the Nam. Not to write a memoir, but to see what I had to say at that time and recall some names of people I admired as well as those I didn’t."
"…when I read it, I went into an unusual (for me) slow-down mode. As agonizing as it was to read your experiences (much worse than my being a REMF who only spent about 12 days and nights with ground-pounding units), I needed to read every line carefully to get the full flavor… I loved the book and only wonder why you didn’t call it a memoir rather than a novel. Even though I knew the author had survived, my heart was in my throat every time I started a new chapter. I agonized over every firefight, even every decision you had to make. I had fewer worries about my ability to function under fire, which I had to do a few times. I was less confident of my ability to lead troops without getting anyone killed unnecessarily. I would have been glad to have been led by a leader like you developed into. I know command is not a popularity contest, but I enjoyed the interaction of you and your men. There seemed to be a far smaller asshole quotient in the field, even with your first six, than what you faced in the rear. I anguished over your plight with the 191st and grieved when some soldiers I’d come to respect in your old unit were killed. I share your feeling of helplessness and rage at the injustice…
Your book has inspired me to dig out the series of taped messages I sent my parents during my year in the Nam. Not to write a memoir, but to see what I had to say at that time and recall some names of people I admired as well as those I didn’t."
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Political Correctness: Quatsch!
Down at the shore I found a seagull feather stuck upright in the cultch facing, trembling into the southwest wind like a weathervane. The sou’westerly was driving the late autumn gray water up the channel against Wilson Ledge out in the middle of the bay, and the motion of the white caps looked like the white manes of horses racing up towards Brunswick where the ocean ends. And it made me think of how the ancient sea peoples all had beliefs of sea gods and spirits either astride horses or driving them in chariots. Sometimes when the air is more still you can hear the clucking and cooing of distant sea ducks, sounding like human voices. It is easy to see where the myths came from.
But I digress. I can do that, along with starting a sentence with a conjunction, because this is my space, and I am not submitting it for a grade. Besides, my two favorite story tellers, Garrison Keillor and Gary Anderson of the Harpswell Anchor newspaper, do it all the time, much to the enrichment of their tales. Mind you, I have nothing against English teachers. My instructors from junior and senior years in high school, Bob Hart and John Smith, members of the Greatest Generation, were truly inspiring and taught an immature kid how to write and think like an adult, even if he didn’t act like one. (I still don’t!)
But it wasn’t ancient sea myths that caught my attention. It was the fact that as a kid, I would have picked up the feather, tied a ribbon around my head and lit up into the woods to pretend I was an Indian. Now, playing that role was certainly not to denigrate Native Americans. We thought they were really cool. We wanted to be them.
Anyway, that thought led quickly, as my synapses started clicking, to the fact that kids can’t enjoy being kids. Those of my generation remember the excitement of cutting witches, ghosts and jack o’lanterns out of construction paper and plastering our classroom with them. Can’t do that anymore. Inappropriate. It promotes witchcraft. The Germans have a great word for that: Quatsch! It is pronounced, Kvatsch, by the way, and is a polite substitute for “Bull Shit.”
Christmas? The kids can’t even wish each other a merry one. My kids were not allowed to sing Christmas Carols, but they were made to sing Hanukah songs, and the Christmas assembly was watered down to a “winter assembly.” Am I missing something here? As I remember the one Jewish boy in my class, a friend to everyone and all round good guy, had as much fun with it as we did.
Valentines Day? Nope, can’t do that either. We spent days cutting out pink and red hearts, turned doilies into what passed as greetings and had a nice afternoon party. No one was excluded. We all, even us unpopular and ugly ones, looked forward to it. Grade school kids don’t care what you look like. We all got cards punched out of cheap sheets and all ate cake with pink icing, so that our mothers didn’t need to plan for supper that night.
Easter? Forget it. I don’t even need to go there.
The fact is, in our society’s wimpy and pathetic attempts to offend absolutely no one, we have watered everything down to the point where kids of today will have no memories.
I’ve got news: Life has winners and losers. I don’t believe in telling an eight year old he or she is already a loser, but our timid approach to everything is not a learning moment.
But I digress. I can do that, along with starting a sentence with a conjunction, because this is my space, and I am not submitting it for a grade. Besides, my two favorite story tellers, Garrison Keillor and Gary Anderson of the Harpswell Anchor newspaper, do it all the time, much to the enrichment of their tales. Mind you, I have nothing against English teachers. My instructors from junior and senior years in high school, Bob Hart and John Smith, members of the Greatest Generation, were truly inspiring and taught an immature kid how to write and think like an adult, even if he didn’t act like one. (I still don’t!)
But it wasn’t ancient sea myths that caught my attention. It was the fact that as a kid, I would have picked up the feather, tied a ribbon around my head and lit up into the woods to pretend I was an Indian. Now, playing that role was certainly not to denigrate Native Americans. We thought they were really cool. We wanted to be them.
Anyway, that thought led quickly, as my synapses started clicking, to the fact that kids can’t enjoy being kids. Those of my generation remember the excitement of cutting witches, ghosts and jack o’lanterns out of construction paper and plastering our classroom with them. Can’t do that anymore. Inappropriate. It promotes witchcraft. The Germans have a great word for that: Quatsch! It is pronounced, Kvatsch, by the way, and is a polite substitute for “Bull Shit.”
Christmas? The kids can’t even wish each other a merry one. My kids were not allowed to sing Christmas Carols, but they were made to sing Hanukah songs, and the Christmas assembly was watered down to a “winter assembly.” Am I missing something here? As I remember the one Jewish boy in my class, a friend to everyone and all round good guy, had as much fun with it as we did.
Valentines Day? Nope, can’t do that either. We spent days cutting out pink and red hearts, turned doilies into what passed as greetings and had a nice afternoon party. No one was excluded. We all, even us unpopular and ugly ones, looked forward to it. Grade school kids don’t care what you look like. We all got cards punched out of cheap sheets and all ate cake with pink icing, so that our mothers didn’t need to plan for supper that night.
Easter? Forget it. I don’t even need to go there.
The fact is, in our society’s wimpy and pathetic attempts to offend absolutely no one, we have watered everything down to the point where kids of today will have no memories.
I’ve got news: Life has winners and losers. I don’t believe in telling an eight year old he or she is already a loser, but our timid approach to everything is not a learning moment.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Influenza
I think I am the only person of my age who has any memories of the influenza pandemic of 1918. The memories of which I speak, are passed down, for there is no one left alive in my family who was old enough to have actually experienced it first hand. There are, however, vivid reminders of it at my aunt’s house in New Hampshire in the form of a small, white christening dress and a china headed doll, which once belonged to my Aunt Grace.
Grace was the oldest child of my grandparents, a bright, honey haired child, the darling of the neighborhood according to all accounts. In 1918, she and my uncle, who was about four years old and my two grandparents were the beginnings of a family which would, over the years, produce six children. My grandfather was working in Memphis, TN, designing sporting equipment, and my grandmother had returned with the two children to Chicopee, MA to be with her parents while she awaited the arrival of my father, whom she was carrying at the time.
Coincidently, my maternal grandfather was working in Springfield, MA as a civil engineer for the Boston and Maine Railroad.
The epidemic, by all accounts was frightening and ugly, for it cut down children and young adults in their prime, with extreme swiftness. Combat operations in World War I were held up as both sides dealt with devastating casualties, not from bullets but from viruses. It spread with such an alarming speed that it is still not known today, how and why it spread as fast as it did. Many, who would contract the disease, would survive and start to recover only to be stricken with pneumonia, which their weakened bodies could not resist.
Among those stricken were my Aunt Grace and Uncle Jim. My frantic grandmother called the local doctor, who came and made his assessment, “The little girl will be fine, but I’m afraid for the lad.” Grace began to recover but quickly worsened and became a casualty of the great epidemic. My uncle, however, did survive. But in her way, Grace lived on. When I was small, the whole family spoke of her as if she were just someone living too far away to visit, even though Uncle Jim was the only one who had known her. In that doll and small dress, she is still present in the family home.
My other grandfather, in the meantime, fell ill, and while lying abed in the front room of the house he was renting, could see the continuous funeral processions going by his window. Not a comforting sight, I am sure. Every home on his street lost someone.
Now, perhaps to even the score, I have never had the flu at all. In fact, I have only had one flu shot, inflicted on my by the Army in 1968 when there was fear of another big outbreak. In Vietnam, a medic flew out to the field to re-inoculate us against bubonic plague, but not the flu. As a 6th grader (1957-58), the Asian flu swept through emptying out schools. In my class of 25 or so, only Billy Field, who came to school in the winter with no socks, ill fitting hand-me-down shoes and no lunch, and I were the only ones untouched. In the panic of the ‘70’s even though, as a teacher I lived in the bacterial/viral soup that is an old school building, I was unaffected. And, I’m not losing sleep over H1N1. Maybe Aunt Grace is looking out for me. If she is, “Thank you.”
Grace was the oldest child of my grandparents, a bright, honey haired child, the darling of the neighborhood according to all accounts. In 1918, she and my uncle, who was about four years old and my two grandparents were the beginnings of a family which would, over the years, produce six children. My grandfather was working in Memphis, TN, designing sporting equipment, and my grandmother had returned with the two children to Chicopee, MA to be with her parents while she awaited the arrival of my father, whom she was carrying at the time.
Coincidently, my maternal grandfather was working in Springfield, MA as a civil engineer for the Boston and Maine Railroad.
The epidemic, by all accounts was frightening and ugly, for it cut down children and young adults in their prime, with extreme swiftness. Combat operations in World War I were held up as both sides dealt with devastating casualties, not from bullets but from viruses. It spread with such an alarming speed that it is still not known today, how and why it spread as fast as it did. Many, who would contract the disease, would survive and start to recover only to be stricken with pneumonia, which their weakened bodies could not resist.
Among those stricken were my Aunt Grace and Uncle Jim. My frantic grandmother called the local doctor, who came and made his assessment, “The little girl will be fine, but I’m afraid for the lad.” Grace began to recover but quickly worsened and became a casualty of the great epidemic. My uncle, however, did survive. But in her way, Grace lived on. When I was small, the whole family spoke of her as if she were just someone living too far away to visit, even though Uncle Jim was the only one who had known her. In that doll and small dress, she is still present in the family home.
My other grandfather, in the meantime, fell ill, and while lying abed in the front room of the house he was renting, could see the continuous funeral processions going by his window. Not a comforting sight, I am sure. Every home on his street lost someone.
Now, perhaps to even the score, I have never had the flu at all. In fact, I have only had one flu shot, inflicted on my by the Army in 1968 when there was fear of another big outbreak. In Vietnam, a medic flew out to the field to re-inoculate us against bubonic plague, but not the flu. As a 6th grader (1957-58), the Asian flu swept through emptying out schools. In my class of 25 or so, only Billy Field, who came to school in the winter with no socks, ill fitting hand-me-down shoes and no lunch, and I were the only ones untouched. In the panic of the ‘70’s even though, as a teacher I lived in the bacterial/viral soup that is an old school building, I was unaffected. And, I’m not losing sleep over H1N1. Maybe Aunt Grace is looking out for me. If she is, “Thank you.”
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