Sticks and Stones

Have you ever seen a moose in the wild? Here in Colorado, moose were introduced in the late 1970s. We now have a successful breeding population living in wide-ranging areas throughout the Rockies. I have lived in Colorado all my life but had never seen a moose. Dave and I traveled to Banff, Canada, the year we were married and I expected to see a moose there. No luck.

A few years later, we were traveling through Rocky Mountain National Park and there she was, a female moose wading in a marsh near the road. Dave crept a little closer to get a picture and that’s when we saw the baby moose, hidden in the reeds, tips of the ears barely noticeable above the tall, green shoots. I warned Dave not to get too close. Despite their size and unwieldy appearance, moose are really quite fast and can be aggressive. Dave snapped a few pictures and backed away. I then proclaimed that this moose would be known as Lucy Moose. A framed picture of Lucy Moose sits on my bookshelf at work, next to the photos of my husband and my dogs.

Now, have you ever been called a moose? Probably not. I have. It was spring 2004 and I was driving home from a shopping trip when I found myself in the crosshairs of a pretty, perfectly coiffed and manicured woman in a black BMW. She was in a hurry and I was in her way, not traveling fast enough. She tried to get around me without any success, then found herself trapped at a red light alongside me. Apparently I had ruined her chance of racing through the light before it turned red. The screaming commenced and this pretty bottle-blonde turned apoplectic. Her face contorted, she jabbed her bright red fingernails in my direction and spewed a series of angry rants followed by, “I hope you die, you fat moose!”

Seemed a little out of proportion to the event. You hope I die? I knew where the “fat moose” part came from but honestly, I didn’t consider myself to be a fat moose that deserved to die simply for not understanding the significance of beating a random red light on a random day.

This is not a society that easily accepts people who do not fit within the confines of its narrow, rigid standards of perfection. I never did fit those standards and often felt as though there were an invisible “kick me” sign taped to my back. Since I never learned to fight back and never took the initiative to argue my own case, I was easy-pickings for bullies.

I have been a big girl most of my life. Somewhere around puberty I began to gain weight. As a way to help me through the bullying years, mom taught me the phrase: “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” I would repeat the phrase in my head, yet I never believed it. Not for one minute. None of the bullies ever tried to physically hurt me. But the names, the taunts, the below-the-belt torments were relentless. I would have taken a smack on the head or a broken bone over that any day. Not to say that physical pain is a piece of cake. My ribs were broken in a horrific car accident when I was 21 and it was the most agonizing pain I have ever endured. Through a series of accidents, sprained ankles, surgeries and the like, I have suffered through pain any number of times. Although I remember being in pain, I don’t remember the actual pain.

But I do remember the words. Even now I can recite the worst as if I heard them only yesterday. Words like, “Wrap this towel around yourself, you are too fat for that swimsuit” or “Look at those gigantic thighs” or “She looks a little bit like her mother, except her mother was pretty at that age” or “Oink oink oink” or “You might be halfway pretty if you lost some weight” or “Get some Slim Fast” or “See Vanessa, at least you’re not fat like her” and my new all-time favorite: “I hope you die, you fat moose!”

For a while in my late thirties, following a series of poor decisions and bad relationships, I holed up in my townhouse and in the process gained even more weight. I left only for work and to visit my parents. I tried to drown my sorrows, not in alcohol or drugs, but in cookies and chips, donuts and candy. Food had become my drug of choice. The thing is, my sorrows kept resurfacing. One day I realized that I had to leave the house, face the world, and start to live again. It wasn’t easy at first. I bought an older home that required much more of my physical attention. I forced myself to quit smoking and to take daily walks, first with my dog Bandit and later with Raven and Tonka.

The other day someone asked about my picture of Lucy Moose, how a picture of a moose came to be poised in such a prominent location as if she were a member of my family. So I told the story of my road rage rendezvous with the pretty but angry California transplant. Having Lucy Moose on my bookshelf helps to remind me that a moose is a wondrous animal and I now consider any moose comparisons to be a form of flattery.

Occasionally I am still subjected to a drive-by taunt. A teenager will zip around the corner in their car and shout out an unflattering comment about my body as I’m crouched over my flower beds. Intellectually, I know their comment has less to do with my body and more to do with that person’s own insecurities. Rationally, I understand that no one can make me feel inferior without my permission. Yet my heart still struggles with that lesson and sometimes, the words still hurt.

So be careful with your words. Because at times they can be more difficult to deflect than a well-thrown stick or stone.

The Cowboys are in Town

For two weeks each January, in one of our finest annual traditions, the cowboys come to town here in Denver. They leave their ranches, pack up the animals and the family, and head to the Queen City of the Plains to compete for any number of prizes in the National Western Stock Show. The show is billed as having “Something for Everyone” and that’s probably true. My personal favorites are the draft horse show and the herding/stock dog competitions.

Because it’s held in January and because January weather in Colorado can be pretty cold, many folks here collectively lament what is known as “Stock Show Weather.” Since we got an early start on winter this year and endured some of our coldest and most bone-chilling days before the official arrival of winter, I’m enjoying this year’s Stock Show Weather. The worst of the deep freeze seems to be behind us, at least for now, the sun is shining again on our fleece-wrapped souls, and the snow is starting to melt.

Another January tradition is one that my father created. He hated the deep, dark parts of winter and each year complained loudly about Stock Show Weather. But this time of year also brought about one of his favorite hobbies: tracking the number of hours in each day.

Starting on New Year’s Day, he would write down the times for sunrise and sunset each day and then calculate the number of minutes gained as winter progressed past the solstice. Next he would share his findings with the family. Every Sunday I would receive a phone call from dad announcing the daylight results for that week. I can still hear his voice:

"Debbie, this is your father,” he would begin (just in case there was some remote possibility that I might not recognize his voice). Then he would continue, “You know the cowboys are in town, that’s why it’s so darned cold.” Dad’s vocabulary included many words that were slightly more colorful than “darned” but I won’t say them here.

“We gained seven minutes of daylight this week!” he would proclaim, an obvious measure of delight in his voice. “Spring will be here pretty soon!” he would wish, dream, aloud. Dad’s birthday was March 20, the first day of spring, and somehow I think that made its arrival even more meaningful to him. He was a consummate gardener, a trait of his that I am thankful to have inherited.

Now I have a calendar above the desk that gives me the exact hours of daylight. Each time I check the sunrise and sunset listings I can clearly picture my father, sitting at the kitchen table with his note pad and his trusty No. 2 pencil, doing his own calculations, the numbers helping him feel triumphant over the dark days of winter.

So dad, just in case you’re listening, we gained 10 minutes of daylight this week!

And oh yeah, the cowboys are in town again.

Once in a Blue Moon

I was out on the back deck early this morning, trying to get a picture of the Blue Moon. It was cold, only about 16 degrees, and dark except for that bright white light in the western sky. Tonka was barking at the sounds of a scary stranger in the front yard. The funny thing is that the scary stranger was my husband Dave, scraping ice off his windshield as he was getting ready to leave for work!

New Year’s Eve will be another uneventful night for us. Dave and I have only been out on New Year’s Eve twice in the past decade. The first year we were together, I splurged on a package deal that included Colorado Symphony tickets. It was 2000, turning over to 2001, and the symphony program was the “Top Ten” classical pieces of all time. We got all dolled up, went to the symphony, then spent the night at a hotel across from the Boettcher Concert Hall in downtown Denver.

That was the first year Denver held its fireworks program in the heart of the city. It had originally been planned for the turn of the century from 1999 to 2000, but all the imagined threats from Y2K put the kibosh on that year’s festivities. Many purists argued that 2000 to 2001 was actually the more accurate time to celebrate the turn of the century. So we decided that celebrating a new century twice in two years was certainly okay with us. Hey, it's a big deal, why not go for two years in a row?

The hotel we stayed at had a big common balcony overlooking Arapahoe Street. After the symphony we returned to our room, changed into warmer clothes and trekked out to the balcony to wait for the fireworks. The streets below were teeming with people. The main fireworks show was set to go off at the Daniels & Fisher Tower and we had ringside seats!

Our second night out was in 2005. We went to the late showing of “Brokeback Mountain” and then stopped at a nearby restaurant/brewery for a drink and a sandwich. We were so surprised that there was hardly anyone around, either at the movies or at the restaurant. The bartender told us that it had been busy earlier but then everyone left around 10 PM and headed for downtown Denver. The annual fireworks show had become quite popular.

Growing up my family always had the same New Year’s Eve tradition. First, mom would prepare homemade pizzas. Her pizzas were made on rectangular cookie sheets with only one topping: cheese. Mom thought all the extra toppings took away from the experience. After all, she reasoned, how could you possibly compete with melted cheese and delicious red sauce dripping over the sides of crispy, yummy dough?

After we polished off what we called The Square Pizzas, dad would break out the record albums and treat us to his own unique rendition of songs. Quite often dad forgot the words to many of his favorite songs (especially after a few beers) and then he started to make up words. Mom would admonish him with a statement along the lines of: “If you can’t remember the words, then you shouldn’t be singing that song!” Dad promptly switched over to whistling along with the music.

As it drew closer to midnight, mom would let us have one drink, a sloe gin fizz, one tiny capful of sloe gin mixed with a 7-UP. Boy, we just thought it was the cat’s meow! I’m sure some folks would be horrified now at the thought of giving your young children a mixed drink but it was mostly soda in a large glass with a slight hint of sloe gin. I’m sure mom reasoned that it would knock us out right after midnight. And she was right!

At midnight we stepped outside to commence with the noisemaking. My brother Ted and I fought over who got to sit in the driver’s seat of the car and honk the horn. By then dad had usually crashed on the sofa with the TV glowing in front of him and would only briefly wake up and mumble, “Is it time?” Mom had a big old cowbell and she stood on the front stoop clanging it like crazy. And that was it.

On Tuesday my nephew joined us for dinner after work. Normally I stick with my mom’s tradition of making a square pizza on New Year's Eve. Mine, however, do include toppings beyond cheese. Since Clark was coming over so close to New Year’s Eve, I made the pizza on Tuesday instead and shared stories of his grandma and grampa with him. He did remember the square pizzas and he even remembered the big plastic glasses that we used for our sloe gin fizzes.

Since the square pizza has already been consumed, tonight Dave and I are going out for dinner. We plan to be home early and I’m quite sure Dave and Tonka will be fast asleep long before midnight. I will stay awake, as usual, and open the front door at midnight to listen to what the other neighbors have going on. Only once in a Blue Moon has there been another creature awake in my house to share the dawn of a new year. So maybe, just maybe tonight I’ll be able to wish a “Happy New Year!” to someone other than myself.

Have a grand evening, no matter what your traditions!

Peaks and Valleys

2009 was marked by a series of peaks and valleys, both in our travels and in our personal lives.

We began the year learning that our sweet dog Raven had developed canine lymphoma with at best a few months to live. The vet recommended a treatment that put her cancer in remission for a little while. When it stopped working, we took her off the medication and let the cancer run its course.

In the spring we added a second four-legged member to our little family. Tonka is a “prison dog” we found through the Colorado Correctional Industries K-9 Companion program. A Border Collie and Blue Heeler mix (aka, a “mutt”), Tonka was a stray rescued by a ditch rider on the eastern plains of Colorado. He is smart, cuddly, and chock full of energy. At first Raven was none too thrilled about sharing her home but she soon warmed up to him. And Tonka seemed to give Raven a new lease on life.

It turns out that Tonka is also a good mountain dog. He joined us on road trips and hiking adventures in our beautiful Colorado mountains. We took him to the summit of Mount Evans, a peak towering more than 14,000 feet above sea level, and on our annual sojourn to Salida and the central Rockies.

Raven was a strong girl. She lasted nearly 10 months and enjoyed mixing it up with her new buddy until the last few days. We finally had to say goodbye to her in late September. Raven has journeyed ahead to the Rainbow Bridge, where we hope to meet up with her again one day.

In October, we took a much needed but rain-soaked vacation in Washington, DC and the surrounding area. We divided our time between the city and the country, traveling along the Blue Ridge Parkway south toward West Virginia. Part of our vacation was dedicated to searching for Dave’s ancestors, especially his great-great-great-grandfather, Napoleon Bonaparte French. This branch of Dave’s family traveled from the Shenandoah Valley to southern Virginia, settling in the New River Valley in the mid-1700s.

As the holidays approached, we were faced with the loss of another beloved member of our family. Dave’s mother has been in poor health for the past few years, but she too was strong and resilient. Marge bounced back from one illness after another, always returning to us in good spirits and ready to go out for her favorite lunch, a beef enchilada and flan. This time there would be no returning. The angels came for her at the end of November. The last of our living parents, Marge left us for what will surely be a blissful eternity. We will miss her so.

Merry Christmas  *  Happy New Year  *  Peace on Earth

Debbie, Dave and Tonka

 

(from our Christmas newsletter)

My Kingdom for a Horse

I ran away from home once. Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I tried to run away from home once. This was in the early 60s; I was not yet five years old. Not sure exactly what precipitated my silly little misadventure but I’m fairly certain my parents must have made me really mad. My destination: The Horse Farm.

Back in those days, the Denver suburb where I grew up was surrounded by farmland. Just a few miles from our house, close to the Valley Highway, was a little farm that I had dubbed “The Horse Farm.” Such a pretty little place, with an old white farmhouse and outbuildings, a remnant of the area’s rural past now closed in by busy roads and a bustling highway. I remember peering out the window of our car each time we headed out to the highway. You could see that lovely little farm right down the hill, great big elm trees and horses wandering all around. It was my idea of heaven.

I never really fit in with the other kids in our neighborhood. Shy, overly emotional and sensitive, easily intimidated and regularly picked on by bullies and bigger kids, I learned to keep my distance from other children and spent most of my time playing alone. I developed a healthy imagination and found it easier to open my heart and share my secrets with animals. And I was crazy about horses.

The only ride at the amusement park that interested me was the carousel, where I would pick the tallest, proudest steed and imagine myself galloping headlong down a long dirt trail cut deep into the forest. I begged my mother to take me horseback riding at a local place that rented horses by the hour. In the mountains, while the rest of my family could be found relaxing by a stream or setting up rods, reels and tackle boxes for a day spent fishing, I was patrolling nearby fence lines in a quest for horses. Once found, I would lure the horses to me using soft, pleasing words coupled with a carrot or an apple or a handful of green grass plucked from beneath my feet.

Each year at Christmas, when my parents asked what I wanted they heard the same plea: “A horse!” And each Christmas morning, I would unwrap a gift box bearing a brand new plastic horse from Woolworth’s. Amazingly, the new horse was always exactly what I wanted. I never realized that mom had been watching me and knew which one to buy, having seen the delight in my eyes as I selected my newest favorite on the store’s shelf. Somewhere deep down inside, I knew I would never have a horse of my own. Yet in time I owned a large herd of plastic horses. I created my own little horse world in the basement, displacing my dollhouse dolls in favor of horses in the miniature living room, adding plenty of Easter grass to the dollhouse yard so the horses would have something to eat, and eventually setting up my own imaginary home on the range using Johnny West, Circle X Ranch action figures and related paraphernalia.

Occasionally my parents indulged me with a rented horseback ride while on vacation in the Rockies. My dad even built a wooden horse made out of thick tree logs, just like one he had seen in a playground. Then one day, real live horses were finally within easy reach. My aunt and uncle bought a 10-acre piece of land on the outskirts of Castle Rock, a small town south of Denver. They built a house, bought a few head of cattle, and always kept at least one horse or pony on the property. Soon I began to pester my parents regularly, thinking of creative reasons why we simply must venture some 40 miles south to visit the new homestead. I spent many school breaks and part of my summers in Castle Rock, riding horses with my youngest cousin. One time we rode the horses into town and tied them up on Main Street. It was a blast!

In my later teens I spent less time in Castle Rock. I was a bit less shy than before and had started to get involved in high school activities. Plus I also had a driver’s license now, which opened up a brand new world for me. My aunt and uncle’s marriage was on the rocks; they sold the animals and the property sometime after their divorce. I bequeathed my plastic horse collection to my young cousin, all but a few of my favorites. Today there are only three left.

The year I lost my brother and mother, Christmas was so difficult. Normally I spent Christmas Eve with my parents, opening a handful of presents on Christmas morning then visiting with family and friends all day. But that year my father was inconsolable and wanted to be alone. I left work early on Christmas Eve and decided to visit the cemetery. What should I bring? Flowers didn’t seem enough on this particular day. Digging through my Christmas boxes, I stumbled upon one of the plastic horses, a brown and white painted pony with a broken tail. I grabbed the horse, drove to Fort Logan National Cemetery, and placed that horse right on top of my mother’s grave. Now it has become an annual tradition. I prepare a lovely Christmas wreath for my parents and bring along that old plastic horse to decorate their grave at Christmas.

So what happened to the little runaway? When I told mom I was leaving, she helped me pack my stuffed animals in a small metal suitcase that once held roller skates. She asked where I would be, in case they needed to get in touch. I told her, The Horse Farm. She said goodbye and told me to have fun but be careful. I couldn’t believe it, she didn't even try to stop me! Just as I suspected, they must not love me at all. I walked to the top of the street, dropped the suitcase on the corner and sat down to ponder my situation. You see, at that point I realized something my mother already knew: I was not allowed to cross the street by myself.

Italian Butter

We never used real butter in our family. Mom always bought margarine. She considered real butter too expensive, a luxury we didn't need and couldn't afford. I also think her memories of food rationing during World War II played a part in the fact that we never had real butter available. Mom usually purchased sticks of Blue Bonnet and any number of different varieties of the soft margarine in a tub. But no matter what type of margarine she had, we always called it butter.

One of our family traditions was that mom would make your favorite meal on your birthday. Dad usually liked any kind of meat with “home fries” – potato wedges fried in vegetable oil with lots of onions mixed in. My brother always asked for meatloaf and Brussels sprouts and I always asked for lasagna. When it came time for mom’s birthday, we took her out to dinner.

We hardly ever went out to dinner, maybe just a few times a year, so it was a treat for all of us. Mom’s favorite food was Italian and her favorite restaurant was Colacci's, an old-timey Italian restaurant located in a small community between Denver and Boulder. You know the kind of place, red-and-white checkered tablecloths, great big jugs of Chianti on the table, homemade spaghetti noodles so thick you could not possibly eat an entire plateful, and lots of freshly baked bread.

One time during mom’s annual birthday dinner at Colacci’s, my brother asked if someone would “Please pass the Italian butter.” This confused everyone! After questioning, it turned out that Ted was just asking for one of the little individual servings of real butter. Since we never had it in our house, the only place he experienced real butter was in this restaurant. Naturally, he assumed that made it “Italian” butter.

To this day our family teases my brother about Italian butter. Tomorrow I’m having Thanksgiving dinner at Ted’s house with his family. And most likely when it’s our turn, each of us will say, “Please pass the Italian butter!”

A Mother's Touch

I’ve been lost in the past lately, missing my parents and feeling nostalgic about my childhood. It seemed chaotic at times. Mom and dad argued so much, I remember being deeply affected by the arguments and the seeming instability of our family life. It wasn’t until I was an adult and watched them interact as old people that I realized the arguments had grown into nothing more than their customary way of communicating. I always thought they didn’t like each other very much, when in reality they loved each other. As I write this and compare my childhood to my mother’s, my life was far from chaotic. It was a walk in the park compared to hers.

Mom was one of five children born into an extremely poor family, three girls and two boys. The second girl died of pneumonia at age 5. Grampa always felt guilty about her death because she had been outside with him in the cold weather and never recovered. Grampa was also an alcoholic, shunned by his own family due to the fact that his mother was a member of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union. Mom’s earliest memories of her father’s family were unpleasant. Apparently they considered themselves an enlightened group but could find no room in their hearts for those who strayed beyond their narrow and rigid view of righteousness.

During the Depression, my grandmother took in other people’s laundry to help support the family. For this she was labeled a “dirty old wash woman.” Because they lived in such poverty, the remaining children were scattered to the four winds, sent to live with relatives. Mom earned her keep at an uncle’s house, babysitting his children at a home where she was subject to any number of abuses. Eventually the family reunited and lived together in tenement housing. Twice they lost their home to fire, and later relocated from Connecticut to New Jersey.

When my mother was 18 years old, grandmother met an untimely death from a ruptured appendix. She was only 52, the age I am now. The family could not afford hospitals or proper medical care. A doctor visited but dismissed grandmother’s symptoms as nothing more than the typical complaints of a middle-aged woman. She didn’t stand a chance.

Left with an alcoholic father, two wild brothers, and a cold, distant sister, mom was lost without her mother. She described grandmother as a sweet, loving, affectionate woman, always quick to give a kiss and a hug or to stroke your hair and comfort you. Yet I often pointed out that grandmother lived on, because those qualities were passed on to her daughter.

Mom was my best friend, my biggest fan. She too was a sweet, loving, affectionate woman. I recall sitting at the kitchen table and whenever mom passed by she always reached out to me, touched my hair, ran her fingers along my shoulder, kissed the top of my head. In the evening she would sit on the couch and invite me to lay my head in her lap, where she would stroke my hair and listen to whatever petty grievance I might have to share from that particular day. She always had time for us, always had advice for us, and always defended us no matter what. She cherished bedtime with her children, tucking us in at night and giving a kiss before the lights went out. It was a final chance to say, “I’m sorry” or to put to rest whatever problems had plagued us during the day.

Even as an adult, when I returned home to spend the night on Christmas Eve or other special occasions, mom would come into the spare bedroom at night and tuck me in, giving a kiss and a stroke of the hair before retiring to her own room. As a grown woman in my twenties and thirties, it still made me feel safe and loved. I never left my parents' house without sharing a hug and a kiss, even though I lived only five miles away and was sure to see them again in a few days’ time.

Mom never turned her back on her errant family. Grampa came to live with us before he died. A quiet man, he really was good to all of us and didn’t drink much by then. Both of mom’s brothers also became alcoholics. One was killed at age 47, beaten to death in New Orleans. Most likely he was drunk. Yet my brother Ted was named after him, and to the end mom loved her brother dearly. Then her youngest brother died at age 53 of cirrhosis. He also lived with us for nearly a year before he died. Yes, he was often drunk. He was also a kind-hearted soul.

Embarrassed by her own family, mom’s sister chose the high road. She actually admired her father’s family, the ones who repeatedly turned their backs on them. They were educated, well-to-do, important, and that was the life she wanted. Over the years, she was always bothered by the fact that her nieces and nephews were more attached to the alcoholics than to her. It was really an easy choice for me. My grampa and my uncles were completely flawed, imperfect human beings but their love was palpable. Unfortunately, I could never say that about my aunt.

Today I was scanning photos from my childhood, including many pictures of my mother. Mom never liked to have her picture taken, especially as she grew older. In most of those photos I now see a hint of sadness that lurked in her eyes. It was probably always there, maybe I never noticed because all I could see in her eyes was love.

I inherited much from my mother, including the touch of sadness that I often find stalking me at the most inopportune times. Mom also left me with a full measure of affection to share. Since I never had children, I can only hope my husband, my friends, and my dogs are as grateful for that affection as I was.

A Generation of Veterans

The Brothers Thompson: Bill, Jim, Dick, George, and Joe
(photo from some time in the 1980s, the last time they were together).

While digging through my father’s old photos, I discovered a letter my brother and I wrote to the American Battle Monuments Commission at the time the World War II Memorial on the National Mall was in its planning stages. Even though I grew up in this family and the stories were well known, I still find myself amazed at the dedication, service, and sacrifice made by this generation of veterans.

On both sides of our family, a total of eight men fought for and served their country during World War II, six brothers in my father’s family and two brothers in my mother’s family. These men were in every branch of the armed forces, in regions all around the world. Similar to the fictional family in the movie Saving Private Ryan, they all served at the same time. Here are their stories:

Corporal James Thompson

James Thompson, Corporal, U.S. Army. Served in the Army medical corps throughout the South Pacific, first with an engineer battalion and then with the 108th Station Hospital.

Sergeant Richard Thompson

Richard Thompson (my father), Sergeant, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery, automatic weapons battalion. Fought in the Southwest Pacific on Guadalcanal, the Solomon Islands, Tulagi, Emirau, Florida Island, Hollandia, New Guinea, and Bougainville. Suffered broken vertebrae. Recovered in a field hospital and voluntarily returned to action in the liberation of the Philippine Islands on Luzon, the battle for Manila and Clark Field.

Seaman Joseph Thompson

Joseph Thompson, Seaman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. Numerous convoys across the North Atlantic, serving as armed guard on merchant ships. Ship was torpedoed by German U-boat and sunk off the coast of Scotland. Suffered broken vertebrae. Spent weeks in a lifeboat before being rescued by a British destroyer. Recovered in a Scottish hospital.

Private Harold Thompson

Harold Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Anti-Aircraft Artillery gunner. Landed on the beaches of Normandy, France in the first days of the European invasion. Killed in action shortly after D-Day at the battle of St. Lo, in Normandy, France on July 13, 1944.

Private William Thompson

William Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Served in Army artillery. Suffered ruptured eardrums resulting in permanent hearing loss. Medically discharged from duty.

Private George Thompson

George Thompson, Private 1st Class, U.S. Army. Infantry scout. Fought in the liberation of Europe, including the Battle of the Bulge, the Ruhr Valley, and eventually crossed the Elbe River as part of the first U.S. Army contingent to link up with Russian troops immediately before Germany surrendered. Awarded both the Bronze Star and the Silver Star for meritorious service.

Torpedoman Theodore Creer

Theodore Creer, Torpedoman 1st Class, U.S. Navy. U.S. Navy Submarine Service. Served aboard the USS Finback in the Western Pacific. Recipient of the Purple Heart for wounds suffered in action from a surface attack by Japanese Zero aircraft. Aboard the USS Finback on September 2, 1944, during the rescue at sea near ChiChi Jima of a Navy Avenger pilot from the carrier USS San Jacinto. The young pilot was none other than Lt. George Bush, who later became President of the United States.

Airman Richard Creer

Richard Creer, Airman 1st Class, U.S. Army Air Force. Aircraft mechanic. Stationed at various air bases in England. Performed ground support on B-17 bombers and other U.S. aircraft. After the war, served in Germany in the U.S. Army of Occupation. Later participated in the Berlin airlift.

We honor their service, and we owe them all a debt of gratitude.

The Cedar Chest

Mom kept the cedar chest in the back basement bedroom. At some point it was probably upstairs but I was too young to remember it being a part of our main living area. As far back as my memory goes, it was always in the basement. Such a lovely piece of furniture, one of only a handful my parents had trucked out to Colorado when they left New Jersey in search of a better future. The cedar chest was stained a dark walnut color, the cover with a beautiful wood grain that was scratched all over, owing to the fact that my brother liked to run his little TootsieToy cars on the lid as if it were his own private interstate.

Lined inside with soft red fabric, the cedar chest always smelled of mothballs. Mom was big on mothballs. Although the rest of us held our noses whenever the lid was opened, mom liked the smell. Amazing things were buried in the bowels of the cedar chest. Occasionally mom would pull out those items and tell a story for each one. The chest also had a narrow top shelf designed to hold smaller mementos. Rolled up tightly on this shelf, held firmly in place with rubber bands, were the pictures. Dad’s war pictures. Mom showed us the pictures occasionally but it was understood that we should never mess with them.

Dad was drafted into the Army in 1942 and served in the South Pacific as a sergeant. He was in charge of a 12-man anti-aircraft artillery gun crew, fighting Japanese forces in the Philippines. He spent nearly three years in combat. While he was away, dad’s first wife gave birth to my oldest brother. Dad returned to the states to meet his two-and-a-half-year old son for the first time, and to discover his wife had taken up with another man.

Situated directly above the basement workroom, my bedroom was the smallest. In the workroom was a giant table that mom used to sew and assemble draperies, a job she took so she could supplement dad’s income and stay home with her kids at the same time. Oftentimes at night I fell asleep to the high-pitched whine of the power machines, knowing that mom was trying to catch up on her drapery orders. But this night I heard a different sound, the sound of crying and wailing.

Mom and dad fought loudly and frequently about issues that were complex and impossible for me to understand. Issues about dad’s first wife and my oldest brother and our relatives, issues about jobs and money. When I heard the crying that night, it was different. I just had to know what it was about, so I crouched down on the floor, ear pressed against the furnace vent, trying desperately to make out something, anything.

It was dad, sobbing like I had never heard. Raised with five brothers, dad had no patience for excessive emotions or girlish crying. He often complained to mom about my tendency to burst into tears. So naturally when I heard my dad crying, it was simply unthinkable. I knew it had to be the end of the world or at least, the end of our world.

Later mom told me that dad had been digging in the cedar chest that night. He spread out the rolled-up pictures on the drapery table and flipped through a handful of individual photos of his Army buddies. He was lost in another time, remembering his buddies and the war that left him struggling for the rest of his life with ghosts and memories. You see, the largest picture showed dad’s original unit at Camp Stewart, Georgia, as they prepared to head overseas, 150 handsome young men standing upright and orderly in their fine new uniforms. The smaller picture showed the same unit, a tired group of men on a jungle airstrip, ready to go home at the end of the war. Only 45 remained.

Over the years this happened again from time to time. Mom always stayed by his side as he cried in the basement over those same ghosts. She tried to keep him from drifting away to the war too often but was never successful. As I grew older, I began to understand how important it was to talk about it. For him, it was clearly the most significant chapter of his life story. I also learned about post traumatic stress disorder. Although it was usually discussed in the context of the Vietnam War, it was not a problem unique to those veterans. Thankfully, the years brought a measure of peace to my father as he became more settled and better able to reconcile the worst of his memories.

For dad's eightieth birthday, my brother gathered all of dad’s medals and paraphernalia and had someone create shadow boxes that told his war story. The rolled-up pictures were dug out of the cedar chest one last time, framed and hung in the upstairs hallway, next to the little bedroom that dad now occupied. Those ghosts were finally out of the cedar chest and displayed proudly for everyone to see. When he first saw the framed pictures, dad wept openly in front of his many birthday guests. No one, especially not the handsome faces on the wall, seemed to mind.

Walking in Their Footsteps

We just returned from a wonderful vacation to Washington, DC, Virginia and West Virginia. Now, I’m not a fan of big cities. A dream holiday for me would be an escape to where there are less people, not more. DC was different. To be sure, it was noisy and hectic, sirens day and night, people scurrying about in jumbled streams of humanity, car horns blaring if someone dared react to a green traffic light a smidgen too slowly. Yet all this was tempered by the fact that the people we encountered were helpful and courteous. Surrounded by a constant throng of tourists, I expected the locals to be annoyed by our presence. Instead, most seemed genuinely concerned if it looked like you were lost or appeared unsure how to navigate the subway system. They were proud of their city, our city, and happy to help.

The first few days were spent making the customary rounds:

• Arlington National Cemetery, where we arrived in time for the changing of the guard and a wreath-laying ceremony;
• the Lincoln Memorial, outside crawling with people like so many ants on an anthill, inside a hushed silence except for the flashes and whirring noises of cameras;
• the War memorials, each with a handful of surviving veterans immersed in memories of glory and misery;
• the Washington Monument, its impressive height serving as a central beacon for the city;
• the Jefferson Memorial, etched with words that stir emotions and invite quiet reflection;
• the Capitol Building, oozing with power, symbolism, pomp and circumstance;
• the Supreme Court Building, an elegant, stately, silent sentinel perpetually eyeing the Capitol;
• the White House, more magnificent and grand than its condensed presence on news programs.

Everywhere we found ourselves in the company of others just like us, standing with cricked necks, mouths agape, eyes full of wonder.

On the second leg of our tour we rented a car and left the city, enjoying a peaceful ride along Skyline Drive, the northernmost portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway. We chased fleeting glimpses of sunlight as the weather began to turn against us, trying in vain to capture the majesty of the Shenandoah Valley below as well as the serene beauty we experienced traveling underneath a thick canopy of trees. The journey was taking us toward southwestern Virginia, where we hoped to learn more about Dave’s colonial ancestors. Their story will be told in a separate journal, but we later discovered they followed a similar route when, in the mid-1700s, the family moved from northern Virginia and settled near the New River in Giles County, Virginia. There we spent a rain-soaked day searching library collections and photographing family gravestones before heading toward our next destination.

We woke again to a persistent rain but were determined to make the most of it. Arriving first thing in the morning at Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson, we found his beautiful neoclassical mansion shrouded in fog. Our tour guide was so animated and passionate about her work, it was a delight to listen to her tales of the man who was not only our third president but also a paleontologist, an architect, and an inventor. After the home tour we wandered the grounds including Mulberry Row, where the slave dwellings were located, then through the plantation’s gardens and on to the family cemetery. The thick fog lent an eerie, ghostly quality to the morning. I half expected to see a lone rider on horseback, dressed in colonial garb, emerge from the shadows.

During our trip to New England three years ago, we stumbled upon a picturesque old cemetery in Chelsea, Vermont. For some reason, I was intrigued by the Civil War grave of Captain Orville Bixby of the Second Vermont Volunteer Infantry, who was killed at age 29 in the Battle of the Wilderness, Virginia. Located not far from Monticello, the Wilderness Battlefield is now preserved as a National Military Park. Still drenched by rain, we took a driving tour through the Chancellorsville and Wilderness battlefields. Research tells me that Captain Bixby was shot in the head on the second day of battle. His troops moved him to the rear of the regiment, where he lingered and died later that evening. I have no connection to this man other than curiosity. Yet it meant so much to be able to trace his footsteps all the way from Vermont to Virginia. Peering into the dense woods, I couldn’t even begin to imagine the horrors he must have witnessed that day.

We returned to the city, completing our stay in Old Town Alexandria. The last day we planned an outing to Mount Vernon, home of George and Martha Washington. The rain was relentless. It was cold and clammy and our resolve was weakening. During the home tour we heard the story of Washington’s death. After returning from a day spent inspecting his farm in snow and freezing rain, he sat down for dinner without changing his wet clothes. Two days later he succumbed to an illness that had turned from a bad cold into a serious infection. So despite the nasty weather, we continued touring the grounds, examining the outbuildings, wandering through the orchard, walking in the footsteps of the father of our country.

Walking in their footsteps from Deborah French on Vimeo.