Frank Buckles and The Brave Among Us

                                                     (Number One) 
     


    On February first, Frank Woodruff Buckles, of West Virginia, 
celebrated his 110th birthday. He wanted to live to age 115 and 
see a national monument to all WWI veterans put in place in 
Washington. Before that dream could be realized, Buckles 
passed away just after midnight on February 28. He was America's
last surviving veteran of World War I. 
     At 16, Buckles lied about his age, enlisted in the Army, and 
became a Doughboy. Serving in France, he drove ambulances loaded 
with the carnage of trench warfare. After the Armistice, he helped 
transport German prisoners of war safely back to their homes. 
     Twenty-five years later, in 1941, Buckles was working as a civilian 
aboard a ship in the waters near Manila when WWII broke out. The 
Japanese captured his ship and threw Buckles in a Japanese POW camp 
for the next three and a half years. 
     Buckles had fans from around the world. Each year he received bushels
of birthday cards from veterans and others who admired his lifelong 
work in helping us remember the sacrifices of WWI. A beautiful tribute to 
him can be found on his Web site: http://www.frankbuckles.org/.
     Retired, out of uniform, Buckles was only one of the brave among us.
With barely a whisper, many more slip back into society. Go on with their
lives. Unknowingly, I pass them on the street each day. In uniform, they 
grab my attention and admiration in airports, shopping malls, and at parades. 
Moved, I offer them my thanks.  
     But I know it isn't enough. 
     Most veterans say they don't want to talk about their war experiences. 
Yet I know those memories are ever present. As they were for the roofing 
contractor I employed one summer. 
     Over late afternoon beers, he opened up and told me about his first months 
home from Vietnam. For six months he couldn't sleep in a bed. The only place 
he felt safe was on the floor,  ear to the ground to listen for footsteps. Aside from 
that, he thought he was coping fairly well, until the day his mother asked him 
repeatedly to take out the trash. 
     Snapping, he screamed back, "Garbage? You  want me to take out the garbage 
when I was blowing people's heads off last week?" 
     Years ago, another veteran suddenly opened up to me at a dinner party. He'd 
been a Navy Seal in Vietnam. The experience that still haunted him, he said, was 
being dropped by helicopter into Cambodia on a covert mission with three other 
men. 
     "We disavow any knowledge of this operation. Be here in three days, in this 
exact location, or you are on your own," the helicopter pilot told the men. 
     In the kitchen, his wife turned to me, shaking her head. "He's never told that 
story before. Never." 
     Another story hits closer to home for me. 
     It's the story of a skinny kid from Port Chester, New York. He's the one on the 
left in the photo above. It was taken in 1942, in Iceland. The skinny kid weighed 
just 117 pounds when the photo was taken.  Shot nerves and exposure can do a 
number on your appetite, I've learned. 
     That skinny kid is my father, Navy Photomate Fred H. Melull. 
      Next week, Dad would have been 97. He died in 1999, without my ever 
completely understanding all the sacrifices he made while serving in Iceland and 
the North Atlantic during WWII. All I remember is that he was forever cold and 
liked to nap in a pool of sunlight on the radiant-heated floor of our family room. 
Downed in an aircraft in Iceland's interior, he suffered frostbite on his feet. 
     My brother tells me our mother routinely pulled shrapnel out of my father's 
back with a tweezers when it worked its way to the surface and snagged his 
t-shirt. That I don't remember. But I will never forget the story I overheard when 
a neighbor girl interviewed Dad for a school paper. 
     "Now, this is classified. You can't talk about this to anyone," he began. 
      Listening out of sight in the back hall, I heard my father tell the girl how he'd 
been at sea when his ship came across the wreckage of a troopship sunk by a 
Nazi U-boat. On board there had been women, soldiers, and not enough 
lifeboats to go around. Because of the desperate need for soldiers in Europe, the 
order was given to save the men over the women. By the time my father's ship 
arrived on the scene to help with the rescue few women were still alive. 
      "I don't know, now, if they were nurses, or WACS, or WAVES. I don't 
remember. But I could hear them out there, screaming. God, I'll never forget 
that. And those poor bastards who'd been told not to pick them up in their 
lifeboats. . . they were a mess. It's not the natural order of things, you know? 
Who let that happen? Who told those girls it was okay to be out there, to come 
to war?" 
     Choking back sobs, my father repeatedly told the girl, "Now you can't write 
about this. This is classified. It's classified."
     I've never been able to verify this story. All records of troopship crossings 
were purposely destroyed by the government after the war. Still, the veterans 
and researchers I've spoken to tell me to believe in my father's story, regardless 
of whether I ever find hard evidence of it. 
     I do. 
      

A Door to My Heart

  

       In 2010, ash from an Icelandic volcano disrupted air travel around
the world for a week. Scientists were awarded the Nobel Prize for the
creation of a stronger-than-steel, virtually weightless material called
Graphene. The I-Pad made its debut. Oprah Winfrey announced she
was ending her long running talk show. Dennis Hopper died as did Ted
Sorensen, John F. Kennedy's speech writer. Splash, Ted Kennedy's
faithful dog, also died. So did the co-creator of Trivial Pursuit, the
publisher of Playboy, and the inventors of the Easy Bake Oven, the
Frisbee, and Spaghettios.
     The war we created still rages.
     I always look forward to reading this lopsided annual list. It reminds
me of our incredible diversity and creativity. Our uniqueness. It also
reminds me that life is infinite in its possibilities yet finite in its duration.
No one escapes death. Ping-Ping, the world's smallest man, and Bruce
J. Graham, the architect who designed the Sears Tower, couldn't avoid
it. Neither could Don King's wife, Henrietta.
      But these lessons often pale after I file away the annual list and get
on with the business of living. That is because, in good times and bad,
it is not the luminaries, celebrities, or events in the world that give
me hope and strength throughout the year. Instead, I look to the people
who touch my heart during each year's passing. The people who open
the door to my heart. Their names will never be in the headlines.
Most will never make it on an impressive list of annual achievements.
     So my New Years resolution this year is to thank them and honor
them here.
     The first person is a woman named Lisa who lives in Pennsylvania.
Lisa is a photographer, a talented artist, a devoted mother, and a graceful
spirit. I met her shortly before she moved away. We are not close friends
but I keep track of her life through mutual friends.
      Lisa is the bravest woman I know.
      Roughly a year ago, she was diagnosed with oral cancer. Doctors
removed most of her tongue. Skin was then harvested from her wrist
and thighs to rebuild a new tongue. A few days before this Christmas,
the doctors told her she was cancer-free.
      A few days later they told her the cancer was back.
      Doctors have had to remove the remaining portion of Lisa's tongue.
Unable to speak, she communicates with family and friends through
e-mail and on her incredibly beautiful blog, pullupachair@typepad.com.
Her blog is lit with her poignant insights on life and love and beauty.
She shares her heart, her struggles, and her hope. The blog is honest
but never morbid. With all she has been through, her voice is never
laced with anger or bitterness.
      Thank you, Lisa, for sharing so much, so willingly. Thank you
for reminding me that the way we handle life's curves is our choice.
Thank you for reminding me that drinking a good cup of coffee is a
privilege not to be taken for granted. Thank you for reminding me
to embrace beauty wherever it is.
      I wish you and your husband the adventure of a lifetime on your
post-op RV trip to the Pacific Northwest.
      Keep the windows down.
    

For the Quiet Girls

For the Quiet Girls 

     Elizabeth Smart was a quiet 14-year-old girl when she was abducted from
her bedroom in June of 2002. Now 23, she is testifying this week at the trial
of the man who abducted, raped, brainwashed, and terrified her for nearly 10
months.
     As I read through the transcript of the trial, I was horrified at the depravity
and cruelty she endured. But I was deeply moved by the grace and conviction
she displayed as she responded to questioning. A crime of insanity took her
from her family but, thankfully, the watchful eye of a passing motorist allowed
Smart to be reunited with her family.
      Antinette Keller, of Plainfield, will never be reunited with her family.
Keller is the 18-year-old art student at NIU in DeKalb, Illinois who made the
mistake of taking her art supplies to a park to work on a project. While there,
Keller ran into a 34-year-old man who sexually abused her, killed her, and
then set her body on fire. The newspapers are calling it a crime of opportunity.
     Keller, like Smart, was also a quiet girl.
     Andrea Faye Will, of Batavia, died in February of 1998. She was a
freshman at Eastern Illinois University when she was strangled to death with a
phone chord by Justin "Jay" Boulay, of St. Charles, Ill. Because of a crack in
Illinois' legal system, Boulay, Will's former boyfriend, is being released from
prison on November 16 after serving only 12 years of his 24 year sentence.
While incarcerated, Boulay married another girl from Batavia, Rachel Rivers.
The two are planning on living in Hawaii, where Rachel Boulay is a professor
at the University of Hawaii.
     It is Andrea's story that hits far too close to home for me.
     I will never forget that February evening. It was just after midnight when
my son, Graham, arrived home with his girlfriend, Stephanie. I remember her
as a sweet,  quiet girl. I know now that she is much like her best friend and
cousin: Andrea.
     I will never forget the look on Graham and Stephanie's faces that night as
they stood in the darkened hallway. He did not have to tell that something was
wrong. I had heard about Andrea's death on the news. But I didn't expect my
son, then in high school, to look at me and say, "Stephanie is staying here
tonight, Mom. Her cousin Andrea was just murdered."
     Tears welling in my eyes, I simply nodded.
     And so the rules were broken that night as their adolescent forms
disappeared up the stairs. I could not hear them, but I imagined them crying
and holding each other in my son's childhood bedroom down the hall. Trying
to get some sleep before Andrea's wake the following day.
     The majority of faces inside the funeral home at Andrea Will's wake were
young. A crowd of adolescent boys hung in the back of the room, white-faced
and somber. The adolescent girls openly wept and held each other.
     Sorority sisters. Classmates. Childhood friends.
     I came with two friends. Mothers. To offer my inadequate condolences to
another mother I'd never met. To stand in line. Look into the open coffin at
the front of the room. See the lovely, lifeless body of 19-year-old Andrea
Faye Will.
     A quiet girl, with visible red marks around her neck.  


Please visit the Voices for Andrea Faye Will Facebook page for more 
updates on the worldwide candlelight vigils held in Andrea's honor on 
Tuesday, November 16. . . the day Justin Boulay was released from 
prison and left with his new wife for Hawaii. As of this posting, 3400 
people from around the country and world have joined this site to 
remember Andrea and take a stand against domestic violence. Sign
up as a member today to take a stand against the victimization and 
suffering of quiet girls like Andrea Faye Will. 

Learning to Hum

  

                             Or How D'Atra Got Her Ring Back



     "It feels bad," said President Obama of the "shellacking" Democrats got
in the midterm elections.
     I feel bad, too.
     I feel bad seeing President Obama's former Senate seat being filled by a
member of the opposing party. I feel bad knowing President Obama is
going to have an uphill battle for the last two years of his presidency. I feel
bad that so little good news about what he has done so far ever made it to
the people who needed to hear it the most. I blame that in large part on
the industry I once turned to for guidance during elections. An industry
that,  in my opinion, has imploded and become as polarized and jaded as
the politics it claims to cover.
     To help ease my post-election pain, I sought out like-minded people
on Wednesday.  Over drinks, we groused and grumbled as the defeat
sunk in.
     But on Thursday, I found myself ready to move on and be cautiously
hopeful. Moreover, I needed to purge from my head the vilifying
verbiage from this year's midterm election campaigns. Figuring a workout
might help, I headed to the health club.
      Normally, I time my workouts at the end of the day so I can watch
Jeopardy while I sweat. Thursday morning, I changed it up and found
myself arriving at the club just as the midday news was beginning.
    It was the last thing I wanted to watch. So, after flipping through the
channels, I landed on Divorce Court. I'm embarrassed to admit that I
stayed there and became completed engrossed in an episode that oddly
resonated with me. Best of all, it made me laugh out loud for the first
time in days.
     Enter Dietra Hicks (also known as D'Atra Hicks) and Loren Harper.
Hicks began, telling the judge she needed to divorce her husband
because he was a "lyin', cheatin', deceitful, Internet whore." Harper
came to court seeking compensation for therapy sessions he said he
needed after years of physical abuse at the hands of his wife. Hicks did
not deny the abuse and argued that it was Harper's chronic lying that
drove her to it. Or, as she put it, "Every time he lies I just have to punch
him in the face."
    Then it was Harper's turn. But as he began, Hicks, who is a singer,
began to hum. Not just random humming but a low, Gospel-loaded,
plaintive moan that all but drowned out her husband's testimony. While
the courtroom erupted in laughter, the judge told Hicks she had to stop.

For a while, she did. But as her husband continued talking, Hicks soon
was humming again. Admitting she had anger issues, she explained to
the judge that humming was an anger management exercise she used
to calm herself whenever confronted by her husband's lies.
     Hicks was then told that Nortice, Harper's girlfriend, was on her
way into the courtroom wearing a ring Harper had given Hicks. Harper,
afraid of his wife's temper, had staged a burglary in his home to steal
back the ring and give it to his girlfriend. Seeing the other woman
wearing her ring threw Hicks into a string of warbling lamentations.
This time, the judge did not silence her.
      As the drama continued to unfold, I couldn't help but draw political
parallels. For several fleeting moments, I even convinced myself the
anger, deceit, and hurt of the midterm elections mirrored the bizarre
elements found in the dysfunctional American marriage of D'Atra Hicks
and Loren Harper.
      It didn't take me long to realize I was out in left field on this one.
Although there were moments of high drama, this was really just the
story of a woman scorned, a man caught in a web of lies, and the
questionable ownership of a ring.
      In the end, the girlfriend was shamed by the judge into giving the
ring back to Hicks. As the three involved individuals stood outside in
the hallway following the hearing, Hicks lapsed back into song, waving
her ring in the air, singing, "I got my ring back. I got my ring back."
     I, for one, am happy D'Atra Hicks got her ring back. It proves there is still
justice in the world. A ray of hope. And when that hope seems out of reach
I will think of Hicks.
     Maybe, I'll even hum.
  
     To watch the episode of Divorce Court mentioned above, cut and paste 
     the following link into your browser:
     http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZLod_6uuaaU

I Will Miss You, Mr. Sorensen

                                          I Will Miss You, Mr. Sorensen         

     “Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country.” 

As any American knows, those famous words were spoken by President John F. 

Kennedy at his 1961 inauguration. What many people may not know is that those 

words were written by Ted Sorensen, President Kennedy’s Special Advisor and 

Counselor.

    Sorensen died on Halloween at the age of 82. 

    I find it both ironic and oddly fitting that the man whose eloquent, moving words 

still make me cry, died just two days before our country’s midterm elections. Elections 

whose campaigns have been more base, insulting, and hateful than any I can 

recall. Campaigns that have been completely devoid of the eloquence of  JFK's 

speechwriter. 

    Which is why I will miss Ted Sorensen.

    Growing up, it was Sorensen's words that blared from our blonde-wood television 

set. I may not have understood everything I heard, but I recognized that the words 

were thoughtful and inspirational. Words that held my parents' attention with rapt interest.

Important words that frequently caused them to shush me whenever President Kennedy 

spoke to the nation.                                                                                               

    Sorensen wasn’t even 25 yet when Kennedy hired him as an assistant in 1953. 

In his 2008 memoir, Sorensen says of Kennedy during the interview,  “I was struck by 

this unpretentious, even ordinary man with his extraordinary background, a wealthy 

family, a Harvard education, and a heroic war record. He did not try to impress me with 

his importance; he just seemed like a good guy."

     By comparison, Sorensen was born in Lincoln, Nebraska. A staunch pacifist, he 

registered for the draft as a conscientious objector. Although their backgrounds were 

very different, Sorensen and Kennedy shared the same passion for serving their country. 

Their intellects and turn of phrase were so in tune with each others that biographers are 

still arguing that Kennedy’s Pulitzer Prize for “Profiles in Courage,” should have been 

given to Sorensen instead.

     Sorensen was also one of President Barack Obama's biggest fans and publicly 

endorsed his run for the presidency in 2007. Initially, he suggested Obama consider 

waiting to run for the presidency because he felt Obama would,” inherit a country in bad 

shape, a presidency and a federal government in bad shape after eight years of what I 

call 'shame and pain.' "

     He certainly did.                                                                                        

     But I still believe in President Barack Obama. I believe he is the best hope we have. 

And those who are hoping to dismantle his dreams at the polls tomorrow may be in for a 

shock. Because I think the younger generation that helped elect President Obama has 

been sitting back and listening. Watching, while this year's midterm campaigns escalated

 into the absurd. I think they are as sick of the mudslinging as any adult. 

      Maybe more so.       

      I think they want to hear words that inspire not insult. Words, like those of Sorensen, 

that offer a return to intelligent discussion, leadership, and guidance.   

       I just hope they haven’t been so nauseated by what they've seen and heard that
they stay away from the polls tomorrow.

       I hope they do what Sorensen would do.

       Vote.

           

Bullied into Silence

  

                            
                                    

    "Never be bullied into silence. Never allow yourself to be made
a victim. Accept no one's definition of your life, but define yourself,"
said American industrialist Harvey S. Firestone (1868-1938).
     Brave words from a magnate of industry. Impossible words for a
twelve-year-old Florida girl with cerebral palsy who was repeatedly
taunted and humiliated by a group of bullies on her school bus. Tired
of seeing his daughter mistreated, the girl's father finally put an end to
the abuse by boarding the bus one morning and confronting the bullies
himself. His much publicized rage, caught on the bus security camera,
garnered the support of parents across the country. Most people are
calling him a hero for defending his daughter. I certainly think he is.
     Yet I know his daughter's ordeal is far from over. In the span of
a week her private pain has become so very public. It is no surprise
to me that she is in the hospital, suffering from stress. When she gets
better, more transitions await her. Her father may be spending time
in jail for his actions. She will be going to a new school, making new
friends. Wondering, I would guess, who she can trust. Hoping, if she
became the victim of bullying again, that her new friends would not
be afraid to stand up to the bullies.
      Like I was.
      It was a warm spring day, 1968. The tall. screen-free windows in
my high school Spanish class were flung open. The scent of lilacs filled
the room. A gentle breeze rustled our papers.
      Just before the class began our vivacious Cuban teacher was called
away. She was only a short time, but it was long enough.
     "Hey, your briefcase is open, nerd," I heard someone say.
     Turning, I saw it was Jeff, one of the most popular boys in school.
He was directing his observation at a quiet, awkward boy. Giggles
rippled across the room while the targeted boy squirmed. One by one,
Jeff's friends chimed in.
     "Yeah, and your shoe's untied, dweeb."
     "Your fly's open, spaaz."
      I wish I had told them to stop. But back then, I caved into peer
pressure, afraid of risking the wrath of the popular crowd. So I sat
in captive silence as the insults escalated. I am ashamed to admit that.
But I want to believe I would have said something if I'd known the
boy was going to jump up, scramble over several desks, and dive
through one of the open third floor windows.
      What I remember is seeing the sole of his brown Oxford shoe
oddly suspended in midair in the unobstructed opening. Just before it
slipped away a girl screamed. Then I saw a hand fly out and clamp
down on the boy's ankle. A crowd of boys rushed over to help. Among
them were theones who had been taunting him seconds before he tried
to take his life.
      He was not grateful. With all his might he kicked and wrestled to
free himself from their grasp. Girls started crying. I could only sit there,
frozen in shock, while the boy fought against his rescuers. His chilling
wail, more animal than human, rang in my ears.
      At last his body went limp from fatigue. Four boys were pulling his
dead weight back into the classroom just as the teacher reappeared.
      "Are you crazy!" she shouted, running over.
      Furious, she scanned our faces for an explanation. Not getting one,
she turned back to the trembling, sweat-soaked boy. Looking into his
glassy eyes, she tried to get him to talk but the only sound he emitted was
that strange moan. Gently, she coaxed him to his feet and led him out the
door.
      I never saw him again.
      To the best of my recollection, the bullies were never punished. Soon
they were telling wide-eyed admirers about the "nut case" in their Spanish
class. About how they were the ones who saved him from certain death,
leaving out the part about how they drove him to do it. It was a collective
lie that got better with each telling and became the official version of the
incident.
      But I've never forgotten what really happened. Or the feeling that I
failed my classmate by sitting idling by. Over the years, I have tried to
rationalize my actions. Or shall I say, inactions. I was young, I was
insecure, I was afraid. All of that is true. But I know I was also a witness
to cruelty that day and I did nothing to stop it. Each time I read another
story about bullying, I am reminded of that.
      Adolescence is such a tenuous journey. While so much of it is joyful,
there are moments of regret that haunt us forever.
      My moments can be found in 1968, in a third floor Spanish class, on
a warm spring day.

A Plan for Redefining 9/11

            My father, a veteran of WWII, was a Knickerbocker. A proud New Yorker who grew up on Long Island Sound, he reminded me a little bit of Frank Sinatra and even more of James Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy.

Dad died in September of 1999, two years before the morning of September 11, 2001. I am glad he was not here then. It would have broken his heart to see New York attacked. There is no doubt in my mind he would have demanded we retaliate by invading Iraq. No doubt he would have fully supported President Bush when he did just that, in March of 2003. Back then, frightened and horrified by the events of the day, I may have even agreed with him. One of the few times I would.

But as the ninth anniversary of 9/11 approaches, as reports of a pastor in Florida wanting to burn copies of the Koran fills the news, I find myself longing for a new way to acknowledge and honor what happened on that bright, clear September morning.  A way of remembering the victims that is more representative of the principles I believe this country was founded upon. A way that gives me hope and confidence in the future. A way that supports my belief that there are more tolerant people in the world than the extremists of the world would have us believe.

I am, of course, just one woman, in one small town in America. I have no influence or position in the world. But I know what I would do if I had the power.

I would redefine 9/11.

From this day forward I would declare it a day of world tolerance. I would then invite two representatives from every country in the world to come to New York City. They would gather at Ground Zero and offer, in their native language, their simple wish for tolerance. The two representatives would be one adult and one child. The adult would be there simply as an escort for the child who would say, for example, “I come to you from my home in North Korea to stand beside you in tolerance and peace on this day of your national mourning.” Or something to that effect.

            Imagine the power this would have. Imagine the good will it would foster, even if just for one day. No politics, no religion, just small emissaries from across the globe speaking words of hope. Promise, for a world they will one day inherit.

           My plan would be to have the children read these messages aloud each year following the traditional four minutes of silence at Ground Zero. Our country’s television stations and radio stations would air the children’s message for everyone to hear.

            It’s a large dream, I know. And though I dream big, I am not naïve. I am well aware that there are countries that would decline our invitation. I also know there are many people in this country who would vehemently oppose such a plan, preferring instead to hold on to their anger and hatred.

            This day would not be for them. It would be for the majority of Americans, like me, who are ready to turn the tragedy of 9/11 into something very different. Something the terrorists never envisioned when they flew those planes into the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, and the field in Pennsylvania. Something bigger and more powerful than their message of hate and revenge. Something that is inclusive and enduring.

Something I’d like to believe my father would embrace.

Tolerance.