Sunday, November 11, 2018

We Honor And Thank Them All

We honor and thank even those who never returned. Today is Veterans' Day set aside to  acknowledge all United States military veterans. The day was originally known as Armistice Day to mark the end of major hostilities of World War I, the war to end all wars. Those hostilities formally ended at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918. The name was changed from Armistice day to Veterans Day in 1954 presumably, I'm thinking, because the war to end all wars didn't. Memorial Day, observed in May, honors those who died in military service.
My uncle Jerry Walker, pictured here with his father A. G. Walker, never returned from World War II. I honor his memory every Memorial Day and I'm sure no living Veteran would object to my honoring his memory today either. I never met my uncle Jerry but I understand from family lore he was quite a character.  "A Walker through and through," my Aunt Cassie often said.
My grandfather, Jerry's father, worked his way up through law enforcement until he finally became warden of the Arizona State prison in which I was born. While Papa was a deputy sheriff he got complaints from cattlemen and many others that kids were ditching school and swimming in the water tanks.  Papa decided to do something about this irritating situation and started checking out water tanks in the middle of the school day. He finally found the right water tank. It was full of kids splashing and laughing. He turned on his siren and his flashing lights and watched as children jumped from the tank, gathered their clothes and shoes and ran in all directions into the desert. Satisfied that he had sufficiently frightened the kids to keep them from ditching school and swimming in the water tanks again, he started driving away. Just ahead of him walked a naked boy with his clothes and shoes thrown over his shoulder. Papa honked and the boy turned around to stare into his father's furious face. Papa loved all of his children and grandchildren but Jerry held a special place in his heart.
Jerry was just 19 years old when he died not from wounds sustained in battle but from an accident in the South Pacific. My uncle Jerry was a belly gunner on a Flying Fortress--a particularly grotesque war machine. Returning from battle the crew was unloading weapons and ammo. Someone dropped a gun. As it hit the pavement it fired and the bullet hit young Jerry Walker in the forehead.
Eventually Jerry's body was returned. My grandfather wanted to make sure he was about to bury his son and so, against all advice, he opened the casket. He saw the bullet hole in the middle of his son's forehead and knew his son was dead. Jerry is buried next to what would become the grave of his father.
Papa never recovered from Jerry's death. I seriously doubt if any parent ever recovers from the death of a child. War is brutal and wastes so many precious lives. May the day come speedily when we all live in peace.

Sunday, November 4, 2018

My Amazing Aunt Cassie

She was named for her grandmother, Cassandra. We called her Cassie. She's on the left in this photograph. My Aunt Thelma is on the right. She also was a remarkable woman. Cassie was the first child born to my paternal grandparents, A. G. and Jesse. She was the strongest and the most unflappable person I have ever known. When she was 8 years old she prepared the bodies of her mother and newborn sister for burial. They were on the kitchen table and there was no one else to do this dreaded task and so my aunt took over. The baby never received a name. Years later Cassie buried her own infant daughter. Unlike her sister, Cassie's daughter had a name. It was Wilma.  I believe my aunt and I had a very special bond but then all of her many nieces and nephews and grandchildren and great grandchildren doubtless thought the same thing. Every Thanksgiving Cassie would tell me that all she wanted to do was make herself a sandwich, go out into the desert, sit on a rock and eat it. Of course she never was able to do that because she spent most Thanksgivings in the kitchen cooking for the multitudes of family and and friends gathered to spend time with her. She loved, though, to go out into the desert, build a fire, and cook over it either in a cast iron dutch oven or on the griddle made of boiler plate steel. We did that often. After one quite ordinary meal in the desert cooked over the campfire I decided to clean the still hot griddle. I picked up a large piece of material. The moment it touched the griddle it burst into flames. I stood transfixed by the flaming mass in my hands. After s few seconds Cassie's calm voice suggested that I might want to let go of the fire before I burned myself. So I did. I watched the burning bundle drop to the ground. I then stomped out the flames into the sand. Cassie looked up and said to me, "There must have been some polyester in that." There was no fussing over what might have happened because what might have happened didn't happen. There was no fussing over me, either, because anyone could clearly see that I was unharmed. We packed up the cook gear, made sure the camp fire was out and went home. Often we don't exactly know the source of our strength. I know mine is inherited.