The Bridge Revisited

 Later:

I finished my Masters at Duke a few years after my conversation with my grandfather and married a beautiful teacher with visions of enlightening the high school youth of our beloved state.  With a major in history and a recently completed masters in the wars of Europe, Sue-Ellen wanted to see for herself the remnants that remained of World War II.  We agreed to spend our meager savings on a honeymoon in Europe.  We would fly to England, cross over to France, drive to Normandy, follow the invasion route to the Rhine and then upriver to visit my cousin William, who worked as a programmer for the staff of an international task force in Switzerland in the design and implementation of a gamma-ray satellite telescope to explore the outer reaches of the universe.  Bill was our family "rocket scientist".
At dinner with my parents the weekend before we were to leave, my mother had asked about our plans and asked casually, "Will you be driving any in western Germany?"
"We haven't set any firm route yet, but we hope to just sort of follow the Rhine."
"Well, you may remember that your father and I spent some time in Germany.  You were born there."
"I believe you may have mentioned that a few times."  There may have been a touch of sarcasm in my tone.
My mother, still fiesty for her years, gave it right back, sounding a little like Grandpa.
"Well, you may also remember that we were stationed in a little village called Permasens in the mountains down near the French border, and, due to the shortage of on-base housing, junior officers lived in village."
"I presume you are going somewhere with this, Mom?"
"I certainly am!, So pay attention; I'll tell you some things you don't remember, 'cause I haven't told you."

I know when I'm beat.

" Well," she continued, "there was a lady in that village that baby-sat for you now and then and taught me the language.  Monica and I became close friends and have exchanged letters a few times over the years.  I haven't heard from her in fifteen or twenty years, but I would have bet that she was still living in that village.  The Germans don't move around much like we do.  When I heard that you two might be travelling in Germany, I wrote to her at the last address I had, and sure enough, I got an answer, just last week.  She says that if you happen to be in her area, she would be delighted to have you visit."
"Well I don't -"  She cut me off.
"Sue-Ellen might get some insights into the war that she won't get anywhere else."
Sue broke in.  "I think that's a wonderful idea; I wouldn't want to miss it."
Mom smiled sweetly.  "You will need to walk softly in discussions of the war; you do remember that the Germans lost the war, don't you Wes?"
"Yes, Mother, I remember."

Like I said, I know when I'm beaten."

***********

We  did find Monica who turned out to be everything that Mom had said about her.  Warm, friendly and eager to talk to us. The husband of a local high school physics teacher and model train enthusiast, Peter was also eager to talk.  Their English was far better than any of their language we could muster up. (We learned that they were also fluent in French.)
For our second evening with the Hausmanns  Monica had treated us to a traditional German dinner of Viener Schnitzel mit kartoffel und salat, with cheesecake for dessert, and after a few glasses of wine, it seemed that we might be able to discuss the war years without insult or embarrasment to our hosts.

Sue broke the ice.  "Monica, I have studied your country, particularly the war years, but all I know is what the books tell me; I don't feel that I have a feel for the way it was for the way it affected the people.  Your friend and my mother-in-law, Mary Elizabeth, tells me that you lived through that time.  Would you mind if I asked you a few questions.  If I am to teach that history to my students, I want to understand as much as I can about that time."

There was a silence that seemed very long.  Monica's face became quite solumn; she glanced at the ceiling, obviously remembering.  "It was a sad time; I vas very young.  Perhaps it vill be good to talk.", her accent made stronger with emotion.

Peter refilled the glasses.

Sue;  "Thank you, have you always lived here in the village?"
Again Monica glanced upward. "No, I vas born in a town on the Rhine, on the border with Belgium, called Remagen."

The name rang a bell for me and I remembered Grandpa's story, but it did not seem the time to bring it up.

"My father was a baker and had a small shop in town. He had lost an arm in the first war. We had a good house and a comfortable living.  It was my parents and my older brother, Deiter."
"Did the fighting come near?'
"Ya, when the landings took place in Normandy, ve vhere sure they would come to Deutchland through Belgium and quite possibly try to cross the Rhine there. I vas sent to my uncle here in Piemisans, as far as possible from where the fighting was likely to be.  My uncle had children my age, so I became a part of his family.  The family name was the same so after a while no one noticed that was not his child."
"Did you go back after the war?"
"No, my parents were old, had lost their source of income, their home had been destroyed and they had aged a lot. It vas besser I stay here where the fighting had not touched.  They both died a few years later, within a few months of each other."
"And your brother?"
"He was maybe thirteen, I don't remember his birthday, when the war came. He was a member of the Hitler Youth, and was not allowed to leave. my father told me that his group was assigned to the local
military and used as scouts for the army."
"What did he do after the war was over?"
" Ve do not know vat happen to Deiter, my vater was told only that he vhent on a scouting mission one night and never returned."

("Oh my God", I thought.  "Keep your mouth shut. Sue has not heard Grandpa's story.")

"Remagen is supposed to be the place where the Americans first crossed the Rhine, do you remember anything about the town or the bridge."
"Nein, only vhat my parents told me later when I visit. I zhink it vas a railroad bridge, but vas destroyed in zhe fighting.  I don't zhink it vas ever rebuilt."

Monica was obviously emotionally drained. "I zhink I talk too much, please excuse"

Peter produced another bottle and refilled the glasses. The silence was electric.

Monica returned, smiling. "I am so sorry."
"It is enough. We are sorry to have upset you; please forgive us."
"It is OK, I am good now. Vhy don't you tell us about your trip?  Your plans?  And how is my good friend Mary Elizabeth?"

Peter refilled the glasses again.







.




















NOTE:  The story is historically correct, insofar as the Remagen bridge was the first crossing into Germany and the 9th Armored was the first one to cross.  The characters and dialog are totally products of my imagination and, as they say, any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  The pistol does exist, but its petigree has been lost to history.
fr

Mudville

Mudville (9-11)

......O somewhere in this favored land

the sun is shining bright

The band is playing somewhere,

and somewhere children shout.

And somewhere men are laughing,

and little children shout.

But there is no joy in Mudville,

mighty Casey has struck out!

Earnest L Thayer, 1888

Smalltown, America, March, 1966.  The old middle school gymnasium of the is empty save for the four men of varying ages seated on the two bottom rows of the bleacher."I know you guys are all volunteers and most of you are new at this, but remember, this is not the Majors, it's  Little League, so there will be mistakes. I've been doing this for twenty years now and I love the game all the more for it." The instructor is a grey haired 65 year old, l50 pound bundle of energy, all 5', 6" of his frame exuded confidence and skill.

We were a group of volunteers who had agreed to be umpires for the town's little league, and this was the conclusion of our "extensive" training; all 2 and 1/2 hours of it.  "It'll be easy!" they said.  Evidently the league could not be "certified"  without a cadre of "trained" umps, so, at the organization meeting we had all reluctantly yielded to the pleas of the league officials and/or parents and agreed to be students at the official training class, all four of  us!


"In conclusion," our instructor cheerfully intoned, "Just remember, the game revolves around one thing; the ball.  95 percent of your calls will involve the ball.  Your job is to watch it; Always know it's location and status. The rest is secondary.  Know your rule book, make your calls quick, clear and loud, then don't stay at the scene to argue."

"And one other thing," he added as we collected our things and headed for the door, "NEVER forget that the players are just kids who, hopefully are trying to learn. Help them."

Well, the kids were not the only ones trying to learn.  I stumbled my way through the first couple of games, learned which managers were the teachers and coaches, which ones were vicariously living their youth through their kids and which ones were in a power trip, bullying players and umpires alike.  Then there were a few with a "win at any price" attitude regardless.  Some coaches will make your calls for you, shouting "safe" or "out" quickly and loudly, giving the signal and hoping the ump will follow, as in "monkey see, monkey do".  A few managers would play only their "best" all the time while a couple of younger, inexperienced individuals sit on the bench, bored and watching the ants in the dirt.

In all fairness, I must say that most little league coaches and managers that I saw that summer had learned that little league ball games are mostly high scoring, one-sided events whose outcome can be reliably predicted by the end of the third inning.  You are either 'way ahead or 'way behind, so there is little to be either gained or lost by giving everyone some playing time. If for no other reason, that little 'bench warmer' is gaining experience, skill, and, just maybe some self confidence.  Sometimes you get a suprise.

And let's us not forget the crowds.  Little League crowds are usually not large, but, generally consist of parents, grandparents, siblings, etc. they can be noisy, critical, and of course, biased as hell.
Most every team will have at least one mother of one of the players who is loud, vocal, (sometimes obnoxious) and a baseball expert, having played softball in Junior High..  Her son/daughter is the best on the team, never makes a mistake, and never gets all the playing he/she deserves or play the position he/she's obviously the best at.  The Ump is blind, stupid and probably crippled as well.

After several games I am beginning to get the hang of it and find myself looking forward to working the games.  For the most part, only one ump is assigned to the game, so you do a lot of moving around, calling plays in the infield as well as balls and strikes at the plate.  I begin to think that this is not too hard that I'm pretty good at it as well.  I'm actually having fun!

It has been my experience that when I begin to think that I am really good at anything, something humbling will happen to knock the wind out of my sails and show me just how little I know and just how really good I am at what I'm doing.  It's like I have this little guy named George, always sitting on my shoulder, who once in a while saying things like, "Think you're pretty good, do you Walt?  Hold my beer. Watch this!"

******

July: The game is tied at 7 all in the bottom of the seventh (and last) inning of the final game of the season; the game that would decide the 9 to 11 league champion between the Cards and Pirates.  There two outs and the bases are full. The Cards, my 10 year old son's team, has struggled to tie the game in the previous inning and is making a valiant effort to hold off the home team's late inning rally.  I have the dubious honor of working the plate, in front of a bleachers crowd of at least 20 parents, grandparents, older brothers and sisters, with an occasional cousin or two thrown in for good measure.  Since it was expected to be an important game, Wilson Pierce, just home from college, is helping out by ump'n the bases for me.

Donny Caples, probably the Card's best hitter has been given the honor of pitching the last inning, mostly because of his size and the fact the two regular pitchers had already done the allowed innings for the week. Donny's size may have been intimidating, but the Pirates don't seem to notice, and his accuracy leaves something to be desired. I always was as liberal as possible in calling balls and strikes (for both teams), but fairness only goes so far and the Pirates are taking advantage of his wildness by just waiting him out and taking their walks.  A dribbler through the infield and two walks has loaded the bases. One strikeout and another dribbler successfully fielded at first accounts for the two outs.

Jimmy Wilson, the Pirate's 9 year old right fielder and manager's son, comes to the plate.  Bill Wilson, his manager , calls time to speak to his batter.  From my position behind the plate, I hear him, "Just wait him out Jim, he's tired and and he's wild. If  you can get on with a walk, it will force in a run we can win this game, OK?  Jimmy nods, takes a practice swing or two and steps to the plate.

"Casey" Caples, the Card's manager, also takes advantage of the timeout and strolls out to the mound. I can only guess what he is saying to his son, but I would bet it was something like, "Just be cool, Donny, this kid's gonna try to take a walk, probably won't swing at all.  Just take your time, be careful and throw strikes.  Nothing special, now, accuracy, not speed, and keep it low."  He also takes advantage of the timeout to make a lineup change, bringing "Chuck" Benson, my son, who had a reasonably good glove hand, in to catch and sending Tommy Bartow to Chuck's position at third.

(" Oh, shit," I thought, "Please make it an easy grounder.")

When play resumes, Donny toes the rubber, takes a full windup and aims the ball at the plate.  It was a rather slow cast that struck the dirt about five feet out in front.  "Ball one!" I say loudly.

Donny waves his bat madly, scratches the dirt with his cleats and takes a practice swing before getting set.  Donny fires another one. "Ball two".  Casey from the bench, is shouting, "Put it over, Don; throw strikes."

Donny does his windup again and brings a soft one straight down the middle of the plate,

"Strike", sez I, "2 & 1".

Another soft one, "Ball, 3 & 1".

"C'mon Donny, Strikes!"  Casey says softly, just loud enough for his pitcher to hear.
Donny, in his windup, has a hit-man's look of concentration; sweat beads cover his forehead.

"Strike 2,   3 & 2".

Jimmy takes couple more practice swings, scratches the dirt some more, then backs up a step, gathers a handful of dirt, dusts his hands, takes another practice swing and steps into the box.

"He's gonna swing!" I thought.

Sure enough, Donny winds up, and gives it his supreme effort and beams a hard one just about level with Jimmy's eyes and at least 6 inches outside. "Game's over" I think; the word "ball" forms in my mouth.

Jimmy, evidently thinking that this is going to be the strikeout that would brand him forever as the kid who struck out a la Casey. swings hard and wildly at the incoming missile.

He makes contact, but he had to reach for it and consequently delivers little force; the ball hits the ground just inches in front of Donny's outstretched glove and dribbles weakly toward Petie Johnson at short.  Bill, the Pirates manager, coaching at third, sees the opportunity and sends Dickie Thompson scrambling for home.

"Here we go!" I'm thinking.

It's a "bang bang" play at home. I step to the third base side of the plate in order to be out of the way and have a good view of the action. Dickie roars past me at about the speed of sound and hits the plate with his right sneaker just a mini-whisker after the ball smacks into Chuck's mitt.

I make my call as loudly as could, punch the air madly with my fist (just as I had learned in training) quickly turn my back on home and head for the safety of the bench to wait while the teams get ready for extra innings.

Game still tied, 7 - 7.

The crowd roars as only a 20 person crowd of relatives can,   Over the roar I hear the well-known voice of Bill Wilson's wife, Beth, screaming, "HE DROPPED THE BALL!  HE DROPPED THE BALL!"

"Shit!  I muttered.

As I turn back toward the plate, I see a picture that lives with me to this day.

There beside the plate is my son, still frozen in his catcher's pose, holding the baseball firmly in his catcher's mitt, his right sneaker still on the plate. As I get closer, I also see, in the dust just in front of his toes, the snake-like trail of a rolling baseball.

"Oh shit, again." In my haste to be a good ump, I had left too soon, the player has to retain control of the ball.

His eyes met mine, "did you?"

He looks at his toes; the nod is almost imperceptible.

My training kicks in, I point at the dust trail dramatically, spread my palms outward in the universally recognized "SAFE" sign, turn sharply and march away in triumph.

GAME OVER!  Pirates win!  The crowd roars! again!

*****

I'm helping the boys load the gear into Casey's pickup when he walks up.

"Sorry, Case. Guess I cost you the game."
" It was a good call."
"It was confirmed."
"You ask him?"
"I did. He didn't lie."

Casey grinned, "Stop by, I'll buy you a cold one."

"Deal"

The kids are not the only ones who learned a lot that summer.

George is still there, but he's not quite the smartass he used to be.

The Bridge

The Bridge

__________________________________________________________________________________________________

Samuel T Morgan

Samuel Thompson Morgan, 91, of Farmville, passed away on January 31, 2016, at his home the Wildwood community.  Born on September 23, 1925, in Danville Va. he was the son of the late Henry and Anna (Duncan) Morgan and the husband of Mary E (Grogan) Morgan.

Tom served his country in Europe during World War II and participated in Normandy landings as well as the final drive into Germany.  He had relinquished the management of his farming operations to his son, Sam, several years ago and spent most of his time maintaining the farm home, caring for his prize winning "ponies" and fishing the area lakes.  He was a lifelong member of the Hebron Volunteer Fire Company, serving as president for over 15 years.  He was a member and past Commander of American Legion Post 117, and also a lifetime member of the New Hope United Methodist Church.

He is survived by his beloved wife of 68 years, Mary Elizabeth, one son, Samuel W Morgan and his wife, Molly, of Farmville, and one daughter, Mary Elizabeth Bourland and husband, Robert, of  Raleigh, and three grandchildren, William Henry and Sarah Ellen Morgan of Farmville and John Wesley Bourland, also of Raleigh.

Friends may call on Wednesday, February 3, 2016, 3:00 pm - 5:00 pm & 7:00 pm - 9:00 pm at Stebbins Funeral Home at 465 West Main St. in Farmville. Services will be held on Thursday, February 4,  2016, at the Funeral Home, Pastor Malcolm Richards, Officiating.  Internment will be in the New Hope Cemetery.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

.
***********

Grandpa died last winter.


He was 91.


Of course, I went to the funeral.

I knew that he had been in the Army, but he never talked about it much.
I guess the last time I saw him was at the family reunion last summer.  It was the usual, everyone brought a dish or two and, of course, a dessert.  Lots of cold drinks including cold beer, lots of ice, etc.  Grandpa was sitting in an oversized lawn chair just off the drinks table and was nursing a glass of ice and some clear liquid when I sat down beside him.
"Hi Grandpa", sez I, "How're you feeling these days?" in a clumsy attempt to start a conversation.
He sorta grunted,a "Hi" and looked me over slowly, "You're Billy, aren't you, Sam and Molly's kid?"
"Close, I'm Wes, John Wesley, My dad is Robert, and mom is Betty. I'm you other grandson."
"Oh," he said with a definite lack of enthusiasm. 
"How are things at school, Wes? You're down at SMU, aren't you? this would be your senior year? Still in engineering?  Grades still OK?"


I was beginning see he might just be a little sharper that most of the family gave him credit for.
"Duke, I go to Duke, and I'm doing fine, got a job lined up with a surveying outfit in Florida after graduation. They are doing a lot of offshore work, should be interesting. Watcha' drinking?"
"Water, dammit, we got barrels of this piss-weak 3.2 beer but not a decent drink within a mile."
The family had always been staunchly Methodist, but latterday thinking conceded the weak beer and sometimes wine, but hard liquor was definitely still frowned upon.
I remembered that I had bought some things that morning to restock my little bar at school, and there were a couple of bottles locked in the trunk of my old Toyota. "What would consider a good drink?", I asked cautiously.
"Jack Daniels"; no perceptible hesitation there.
"Your lucky day!", I mumbled; I wandered casually out toward the parked vehicles, retrieved my treasured fifth of Kentucky's finest, still in its brown paper bag, and placed it on the table just to his right.  He peeped inside the bag, looked up at me with a grin and casually dumped the contents of his plastic cup on the ground and handed it to me.
"Would  you be kind enough to fetch me some ice? There's extra glasses over there too."
"Anything to go with it?
He glared at me.
"Guess not," I mumbled to myself as I slunk off to the ice chest.
I set the two glasses of ice on the table and watched as, in one smooth motion, he opened the bottle, poured his cup half full of the warm amber liquid and let the ice melt and dilute it until he deemed it to drinkin' cool.  He poured about two fingers in my cup, returned the cap to the bottle and quietly set the brown paper bag and it contents carefully on the ground next to the table leg. He look up, lifted his glass in a little salute and drank half of it down in about two swallows. He looked at me as I took a sip of mine, He gave a big Ahhhhh, "Damn, that was good, It has been awhile. You may have just become my favorite grandson,"
I'm  thinking, I know he was in the war, but he never talked about it.  But he never talked much about anything anyway.  I'm wondering if he just might be persuaded to tell me a little about it.
What the hell, the worst thing would be that he would just clam up. So I let the bourbon work for a while, chatting about whatever I could think of, you know, crops, tractors, pickup trucks, and so on.
After he had sampled his second, I asked quietly. "Weren't you in the Army, Pop?
"Don't call 'Pop', dammit, I hate that,", he growled.
then a long pause....  I was afraid I had lost him,
then, "That was a long time ago"
Still have that pistol?
I do.
What is it? PPG or something?
PPK, Walther
Like James Bond's?
Yes
9mm?
No, 5.56, .22 long rifle, kinda rare
How did you come by it?  Must be a story.
There is.
Tell me about it?
Another pause....
"There are stories, but the guys that would understand, are either dead or already know.
"with all due respect," says I cautiously, "you may not be around more than another twenty or so years, and if the're stories that are a part of the family history, shouldn't they be told and passed on?"
Silence; He gave me a quick glance as if to assess my trustability, then fixed his gaze at some invisible mountaintop for a long moment.
"Maybe!", he says quietly, "Some stories are kinda hard to tell." Another swallow, cleared his throat.
"All right, If I tell you, promise to leave me be, at least for a while?"
"I will," 

* * * * * *

"What outfit were you with?"
"750th MP Battalion, Attached to the Ninth Armored  Division.  Part of Patton's Third Army.  If you know your history, they was the first outfit to cross the Rhine, first one into Germany's homeland.  Our job was traffic control, help scout the roads ahead, and provide traffic cops for the travel routes so the troops could be moved to the proper place in the shortest time.
"Being an MP is a shitty job, The Germans, of course, would shoot anything in an American  uniform and our guys hated us because we were there to tell them where and when to go and where they couldn't go, check their documents, etc.

***

"Remagen,  Little town on the Rhine, crossover point to the German homeland. Ludendorff bridge. Last bridge left standing over Germany's last natural line of defense.  Not because they meant to leave it; their destruction charges mostly failed. We had discovered the bridge quite by accident.  Germans knew that they were losing and tried to destroy all the bridges to keep us from getting across.  We were amazed that it was still standing. 
I was driving the jeep for Captain Collins and we had just distributed a duce-and-a-half load of our guys, along the last 40 klicks leading up to the bridge, setting up road guards at all the main intersections. The 9th was to be moving a battalion up soon to secure the bridge. The rest would follow and secure the other end so that other divisions could follow. 
Germans finally destroyed it, but it took 'em ten days or so; not before at least five divisions of our guys had crossed.  In the meantime there was only one recon platoon and us to watch it, "us" being the Captain and me.
We had spotted the last road guard and sent the truck back so he could pick up our guys later when the 3rd Army could set up their own.   We knew that the Germans would be trying again to blow the bridge, but they didn't seem to have  much in the way of troops at the other end at the moment;  hopefully they didn't know that we only had the one decimated recon company and a couple of MPs, so we made as much noise as possible. We figured they would be trying to find out just how many they were up against.  It was a very long bridge.
We stopped at the west end where a couple of GIs were lounging. Their recon jeep with its mounted 50 sat on the side of the road; a light tank on the other, guns pointed towards the Fatherland. Capt looked at the one with Sergent's stripes, lounging against the jeep's radiator, a Thompson sub-machine gun (Tommy Gun) slung over his right shoulder. They eyed us and our relatively clean uniforms suspiciously.
"How many people you got, Sarge?
" 'skinny squad, two on the other end, a couple in the middle and one on either side of us here.  They're gonna want to know just what we've got, 'spect somebody will be trying to find out so they can try to run us off.  They can't have much over there, guessing it's the locals, kids and old men; you can bet there will be more coming. just how soon will probably depend on what they can find out.
"They told us there was a full company of armor here"
"You believe everything the army tells you?
"Shit,  You guys had any rest?
"Not really,  we've been on the go for three days now.




It was about sundown. Cap'n looked at me, "I've got to get back down the line and see to the road guards we posted.  Stay here and help these folks make sure no one wanders up here or tries to cross before we have a lot more help.  Keep the radio."
 "Thanks a lot", I muttered under my breath as he drove away, "Radio's worthless up here, who'm I gonna call, Hitler?"


Small talk with the Sarge and his pal for the next half hour or revealed they draftees like most of the rest of us and had lived in New York City and rural West Virginia before the Army.  Sarge had been in North Africa; the other one had been in hardly six months.  We had not much else to discuss and they were obviously dead on their feet.  After several minutes of silence and several cigarettes, I decided that this was about to become a rather boring night. I was curious about the bridge and wanted to see what the river looked like from out in the middle.
"Sarge, I got an idea, how's  'bout I go out and relieve the guys on the other end, they probably could use a little rest?"  He looked at me for a long minute, took off his helmet, scratched his head and, surveying the firepower of the smallish carbine slung over my shoulder, "How's 'bout you go about half way and give the rookies out there some rest.  We got a couple of machine guns on the other end; you MP's might not be used to them.  So, knock yourself out. Password is 'Watchmaker' if anyone should ask, countersign 'Theodore' but those two on the bridge have probably forgotten it, or are asleep."
"Strange passwords"
"German language don't have a 'th' sound; they never use it and have trouble pronouncing it; comes out 'z'. 'W's' sound like 'v'."

***

The bridge was originally designed to carry railroad traffic, however one of the twin set of rails had been removed and heavy wood planking laid crosswise to form a passable two-lane highway needed for the movement of military equipment. A second layer of planking established runways for the wheels and tracks.  I slung my carbine, checked my belt for the extra clips for both the carbine and my '45, and set out for the center of the bridge.  The moon, almost full, gave enough light for me to stay on the runway and walk with a minimum of noise. 
Sarge was right, no challenged me; I found the two guards, not necessarily sleeping, but they didn't hear or see me until I was in their face.  Startled, they grabbed for their guns, "What th'. . . ?, ".  "It's OK, I said quietly, I'm on your side." 
"Who th' hell are you?"
"MP detachment, road guard.  Heard you're expecting traffic.  By the way, your password's Watchmaker, do you know the response?'  "Some guy'sname, I  think, Talmadge.., no, Theodore, that's it." 
I chuckled, "Sorry, You guys must be beat."
 " 'haven't slept in three days, yeah, you might say that."
"So why don't you catch a couple of z's, I'll watch for a while; don't expect anyone will get past the boys at the other end anyway.  I'll wake you if anything's happening."
So I watched. there was no sounds save for the quiet murmur of the river against the bridge supports 40 or 50 feet below. No bird sounds, no village sounds from the other side, and no movements noise from the west.  Nothing! So I leaned on railing and watched.  Perhaps I dozed.
Anyway, I was suddenly aware of a nearby presence.  The moon was well over its zenith causing dim shadows, but I could make him out clearly.  Slender young man or boy, maybe fourteen or fifteen, standing in the middle of the bridge, looking straight at me.  I watched, and when he looked away for a second, brought the carbine up on him.
When he saw my move and reached for his belt, I clicked off the safety, "Nein!" I said softly; he froze. "I speak English," he said weakly.  "Good," sez I, "Put your hands up quietly." I was running out of German words fast.  He complied. " I am from the village, I just came to see who was here. The men at the end of  the bridge were sleeping.  I am not armed; I mean you no harm. Please let me go. My parents are in the village."
"OK," I said," "quietly".  My mistake!  He turned slowly and took five or six slow steps, then, I guess his feet would not obey, for he suddenly broke into a run.  I fired two or three rounds, but he never slowed down; he disappeared, but I could still hear his feet pounding the runways.
"Then, just as suddenly, there was two quick barks from a '45, followed by a five or six round burst of a Thompson.  Guess I woke them up, I thought as I ran toward the sounds. Their flashlights hit me and I stopped, my hands in the air.  "I'm army, MP, I shot at him as he ran and missed".
"We didn't, You know the password?" 
I gave it.
"Theodore". 
"He's over there," indicating a small, motionless body near the rail. He rolled the body over with his boot and shone the light on his face, "Just a kid,  damn!  Can't be more'n 13, guess he was scouting.  They train 'em young; must be running out of the older ones."
He reached down, pulled a small pistol from the boy's belt, and gave the body another roll with his foot, pushed it under the rail and over the edge.  It seemed like five minutes before we heard the splash. 
He looked up at me, his eyes froze me.  He glanced at the pistol for a moment then handed it carefully to me. Then, very softly,  "souvenir for you, kinda looks like a nice one, I'd just have to turn it in anyway, and I don't fancy explaining how he got past us. You may as well have it."

* * * * *

The old man was quiet for a long minute, looking at that mountaintop again.  Finally he turned, cleared his throat, looked me squarely in the eyes,  "And that, John Wesley, is how I come by th' pistol."


"But what . . . ?", I stammered, but his eyes stopped me.
.


"My glass is almost empty,"  he said quietly, as he pushed it across the table to me.

***********************************

Later:
I finished my Masters at Duke a few years after my conversation with my grandfather and married a beautiful teacher with visions of enlightening the high school youth of our beloved state.  With a major in history and a recently completed masters in the wars of Europe, Sue-Ellen wanted to see for herself the remnants that remained of World War II.  We agreed to spend our meager savings on a honeymoon in Europe.  We would fly to England, cross over to France, drive to Normandy, follow the invasion route to the Rhine and then upriver to visit my cousin William, who worked as a programmer for the staff of an international task force in Switzerland in the design and implementation of a gamma-ray satellite telescope to explore the outer reaches of the universe.  Bill was our family "rocket scientist".
At dinner with my parents the weekend before we were to leave, my mother had asked about our plans and asked casually, "Will you be driving any in western Germany?"
"We haven't set any firm route yet, but we hope to just sort of follow the Rhine."
"Well, you may remember that your father and I spent some time in Germany.  You were born there."
"I believe you may have mentioned that a few times."  There may have been a touch of sarcasm in my tone.
My mother, still fiesty for her years, gave it right back, sounding a little like Grandpa.
"Well, you may also remember that we were stationed in a little village called Permasens in the mountains down near the French border, and, due to the shortage of on-base housing, junior officers lived in village."
"I presume you are going somewhere with this, Mom?"
"I certainly am!, So pay attention; I'll tell you some things you don't remember, 'cause I haven't told you."

I know when I'm beat.

" Well," she continued, "there was a lady in that village that baby-sat for you now and then and taught me the language.  Monica and I became close friends and have exchanged letters a few times over the years.  I haven't heard from her in fifteen or twenty years, but I would have bet that she was still living in that village.  The Germans don't move around much like we do.  When I heard that you two might be travelling in Germany, I wrote to her at the last address I had, and sure enough, I got an answer, just last week.  She says that if you happen to be in her area, she would be delighted to have you visit."
"Well I don't -"  She cut me off.
"Sue-Ellen might get some insights into the war that she won't get anywhere else."
Sue broke in.  "I think that's a wonderful idea; I wouldn't want to miss it."
Mom smiled sweetly.  "You will need to walk softly in discussions of the war; you do remember that the Germans lost the war, don't you Wes?"
"Yes, Mother, I remember."

Like I said, I know when I'm beaten."

***********

We  did find Monica who turned out to be everything that Mom had said about her.  Warm, friendly and eager to talk to us. The husband of a local high school physics teacher and model train enthusiast, Peter was also eager to talk.  Their English was far better than any of their language we could muster up. (We learned that they were also fluent in French.)
For our second evening with the Hausmanns  Monica had treated us to a traditional German dinner of Viener Schnitzel mit kartoffel und salat, with cheesecake for dessert, and after a few glasses of wine, it seemed that we might be able to discuss the war years without insult or embarrasment to our hosts.

Sue broke the ice.  "Monica, I have studied your country, particularly the war years, but all I know is what the books tell me; I don't feel that I have a feel for the way it was for the way it affected the people.  Your friend and my mother-in-law, Mary Elizabeth, tells me that you lived through that time.  Would you mind if I asked you a few questions.  If I am to teach that history to my students, I want to understand as much as I can about that time."

There was a silence that seemed very long.  Monica's face became quite solumn; she glanced at the ceiling, obviously remembering.  "It was a sad time; I vas very young.  Perhaps it vill be good to talk.", her accent made stronger with emotion.

Peter refilled the glasses.

Sue;  "Thank you, have you always lived here in the village?"
Again Monica glanced upward. "No, I vas born in a town on the Rhine, on the border with Belgium, called Remagen."

The name rang a bell for me and I remembered Grandpa's story, but it did not seem the time to bring it up.

"My father was a baker and had a small shop in town. He had lost an arm in the first war. We had a good house and a comfortable living.  It was my parents and my older brother, Deiter."
"Did the fighting come near?'
"Ya, when the landings took place in Normandy, ve vhere sure they would come to Deutchland through Belgium and quite possibly try to cross the Rhine there. I vas sent to my uncle here in Piemisans, as far as possible from where the fighting was likely to be.  My uncle had children my age, so I became a part of his family.  The family name was the same so after a while no one noticed that was not his child."
"Did you go back after the war?"
"No, my parents were old, had lost their source of income, their home had been destroyed and they had aged a lot. It vas besser I stay here where the fighting had not touched.  They both died a few years later, within a few months of each other."
"And your brother?"
"He was maybe thirteen, I don't remember his birthday, when the war came. He was a member of the Hitler Youth, and was not allowed to leave. my father told me that his group was assigned to the local
military and used as scouts for the army."
"What did he do after the war was over?"
" Ve do not know vat happen to Deiter, my vater was told only that he vhent on a scouting mission one night and never returned."

("Oh my God", I thought.  "Keep your mouth shut. Sue has not heard Grandpa's story.")

"Remagen is supposed to be the place where the Americans first crossed the Rhine, do you remember anything about the town or the bridge."
"Nein, only vhat my parents told me later when I visit. I zhink it vas a railroad bridge, but vas destroyed in zhe fighting.  I don't zhink it vas ever rebuilt."

Monica was obviously emotionally drained. "I zhink I talk too much, please excuse"

Peter produced another bottle and refilled the glasses. The silence was electric.

Monica returned, smiling. "I am so sorry."
"It is enough. We are sorry to have upset you; please forgive us."
"It is OK, I am good now. Vhy don't you tell us about your trip?  Your plans?  And how is my good friend Mary Elizabeth?"

Peter refilled the glasses again.







.




















NOTE:  The story is historically correct, insofar as the Remagen bridge was the first crossing into Germany and the 9th Armored was the first one to cross.  The characters and dialog are totally products of my imagination and, as they say, any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.  The pistol does exist, but its petigree has been lost to history.
fr

Wood Thrush-The Singer is come

Wood Thrush - The Singer is come

 For, lo, the winter is past,

 the rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;

the time of the singing of birds is come,

 and the voice of the turtle

 is heard in our land;

Song of Solomon 2:11-12 (KJV) 

May 1, 2017 Finksburg: 

I knew that Spring had been fully fulfilled; Summer was upon us.
It was dusk of a bright, sunny Sunday afternoon when I parked and was about to unload my recent grocery purchases when I heard him.  Without a doubt, Summer was here. 


The Wood Thrush was singing in the Red Oaks close by the deck!

He was talking, two or three notes, pausing, then three or four, and pausing again, and so on.  I listened, and in each pause, from deep in the woods, came the answer.  Statement, response, question, answer..........this went on and on.  Conversation? perhaps.  Competitor? maybe.  Courtship? could be.


Mr. Sibley describes the Wood Thrush a "The largest of the spotted thrushes, with distinctive shape: potbelly, relatively large bill, and short tail", and pictures him/her in russet brown, white bib spotted with black dots*. Well Mr. Sibley has had a lot better luck than I:  Twenty years living in these woods and I've never had a really good look at this singer, but I know his voice.  Only ever saw him once and then only a darker image in a shadow.  Very shy, but oh, can he sing!
 
The notes of his song are brilliant, clear distinctive music; flowing like the mountain brook, the crystal flute in the Philharmonic.  It is a little like the song of the Redwing, but more delicate and not so flowing; some of the tones of his cousin, the Robin, but far more sophisticated and fine tuned;  Chantilly lace next on a cotton print apron.


Please don't misunderstand, I'm no bird expert.  Webster's assistance was required for the spelling of ornithology, but my ears are still good (albeit battery assisted) and I like good music, whether it be jazz or bluegrass, and this bird is a Joan Baez singing on the same stage as Bob Dylan; Dave Brubeck vs Jerry Lee Lewis.  (My metaphors and similes may also be a little gritty, but humor me, please.)


My friend usually shows up here around this time of year and spends the Summer, then goes South to some warmer location, presumably Central or South America, Sibley is not helpful here.  My experience is that he sings mostly in the magic times before sunrise and after sunset, times that good photographers love.

He was singing again this morning at first light; perhaps calling is a better word, pauses much shorter, he does not wait for an answer.  Having done very little reading on the subject, I am left to my imagination. so what I say next may not stand up to close scrutiny, but I believe the Wood Thrush sings first, along with other males, to attract a mate, then assists in the nest building, and, when the eggs are laid, sings to his mate at all hours as she sits the eggs. Perhaps he helps.  Once the fledglings arrive both partners' efforts are required to bring their necessary food, and the singing stops for the season.  Presumably their offspring are fed, nurtured, protected, trained and are ready to go with the Summer.  Their departure is done without notice.


So I wait and listen every Spring for my friend's announcement,
then every Summer when his singing stops, I wonder,  "How many more?"


fr




*David Allen Sibley, The Sibley Guide to Birds, Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. New York

Earl

 Earl

 Auld Lang Syne      

 Should auld acquaintance be forgot

and never brought to mind?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

and auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my jo

for auld lang syne

We'll tak'a cup of kindness yet

for auld lang syne

   .........        

We twa hae run about the braes

and pou'd the gowans fine.

But we've wander'd many a weary fit

Sin' auld lang syne

.........        

ane there's a hand, my trusty fiere!

and gie's a hand o'thine

and we'll tak' a right gude-willie waught

for auld lang syne

 Robert Burns

1788

In the beginning, . . . . . . .



I parked my newly acquired, well used Honda 350 by the door of the fire house as he walked out of the bathroom and glanced at me as I set the kick stand.  He stood about six foot two, maybe 200 pounds of grizzled , bearded and balding, ten years my senior.  I knew Earl from the Company meetings and other activities.  He was quiet but opinionated, capable and strong in personality.  A carpenter by trade, and a damn good one, I later learned.
"Hey mister, can I ride your bike?" as he approached.
I knew he rode. "Sure," and tossed him my keys.
He did not stop walking until his face was about eighteen inches from mine.
softly, as he handed me the keys. "Don't ever do that again."
"Huh?"
"You don't do that.  Your bike is yours, and yours only. You don't let anyone else ride 'er.  They probably won't know the bike, won't know how to ride or worse, won't care.  Hurt themselves or the bike."
"Ok", I said, mostly to myself, as he turned and walked away leaving me standing there watching him as he swung his bad leg over the old Harley, fired it up and roared out of the parking lot on to Main Street and headed home.  That was the beginning of what was to become a close and lasting friendship.

***

Among a lot of other things, Earl was a biker.  Rode a '66 Harley, which was a little more that ten years old at that point.  Never could remember the complicated model designations that Harley uses or the engine names, but it was a '66, mostly stock, except maybe for the pipes which always seemed a bit loud to me, even for a Harley.  Maybe had the baffles out, I don't know; no one seemed to mind, and if they did, they never did say so to Earl.  Like I said, it was an older model with the police type windshield and the trademark squared off bags that Harley uses to this day.  Only one modification.  You see, Earl had a bad leg. His right knee was frozen; would not bend, so he kinda walked funny and could not manage the Harley's rear brake pedal which is, as you know, on the righthand side.  Now, as you also know, the front brake is controlled by a lever on the right handlebar, which of course he could handle, but panic stopping with only front wheel braking is not a recommended procedure.  To solve this, he had mounted a foot pedal just in advance of the left floorboard and had run a cable across the front of the engine and connected to the standard pedal on the right.  Worked fine, except that the left foot also handles the shifter, making things a bit busier than usual and infrequently generating some conflict of interest.  But it worked for him and he rode a lot in those days.  Had been president of the Baltimore Ramblers, a local, long standing and reputable motorcycle club. Didn't ride with them anymore, said they were always in too much of a hurry and sometimes a bit reckless even for his style.

***

I has always assumed that the bad leg was a result of a bike accident somewhere back in time;  he never spoke of it and, out of respect for his privacy and not wanting to bring up unpleasant memories, I never asked.  Actually, I just mostly did not want to piss him off; I had figured out early that pissing him off was not likely to end very well.  Years later, I did ask him and got a most unexpected response. 
"Bike fell on me." he said with a sheepish grin.
You crashed?
I said it fell on me, never had any problems while ridin'.
How th' hell could that be?
Put the kickstand down in soft ground, turned my back on 'er, was looking out over the countryside up a'top South Mountain, and over she come, right on my leg.  Smashed my knee all to hell and gi'me this gimpy leg for the rest of my life.
Couldn't they fix it?
Maybe, but they didn't.

***

I realized that it was not just bad memories behind his reluctance, but mostly embarrassment, and he had found a way to keep riding.  And he rode well.  His years seem to drop away when he rode.  Following behind, as I often was, you would think that you were following a twenty-something year old rider in the way he sat the bike and the way he moved effortlessly in and out of and through traffic.  The old bike only had three forward gears, but carried enough low rev torque to top the interstate grades over Garrett County's "hills" without even breathing hard.  By then I had moved up to an early four cylinder Gold Wing (early version, long before they came from the factory with custom bags and fairings; "rice burner", some called it.) which usually had me reaching for gears at the first sight of an incline, while Earl's old machine just went on over the top without missing a beat or losing an rpm.  It was like he never shifted. (BTW, Earl never had anything bad to say about anyone else's bike, no matter what its pedigree.  Never!)

***

And talk about stability!  I once saw him take off his pullover sweater without ever slowing down from highway cruising speed.  He just let go the bars, and calmly pulled the sweater up and over his head as if he was seated on his couch at home.  And the bike never wavered or swerved; just stayed straight on in its lane, and never seemed to miss a beat. Must've had the throttle locked down.  It wasn't a stunt, he just wanted to take off his sweater. Could not believe it!  That would have been a suicide on my bike.
We rode together a lot, and it wasn't just to ride; we always had a place to go to and a reason for going.  To Garrett County to visit his old friends, to Ocean City to the Fireman's Convention Parade, To Pennsylvania to the York Co Fair, etc. etc.  Harley riders were a bit more clannish in those days.  We stopped at a roadside park on the Eastern Shore one afternoon, and a couple of other Harleys pulled in and joined us.  They greeted Earl like he was a long lost cousin, nodded in my direction and then mostly ignored me once they had seen the bikes.

***

Anyway, here I am, forty years later, cruising down Route 50 in Worcester County in an aging machine from the Black Forest with more years and more miles than the average American vehicle will ever see, listening to the fiddles and banjos of Bluegrass Junction blaring from the speakers and floating along with the ocean bound traffic that is crowding 65 in the standard double nickel limits of the highway.  US 50 is still four lane divided with grade crossings, same as always.  I am in a groove, just drivin' and listenin' and thinkin' and rememberin'.

***

Must have been somewhere along about here that we saw it, Earl and me.  Think we were on our way to Ocean City to watch the parade at the Firemen's Convention.  It was a morning in mid-June, the sun was shining, it was warm but not yet hot, and there was no traffic. We were cruising in the right lane as we usually did; I was leading in the left tire path and Earl was following in the right, a few bike lengths to my rear.  Up ahead, on the seam between the two concrete slabs (it's blacktop now) that made up the highway's right side, something was there that should not have been. A scrawny, skinny white chicken with a few feathers missing!  In the middle of nowhere, and with no apparent reason for being there, a chicken who appeared to have no better idea of where he was or why he was there than I did.  He just stood there on the seam looking for all the world like, as my dad would have said, "an orphan boy at a picnic".  Perhaps he was an escapee from one of the trucks that are always hauling truckloads from one of Purdue's chicken farms to the processing plants in Salisbury, on his way to becoming fried chicken for Royal Farm.

***

I had what may not have been my best thought for the day.  At that particular instant it seemed to me that it might be great fun to scare the bejesus outa that poor chicken.  Now, keep in mind that this is all happening at 60+ mph, and careful consideration of all the possibilities and potential results was hardly possible, nor likely.  So, without giving further thought to it, I glanced in my left side mirror and, seeing no other traffic, swerved over into the rightmost track of the left lane and, as I passed just to the left of the chicken, let loose a long blast of my twin trumpets.  (The old 'wing had real good horns).  As touched the horn button, another thought flashed into my head, one much more clear and terrifying; "Stupid! that chicken's gonna jump/fly right up and directly into Earl's path, maybe in his face, knock him off the bike and God only knows what might result." But it was too late, the horn blasted, the chicken jumped and tried to fly, and I was past the scene, and as I drifted back into my place in the right lane I glanced in my right side mirror and saw something that has stuck in my mind ever since.  It is a clear to me today as it was that sunny morning.
It was a small snowstorm, a cloud of white, and, emerging from the cloud, an old Harley with a bewhiskered old rider with horn rimmed glasses and his trademark black half-shell helmet, just cruising along as if nothing had happen.  I breathed a sigh of relief, he was ok, nothing had happened.

***

We rolled to a stop at the traffic light at the edge of Salisbury (no bypass then) as Earl coasted up beside.  He looked over at me with what only can be described as "a shit-eatin' grin", then over the rumble of his idling Harley, said calmly, "I hit that sum'bitch, didn't I!"






I thought, "Yeah, Earl, you did, you really did hit that sum'bitch, but with the front wheel, thank God, not your windshield.", but I just grinned back and nodded.  We rode on.












God, I miss him!

End

Afterword:  That was the first and only chicken I have ever seen on the highway, riding or driving, to this day!.  Earl died a few years later, got to where he could not ride any more, or had no one to ride with, or maybe just never quite recovered from having to bury his Millie. The bike was left to a grandson who restored it to mint condition and rode it until the engine gave out. Last I heard it was resting peacefully somewhere in a basket alongside the rest of the remaining parts, perhaps awaiting  resurrection.




There may be another story there, but I'm not the one to tell it.

Family Reunion 2017

Family Reunion 2017

To:  The descendants of Joseph Renard, wherever they may be:

My wonderful niece, Sharon, recently posted this:

I am Sharon Brady Small
Dortha Renard Brady's daughter. I remember your family coming to Mother and Daddys house when we lived at Boydaville and we came to you house in the middle of a rice field ( seemed Like it anyway ) I'm thinking around Lepanto. Mothers brother Franklin Renard asked about a Renard reunion so we are trying to get one together for June 17th 2017. at Boydsvill Community Center The address,7158 HWY 90, Rector, AR. 72461. We are hoping to get several cousins we haven't seen in a long time or never to come. Where do you live now? I still live close to Rector,

I hope she will forgive my copying this, but it is a good introduction to a proposed reunion.  I would like to add a bit of family information that you may find interesting.

Decoration Day

Decoration Day was first established by a presidential proclamation just after the Civil War.  It apparently had been observed in many different places in the country previously and was intended primarily to honor those killed in the war, both North and South.  It was a day when relatives and friends would place flowers on the graves 
Over the years, and particularly in the Southern states, many graves suffered from the neglect of many years, so Decoration day had become a day not only to place flowers but also to clean the gravesite.  It gradually joined into and became Memorial Day.

Mars Hill

Such was the case in the little hillside church located in the red gravel hills of Crowleys Ridge, a string of hills in Arkansas's Clay County, a low ridge running northeast to southwest, several miles west of the Mississippi and marking the westernmost edge of that great rivers floodplain.
Mars Hill is a country church.  I have no idea of it's origins, philosophy or history.
I have never been inside the white sided building and, if it has more than one room, it is not apparent from outside.  It appears well maintained, dignified and polite, but there are no surrounding shrubbery and the parking area is not paved, just the natural gravel of the hill.  It obviously has withstood the wear and tear of many winters, but it still stands tall and proud.
But it is not the church that is my focus here but the gravesites that fill the hill that stretches upward to the building's left and holds the remains of my paternal grandparents and several of my uncles (none of whom I ever had the honor of meeting).  The site of my grandfather's cabin is within walking distance of the church and graves of grandpa's mother and others are at the Blooming Grove church a mile or so away.  Great Grandma's home was near that church also and my grandfather's brother Eli also owned property nearby.  If the family history has an epicenter, perhaps it is here.

The Reunion

It is here that the reunion began on a spring day about 75 years ago.

Frank Renard had died in 1924, and some years later, probably on the l930's those of his children who had survived childhood and still lived nearby (less than a day's drive) decided to meet to clean the gravesites and visit.  So each year on Decoration Day, they met in the morning, worked at the church, had lunch (dinner) at one of the closer sibling's home, had the afternoon for visiting before returning home. At one of these occasions they brought materials and poured a concrete cover over all of the several graves to prevent sinkage and erosion.

Who am I?

Who am I, you might well ask.  I am the youngest child of Henry Issac Renard, who was the fourth child of Frank Renard.  I am perhaps the last living grandchild of my namesake, but I'm not sure.  Born Henry Franklin Renard,  youngest of four children of Henry Renard and Lela Mae Corlew, named for my father and my mother's favorite big brother, I grew up on a farm a few miles from the Mars Hill Church. Over time my name shortened to "Frank" and I migrated to Baltimore where I live today, alone, except for Farley, my overweight cat. But this is not meant to be my story, my hope is that I provide enough of what little I know of the family's history to pique your curiosity enough to provide some data to fill in some of the blank spaces for me and perhaps motivate you to drop by the upcoming "reunion" and meet some previously unknown relatives and make new friends, etc. My records are sketchy and my memory is not much better; my documentation is disorganized.  I have hope that someone younger could take what little I have and put together a much better and longer lasting documentation.  Volunteers ?

 The Family

 A lot of what I know of the family's "ancient" history, comes from handwritten notes made by my aunt, Bertha Eva (Renard) Holdifield, written long before Altzheimer's claimed her and therefore dependable.  What her sources were, I have no idea.  According to her notes, Frank Renard's father  was Levi, and Levi was the son of John Renard and Sarah Wilkins who lived in the latter part of the 1700's and early 1800's.  John died in his 30's and, left only one sibling, Nancy, who also died quite young.  John was the son of Joseph Renard, but the dates and places Joseph and the location of John and Sarah  remain unknown.
For Levi, we do have information.  Born in 1820, he married Sarah Roberts in 1847 and sired two children, John and Sarah Elizabeth. Sarah died in  1853 and shortly thereafter Levi married Nancy |Hardisty and fathered a number of children, namely, Eli, Medora, Alice, Levi Z and Frank.  There were others who died as children, etc. but I don't have their names at hand.  Levi's grave is located in a small family cemetery in southern Illinois, which is actually in the backyard of a residence. (seen it).
Levi died in 1884 and Nancy moved with some of her twelve children and a brother (a peddler) to Arkansas. She paid personal taxes as a landowner in Clay County in 1893.  Her son Eli also owned land near her farm in Blooming Grove. (I don't have much information on Eli except that  he had three wives, lived for a time in Kansas and/or Oklahoma and left descendants there. He and his last wife were buried in a cemetery  in Malden Mo, but I believe the markers have long since disappeared.)
Frank, my grandfather, acquired land and married Amanda Scroggins, of southern Illinois. Not sure exactly where, but I can remember cousins from Mound City visiting us on the farm.  Six of Amanda and Frank's children reached adulthood, Lewis, John, Henry Bertha Thad and Rollie. Three others died in childhood and are buried with their parents at Mars Hill.  Lewis died in California and was returned to Mars Hill. He left family both here and in California. 
Amanda died in 1904 and about ten years later, Frank married Minnie Riddle. Their two children, Frances and L. T. have descendants throughout southwestern Arkansas and eastern Texas, many of whom are among my Facebook "friends".

Editor's Note:  This brief and sketchy summary most likely contains lots of errors and omissions due to my poor research and faulty memory. There is a lot more to be told regarding my parents' generation and their offspring, but not enough room here.  I welcome, even encourage, criticism, correction or addition. Let me hear from you, join us in June, you need not even be related, it should be quite a collection of folks.  There is no cleanup to be done this year, Mars Hill does a good job of maintaining the graves, and we won't meet at kinfolk's dining room, we have scheduled a community building. It is not far from Mars Hill.  I hope that we can just get together, visit, maybe sing some songs, have dinner, (everybody bring a little something) maybe some sort of little program, and swap stories and eat leftovers. No sermons and no sales pitches.Your suggestions are not only welcome, they are solicited.  Post your comments here on the blog, or on Facebook, or email me at hrenard@cbmove, or call 443-465-0274, anytime.

Mark your calendars and come join us on June 17, I think it is the Saturday before Fathers Day

fr

Reunion

Reunion

There's a little Rosewood Casket

Resting on a marble stand     

with a packet of old love letters

written by my true love's hand 

"Little Rosewood Casket"

(recorded by Dolly Parton

 and many others)



Morning

It was early Fall, leaves turning, evening sun sinking lower in the afternoon sky every day.  Just now the sunrise was filtering through the tall black oaks of the surrounding woods.  It was an early morning in his eighty third year.  He is widowed, retired, and living alone save for his faithful little beagle, the birds and squirrels around the feeders the noisy old wall clocks throughout the various rooms. A huge old grandfather clock that stands sentinel by the staircase booming out the Westminster chimes on the quarter hour and striking the hour with all the enthusiasm and tones of the original Big Ben if not the full outdoor volume has just announced the seventh hour of what looks to be a beautiful day.  He has not been able to stand the quiet of an empty house since she went away.

***

He sat quietly in front of the blank laptop screen and watched pair of late spring fawns at the far edge of the woods, silhouetted against the late summer brown of the meadow beyond.  They were nibbling at the few remaining leaves of the underbrush just near the tree line and frolicking with their mother from time to time.  The twins' mother, still in her spring coat of soft brownish tan, kept a careful watch from the nearby stand of wild mountain laurel and made occasional playful romps with them.  The house was quiet just now.  Empty quiet.  Except for the clocks and Willy the pup who was still snoozing, upside down on the living room couch.  Almost three years since she passed!  How time flies, yet seems to drag agonizingly at times. It was gonna' be one of those mornings.  His mind wandered.  "Wonder what things are like back home now."
("Home" would always be the red gravel/clay hills of Crowleys Ridge in the northeast of Arkansas.)

He drifted back ..........

Memories

............ to the Summer of '52.  Home to help with the spring crops, from the small, store-front business college and back to being a farm hand again.  His dad had hurt his back badly and needed a hand driving the little two row Farmall and do some of the heavy lifting.  He loved to drive the tractor and had a knack for other machinery.  Could never deal with the horses, though, they always seem to sense that he didn't care for them and therefore was not one to be listened to.  He had gone to a business college straight out of High School the year before.  It was just a storefront building located on Madison Avenue in Memphis; two levels crammed with desks and classrooms, teaching the basics of typing, penmanship, bookkeeping and office machines with a smattering of law and math thrown if for good measure. Working at a part time job, bringing home less than twenty dollars per week and paying half that for a room and two meals a day at a boarding house left around two dollars per day for lunch, bus fare and entertainment.  Lunches (if any) and boarding house meals were not quite the same as the "farm hand dinners" he had been used to at home and his baby fat had, unnoticed to him, dropped away to a much more normal 140 pounds from the chubby 190 of high school days.

***

Then came the letter.  Most wonderful piece of correspondence he had ever seen Perhaps he could not be sure of the exact wording, but it was an invitation to friendship and he never forgot how it was signed.  "Love, Peggy". Could remember anyone ever using that term to him; certainly never a girl. Then came the letter.  They traded letters back and forth and when he came home in the spring to help with the crops, they dated. She was almost 17; he barely 18.  It was early April now; they dated with intense regularity.

She was his first love and they were both smitten.  Crowded pickup truck double-dating with his long time buddy and his girl. Saturday nights in town, maybe going to the late show. sometimes parking out by the lake, just the two of them. He was completely and totally in love with the most wonderful girl he had ever seen, met or kissed, as only teenagers can be and he was certain she felt likewise.  He had given her his high school ring, one of his most precious possessions, solid 14K gold complete with the high school emblem and the school's initials emblazoned on the top.  His year of graduation was on the sides, 19 on one side and 51 on the other.  His own initials engraved on the inside of the band.  He had even used up his last pay to buy a gold chain so she could wear it around her neck.  Paul was in heaven and he knew it!  Late June now, farm work slowing down.  Her birthday was soon and he had already bought her gift, a gold compact, which was as an intimate a gift as he dared at this point.

***

Then the crash!  The world ended.  The lights went out!
No disagreement, no argument, no transgression that he could think of,  nothing!
She just wouldn't talk, wouldn't respond to any communication.
Why?  He could not understand. Could not believe it.
What to do?  No frame of reference in his world.  No  prior experience to draw on.
Saturday night?  Well, go to town alone, just maybe .....
Took the old pickup, luckily found a parking spot near the theater and waited.  As she approached, he had opened the truck door and stepped out to stand by side of the raggedly old Ford, as she walked by on the sidewalk accompanied by a couple of younger sisters.  She never looked at him. Actually she did look, but not at him, more like, through him, and never missed a step. They bought their tickets and went inside.  There was no chain around her neck.

***

He was still standing there fifteen minutes later, just staring at the theater marquee.
"Pauley!" someone shouted from a parking spot on the square.
"Hey!" came another shout from his long-time friend and schoolmate from the community.
"Hi, Freddy," he responded weakly and waved back as Fred dodged through the early traffic, mostly kids, cruising the square, "Been here long?".
"Just got here, working late today, by yourself?  Where's the girlfriend?
"Inside, he replied, jerking a thumb over his shoulder. She ain't talking to me for some reason.
"So what did you do now?
"Nothin' that I can think of, she just walked right past me and didn't even look.
"I was thinking of going to  the movie, see if I could get a conversation started with someone.
"Well, the girls are probably sitting down front, probably in the first four or five rows,  Maybe they'll talk to you." He said, with more than a trace of sarcasm
"Come on, go with me.
"Naw, think I'll just go home.

***

So, he gathered up his pride and slowly and carefully drove home.  He brooded.  He talked to his pal, Luther, who could sympathize but could offer no solutions.  He played the truck radio as loud as possible, but Hank Williams' "Lovesick Blues" was no help either.  In the next few weeks he went to other social events, community picnics, movies, even church, talked to other girls, suggested dates, etc. but with little or no success. He was a marked man. He was "Peggy's friend", and  therefore not in the market.  His misery continued well into the fall, and once his father was able to work again, he went back to the city to complete his course of study and look for more lucrative employment.

Dreams

Lost in his memory, he dozed; he dreamed; and the dream shifted into "what might have been".   He dreamed on.

Another letter.  Beautiful envelope; it even smelled nice.  He recognized the smooth flowing cursive of the return address.  It was from Peggy, longer note this time. 

 

Haven't heard from you lately [she said] and I wondered how you were doing in the big city.  I really enjoyed the time we were able to spend together while you were home, and I really hope we can still be friends.  When will you be coming back?  I will be graduating soon and I really don't know what my plans are for after that.  Hope to see you soon.

And again, it was signed,  "Love, Peggy".

 

Those magic words again.  Not a word about her "cold shoulder" behavior, or any attempt at either apology or explanation, but the signature was the only thing he really saw. The rest didn't matter. He wanted to go home.  So he went; said goodbye to the girlfriend, quit his job, left his classes in mid term, packed his few belongings in the back seat of the battered '46 Ford and went back to Clay County with no idea of any source of income or any plan for the future.  He was in love, and nothing else mattered.

Moved back to the farm with his parents, helped with the crops there and did day work for other farmers while he tried to find employment.  And dated the girl with whom he was hopelessly in love.  There were Saturday nights in town, late movies and afternoon drives in the country after church services on Sunday.  Even Wednesday night church "prayer meetings", and a lot of close contact in the pickup truck.  They talked of marriage and planned a wedding in the spring; he even screwed up his courage and, in a short terror laced meeting, asked her father's blessing. 

The dream continued, fast forwarding through years farming a mortgaged forty acres of good bottom land, struggling to make payments on the costly equipment, seeing prices drop as the big acreage farmers became able to produce more for less.  It was the when the death knell of the small family farm tolling quietly; but they didn't hear it.  The family grew with the addition of three children, then four, then.....

He awoke in a sweat, wondering just where he was and when it was....

and realized finally that it was only a dream,
 

That was not what had happened.

***

He was awake now, and his failing memory, so problematic regarding the very recent, was clearly in focus as he recalled what had really happened.

Since there was now nothing in Clay County for him, he had gone back to the city and, through the help of a friend, secured a starting level job in a local wholesale bakery, boxing bread and loading trucks.  Not a fancy of "sittin' down" job, but the pay was reasonably good, far better than parking cars or jerking sodas as he had been doing. He worked nights and went to school days. Soon, with his brother's signature, (he was barely eighteen) was making payments on a tired old '46 Ford and dating a dark haired, hundred-pound farm girl from the hills of Mississippi who was also studying at the College.  Things were looking up.

 His mind raced on as the past seventy years flooded his memory.   Love, marriage, army time, problem pregnancies, children, a boy and a girl, now with families of their own and scattered.  Divorce, remarriage, another divorce, marriage, death and now here he was, all by himself, comfortable, well fed, well housed, but alone.  Good friends, still working some, hobbies, and so on, but he still had to scratch his own back.

"It been a good life, and God knows I'm grateful, but sometimes wonder just what might have happened ......."

Contact 

His train of thought ground to a halt as the phone rang. 

"Now who the hell could be calling at this early hour?"

"Hello," he answered rather gruffly.

"Mr. Broussard?", the voice was slow, soft and masculine but professional in manner.  The name was pronounced 'BRUSS-erd", not the 'bru-SARD' that he had become accustomed to since moving to the East Coast.  He had long since given up trying to preserve the way that only the folks of his home state pronounced it. He was alert and a bit suspicious.  Had not spoken with anyone from 'down home' in years.

"Yes"

"John Paul Broussard, formerly of Clay County Arkansas?

He hesitated a moment. "I am.  Call me Paul."

"Thank God I've found finally found you, I think I have called everyone on the East coast with your last name."

"So?"

"You don't know me, sir, but my name is Johnathan P. Hopkins, of the firm Hopkins, Matthews and Cole LLC of St. Louis Missouri."

"And?"

"We represent the estate of Mrs. Margaret Elaine Hopkins. I'm her Personal Representative.  She was my mother."

"Who?"

"You may have known her as Peggy Mathews; Mathews being her maiden name.  Apparently you two were friends in high school?"

"Peggy Mathews!  well, I'll be damned!  Yes we were."

"Mr. Broussard, I am here in Baltimore and I would like to meet with you.  At your convenience, of course.  I have some things of yours to return.  When can we meet?", again, the 'down home' pronunciation of his name.

"What things?"

"I would prefer to show you when we meet.  When would you be available, and where would be convenient?"

He thought for a minute. "MacDonalds, Westminster, on Route 140.  I should be in there about 10 tomorrow morning.  I 'll buy you coffee. I eat breakfast there most every morning." He lied, always made his own breakfast.  He wanted time to think.  Perhaps he should take someone along.

"Very well, I will see you then. Thank you for seeing me."

"You're welcome."

He sat for a long time just gazing into the woods, thinking.  And wondering.

***

"You won't believe what just happened to me!" he said when Vern picked up the phone.

"What?"

"I will tell you all about it tomorrow morning.  Stop by MacDonalds about 9:30, someone I want you to meet. This guy called me with information about years ago in Arkansas.  Not sure he's for real so I would like you there just in case."

"That's all you are going to tell me?"

"Yep"

Revelation

He had already seated himself with a large black coffee and a cookie in one of the most out of-the way booths in a remote corner when Vern strolled down the aisle with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and an Egg McMuffin in the other. 

"So where is this mystery man, and what's the big secret?  You afraid of getting molested or something?"

"He ain't here yet, wanted to give you a little background before he gets here, and wanted someone else's opinion of this guy's authenticity."

"So, what gives?"

"Guy says he's from a law firm representing the estate of an old girlfriend of mine from about a hundred years ago.  Said he had something to return to me."

"What?"

"Wouldn't say."

"Weird!  What's his name?"

"Johnathan something or other. Said she was his mother."

"Well, I can't wait to hear this."

***

He was maybe sixty or sixty-five years of age, slim, well dressed but casual in a sporty gold golf shirt and tailored brown slacks, and Italian loafers. Of medium build, with graying temples and a well tanned forehead which was receding into thinning hair on top.  He carried a letter-sized folder with a tied-down flap in his right hand, a steaming cup of coffee in his left, and he hesitated for a few seconds as he surveyed the room, his eyes settling on the two seniors loafing in the corner booth.

"Mr. Broussard?"

"Over here."

"I'm Johnathan Hopkins.  Call me John, or Johnny," he smiled, "May I sit?"

"Sure, I'm Paul, this is my friend, Vernon Appley. Vern, sit over here with me; give the man a seat."

"Thanks, pleased to make your acquaintance. Thank you for agreeing to meet.  Beautiful morning isn't it?"

"'Tis indeed, sir.  You're the lawyer?"

"Senior partner, Hopkins, Mathews and Cole, St. Louis."

"You're a long way from home.  Want to tell us what this is all about?"
He took a deep breath, glanced out the window, then down at the folder on the table for a moment, then looked across the table.

"My mother knew she didn't have much more time when the cancer came back.  She had undergone months of chemotherapy and had been told that she was 'in remission'.  But it came back, and this time in spades.  A few days in the hospital then to the hospice for what we knew would be a week at most.

"She called me one morning and asked me to bring her small jewelry case that she had always kept on her dresser at home.  In the back corner in the bottom of the jewelry case she dug out a ring box with a rubber band stretched tightly around it, handed it to me along with a sealed envelope. Made me promise to find you and deliver them.  That was to be the last conversation I had with her.  I have kept my promise.  They have not been opened ",  he said quietly as he placed the two items in the center of the table.

Paul stared at the envelope for a long moment, then met the gaze of the man across the table, then picked it up carefully, set the small black box in the center of the table and quietly fished a small pen knife from his pocket, carefully slit one side of the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.  He scanned it quickly, then read it again slowly and carefully then turned to Vernon.

"You better get to work, Vern, You'll be late and lose your job or something.  I think this guy's OK."  He turned and looked out the window and almost imperceptibly wiped his window side eye.

"But ........"

"Just get th' hell out of here, will you?"

"Reckon I am late, see you later..  Nice to have met you, Mr. Hopkins."
It was very quiet; Vernon retreated.

***

"So, Mr. Hopkins, John, what's the rest of the story?  I never forgot her; often wondered what had happened and how she spent the rest of her life.

"My mother and father had grown up in the same neighborhood, almost next door neighbors; schoolmates all through school.  My Dad was Edward Hopkins, same class in school as my Mom, perhaps you knew him?"

"Eddie Hopkins!,  Nerdy kid, always kept pretty much to himself, wore thick glasses and was always reading. Sure I knew him, not friends, but I knew who he was.  Go on."

"Mom said you and she had dated and things were getting pretty serious.  Her birthday was coming up in July and she suspected that you were about to ask the big question.  She knew that farm country and farming were not a life you had envisioned; you were looking to a bigger life in the city and beyond. All of her life and all her family and friends were in her home community and she feared being placed in a position where she would be asked to choose.  So she decided to preempt the situation by breaking her friendship with you and turning to her lifelong friend.  They were married quietly at the county seat in Corning, late in June.  After a short honeymoon in the Ozarks, the rented a small apartment in Poplar Bluff; I was born the following year.  Father went on to the University of Missouri for both his undergraduate work and law school, and partnered with an older attorney in Dexter and eventually took over the small town practice.  My uncle Thomas, (Mom's younger brother), came to the firm after Dad's partner retired and Jimmy Cole came along a few years later.  Dad moved the practice to St. Louis, where it thrived.   I completed law school,  joined the firm and became senior partner after father retired.  He died five years ago."

***

Paul quietly read the letter again and looked up at Hopkins, who returned his gaze impassively.

His gaze returned to the ring box, picked it up and watched the old rubber band crumble in his hand as he tried to remove it.  He pried the box open and out fell an old style high school class ring with a thin gold chain attached.   He picked up carefully and held it up to the sunlight coming through the window. The letters PHS were clearly emblazoned on it's face.  On one shoulder were the letters 19 and on the other side, 51.  Inside the band were the engraved letters "JPB".  Then quietly: "It's my ring, all right."

He looked at the ring again, held it up to the sunlight then placed it carefully back in the box, re-read the letter one more time, folded it carefully and slid it back into its envelope, tucked it in his shirt pocket and looked across the table.

Hopkins met his gaze with an impassive face and neither blinked for a very long moment.

"Do you have any siblings, Mr. Hopkins?

" Johnathan, please. No, I am an only child."

"I'm sure you  miss your Mom."

"I do. We were quite close."

"If you don't mind, when is your birthday?"

"January the 14th"

"January 14, 1953?"

"They said I was premature."

"then I guess you were a small baby then?" another steady gaze, similarly met.

"Seven pounds, five and one half ounces." He smiled and flushed slightly.

A long pause, then, "She told you". It was not a question.

"Yes"

"Well, I will be damned!  As God is my witness, I did not know."

"Neither did I until a few weeks ago."

"Always felt there must have been a reason; believed that she could not have been cruel as it looked. I was so angry for so long; now I'm sort of ashamed."

"No way you could have known."

"Well, it's good to know you, Johnnie." extending his hand across the table.  "Your middle initial, "P", what does the "P" stand for?"

He smiled, "Paul".

End