Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dad. Show all posts
Thursday, October 31, 2019
Project, project...always a project
I grew up with a Dad who always had to have a project of some sort to work on. He didn't work on it every day, particularly during planting and harvest, but he always had something or two to work on. I have siblings who are like that - especially my twin brother - and I've come to realize I'm like that with my writing. Even as I'm busy with freelance work (thankfully), my brain is chewing on plot points for multiple books and the muse is itching to get busy on one or more of them. NaNoWriMo is upon us (National Novel Writing Month), and while I won't "officially" participate, I look forward to fussing around and letting the muse start working on these projects.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
'Memorial Day' on New Year's Eve
Grounded by a bad head cold, I ushered out the final hours of 2012 by watching the movie "Memorial Day" on Netflix.
It featured a World War II vet begrudgingly talking about his wartime experiences with a curious and insistent grandson in the early 1990s. It tugged at me, because in the movie the veteran character actor James Cromwell resembled my father physically and in his speaking patterns.
Not to mention his reluctance to talk about his combat experiences in World War II. I certainly understood it from the standpoint of not wanting to think about or relive the terrors of combat, or have the memories of close friends killed in battle resurrected from the hazy mists of the past.
But, as Cromwell's character noted late in the movie, souvenirs of battle are valuable for the stories that come with them - stories that reflect who we are and how we handled the challenges we faced.
That chat about a few souvenirs on a solitary Memorial Day weekend afternoon was all Cromwell's character shared about his war-time experiences, and it reminded me that so many family members who had loved ones serve in combat never hear about what that experience was like.
Compared to so many of them, I and my family have an encyclopedia of information about where and how Dad fought in France and Germany late in the war. Oh, I wanted more details, and poked and prodded and pleaded with him over the years. He shared in bits and pieces, and on a couple of occasions ricocheted from beginning to end - taxing ordeals that left him exhausted. I wanted more, because I knew the more he shared the more people would appreciate the man he was late in life, how much he accomplished despite the high physical and emotional price he paid while defending and protecting freedom.
In the years since he died in 2006, I have found hand-written notes scrawled in book margins, on notebook paper, on Big Chief tablet sheets...all sorts of places. I'm trying to pull it together into a cohesive narrative, so future generations can be blessed with his stories of what he experienced in combat.
To understand my father, you have to understand what he went through in battle and how it changed him. He once told me he was glad he was in combat, that he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world - but that he also wouldn't want to go through it again for anything in the world.
What he went through was so intense, so difficult, that when he would talk about them to Gulf War veterans struggling with post traumatic stress disorder they wouldn't believe him. "It couldn't have been that bad," they said. But it was that bad, and worse still for countless other veterans.
The stories are vital, for they are vivid tapestries of the human experience and reflections of the human spirit responding to extraordinary circumstances.
Plus, they are reminders of what Confederate general Robert E. Lee meant when he said, "It is good that war is so terrible, or we would come to love it."
Stories of all kinds are vital pieces of family and community history, so I encourage you to share them whenever and however you can. Too often they die with loved ones, and valuable knowledge and inspiration is lost.
It featured a World War II vet begrudgingly talking about his wartime experiences with a curious and insistent grandson in the early 1990s. It tugged at me, because in the movie the veteran character actor James Cromwell resembled my father physically and in his speaking patterns.
Not to mention his reluctance to talk about his combat experiences in World War II. I certainly understood it from the standpoint of not wanting to think about or relive the terrors of combat, or have the memories of close friends killed in battle resurrected from the hazy mists of the past.
But, as Cromwell's character noted late in the movie, souvenirs of battle are valuable for the stories that come with them - stories that reflect who we are and how we handled the challenges we faced.
That chat about a few souvenirs on a solitary Memorial Day weekend afternoon was all Cromwell's character shared about his war-time experiences, and it reminded me that so many family members who had loved ones serve in combat never hear about what that experience was like.
Compared to so many of them, I and my family have an encyclopedia of information about where and how Dad fought in France and Germany late in the war. Oh, I wanted more details, and poked and prodded and pleaded with him over the years. He shared in bits and pieces, and on a couple of occasions ricocheted from beginning to end - taxing ordeals that left him exhausted. I wanted more, because I knew the more he shared the more people would appreciate the man he was late in life, how much he accomplished despite the high physical and emotional price he paid while defending and protecting freedom.
In the years since he died in 2006, I have found hand-written notes scrawled in book margins, on notebook paper, on Big Chief tablet sheets...all sorts of places. I'm trying to pull it together into a cohesive narrative, so future generations can be blessed with his stories of what he experienced in combat.
To understand my father, you have to understand what he went through in battle and how it changed him. He once told me he was glad he was in combat, that he wouldn't trade it for anything in the world - but that he also wouldn't want to go through it again for anything in the world.
What he went through was so intense, so difficult, that when he would talk about them to Gulf War veterans struggling with post traumatic stress disorder they wouldn't believe him. "It couldn't have been that bad," they said. But it was that bad, and worse still for countless other veterans.
The stories are vital, for they are vivid tapestries of the human experience and reflections of the human spirit responding to extraordinary circumstances.
Plus, they are reminders of what Confederate general Robert E. Lee meant when he said, "It is good that war is so terrible, or we would come to love it."
Stories of all kinds are vital pieces of family and community history, so I encourage you to share them whenever and however you can. Too often they die with loved ones, and valuable knowledge and inspiration is lost.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Remembering a snowy day in France
His
first day of combat was in the woods outside Holtzwihr, France. The
halftrack Audie Murphy used to singlehandedly repel a German
counter-attack - for which he was later awarded the Medal of Honor - was
still burning. Soldiers on both sides
were still moaning in pain from their wounds. He would suffer his first
war injury that very night, and should have been killed more than a
half-dozen times. But he fought valiantly and returned home to build a
life on the Kansas prairie. He always said the American flag was one of
the most beautiful sights in the world, because it symbolized freedom.
Rest in peace, Dad --- and thanks for your service to our country.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
A salute to the Fightin' Fingers
Veterans Day is pretty personal in the Finger family.
Our father, Marvin, saw action in the Battle of the Bulge, was spun around by machine gun fire while storming the Seigfried Line, took part in missions behind enemy lines, suffered a life-altering back injury in Germany and marked V-E Day in a French hospital recovering from pneumonia he always blamed on the poison gas he inhaled while clearing out a building in Bamberg.
By my count, he should have been killed at least a half-dozen times. He made it home to Kansas by the grace of God, he would tell anyone who asked. He went on to have eight children with Helen, the sweetheart he began courting only a few months before he left for basic training.
One of them - the one named after him - join the Army after a brief stint in college. Why? Because his father had been in the military. Ironically, he would serve in Germany, guarding the border between West Germany and Czechoslovakia in the early 1970s. It was the height of the Cold War. Though neither the U.S. nor the Soviet Union would ever admit to it officially, the American and Soviet forces would shoot at each other - if for no other reason than to let their foes know they were around.
It was no stroll in the forest, though back home we were grateful he hadn't been shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam. Deep down, we feared that was a possibility right up until the time his enlistment ended and he came home. I still rank the Christmas that followed to be the happiest of my childhood, so thrilled was Mom that her boy had returned home safe.
Merf, as we called him to differentiate him from Dad, would join the National Guard upon his return to the states, serving in Kansas, Colorado and Oregon. I've never told him this, but one of the reasons my coverage of Pope John Paul II's visit to Denver in 1993 is one of my favorite all-time assignments is because he happened to be assisting in the medical tents set up to care for anyone who fell ill at the papal Mass at Cherry Creek State Park.
There we were, two Finger boys, up to our elbows in a genuine piece of history: me describing to readers what the closing Mass of World Youth Day '93 was like, with hundreds of thousands of people jammed into the park; and Merf, scrambling to help treat thousands of young adults overcome by dehydration because they didn't take in enough fluids during the long, hot hike from downtown Denver to the park the day before, or at the park the day of the Mass.
So many people were being brought to the medical tents, he told me later, "it was like we were in a war zone."
My twin brother, Steve, has told me that if he had still been single when the war with Iraq broke out he would have joined the military. And I was flattered when the head of recruiting for the U.S. Army wanted to sign me up for officer training school after I'd finished interviewing him several years ago.
When I learned one of my nephews, Joshua Stacey, had joined the Marines, I couldn't help but smile. Another generation of Fingers was serving our country.
Long may it be so.
Our father, Marvin, saw action in the Battle of the Bulge, was spun around by machine gun fire while storming the Seigfried Line, took part in missions behind enemy lines, suffered a life-altering back injury in Germany and marked V-E Day in a French hospital recovering from pneumonia he always blamed on the poison gas he inhaled while clearing out a building in Bamberg.
By my count, he should have been killed at least a half-dozen times. He made it home to Kansas by the grace of God, he would tell anyone who asked. He went on to have eight children with Helen, the sweetheart he began courting only a few months before he left for basic training.
One of them - the one named after him - join the Army after a brief stint in college. Why? Because his father had been in the military. Ironically, he would serve in Germany, guarding the border between West Germany and Czechoslovakia in the early 1970s. It was the height of the Cold War. Though neither the U.S. nor the Soviet Union would ever admit to it officially, the American and Soviet forces would shoot at each other - if for no other reason than to let their foes know they were around.
It was no stroll in the forest, though back home we were grateful he hadn't been shipped off to the jungles of Vietnam. Deep down, we feared that was a possibility right up until the time his enlistment ended and he came home. I still rank the Christmas that followed to be the happiest of my childhood, so thrilled was Mom that her boy had returned home safe.
Merf, as we called him to differentiate him from Dad, would join the National Guard upon his return to the states, serving in Kansas, Colorado and Oregon. I've never told him this, but one of the reasons my coverage of Pope John Paul II's visit to Denver in 1993 is one of my favorite all-time assignments is because he happened to be assisting in the medical tents set up to care for anyone who fell ill at the papal Mass at Cherry Creek State Park.
There we were, two Finger boys, up to our elbows in a genuine piece of history: me describing to readers what the closing Mass of World Youth Day '93 was like, with hundreds of thousands of people jammed into the park; and Merf, scrambling to help treat thousands of young adults overcome by dehydration because they didn't take in enough fluids during the long, hot hike from downtown Denver to the park the day before, or at the park the day of the Mass.
So many people were being brought to the medical tents, he told me later, "it was like we were in a war zone."
My twin brother, Steve, has told me that if he had still been single when the war with Iraq broke out he would have joined the military. And I was flattered when the head of recruiting for the U.S. Army wanted to sign me up for officer training school after I'd finished interviewing him several years ago.
When I learned one of my nephews, Joshua Stacey, had joined the Marines, I couldn't help but smile. Another generation of Fingers was serving our country.
Long may it be so.
Friday, October 15, 2010
A visit to Holtzwihr
The woman approached my father and I as we talked on the front steps of the Catholic church after Mass had concluded. They didn’t hear English very often in Holtzwihr, a tiny village nestled between the Rhine River and the Vosges Mountains in eastern France, and she was curious why we were there.
He had been here with the U.S. Army during World War II, Dad told her, and he had returned in search of answers – and healing.
The woman, a teacher, reached out and gave Dad a hug.
“Thank you,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, we would be speaking German.”
Surprised, yet touched, Dad quietly said “Thank you.”
Over the next few weeks, in France and Germany alike, others would approach my father to express their gratitude for what he and his fellow American soldiers had done in freeing Europe from Hitler and Nazism. Some of them had lived through it. Many grew up hearing about it from their parents or teachers, grew up in a free country because of what Dad and so many hundreds of thousands of his compatriots had done.
They understood.
In Germany, particularly, professors and postmen and farmers dropped what they were doing to help an American soldier in the twilight of his life try to make peace with a war that had never really ended inside of him.
They understood.
Dad genuinely appreciated the kind words and the help we were given. But a sense of disappointment clouded his eyes as our journey stretched on.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see the shattered cities, the wrecked railways, the roads ravaged by bombs and tanks. In their place, nearly 60 years later, were regions humming with activity and prosperity.
After a few days in Germany, he said “They live about as well as we do.” In other words, their standard of living was comparable to the U.S. One of his company’s final hard fights was in the Nazi stronghold of Nuremberg in the waning days of the war. Dad missed that battle because he was in a hospital back in Nancy, France, battling pneumonia he had contracted after inhaling poison gas that was rigged to be released when American troops reached the basement of a large building in Bamberg.
But he had heard the stories and seen the photos of the destruction of Nuremberg, and after a day of touring the city, he said, “It’s like we were never here at all.”
I tried to tell him Germany’s recovery was necessary for the long-term stability of Europe so we wouldn’t have a repeat of the economic and social upheaval that had created an environment for a movement as poisonous as Nazism to thrive. But I could tell my words didn’t really reach him.
It was as if he had hoped to see rubble – a tangible reminder of what they had done…what they had had to do to end this second of world wars.
And it was nowhere to be found.
Not long after we returned from that trip, Dad mentioned he was going to meet with a local veteran who had recently returned from serving in Iraq to see how he was doing. In other words, check to see if he had any post-traumatic stress issues from combat.
When I asked him about that several months later, he said he wasn’t doing it any more. That surprised me, so I asked why. He had talked with a couple of Gulf War veterans, he said, and they told him what it had been like. When they asked him what it had been like in World War II, “they wouldn’t believe me. ‘It couldn’t have been that bad,’” one of them said. Well, if they don’t want to believe me, I won’t talk to them.”
Dad rarely spoke about his experiences in World War II. His unit, Company B of the 15th Infantry Regiment, Third Division, suffered the loss of at least 500 men during his three months of front-line duty alone.
He had at least a half-dozen close calls, including being spun around by machine gun bullets on the Seigfried Line, being flattened by the concussion of artillery fire and .88 shells, being briefly paralyzed while on a special mission 35 miles behind enemy lines – so he wasn’t about to tolerate mocking, even from a new generation of soldiers.
They didn’t understand what it was like back then.
Not even members of his own family could believe what Dad shared about what he went through. That really hurt him, Mom said. He didn’t lie, because he knew there were repercussions. Your word was your bond.
When officials organizing the official dedication of the World War II memorial learned Dad’s company commander was Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier in U.S. military history, they desperately wanted him to be in Washington for the ceremony. They even wanted to make him part of the festivities.
But Dad declined. He didn’t want the spotlight. He didn’t want to deal with the heat or the crowds. He didn’t want accolades he believed should be given to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice.
And so he didn’t go.
But he wanted to see the memorial one day. It was high on his list of trips to take while his health was still good – along with another trip to Germany to revisit the town where he had been paralyzed behind enemy lines.
He never got to make those trips. He suffered a stroke the day after he returned from a cruise to Alaska with our mother, the love of his life, in September 2006. We lost him a week later.
When I read about the “honor flight” that carried a few dozen World War II veterans from Kansas to the World War II Memorial last month, I couldn’t help but think how much Dad would have enjoyed that.
He would have relished talking to the other veterans, listening to their stories, nodding knowingly. Any of them who fought in Europe wouldn’t have doubted Dad’s account of what he went through. They’d been there, too.
And they would have understood.
He had been here with the U.S. Army during World War II, Dad told her, and he had returned in search of answers – and healing.
The woman, a teacher, reached out and gave Dad a hug.
“Thank you,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, we would be speaking German.”
Surprised, yet touched, Dad quietly said “Thank you.”
Over the next few weeks, in France and Germany alike, others would approach my father to express their gratitude for what he and his fellow American soldiers had done in freeing Europe from Hitler and Nazism. Some of them had lived through it. Many grew up hearing about it from their parents or teachers, grew up in a free country because of what Dad and so many hundreds of thousands of his compatriots had done.
They understood.
In Germany, particularly, professors and postmen and farmers dropped what they were doing to help an American soldier in the twilight of his life try to make peace with a war that had never really ended inside of him.
They understood.
Dad genuinely appreciated the kind words and the help we were given. But a sense of disappointment clouded his eyes as our journey stretched on.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see the shattered cities, the wrecked railways, the roads ravaged by bombs and tanks. In their place, nearly 60 years later, were regions humming with activity and prosperity.
After a few days in Germany, he said “They live about as well as we do.” In other words, their standard of living was comparable to the U.S. One of his company’s final hard fights was in the Nazi stronghold of Nuremberg in the waning days of the war. Dad missed that battle because he was in a hospital back in Nancy, France, battling pneumonia he had contracted after inhaling poison gas that was rigged to be released when American troops reached the basement of a large building in Bamberg.
But he had heard the stories and seen the photos of the destruction of Nuremberg, and after a day of touring the city, he said, “It’s like we were never here at all.”
I tried to tell him Germany’s recovery was necessary for the long-term stability of Europe so we wouldn’t have a repeat of the economic and social upheaval that had created an environment for a movement as poisonous as Nazism to thrive. But I could tell my words didn’t really reach him.
It was as if he had hoped to see rubble – a tangible reminder of what they had done…what they had had to do to end this second of world wars.
And it was nowhere to be found.
Not long after we returned from that trip, Dad mentioned he was going to meet with a local veteran who had recently returned from serving in Iraq to see how he was doing. In other words, check to see if he had any post-traumatic stress issues from combat.
When I asked him about that several months later, he said he wasn’t doing it any more. That surprised me, so I asked why. He had talked with a couple of Gulf War veterans, he said, and they told him what it had been like. When they asked him what it had been like in World War II, “they wouldn’t believe me. ‘It couldn’t have been that bad,’” one of them said. Well, if they don’t want to believe me, I won’t talk to them.”
Dad rarely spoke about his experiences in World War II. His unit, Company B of the 15th Infantry Regiment, Third Division, suffered the loss of at least 500 men during his three months of front-line duty alone.
He had at least a half-dozen close calls, including being spun around by machine gun bullets on the Seigfried Line, being flattened by the concussion of artillery fire and .88 shells, being briefly paralyzed while on a special mission 35 miles behind enemy lines – so he wasn’t about to tolerate mocking, even from a new generation of soldiers.
They didn’t understand what it was like back then.
Not even members of his own family could believe what Dad shared about what he went through. That really hurt him, Mom said. He didn’t lie, because he knew there were repercussions. Your word was your bond.
When officials organizing the official dedication of the World War II memorial learned Dad’s company commander was Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier in U.S. military history, they desperately wanted him to be in Washington for the ceremony. They even wanted to make him part of the festivities.
But Dad declined. He didn’t want the spotlight. He didn’t want to deal with the heat or the crowds. He didn’t want accolades he believed should be given to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice.
And so he didn’t go.
But he wanted to see the memorial one day. It was high on his list of trips to take while his health was still good – along with another trip to Germany to revisit the town where he had been paralyzed behind enemy lines.
He never got to make those trips. He suffered a stroke the day after he returned from a cruise to Alaska with our mother, the love of his life, in September 2006. We lost him a week later.
When I read about the “honor flight” that carried a few dozen World War II veterans from Kansas to the World War II Memorial last month, I couldn’t help but think how much Dad would have enjoyed that.
He would have relished talking to the other veterans, listening to their stories, nodding knowingly. Any of them who fought in Europe wouldn’t have doubted Dad’s account of what he went through. They’d been there, too.
And they would have understood.
Monday, June 28, 2010
"Hurry up, Dad!!!!"
I had a flashback to childhood Sunday morning.
I bumped into the Purcell family after Mass at St. Joseph's and said hello to the patriarch, sharing with him my taste of celebrity experience from the night before. I told him because I knew his son, who had become a minor celebrity after miraculously surviving being shot in the femoral artery while on duty as a police officer, would be able to relate to what happened to me.
Our conversation kept going...and going...and going.....and soon enough his wife joined in and our conversation somehow shifted to the Summer of Mercy abortion protests in 1991.
Before we knew it, no one else was left standing in front of the church - well, except for their young children. Who had the same tortured look my siblings and I so often did as we waited....and waited....and waited......for Dad to stop talking to folks after church at Holy Rosary in Burdett.
Dad talked forever after church. At least, it seemed like that to us little ones, who were more than eager to get home and get out of our "church clothes." It didn't dawn on me for years that the reason Dad liked to talk after church was because life on the farm can be very isolating, with limited opportunities for conversation outside the family.
I used to joke that Dad could talk to a tree for three hours....but after a few weeks on the farm with no one to, I couldn't blame him if he did want to talk to a tree for three hours.
If I ever take the step of becoming a freelance writer/novelist working from home, I'll face similar challenges. Though, presuming I'm in a city, it won't be quite as difficult to find conversation.
Still, I had to chuckle when I heard the audible sighs of the Purcell kids on Sunday. I know that sound well.
I bumped into the Purcell family after Mass at St. Joseph's and said hello to the patriarch, sharing with him my taste of celebrity experience from the night before. I told him because I knew his son, who had become a minor celebrity after miraculously surviving being shot in the femoral artery while on duty as a police officer, would be able to relate to what happened to me.
Our conversation kept going...and going...and going.....and soon enough his wife joined in and our conversation somehow shifted to the Summer of Mercy abortion protests in 1991.
Before we knew it, no one else was left standing in front of the church - well, except for their young children. Who had the same tortured look my siblings and I so often did as we waited....and waited....and waited......for Dad to stop talking to folks after church at Holy Rosary in Burdett.
Dad talked forever after church. At least, it seemed like that to us little ones, who were more than eager to get home and get out of our "church clothes." It didn't dawn on me for years that the reason Dad liked to talk after church was because life on the farm can be very isolating, with limited opportunities for conversation outside the family.
I used to joke that Dad could talk to a tree for three hours....but after a few weeks on the farm with no one to, I couldn't blame him if he did want to talk to a tree for three hours.
If I ever take the step of becoming a freelance writer/novelist working from home, I'll face similar challenges. Though, presuming I'm in a city, it won't be quite as difficult to find conversation.
Still, I had to chuckle when I heard the audible sighs of the Purcell kids on Sunday. I know that sound well.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The guns of August
While I was in Kansas City earlier this week, I made a point of visiting the National World War I museum downtown. I toured it more than 20 years ago, but I knew it had undergone significant changes since then.
I was extremely impressed by what I saw. The museum does a wonderful job of explaining the war's place in our history - not just what happened militarily, but what it was like for the soldiers on both sides. The longer I was there, the more deeply the sense of profound loss...of irrevocable change...sank in.
The memorial hall is poignant, as is the collection of photographs of people who were in the war. For me, seeing a Browning Automatic Rifle on display was particularly powerful, since Dad used a BAR ----- in World War II. I also recognized many town names on maps as places where Dad would be in combat in 1945, a generation after World War I.
A lot of folks may dismiss World War I as ancient history no longer relevant to modern life. But they'd be making a mistake. "The Guns of August" 1914 changed the world forever, and we're still living with the ripple effects.
I was extremely impressed by what I saw. The museum does a wonderful job of explaining the war's place in our history - not just what happened militarily, but what it was like for the soldiers on both sides. The longer I was there, the more deeply the sense of profound loss...of irrevocable change...sank in.
The memorial hall is poignant, as is the collection of photographs of people who were in the war. For me, seeing a Browning Automatic Rifle on display was particularly powerful, since Dad used a BAR ----- in World War II. I also recognized many town names on maps as places where Dad would be in combat in 1945, a generation after World War I.
A lot of folks may dismiss World War I as ancient history no longer relevant to modern life. But they'd be making a mistake. "The Guns of August" 1914 changed the world forever, and we're still living with the ripple effects.
Thursday, July 23, 2009
And the winner is.....
.......well, actually, she was the reserve grand champion in the "fitting and showing" class of the swine project at the Pawnee County 4-H Fair.
Her name was Briana O'Neill, and Dad would have been pleased that she won the first $50 savings bond given in his memory.
"She's a good girl," Mom told me. "She comes from a nice family."
That's Mom in the background of my photograph. The savings bond is one of two that will be given in Dad's honor at the annual 4-H fair. The second will go to the total points winner in the junior division of the horse project on Friday. That's appropriate, because Dad loved horses and he was a swine project leader for decades.
Sure, it's only $50, but it's a way for Dad to keep giving to the organization - and the young people - that he loved.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Off to the fair we go
I'm in Larned for a few days to visit Mom and the family farm and take in the Pawnee County 4-H Fair for the first time in several years.
We'll be giving out the first savings bonds in Dad's honor to winners in horse and swine projects, the fruits of money donated in Dad's memory after he died in 2006. It'll be bittersweet, to be sure...and I was tossing and turning last night wrestling with emotions that came to the surface as I reflected on what we would be doing at the fair.
Dad was a 4-H club and county leader for more than 30 years, so it was only natural that people would remember him by donating to the 4-H foundation. He nurtured generations of kids through the organization, which focused on developing leadership and civics skills in young people by offering a wide range of projects for them. Once focused almost exclusively on farming tasks, 4-H's project list reflects a much stronger urban flavor now.
In case you're wondering, the 4 Hs are 'head, heart, hands and health.' I can't remember the 4-H motto off the top of my head at the moment, but I'm sure it will come to me eventually.
The fair is held in a different part of town now; when I was growing up, it was held in and next to Moffett Stadium, not far from downtown or the municipal swimming pool. Moffett Stadium seemed to date back to the Depression, built as it was out of concrete, with wooden planks for much of its seating.
Now the fair is held at nice new facilities on the edge of town, just north of the armory. I'm not saying the change is bad --- but it sure is different. The old location reverberated with history: not just generations of young people striving for ribbons and trophies and the attention of their peers, but countless major events in Larned's past.
The new digs may well feel like that some day. But they don't yet.
We'll be giving out the first savings bonds in Dad's honor to winners in horse and swine projects, the fruits of money donated in Dad's memory after he died in 2006. It'll be bittersweet, to be sure...and I was tossing and turning last night wrestling with emotions that came to the surface as I reflected on what we would be doing at the fair.
Dad was a 4-H club and county leader for more than 30 years, so it was only natural that people would remember him by donating to the 4-H foundation. He nurtured generations of kids through the organization, which focused on developing leadership and civics skills in young people by offering a wide range of projects for them. Once focused almost exclusively on farming tasks, 4-H's project list reflects a much stronger urban flavor now.
In case you're wondering, the 4 Hs are 'head, heart, hands and health.' I can't remember the 4-H motto off the top of my head at the moment, but I'm sure it will come to me eventually.
The fair is held in a different part of town now; when I was growing up, it was held in and next to Moffett Stadium, not far from downtown or the municipal swimming pool. Moffett Stadium seemed to date back to the Depression, built as it was out of concrete, with wooden planks for much of its seating.
Now the fair is held at nice new facilities on the edge of town, just north of the armory. I'm not saying the change is bad --- but it sure is different. The old location reverberated with history: not just generations of young people striving for ribbons and trophies and the attention of their peers, but countless major events in Larned's past.
The new digs may well feel like that some day. But they don't yet.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Dreaming up some answers
Every once in a while I come across a story to which my reaction is, "And the 'experts' didn't already know this?????"
That happened again last week, when a national story reported that a good night's sleep or a 'hard nap' improved test scores or proved inspirational in solving a vexing problem for the person who slept.
And in other news, sunrise comes in the morning.
I've lost count of the number of times I went to bed wrestling with the lead for a story (or simply what to say to a friend struggling with a problem) and awakened the next morning with the problem solved.
Dad never went to college, let alone get an engineering degree, yet he built more than a dozen bridges across the Sawmill Creek on our farm so the wheels of an irrigation pivot system could safely cross the creek bed. No two bridges were the same. Each had unique length, angle and track issues. Yet Dad figured each one of them out --- often by sleeping on it. Several times he mentioned how he awoke one morning with answers that came to him in his sleep.
I'm no sleep scientist. But I suspect this happens because while we sleep, the brain can devote resources that might be otherwise deployed to handle the daily business of distractions and duties to the pressing problem of the day (or night, as it were). A similar scenario may be how doctors will place a critically injured patient into a medically induced coma so the body can devote more energy toward healing by minimizing other needs.
Despite this "official" confirmation that sleep helps us work through challenging problems, I seriously doubt this means an editor's going to give me the green light if I say, "I'm struggling with this story; I need to go home and take a nap."
It's a nice thought, though.
That happened again last week, when a national story reported that a good night's sleep or a 'hard nap' improved test scores or proved inspirational in solving a vexing problem for the person who slept.
And in other news, sunrise comes in the morning.
I've lost count of the number of times I went to bed wrestling with the lead for a story (or simply what to say to a friend struggling with a problem) and awakened the next morning with the problem solved.
Dad never went to college, let alone get an engineering degree, yet he built more than a dozen bridges across the Sawmill Creek on our farm so the wheels of an irrigation pivot system could safely cross the creek bed. No two bridges were the same. Each had unique length, angle and track issues. Yet Dad figured each one of them out --- often by sleeping on it. Several times he mentioned how he awoke one morning with answers that came to him in his sleep.
I'm no sleep scientist. But I suspect this happens because while we sleep, the brain can devote resources that might be otherwise deployed to handle the daily business of distractions and duties to the pressing problem of the day (or night, as it were). A similar scenario may be how doctors will place a critically injured patient into a medically induced coma so the body can devote more energy toward healing by minimizing other needs.
Despite this "official" confirmation that sleep helps us work through challenging problems, I seriously doubt this means an editor's going to give me the green light if I say, "I'm struggling with this story; I need to go home and take a nap."
It's a nice thought, though.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Randomosity
A collection of reflections on a wide range of topics.....
It wasn't Saturday's thunder, lightning and tornado warnings that told me spring was here - or nearly here. It was the birds chirping merrily at sunrise in the days leading up to the weekend. They've been gone - or silent - for months. Welcome back. You've been missed.
============
Catholic Masses leading up to Lent included gospel readings about Jesus feeding crowds numbering in the thousands with only a few loaves and fishes. Much has been said and written about His providing so much from so little.
But I found myself reflecting on how Jesus could speak to thousands at a time and still be heard clearly in a time long before megaphones, microphones and speakers --- all without raising His voice. Imagine someone speaking to a packed house at Koch Arena or the Kansas Coliseum and having everyone in the audience hear it clearly without amplifiers.
Yes, there was the Sermon on the Mount, where I'm sure being on a natural platform helped Jesus' voice carry. And I recall times in the Bible where He would get in a boat and put out into the water a short distance....which I imagine helped project His voice as well. I wonder how many times He spoke on hillsides that served as natural amphitheaters?
The only time I remember Jesus shouting in the Bible was at the money-changers in the temple. And yet countless souls heard His message and had their lives changed.
I guess it's a reminder that truth resonates even when spoken softly.
=================
I can't shake the feeling that Wichita State got the shaft from the clock handler at the end of the Missouri Valley Conference tournament game against Creighton. Not so much that final 1.9 seconds in which Booker Woodfox made that clutch game-winning jumper...but in the final 12 seconds or so. How much time went off the clock as Ramon Clemente grabbed the offensive rebound that had fallen to the floor following a missed free throw? It seemed like an eternity, but precious little time seemed to melt from the clock.
Of course, all of this is academic if the Shox hold onto the rebound of the forced layup with less than 5 seconds to play.
And Creighton played Saturday as if they shouldn't be there.
If WSU takes the right approach, the end of this season can serve as a nice launching point to next season, when more talent and more experience will be taking the floor. The Shocks should be in the discussion for a finish in the top half of the Valley -- perhaps even the Top 3.
===============
This has been the harshest winter in recent memory for stomach flus, respiratory flus, allergies....just all sorts of medical maladies.
I'm sure the stress and anxiety about the economy have been major contributors to that, sapping immune systems even as the economy gnaws away at our wallets, purses and retirement funds.
===============
If the Big XII tournament brackets hold form, KU and K-State will meet in the semifinals. Gotta like the Jayhawks in that one. But a KU final against either Mizzou or OU won't be easy.
Earlier this year, I had KU as no more than a Sweet 16 team, and perhaps even losing in the second round. But now I wouldn't be surprised if they made the Elite Eight. I still think OU could make the Final Four. Mizzou? They could make the Sweet 16.
K-State? Three letters: NIT.
===============
Happy birthday, Dad. You would have turned 85 today, and not a day goes by that I don't think about you.
It wasn't Saturday's thunder, lightning and tornado warnings that told me spring was here - or nearly here. It was the birds chirping merrily at sunrise in the days leading up to the weekend. They've been gone - or silent - for months. Welcome back. You've been missed.
============
Catholic Masses leading up to Lent included gospel readings about Jesus feeding crowds numbering in the thousands with only a few loaves and fishes. Much has been said and written about His providing so much from so little.
But I found myself reflecting on how Jesus could speak to thousands at a time and still be heard clearly in a time long before megaphones, microphones and speakers --- all without raising His voice. Imagine someone speaking to a packed house at Koch Arena or the Kansas Coliseum and having everyone in the audience hear it clearly without amplifiers.
Yes, there was the Sermon on the Mount, where I'm sure being on a natural platform helped Jesus' voice carry. And I recall times in the Bible where He would get in a boat and put out into the water a short distance....which I imagine helped project His voice as well. I wonder how many times He spoke on hillsides that served as natural amphitheaters?
The only time I remember Jesus shouting in the Bible was at the money-changers in the temple. And yet countless souls heard His message and had their lives changed.
I guess it's a reminder that truth resonates even when spoken softly.
=================
I can't shake the feeling that Wichita State got the shaft from the clock handler at the end of the Missouri Valley Conference tournament game against Creighton. Not so much that final 1.9 seconds in which Booker Woodfox made that clutch game-winning jumper...but in the final 12 seconds or so. How much time went off the clock as Ramon Clemente grabbed the offensive rebound that had fallen to the floor following a missed free throw? It seemed like an eternity, but precious little time seemed to melt from the clock.
Of course, all of this is academic if the Shox hold onto the rebound of the forced layup with less than 5 seconds to play.
And Creighton played Saturday as if they shouldn't be there.
If WSU takes the right approach, the end of this season can serve as a nice launching point to next season, when more talent and more experience will be taking the floor. The Shocks should be in the discussion for a finish in the top half of the Valley -- perhaps even the Top 3.
===============
This has been the harshest winter in recent memory for stomach flus, respiratory flus, allergies....just all sorts of medical maladies.
I'm sure the stress and anxiety about the economy have been major contributors to that, sapping immune systems even as the economy gnaws away at our wallets, purses and retirement funds.
===============
If the Big XII tournament brackets hold form, KU and K-State will meet in the semifinals. Gotta like the Jayhawks in that one. But a KU final against either Mizzou or OU won't be easy.
Earlier this year, I had KU as no more than a Sweet 16 team, and perhaps even losing in the second round. But now I wouldn't be surprised if they made the Elite Eight. I still think OU could make the Final Four. Mizzou? They could make the Sweet 16.
K-State? Three letters: NIT.
===============
Happy birthday, Dad. You would have turned 85 today, and not a day goes by that I don't think about you.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Notes that echo through the centuries
On the day before he became president, Barack Obama paid a visit to Arlington National Cemetery and laid a wreath at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier. A bugler played "Taps" --- and my evening came to a standstill.
I thought about all the soldiers buried there....the wars they fought in....the sacrifices that they made......and the price we've paid for freedom.
I thought of my Dad, and that warm September day we laid him to rest more than two years ago now. A color guard from Fort Riley came to salute a World War II veteran who had fought on the front lines of France and Germany.
I was standing next to the coffin and never saw the 21-gun salute or the bugler playing "Taps"....but those sounds pierced my soul. They reflected that he had joined the generations of soldiers, sailors and aviators who had fought to create, preserve or protect our nation and now live on only in memory.
I thought about all the soldiers buried there....the wars they fought in....the sacrifices that they made......and the price we've paid for freedom.
I thought of my Dad, and that warm September day we laid him to rest more than two years ago now. A color guard from Fort Riley came to salute a World War II veteran who had fought on the front lines of France and Germany.
I was standing next to the coffin and never saw the 21-gun salute or the bugler playing "Taps"....but those sounds pierced my soul. They reflected that he had joined the generations of soldiers, sailors and aviators who had fought to create, preserve or protect our nation and now live on only in memory.
Monday, December 1, 2008
A heart-tugging moment
On Thanksgiving morning, I was outside talking with my twin brother and brother-in-law when Ed, one of my older brothers, came around the corner next to the machine shop.
Thanks to the flat-topped hat and gray sweatshirt he had on - which Dad liked to wear - I did a doubletake. He looked so much like Dad it was chilling.
Later that morning, my sister Trish said she and Mom had the same reaction when they saw him. We lost Dad two years ago, yet for just a heart-quickening moment they both thought he had walked through the door.
"I cried," Mom told me later. "I couldn't help it."
I don't blame her one bit.
Thanks to the flat-topped hat and gray sweatshirt he had on - which Dad liked to wear - I did a doubletake. He looked so much like Dad it was chilling.
Later that morning, my sister Trish said she and Mom had the same reaction when they saw him. We lost Dad two years ago, yet for just a heart-quickening moment they both thought he had walked through the door.
"I cried," Mom told me later. "I couldn't help it."
I don't blame her one bit.
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