What’s the coolest present that you’ve ever received for an anniversary? My husband and I do anniversaries a little bit different. We don’t really buy each other gifts. Instead, we pick out something nice for the two of us to enjoy, usually a trip of some kind. Of course, he always sends the obligatory (and gorgeous) flowers. He has also slipped in some very unique trinkets along the way, because he spoils me way more than he should (shhhh – don’t tell him).
Anniversaries can certainly see spouses outdoing each other for gifts, and here is a whale of an anniversary tale (Yow! Pun alert) that I discovered last summer on the Historic Route 66. It was a road trip packed to the gills (zing!) with so many quirky stops. One of the most unique was the Catoosa Blue Whale. It’s exactly like it sounds. In a tiny lake by the side of the road in Catoosa, Oklahoma, there resides a gigantic blue whale. You don’t have to go out of your way to find it either. It’s right off the 66, and that neon blue gentle giant is pretty hard to miss.
Once upon a Holiday season in 1885, some generous folks put up a Christmas tree in a Chicago hospital. As everyone did back then, they illuminated the evergreen with lit candles. Candles symbolized the coming of the light or the Christ child, and they made the tree look oh-so-pretty. Indeed, the glow and flicker from those candles must have been dazzling… until one fell off the tree and landed on the floor. Since evergreen is quite catchy when it comes to fire (you’ve all seen that Christmas tree fire video right?) it wasn’t long before the blaze flared out of control. Mass panic ensued as personnel scrambled to evacuate patients. Most of the building burned to the ground. As the incident gets scant mention on the world wide web, I wasn’t able to learn of any deaths or serious injuries. So, hopefully a Christmas miracle prevented any, but that wasn’t the case with many a Christmas fire back in the day. Fires from Christmas tree candles claimed a lot of unwitting victims and caused serious burns – especially for children. Read More
You know, I was so excited to post this yesterday for 11/11, but sometimes things don’t go as they ought! I took a bit of a tumble off the kitchen counter (always use a step ladder, folks) so I spent yesterday dealing with a broken wrist instead! However, my thoughts still often turned toward the day itself and what it means to me. Not just the overwhelming debt I feel towards all veterans, but also the end of WWI. When my husband and I went to Belgium last year, we visited the Menin Gate. Seeing all those names struck me to my core. I couldn’t even say a word the whole time we were there. I could only look at all those names and think of what each one represented. A family shattered. Hearts broken. So many tears. And the questions. Because many times in WWI and a lot of other conflicts, loved ones don’t even have the closure of knowing what happened to their fallen soldier. So, as part of my ongoing poetry series, this one is for the missing.
LET ME TELL YOU HOW I DIED
PART II – SEGMENT 4
Try as you might, but you won’t find me
Because when I died, there was no one to see
I was just one soldier in this sea of death
Just one in a million, my dying breath
You’ll find my name on some lists here or there
“Missing in Action, but we’re not sure where”
You’ll search and you’ll search, you’ll scour the ground
But there wasn’t a trace of me left to be found
You’ll go to an office and bang on the door
You’ll sit in a waiting room, you’ll pace the floor
You’ll pour out your heart in a letter or two
But they can’t really tell you what you should do
No closure is hard, I can sure understand
But this was a war that consumed the whole land
Every battlefield was covered in bones
So many men from different places and homes
And I was just one that passed through those years
Your sobs count for few in an ocean of tears
Because I’m just one name on a huge roll call
One Unknown tomb will have to count for us all
To Be Continued…
To Read Part II segment 1, click here.
For Segment 2, click here.
Segment 3, here.
And remember… always use a step ladder!
Once upon a late night in Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, two college administrators were throwing in the towel. It was a long day at Old Dorm – one of the few original buildings on the campus of Gettysburg College. It was a busy place on the fourth floor. There was paperwork to file. Admissions to check. Records to store. It was a lot of work, and it was easier after the students were gone for the day. So, these two dedicated ladies clocked some serious overtime in exchange for the peace and quiet. However, it was long since quitting time. Now they headed for the elevator.
Let’s set the mood before their bizarre tail unfolds. The corridors were probably dark. The few lights that were on flickered with a quiet hum. The women, chatting and happy to be headed home, stepped into the elevator. One pressed the button for the first floor. With a jolt, the box began its slow, creaking descent.
I first read the Grapes of Wrath when I was in junior high. Perhaps a bit young for such heavy content, but sneaking “grown up” books was one of my favorite childhood past times. I’m glad I got my hands on this one, because it remains one of my favorite novels ever written. It wasn’t just the dramatic struggle of the family Joad that hooked my attention (although, that was hard to turn away from, and you’ll never forget that ending). It was the story of the so-called “Okies” in general. Because in the Grapes of Wrath, Steinbeck used a brilliant technique of weaving the Joad family into the history as a whole. Side by side, he told two stories. He unfolded the trials of the Dust Bowl at large, but he also made it human with his family Joad.
He also introduced me to a road. A mother road. A road of flight. A single road that was a vital artery for Westward travelers, and that spanned most of the way across the United States. “Route 66 is the main migrant road,” Steinbeck wrote in his novel. “…66 is the path of a people in flight, refugees from dust and shrinking land… they come into 66 from the tributary roads, from the wagon tracks and the rutted country roads… Cars pulled up beside the road, engine heads off, tires mended. Cars limping along the 66 like wounded things, panting and struggling… People in flight along 66. And the concrete road shown like a mirror under the sun…”
I bet you’ve been wondering where I disappeared to over the last several weeks. Well, I’ve been a little bit of everywhere, if you want the honest truth. Sometimes, we all just have to refill the old well – both the spiritual well and the writing well. As for my husband and me, one of our favorite ways to do that is with a road trip. Usually, it’s just a short jaunt to somewhere close, like Solvang or Santa Barbra. Maybe if we have some extra time, we’ll do Big Bear or Yosemite. For this road trip, well… we went a little grander in scale.
Both of us have had long-time dreams to do Route 66. Not just a state or two. We wanted to do the whole dang thing. I had wanted to try it ever since I first read the Grapes of Wrath (which was much longer ago than I will admit here!) My husband’s parents went several years ago, and he had always wanted to follow in their footsteps. Read More
A while back, I wrote a post about a big explosion on the Ypres Salient in WWI. It had an impact, you might say – oh, the puns. Many of my friends here on WordPress said it reminded them of a similar incident that occurred during the US Civil War. So I thought, why not make that article a two-parter? Here for you is the story of the Petersburg Mine of 1864. My readers were right to point out that the two stories follow a very similar path, right down to the horribly tragic ending.
It’s been awhile since we’ve checked in with this incredibly long poem, hasn’t it? I figured it was time to post another segment.
In the First World War, poison gas saw its first large scale use on the Ypres Salient in 1915. It was a very potent chlorine gas, and it caused hundreds of casualties and almost 70 deaths. As the war advanced, so did the cruelty of this particularly barbaric weapon. Phosgene and Mustard gases were introduced, both of which rotted the lungs and caused blisters and burns on the skin. Some variants of these gasses were invisible and hard to detect by smell, which meant soldiers wouldn’t know they were exposed until they were already symptomatic. I’ve read many accounts of gas attacks on the Western Front, and it’s hard reading to get through. Poison Gas became one of the most infamous aspects of the first world war, and one of the most feared weapons. Although it’s difficult to read about much less write about, I felt I had to include it in this poem. Here for you is the third segment of Part II of the “Let Me Tell You How I Died” war poem series. Read More
When you visit a city enough times, you learn some fantastic things about it. One of my best friends lives in Seattle, and it is an easy plane ride from Los Angeles. So, I have become a frequent visitor to the rainy city up north. As a 10-years-running SoCal resident, I can’t quite get used to all the gray skies and moisture, but I have still found a lot of charming things about Seattle, including the famous underground (click here to read all about that). On my latest visit this past April, my friend took me to another Seattle attraction that is um… well… not like something you would find in other cities. In a word, it’s gross. However, I mean that in the most amazing way possible.
Ladies and gentlemen, say hello to the Seattle Gum Wall! Which, as you can see, is actually an entire alley way that is covered, from top to bottom, in sticky, germ-infested, multi-colored, disgusting wads of already chewed gum that smell like a stale candy store. From the minute I smelled it coming, I could tell I was in for a treat. And trust me, you definitely smell it before you see it. My friend and Seattle resident who took me there, Erin, warned me that I would – “that wall is two senses in direct contrast to each other,” she said. “Everything smells amazing, but I don’t want to touch anything!”
It was 1944 in Benouville, a little village in France. German soldiers had occupied it for four years. Every day, they infiltrated the humble little town for food, drinks, and supplies. They didn’t always ask nicely either. They invaded private homes for billets, and they constantly paced back and forth over the gray-painted road bridge over the Orne Canal. Their boots clunked on its metal surface, and the shadow of its tower enveloped them. They nestled machine guns in its steel flanks, and they strapped packs of explosives underneath it, with a single button to set them all off.
It seemed like a small bridge to make such a fuss over. However, along with another bridge in Ranville, this was the only crossing of the River Orne and Caen Canal. Without those two bridges, German defensive units would be ensnared with delays and run-arounds in the event of an invasion. German command wanted those bridges held at all costs when the allies came. If it looked like they would be taken, then they would have to be destroyed.