FIRE!!!

When my Dad was a young teenager he lay in bed in his room in the attic of his parents old wooden farm house.  There was an unusual stillness in the cold air he thought as he plumped the pillow and wrapped himself tighter in the homemade quilt trying to fall asleep in the old metal framed bed.

A horrendous BOOM and a ragged flash of lightening, the brilliance and whiteness like he’d never seen before, tore through the ceiling and struck the floor at the foot of his bed.  A nano-second later the room was engulfed in flames. He grabbed blindly for his shoes and made his way to the door and down the wooden stairs.  His young sister was screaming, his father was yelling for him to help get things out of the house, his mother in her long white nightgown was already wrapping things into a blanket to be dragged outside. The young boy rose to manhood as he thrust his shoes out the door and piled sacred belongings onto the rug and pulled them out onto the porch and into the yard away from danger. Again and again he ran in to the burning inferno to save what he could.  Finally his father yelled, “That is enough, it will have to do”.  And the family stood with smoke in their lungs and soot on their hands and faces and watched their beloved home burn to the ground. The rain drops were useless against the fierceness of the flames.

Standing there he finally realized that his feet were sore and cold and so he looked for his shoes.  What he found was one shoe and his old childhood wooden pull toy dog.  About the size of his shoe he scoffed as he remembered grabbing what he thought was a pair of shoes.  So these were his only personal belongings now; the pajamas he was wearing, one shoe and an old wooden toy.

Several years later, this boy who had become a man now but not yet twenty years old was a soldier fighting hand to hand combat on the battlefields of Okinawa.

I quote here from the November 2012 issue of the Marine Corp Gazette: 

Okinawa: The Final Great Battle of World War II

An American triumph through bloodshed

Volume 96, Issue 11

Author:  SSgt Rudy R. Frame, Jr.

The Battle of Okinawa started on 23 March 1945 with all major combat operations ending on 23 June 1945. The island of Okinawa is located approximately 350 miles south of mainland Japan. It is the largest island in the Ryukyu Island chain, the southernmost prefecture of the then-Japanese Empire. The strategic importance of this island cannot be overemphasized. In a time when an invasion of mainland Japan was necessary to end the war, Okinawa was an essential preparation ground and jumping-off point for the impending invasion. The island’s airfields were indispensable to the launching of bombers and long-range escorts for the preparatory bombing for the land invasion of mainland Japan. This battle involved the Japanese Army, minimal Japanese naval efforts (due to a lacking naval power), and the last of its airpower concentrated in mass kamikaze formations. The allied power consisted of a combined force that was largely American with some British naval support, along with the Joint Services of the U.S. Army, Marine Corps, and Navy.

At this point in the war both the Americans and the Japanese had developed their command, control, and communications in ground warfare to the best level of efficiency they could. The Japanese were far more rudimentary with a simple, straightforward concept—to kill every single American fighter possible and hold the defensive line until it was utterly broken.

This concept of defending, delaying, and withdrawing to another defensive line was a change in tactics for the Japanese. Typically the Japanese Army mounted a Banzai run once the defensive line could no longer hold, always resulting in large numbers of Japanese soldiers being torn apart by American machineguns, mortars, rifles, and an assortment of small arms. This tactical change was the brainchild of GEN Ushijima whose intent was to have his men live and hold out as long as possible in an effort to slow the American advance toward Japan. The decision as to when to withdraw to the next defensive line was made ultimately by GEN Ushijima, who received reports from his many officers along whichever one of the three defensive lines was being held at the time. GEN Ushijima held each line until its fate was sealed but there was still opportunity to tactically withdraw, set up in the defense, and start the process all over again.

The elaborate communications network under the Shuri Castle where GEN Ushijima’s headquarters was located allowed him to make informed decisions as the castle was a highly defensible position at the center point of the middle Shuri defensive line. The naval contributions of the Japanese, which were almost nonexistent, were best exemplified by the Japanese Navy’s own suicide run from their final massive 70,000 ton battleship Yamato being destroyed when it was spotted on its way to Okinawa. The Yamato was loaded up with just enough fuel to get to the American fleet and ordered to fight to the death; its strategy was to beach itself near the Shuri line and decimate American troops already pinned down by the 100,000-strong defenders of the Shuri line while also taking advantage of any opportunity to sink American ships. Japanese air power was no longer intent on defeating the Americans in head-to-head battle but was instead depending upon its kamikazes. At this battle the first mass formations of kamikazes were utilized against the 5th Fleet.

The American command, control, and communications were as efficient as they could be by 1945 after nearly 4 years of battling in the Pacific. The advancement of communications processes and independence within small units created a new level of efficiency on the battlefield. There were still command-level issues in appropriate decision making but the majority of them were eliminated as all the commanders were already battle hardened; in addition, the small unit leaders largely made up for command and control failures by improvising and adapting to every obstacle. Units had developed a cohesive esprit de corps throughout all of the units in the American Services.

On 21 June the final contact for the Battle of Okinawa began. Instead of staying on the defensive, GEN Ushijima conducted one final offensive that, if successful, would have extended the battle further. Like most of the Japanese offensives on Okinawa, it was an utter failure. Though Ushijima made his troops aware of his respect for the honor they had given the Emperor by delaying the Americans for nearly 3 months, it was not enough. Ushijima wrote the following in a letter before committing ritual suicide on the 22 June:

To my great regret we are no longer able to continue the fight. For this failure I tender deepest apologies to the Emperor and the people of the homeland. We will make one final charge to kill as many of the enemy as possible. I pray for the souls of men killed in battle and for the prosperity of the Imperial Family.

On 23 June all major combat operations ended on the island of Okinawa. Over the 3 month battle more than 8 million artillery and mortar rounds were fired, the equivalent of more than 1 round per second. For some, the silence after the battle was over was almost deafening. In total, more than 12,000 American service members were killed and more than 38,000 wounded (many from combat fatigue) or missing. The Japanese military lost more than 110,000, but the greatest loss of life by the Okinawan people. Anywhere from 40,000 to 150,000 of the Okinawans perished during the battle. Even with all the carnage, it was at Okinawa that the largest number of Japanese soldiers were taken prisoner (more than 7,000—an unprecedented number).

My Dad was there day and night through the thick of it, a Top Sargent leading his squad of brave soldiers.

And then…it was over and the “silence was almost deafening.”

He was assigned to peace keeping duties in Tokyo. He initiated the plan and then directed the building of a small movie theatre and helped teach the young Japanese boys how to play baseball and served with the Military Police. 

Walking back to the barracks after dinner one evening he heard the unmistakable cry of “FIRE!”  He ran around the corner to see the large barrack building consumed in flames. Oh boy, he’d seen this before, another home being burned to the ground.  Without a moment’s hesitation he ran inside to grab his most precious possession, the photo in a small brass frame of his young and  beautiful wife, the one that he had carried through the entire battle. The one that gave him the courage to fight and to survive at all costs. The photo of the love of his life who would bare his children into a world that was now safe for them. There was no time to grab anything else.

How his life changed in these horrible times.  How brave he was! I was born a bit over 7 years later.  He was a loving father who taught us to be patriotic as he removed his hat and put it over his heart as a tear would fall from his eye when the uniformed color guard would march by with the flag in our small town’s big parades. The reverence and honor for the flag remained the same through his life, whether at 4^th of July celebrations or baseball games, always a tear, always his hat held over his heart.

I awoke early this morning thinking that I needed to write and think about these experiences of my Dad. Perhaps it was because the last thing I read last night was a quote by Gordon B. Hinckley:

“It is good to look to the past to gain appreciation for the present and perspective for the future.  It is good to look upon the virtues of those who have gone before, to gain strength for whatever lies ahead.”

The day Dale died was like a lightning bolt had ripped through my life and then the silence became deafening. Emotions and loss so powerful that I will never, ever be the same. My life changed.  So many of the precious things are gone. And I’m left to deal with the charred remains of my heart. I fill my days with things that I deem important or valuable and muster on but the fact remains that rebuilding from the fire that raged through me (and flares up still) will keep taking time. But it is a powerful realization I've had today that my father went through terrible ordeals, survived and mentored me with his stories and the privilege to observe him overcome  those devastating experiences to become a successful husband, father, religious leader and human being that many years later gives me the strength for whatever lies ahead.

Thank you Dad.  I love you.

Pride and Predicament

My mother was the youngest of five daughters born to a tall, handsome farmer and his charming and always elegant wife.  The girls were beautiful.  Each with their own distinct personality and talents. Each a favorite among the school girls and longingly admired from a distance by the boys. There was no greater love though than the love that these sisters had for each other.  Such little women as these could conquer the world and be very well dressed doing it.  They were well read and they were trained in the art of decorum and they could all set a pretty table. Their father was happily surrounded by these 5 young ladies who adored him; took after their petite and classy mother, blessed his life with laughter and drama and gave him so very much to worry about.  A primary concern of his being that they were to avoid pride at all costs.

How often the girls fretted about it. To have pride must be something far worse than anything else. I’m sure they never actually made a plan of action but when my mother, the youngest, came of age it was a well establish procedure.  Compliments were deflected rather than enjoyed. (The accepting of compliments that is - not the giving of them. Giving them to one another was done freely and honestly, and filled with love) But a response to, “What a pretty dress!” would often be answered by something like, “Oh dear, it just makes me look so fat!” or “I know that color is all wrong for me!” or “It would look so much better on…” well enter the name of another sister here!  And if they showed accomplishment in any number of their many talents, the response to praise was the same…a humble denial that it was not anything at all to be sung about. This way they could do well but not appear to be egotistical or proud.

This procedure was never actually explained to the next generation of girls, the daughters of these sisters, we were always just reminded of how Grandpa warned that his girls (and now we were included) should not be found having pride. It seems that through our childhood observations what we girl cousins unconsciously adopted instead was;

1) the strong sense that we could do whatever we wanted to do in life and

2) an innate ability to over indulge in the art of self-criticism

 A state (I’m reluctant to acknowledge) of Pride and Predicament.  The predicament being that ironically this attempt at humility through self-criticism actually forces you to think about yourself more than you would otherwise. 

So let’s think about this:

 C.S.Lewis said that:

 “Humility is not thinking less of yourself, it’s thinking of yourself less.”

But then there’s Einstein who said:

So let’s don’t throw the whole self-criticism out. Perhaps we could call it self-analysis. Would that put a more positive spin on it?  Self-analysis requires comparison though right? And as luck would have it…

And Theodore Roosevelt warned that:

I suppose that’s because comparison could lead to jealousy…..

Ok. That can’t be good because….

So….instead of making a comparison why not take the advice of Ralph Waldo Emerson who said:

“Our best thoughts come from others”

And start saying:

And perhaps if we look at those successful people who are doing things that we truly want to do (or to do better) as mentors rather than someone who makes us feel poorly about ourselves then we are opening the whole world up to possibilities.

 

Remembering of course that we can still be successful if we follow our own abilities and talents and don’t think we have to do what everyone else is doing! Einstein warns:

And it’s good to remember too that:

And so now…..

And say…..

And then we can say!!!

And then, AND THEN!!!

Bye-Bye Pride and Predicament and hello Peace and Progression!

Break Through or Break Down?

It’s raining today and suddenly, out of nowhere it's 40 degrees!  The snow mounds that have been piled too high to be able to see around are melting and creating riverlets of slush.  Just walking to the mailbox was an adventure.

Too warm for a coat?

Do I need galoshes for heaven’s sake?

 

Will I float away down the street if I slip? 

I tip toed cautiously in the snowy areas alongside the flowing stream of ice cubes to retrieve what turned out to be nothing but ads in the mailbox and then made my way back inside deflecting the silly urge to look for something to launch down the little icy river running down the driveway. 

It isn’t winter anymore I concede but neither is it spring.  It’s hovering somewhere in between. Even the Canadian Geese floating on the real river look a little frustrated dodging the chunks of ice passing by. I’m sure I heard one squawk “Oh Come On! Let’s get to spring already”

I sigh as I grasp the fact that the day is a bit like me. Working on an art project today (over and over and over again..the old Draw, Paint, Rip and Repeat cycle) and feeling it just wasn’t right at all I wondered if I was on the verge of a break through or a break down!

And when helping someone the other day with ideas of things to do in Paris, something Dale and I did so many times I looked at the little sign that reads “Paris is always a good idea” and for one brief moment I hovered between the delight of that thought and the darker feeling of reaching for my felt tip pen and updating it in a graffiti sort of way to say “Paris isn’t always a good idea!”  Well it is for everyone else but it was such an “us” place that the very idea of going back without Dale is …well it isn’t a good idea at all.

Later that day I sat reading a good book, reached the end, sighed and once again felt the old recognition of living my life alone and for the first time I hovered between I’m not okay and feeling something new, something like...I’m okay! Not just the academy award winning performance of “I’m OK” but actually experiencing it.

So maybe spring will really arrive, maybe I will have that artistic breakthrough and although I’ll never go to Paris again perhaps, just perhaps I’ll want to.

Quilting Bee

As a child my doll Betsy and I spent great gobs of time lying on our backs looking up at the large quilt being made over our heads to the sound of the cackles and chatter of my grandmother’s quilting bee friends. Betsy and I were surrounded by dozens of feet, clad in orthopedic type shoes, supporting dozens of legs, covered in beige colored hose rolled and tied in knots just below the dozens of knees that were covered in a variety of the floral print fabrics of homespun dresses. These womanly limbs served as if pickets in the fence that enclosed my little encampment.

Because of the light on the ceiling, my view of the bottom side of the quilt allowed me to see dozens of hands working, working, working up on top. The teeny tiny stitches of each needle eventually blended together to form an intricate pattern of blossoms and leaves and curly ques.  I loved these times. I was always alone in the crowd, being the only child there since my sister was at school and my Mother had dutifully dropped me off on her way to work.  But oh how I delighted in the story being told with those needles.

Curiosity would eventually get the better of me and I would find an escape route, come to the top side of the quilt to run my fingers along the stitching that followed the expertly pieced design and take in the whole masterpiece.

Another treasure would soon be ready to be bound and folded and stacked with the others at the church bazaar where it would be sold allowing the women to hand a nice cash donation to the bishop for the good things that were needed for those who had less.

I’ve been sick this week, spending much more time than usual lying on my back in bed looking up at the ceiling.  This time, it is my mind not the nimble fingers of the quilting bee ladies that is stitching together the story. Remembering things that have been, imagining things that will come. An intricate pattern is developing.   It was Robert Frost who said: “In three words I can sum up everything I’ve learned about life: It goes on.”  Dale dying did not stop the progression of my story.

There is still so much to learn and to do and to accomplish before my life quilt is ready to be bound and folded and handed to Heavenly Father as a Thank You for this beautiful gift of life. It won’t be as intricate or beautiful or varied or even as colorful as other life quilts but I’m determined to have it be a one-of-a-kind-me life quilt. A pattern being woven with my life experiences lived the best that I am able.

I need to remember to stop every once in a while (like today) and take a look as if from the top looking down to make sure things are going right, even if the seam ripper must be used from time to time or a flaw mended or patched or a new direction required because amazingly...life goes on.