Blogcritics Author: Donnie Marler

Announcement: Short-content feeds

Phillip Winn — Sun, 26 Aug 2007 12:00:00 EDT

Sunday, August 26, 2007, marks the switch of all Blogcritics.org article feeds from full-content to short-content. This is the result of several converging factors, and is unfortunately a permanent decision (as permanent as any decision can be on the web, that is). We are aware of all of the reasons that this is a Bad Idea, and we are aware that some of you will be quite upset about having to click on something to read the free content, and we're sorry. Unfortunately, despite great effort, full-content feeds are not currently economically viable. Two other factors are involved: full-content feeds have resulted in an unprecedented level of content theft, with BC content appearing on many websites, usually spam sites, without attribution or permission. This duplicate content causes a cascading set of problems, not the least of which is that search engines generally aren't favorable to duplicate content, and don't always guess correctly. Finally, our RSS advertising partner is strongly in favor of short-content feeds. We hope that you'll continue to subscribe to BC via RSS, and when an article grabs your eye, it's only a click away, still free on the BC website. Thank you for your understanding.

I Watched, and I Remembered

Donnie Marler — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 22:50:03 EDT

My great-Aunts Elsie and Elzie were, at one time, the oldest living twins in the state of Missouri. They were 93, living in a care center here in town. Their husbands long dead, the old sisters once again shared a room as they had in their youth. Full of laughter, fun, wisdom, and stories of the old days, they were a joy to visit. My Pop went to see them at least twice a week, just to make sure they were doing alright, and more importantly, to keep them in the fold of our loving extended family.My father was a huge man. He intimidated a lot of people simply by walking into the room. He didn't mean to, and he didn't like it. It bothered Daddy that people would think he was mean. He was far from mean. He was the gentlest man God ever put on this Earth. One day, as Pop and I went to visit my great-aunts, there was an old woman sitting all alone in a row of chairs in the aisle. As we passed she grabbed my father's hand and asked, "Oh, honey! Did you come to see me?"Pop looked down at this lonely old woman, smiled, and said "I sure did, hon. I've been wondering how you were?"The old woman smiled from ear to ear as my Pop sat down next to her. She held his hand and talked about her children, how she missed seeing them, and how glad she was that Pop had taken the time to come visit. I sat and listened, wondering where he knew this lady from. After they'd chatted for a half-hour of so, Pop asked me to run and tell my aunts that we would have to come back tomorrow. He had to go get ready for work. I was more than happy to go get my hugs from Elzie and Elsie. I told them where Pop was and they both smiled and said, "Bill always had a good heart."As we were pulling out of the parking lot, I asked Pop how he knew that lady? "I don't know her, son. I just didn't have it in me to tell that old woman 'no' when she asked if I had come to see her."My father looked over at me and said, "Donnie, there are few things worse than being alone in this life, son. Your aunts understood. They know I'll come see them soon. That old lady has probably sat in that aisle many a day, hoping that someone would come to see her. Can you understand that, baby?""Yes, sir. I think I do, Daddy." He smiled, winked at me, and we drove home. This story illustrates my father. A kind and gentle man with a heart of gold and the faith of a child. I've been called a gentleman a time or two in my life. It always makes me smile, and it always takes me back in my mind to the one I learned it from. I watched how my father treated people, and I remembered.

Donnie Marler hails from southern Missouri. A lover of Harley's, pool games in smoky bars, cold beer with good friends, and his kids and grandchildren. He's a free spirit that lives for the wind in his face, love, laughter, and the road less traveled.

Ninja Turtle Green

Donnie Marler — Sat, 10 Mar 2007 13:05:09 EST

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Teenage Mutan..Oh! Sorry. You caught me. I’ve had that silly song stuck in my head for the past few days. Ever since I began helping Brendan with the task of painting his room in a Ninja Turtles theme. To a four-year-old, a green, purple, red, and orange room ‘rocks,’ in his words. To a Papa, it’s the next thing to experiencing the agonies Michelangelo experienced painting the ceiling of the Sistine chapel.“Pa, I want a red ceiling with green walls, and maybe purple stripes in the corner with orange around the top!” “Given this a lot of thought haven’t you, pal?” I asked with a smile.“Yes, Pa! This is my room, and Mommy said I could paint it if you would help me. Will you help me, Pa? Pleaaseee.”He’s a hard man to turn down. “Sure buddy, I’ll help you.” The smile on his face was almost worth the task before us.I explained to my daughter that I had no intention of painting his room. I wanted him to paint it. I would be in charge of drop-clothes and cleanup. Both Brendan’s and his floor. I had already gathered a few cut off broomsticks to put his rollers on so he could reach as high as he could as he painted. I’d help him with the high stuff, mostly I’d do the corners so it would be neat, but I wanted him to actually get to paint his own room! How many four-year-olds get to do something that neat? How many Papa’s are crazy enough to help?Brendan and I went to the lumber yard to check the availability of his color choices. Oddly, purple and orange aren’t popular home decor colors! Go figure. The lady behind the counter got tickled at him when he said he needed a hundred gallons of Ninja Turtle green! “A hundred gallons might be a bit much, pal.” We started with ten gallons of green, two gallons of purple and orange, and three gallons of red. The lady just chuckled when Brendan told her he was painting his room in every Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle color. “I see that, sweetie.” He just beamed with pride.Finally, we were back at the house. Paint at the ready, rollers put together, kid in his coveralls, and the floor covered. It was time to begin. A quick lesson from Papa in the proper usage of the roller led to our first mishap.“Okay, Brendan. All you do is roll it through the paint like this, then roll the extra stuff off so it doesn’t drip. After that, you just roll it up and down!”Thwack! The roller made that sound when he stuck it to my leg. “Like this, Pa?” he asked as he painted my jeans green.“Yeah, buddy. Sort of, but let’s try it on the wall!”“Sorry, Pa. I didn’t mean to do that. I was practicing what you showed me!”“It’s okay, baby. A man will always get covered in paint when he does this anyway.”“This is really cool, Pa! Really cool.” Brendan exclaimed through a beaming smile.Suddenly, standing in a small room with gooey green paint dripping down my leg didn’t seem like such a bad thing, after all.

Drumstick or Wing?

Donnie Marler — Sat, 24 Feb 2007 12:36:08 EST

Welcome to Heartland! I hope you will enjoy these lighthearted tales of life, love, and attempting to answer the question “Why, Pa?” a hundred times a day from a curious four-year-old grandson.I chose the title of this feature for two reasons. I live in the heartland of America, and I write from my heart. The America I know and write about is not found in Washington, D.C. It’s found in the small towns, the helping hands, the ready laughter of friends, and the gentle and slow passing of days in a rural community. Most of all, it’s found in the love of a man for his family and his home.Now, it’s time to wake my grandson for school. Join me?Helping my daughter wake my grandson up in the morning is a happy chore for me. It’s a fun and gentle time that helps get his day off on the right foot without any yelling or hurrying to upset him. He will often lay in bed with his eyes closed and a little smile on his face, wondering what Pa or Mommy will do next.This morning, as he lay giggling, pretending to be asleep, I told my daughter that I was hungry for drumsticks, and Mr. B's legs looked just plump enough! Laying beside him, patting him gently on the back, I said "Hmm... drumstick or wing? It's a tough choice, Mommy. I think I'll go for the drumstick!"As I tweaked his thigh, Brendan laughed, raised his arm toward me and said, "Pa! Try the wings!""But I want a drumstick!""Pa! You can't eat me. I'm a little boy, not a turkey!""You're not a turkey?""No, Pa! I'm Mr. B!""Then why do you have a long red beard and feathers?” "I do?" Brendan whispered."Yes, I think you're a turkey."Brendan sat up in his bed just to make sure he hadn't turned into a turkey in his sleep, and hitched a piggy-back ride downstairs for breakfast. He wanted 78 pieces of bacon, but settled for six and a few slices of toast.These little games start his day with a smile, and I think I enjoy them as much as he does.

Love In The Afternoon

Donnie Marler — Fri, 22 Dec 2006 22:25:20 EST

A recently released study claims an overwhelming majority of Americans have engaged in premarital sex. In homage to premarital sex, family lore, and heart-pounding adventure, I bring you this tale of young love and an unexpected encounter with the Bull of the Woods. I call it Love in the Afternoon.When my parents were courting they often double-dated with my mother's sister, Faye, and her boyfriend Jim. Aunt Faye was everything Mom wasn’t. She was outgoing, brassy, and bold, enjoyed a cold beer or a shot of bourbon, and could cuss like a sailor and fight like a man. It took a man with guts to date my Aunt Faye, and Lord knows, my future uncle, James Davis, had guts.Jim was a rough-houser, a down-home country boy from way back in the woods with an engaging smile, a ready laugh, and sparkling eyes full of mischief. Not much bothered Uncle Jim. He could get along with you, or not, and smile either way. He’d grown up a sawyer’s son and worked in the mills and on the farm all his young life. He was an immensely strong man and wasn’t afraid of much of anything. He was a bit afraid, perhaps, of my grandfather, who’d threatened to take a shotgun to the young lad if he got out of line with his daughter. Through Mom and Faye, my Dad and Jim met, and became as close as brothers for as long as they lived. The two had much in common. Daddy wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone either, and like Jim, he wasn’t one to shy away from a fight or a cold beer. My father always laughed as he told me about meeting Jim. Faye introduced him, and Jim looked up and said, “Damn! You’re a big sonofabitch, ain’t ya?” Pop said he laughed and shook Jim’s hand, and the bond was immediate between them. The four of them liked to steal away in Jim’s old Buick out to the country to go parking. They often found themselves along Halter Road, a little strip of gravel that survives to this day, and one which I made much the same use of growing up. The best spot on Halter was at the top of the big hill. From there, you could see a car coming from a half-mile away and it gave you time to get yourself situated before unwanted attention was paid to you by the authorities or an angry father.One lazy summer afternoon, the four found themselves at the top of the big hill enjoying a beer and each other’s company. Faye and Jim were a bit more, shall we say, 'advanced' in their relationship than Mom and Pop were at the time, and Faye let it be known that they’d like a bit of privacy. Pop led Mom off, and they took a hand-in-hand stroll down the hill to the creek that ran through the bottom of the hollows. I don’t know exactly what Pop had in mind, but being young myself once, I can make a pretty good guess. My mother was a chaste woman, and Pop didn’t get very far in his youthful attempts at amour with her. Momma believed in ‘ring before fling’ and suggested they cool their feet in the creek to get Pop’s body temperature down. As the two young lovers sat, soaked their feet, and talked on the moss-covered rocks of Halter Creek they had an unexpected visitor. The old farmer that owned the land had a big, black bull named Samson. He was a huge old bull, thick and wide with a bit of an attitude. He was the King of All He Surveyed. On this particular afternoon he surveyed my parents cooling their heels in his creek. The old fellow seemed to take offense at this trespass, and wandered over to lodge a formal complaint. Wrapped up in each other, the two lovers didn’t see Samson coming. Being a polite bull, he announced his presence with a deep huff, and Mom looked up to see him standing just ten feet away on the other side of the shallow creek. My mother was a woman prone to quick reaction in time of doubt or fear. When it came to the ‘fight or flight’ instinct, she had a double portion of ‘flight.’ Grabbing her shoes, she took off running as fast as she could back to the car, leaving poor Pop to fend for himself. Pop didn’t know what to do, so he took off running after Mom. Poor old Samson didn’t know what to make of all this but he must have thought, ‘hell, if everyone else is gonna’ run, I may as well too,’ and took off in hot pursuit of my parents.Reaching the car in a panic, my mother jerked the door open and dove into the back seat. Right on top of a very busy - and buck naked - Uncle Jim. Jim thought it was my grandfather and he let out a screech you could hear from a mile away. The poor boy thought he was a dead man! Faye was screaming at Mom to get the hell out of there, Mom was screaming ‘you go to hell, there’s a bull out there,’ and wouldn’t budge, and Jim was trying to get his pants on before Mom saw something she shouldn’t.While this was going on, my poor father was rolling on the ground laughing. It didn’t matter that Old Samson was just a few yards away. Pop couldn’t stop laughing at the funniest thing he’d ever seen. Samson himself seemed to think this was worth watching, because he just stood there pawing the ground and taking it all in.Poor old Jim lost about five years off his life when Mom landed screaming on his back. Faye was mad at Mom at first, but when she found out the whole story she laughed 'til she cried. She told Mom, "I wish I’d seen you coming, Mary. I’d have locked the doors just to hear you scream." I told you Faye had a mean streak!I remember my Daddy and my uncle telling me this story while my Mom’s face got red as a beet and Faye laughed. Jim said, “I’ll tell you what, son. I’m glad it wasn’t your granddaddy. I’d rather have taken my chances with Old Samson.”

A Time To Remember: A Christmas Story

Donnie Marler — Mon, 18 Dec 2006 18:15:29 EST

Four miles outside of town on a lonely country road, just around a hairpin curve to the left, lies Cedar Falls Cemetery. It's over two hundred years old, filled with brooding old oaks that tower over the graves and shelter those resting beneath that hallowed ground. It's a lonely, foreboding place that seems to take you back in time as you walk between the irregular rows of old and faded headstones.On the far left as you pull into the drive, along the fence row, lie seventeen graves whose occupants share my last name. I have come today to see them, along with my aging father. We visit our family a few weeks before Christmas each year to clean their graves and place small, colorful wreaths against the stones, to make them part of our Christmas celebration and to tell their spirits that they are not forgotten.As dad and I pulled weeds and cleaned fallen branches from the graves, he told me what he expected of me when he was gone. It's not a subject I enjoy talking about. But at his age he feels it's necessary to reassure himself that his son will carry on our traditions after his death, and to reassure his son that his death is nothing to fear."I hope you'll always do this, Luke. It meant a lot to your grandparents to take care of our family graves, and it means a lot to me as well. I trust you, Donnie, not to let it go when I'm gone.""No, sir. I won't let it go, Pop. I'll do it every year just like you always have."Looking into the fading blue eyes of a man who has meant everything to me, I was suddenly struck by an almost overwhelming grief. I felt the emptiness of his absence from my life and it broke my heart, and I had to turn away from him to hide my tears. "You don't like talking about me dying, do you, son?""No, sir, I don't."My father wrapped his arms around me from behind, and hugged me to his chest. I wondered as he held me, how many times had those arms sheltered me in my life? How many times had those hands, gnarled and twisted by arthritis now, gently brushed away the tears of a hurt little boy and sent him off with a pat on the back and a smile?"Don't worry about me, Luke. I'm an old man, son. God could take me at any time and I'm fine with that. I've tried to be decent and I think the Good Lord will take that into account."I had to smile at him. He's so at peace with himself and his God that he shames me sometimes. He has the faith of a child: simple, trusting, and innocent. He believes in a gentle and forgiving Christ. He believes all men are God's children and deserving of respect and dignity, regardless of color or country. He's a truly good man in a world that has too few good men. He has been the best of fathers and my best friend all my life. I ached looking at him because I know how very much I will miss him when he's gone. I hope he knows in his heart how much he means to me, how much I love and respect him. I've tried to tell him but words fail me as I attempt to explain such depth of emotion. I reached out and took my father's hand, and we walked back to the graves and finished our work. I love listening to my dad hum softly to himself as he works. I've always found that sound reassuring; it told me everything was alright, that he was there and there was nothing to fear. He caught me looking at him and I laughed as he winked at me and asked if I was going to let an old man do all the work. As we placed each wreath gently on the graves of our family, I reflected on how fortunate I've been in my life. How many gifts I have that I took for granted for so many years. One of the greatest gifts was working next to me as we payed tribute to our lost loved ones. He gave me love and patience. He was strong but gentle, and he was a father I could go to with any problem or question and be listened to and counseled wisely, without judgement on his part. Rising from our work, we shared a thermos of coffee in his truck and talked. He told me he'd gone to see Mom on his way to my house that morning."I'll be laid to rest beside your mother, babe. It's a long way from this place where so many of us are resting. Your mom wouldn't hear of being buried here, it's too far out in the country for her, so I guess I'll have to be laid out in a damn town.""Could be worse, Pop. If we'd put mom here she probably would have haunted us.""Oh, I think she would have if we'd done that! That's all I need, to get woke up at night by a mean old woman's ghost.""You're so full of crap, Pop."He laughed as he started his old truck and we drove back to my home. Dad was tired, so he dropped me off and headed for his cabin in the woods by the river. Watching him drive away, I was again grateful to have him as my father.Someday, the duty of taking care of our graves will pass to me. I'll place a wreath on my father's stone, and tell my sons about the greatest man I ever knew.

The Christmas Without

Donnie Marler — Wed, 13 Dec 2006 19:09:10 EST

The most memorable Christmas of my life is the year we had nothing. I was eight years old, and my parents' home had burned to the ground two weeks earlier. They had lost everything in the fire and we were living in our storm cellar. My parents were sad and worried that year, but as always, they put me before themselves and tried to make it special despite the loss.My grandmother lived next door to us. Her home was old and warm, with a large wood stove in the living room, and the memories of her life surrounding her. I loved that house, and I adored her. Granny's house had a loft that was my daddy's bedroom when he was a child. I'd climb the ladder and look over the rail at grandma and laugh. "You better be careful up there, little boy. You'll do just like your daddy did if you're not!""What did he do, Granny?""He fell! He was horsing around, just like you are now, when he slipped and fell on his fool head."I thought of all the happy moments I'd spent in her home as I looked at the ashes where it had stood. The heat from our fire had ignited Granny's house as well, and it was a total loss. My father had not only lost his home, but the house he grew up in. He was terribly sad over the loss of his mother's home, and I think Dad grieved over that more than anything. The loss of our home was sad but he was still young and healthy, and he could build it back. He knew he couldn't replace what his mother had lost and it hurt him deeply.The most difficult loss for my grandmother was her family pictures. She'd grabbed her wedding portrait off the wall and it was the only thing she had time to save. She told me later that it's funny what you think of at a time like that, and that all she cared about was saving a picture of her and my grandfather together. "As long as I have this, son, I can make another home."My father said he heard the explosion as the furnace malfunctioned, and had looked back in shock to see fire already rising from the roof. I'd never seen my dad cry before that day, but after he'd gotten me out of the house, he hugged me tight and when he put me down, his deep blue eyes were full of tears. Pop told me many years later that all he remembers thinking that morning was, "Oh, God. My boy's in there."As Dad spoke of that day, his voice was almost a whisper as he looked at me and said, "I thought I'd lost you." He couldn't say any more, but he didn't have to. I had children of my own then, and I knew how deeply afraid he'd been.As our homes burned on that terrible day, I stood in my neighbor's yard and watched. I had on a pair of pajamas and they were the only clothing I had left. The fire was fast and hot, and the houses old and dry. There was no chance to save them. As my mother softly cried in the arms of my grandmother and my father, our neighbors gathered around. Dad had always treated folks with respect and kindness, and now that he needed them they were anxious to help. As the men talked to my dad, he stood by me with his hand on my shoulder, holding me to him. Dad was a loving man, but he was never openly affectionate. He wasn't a hugger, he didn't say I love you every day, and I think it embarrassed him to do so. On that day, he became a different man. He knew I was confused and scared, and he stayed right by me. "Everything will be okay, Luke. I promise.""I know, Daddy."I remember watching my Mom and Dad sift through the ashes of our home hoping to find anything they could save. I'd never seen them so sad, and I would have done anything to make it all go away, to bring back what they had lost. I told Dad how sorry I was, and sitting on the ruins of our home, he gave me a little hug and said, "You and your Mom are okay, son. I can build it back. As long as I have you guys, I'll be fine."We spent that Christmas Eve in the storm cellar my grandfather built in 1917. It had a ten-step staircase and was large enough for a queen size bed, two chairs, and a bus seat. Light came from coal oil lamps, heat from granny's down-filled comforter and a small, wood-burning kettle stove.Dad cooked our Christmas dinner on a Coleman stove outside. We had fried potatoes, bacon and eggs, and sausage. It's still the best Christmas dinner I've ever eaten. Sitting in a cold and damp storm cellar, without gifts, without a home, but surrounded by people I loved that I knew would take care of me, was far more meaningful that any toy could have been.Over the course of the following year my Dad built a new home and a three-bay garage for his business, and bought my grandmother a small mobile home and placed it next to our new house. Things were never as they were again; no longer could I sit in Granny's old house and pretend to be my Dad as a little boy, no more nights spent lying on her floor listening to the antique radio in her living room. We had lost much of our family history and irreplaceable photographs, but we had what makes a family in our hearts, and we've never lost it. On that cold Christmas so long ago, I received chocolate chip cookies as my gift and fell asleep in the loving and protective arms of my father, and I was blessed.

We'll Take You Home

Donnie Marler — Mon, 11 Dec 2006 21:46:03 EST

War has many faces. My father and I encountered a solitary soldier walking along the side of the road many years ago. I don’t know his name or what became of him, but I will never forget him. I was around ten or so; call it 1971. The war in Vietnam was raging but I didn’t know a lot about it. I watched the news with Mom and Dad and felt sorry for the soldiers who were killed or wounded. I was insulated from the horror of war in the safety of my small Missouri home by youth and distance, and by loving parents who sought to limit my exposure to it.In the early afternoon of a hot summer day, my dad and I were driving down Main Street on our way to Flat River to pick up our order at the auto supply shop. Pop had been working on putting an engine in a lady's car. He’d run into a lot of problems with this one, and for one of the few times I can remember, my dad was in a foul mood. He didn’t have a lot to say, and was in a hurry to pick up our order and get back to work.As we drove, I could see someone walking in the distance. The heat rising off the blacktop shimmered in the sunlight, giving the man an almost ghostly appearance. Minutes later, we passed a soldier walking along the shoulder of the road. He looked tired as he wrestled his duffel bag into a more comfortable position on his shoulder and trudged on. Dad didn’t say a word; he simply pulled over and waited for him to reach our truck. I felt sorry for the man; his face and uniform were streaked with sweat and he looked worn out. I remember thinking how young he looked. Maybe eighteen or nineteen, and that surprised me. I thought soldiers were older than that."Where you headed, son?" my father asked."Potosi, sir. I’m headed home," the young man wearily replied."Hop in, we’ll take you home."The soldier's face lit up in a bright and happy smile. Thanking my father, he tossed his bags in the bed of the truck and climbed into the cab.I scooted over close to my dad and listened as they talked. I was surprised to learn this baby-faced soldier sitting next to me had been in Vietnam. He was too young! He was far too young, he was just a kid himself. They spoke softly, and every now and then I caught the soldier looking out the window at the pastures and hills rolling by like he couldn’t believe he was there.They talked about the war. The soldier said it had been rough and he’d lost several friends. He told dad they’d received some pretty mean treatment from a few folks on their way home. I didn’t understand that. Why would you be mean and hurtful to someone willing to fight for you? That didn’t make any sense at all to me. Glancing at my father, I saw he didn’t understand it either, but he sure didn’t like it.We were nearing Potosi and that boy was getting more and more excited. Dad asked where he needed to go in town.“You’ve brought me a good way, sir. You can drop me off at the city limits. I’ll find my way from there.”“No, sir. You tell me where, and me and the boy, we’ll take you to your door.”He smiled and thanked Dad again, and after a short drive we found his street. We were just a few blocks from his parents' home when I heard a funny sound from the soldier. As I looked at him I saw his chin quiver as he bit down hard on his lip. I don’t know why, but it touched my ten-year-old heart and brought tears to my eyes. I scooted over and hugged him, and told him I was glad he’d made it home safe. He sobbed as he put his arm around me and hugged me back.I’ll never forget pulling up in front of his parents' home. He tousled my hair and tried to thank my father.“I don’t have the words, sir.” he said, tearfully gripping my fathers hand.“Welcome home, son, and thank you.” As he turned away we heard a yell from inside the house. The soldier sat his bags on the curb and laughed happily as the door burst open and a little boy ran onto the porch jumping up and down, yelling “Momma! Momma!”We saw the soldier's mother and dad run down the sidewalk to their son. I cried happy tears as he lifted his mother in his arms and swung her round and round, clutched tightly to his chest. We saw him bear hug his dad and kneel down to lift the leaping little boy high over his head.Hearing the gravel under the tires as my father pulled away, the soldier turned and waved goodbye. I was so happy for him and his family. I was too young to understand war, but I knew he’d been in an awful place.As we drove down the highway toward home, I looked over at my father. His dark mood had lifted and there was a slight smile on his face.“That sure was good of you, pop. Taking that soldier home like that.” Laughing, I said “Hey Pop, you went fifty miles out of your way to get him home!”My father looked at me, and after a moment, softly replied, “Yeah son, I guess we did, but he went sixteen-thousand miles out of his way for us. Promise me son, you’ll never forget it.”“I swear, Pop. I’ll remember.”That was over thirty-five years ago. I still remember the simple joy of helping a young man reach his home upon his return from war. I pray for him still, as I pray for all our brave men and women defending us today. I don’t know if we’re wrong or right in what we’re doing, but I know each of those serving our nation has a family waiting and worrying at home. They are the faces of war, and I hope we never take them for granted again.To all the veterans of Vietnam who came home only to be called foul names, spat upon, and ignored -- there were many like my dad and I, who honored your service and were glad you made it back.Thank you.Welcome home.

A Christmas Story: Now and Then

Donnie Marler — Mon, 4 Dec 2006 17:21:46 EST

I put our Christmas tree up yesterday afternoon. For the first time, my four-year-old grandson Brendan helped. “We’re working as a team, Papa!” “Yes, baby. We’re a team.”When we were finished we sat on the floor and shared a cup of hot chocolate together. The look in his eyes is what I remember of my own children and it brings conflicting emotions. I’m so glad we can make Christmas special for him, but I’m sad that I can no longer do so for my own kids. I hate them being gone and I miss them so much at this time of year.After we’d finished our chocolate, I told Brendan there were a few more things remaining to do. Going out into the garage, I brought in a very special box. As I took the contents from the box one by one, I explained to Brendan what they were, and why I treasure them.The first item was an old manger, dusty and weathered by time. It's fragile and showing its age now, but it’s not Christmas without it.“Your great-grandmother Della gave me this when I was five years old.”“Gosh, Pa! How old is it?”“It’s forty-years old, son. I know that seems very old to you, as it did to me when I was young like you, but it passed so quickly, baby. You would have loved Granny, Mr. B, and she would have adored you.”“Was she nice, Papa?”“She was more than nice, son. She was the sweetest person I’ve ever known. We used to bake cookies together for Christmas. I mostly just got in the way, but she always had me help her. I loved sitting in her lap, eating warm snickerdoodles and drinking my chocolate milk.”“I like to help you, and sit in your lap, Pa!”“I know you do, baby. Papa likes it too.”Smiling at my little grandson, I placed my grandmother’s manger under our tree and carefully arranged the white cloth around it to make it look like snow. My mind was flooded with memories of a lady I loved with all my heart and who I miss every day of my life. I can still see her smile, her eyes twinkling behind small, round glasses. I miss the warmth of her hugs, our talks on the porch, her tenderness and her wisdom. My grandmother gave me a great gift, a gift I had to become much older to appreciate fully. She believed in me. I hope she’s looking down from Heaven today, and can see how much her little grandson still loves and cherishes her many years after her death.Turning back to the box, I took out three tattered old stockings. They belonged to my children when they were small. I remember their excitement on Christmas morning when we handed them the stockings stuffed full of cookies and small toys, and with a note from Santa to each child. Brendan and I went downstairs to the fireplace, and as I lifted him up he placed each stocking on the mantle so Santa could see them. “Mama has a surprise for you, baby.”“What is it Pa?” he asked, wide-eyed.“Better go see!”Brendan ran up the stairs yelling, “What do have for me, Ma?” After a moment, he excitedly cried out, “Pa! I got my own stocking! It’s just like the others and it has my name on it!”“Well, you better bring it down here, honey.”Brendan came back downstairs carefully holding his stocking so it wouldn’t drag on the floor. I lifted him again, and he proudly placed his alongside those of his aunt and uncles.“Will I get something from Santa in my stocking, Pa?”“Have you been a good boy this year?”“Yes! I’m always a good boy except when I’m mad.”Laughing, I told Brendan I was sure his stocking would be stuffed as full as Santa could get it. His happy smile lit up the room, and his Papa’s heart. He ran to tell his Mommy about his special gift, and left me alone in the family room with my children’s memories for a few moments. Where did the time go? How did my babies grow so fast? It seems like only yesterday when our home was filled with their laughter. When bedtime meant changing giggling little bodies into pajamas with feet. God, how I miss them. The only regret I have over my children is that I cannot do it all over again. I was lucky; I realized they were a gift from God and I cherished every day with them.They’re grown and gone now, with children of their own. I'm very proud of them, but I still long for the days when they were small. My daughter laughs at me sometimes because I’m so sentimental. I can’t help it, it’s just who I am. I suppose it’s silly for a grown man’s eyes to fill with tears when he thinks of those he’s lost along the way. Sometimes the tears are sad and lonely, sometimes they’re filled with longing for another day of my long-ago life. Mostly, they are simply expressions of the love and gratitude I feel for those wonderful and wise people who made me what I am. This year, Christmas is even more special because of how horrible and trying the year has been. I was hurt but I’m alive. My body was broken, but my spirit didn’t bend. I called on the strength and love of my youthful memories to pull me through. They didn’t fail me.On Christmas morning I will watch my beloved grandson tear into his gifts with glee. I will smile, and his joy will be my greatest gift this season. My eyes will wander to the stockings hanging over the fireplace and the manger under the tree, and I will once again recall special people and cherished memories. I will see, in my mind’s eye, the bustle of my grandmother's kitchen and hear her soft singing as she bakes cookies for her grandson. I will hear again the laughter of my own children on those ancient Christmas mornings when they were young, and I will softly thank God in my heart for all his gifts to a foolish and undeserving man.

WW II: Sharing a Bottle With General Patton

Donnie Marler — Tue, 28 Nov 2006 11:07:09 EST

During the push of the U.S. Third Army across Europe in the closing days of World War II, the war-weary troops of General George Patton began to allow themselves to dream of the end of the conflict. The Germans fought desperately, knowing defeat was all but certain. Caught in the bloody pincer of the Soviets on one side and the Americans on the other, they were like "a mad dog trapped in a corner," according to Sgt. Marvin Cook. Mr. Cook said the worst fear he had was dying this late in the game with victory so close at hand. It was a "bitter and hard-fought" end to the Thousand Year Reich.Even in the heat of those last terrifying days of World War II in Europe, American servicemen found reason to smile at the antics of their brothers-in-arms. Mr. Cook had a friend, a Corporal named Al from New York City, New York that Marvin claims could "find a bottle of wine in Hell." It seems Al was adept at finding the only surviving bottle of booze in a bombed out village. It was a talent greatly appreciated by his squad, but one the officers were less enamored with.One memorable day, as Al climbed out of a cellar strewn with bricks and timber from the shelling, carefully shielding a crock of wine, the soldiers got an unexpected surprise. After a cursory glance around to make sure no officer was looking, the boys popped the cork and took the chance to taste it. "Damn good stuff. We were so happy to find it and pass it around that we didn't notice the jeep until it was too late. "My heart fell plumb to my stomach when we saw the flag on that jeep. The flag of a General Officer named George S. Patton." It was the first time Marvin had ever spoken to General Patton. The exchange between this legendary General and a dogface Sergeant is both comical and telling of both men in extraordinary circumstances."What the hell are you men doing? The goddam Germans are that way, and you're standing here with your thumbs up your asses?" Sgt. Cook, being the highest-ranking NCO standing there, was the one to offer the explanation. "Sorry, General. We were just having a quick smoke and talking about going home, sir.""Home? Why you ignorant sonsofbitches are going to get killed standing here gawking! What the hell is that bastard hiding behind his back?" "It's a bottle of wine, sir." "Wine! Where the fuck did you find wine? Never mind. Don't just stand there, Sergeant, bring it here." "Yes, sir!"Sgt. Cook took the crock from Al and walked to the jeep to hand it to Patton. He expected to see the General throw it to the ground and proceed to tear into them for drinking. He got a shock when this feared General popped the cork and took a healthy drink. "Jesus! I can't believe my men are drinking this piss!" Replacing the cork, Patton tossed it back to Sgt. Cook. "Take one drink each, bust that damn bottle, then get your asses in gear. We've got a war to win." "Yes sir, thank you, sir." "If you find any more goddam wine, if it's better than that crap, let me know." "Yes, sir."Yelling at his driver to pull out, Patton stared at the men of Sgt. Cook's company as they moved away, and Cook said he had a smile on his face. "That was my only run-in with that crazy bastard, and I'm glad. He was a tough bird, but we would have followed him into Hell. No, that's wrong, son. We did follow him into Hell, and he brought us out the other side."Two men, a famous General, and a tenderhearted, soft spoken, future high school teacher and piano tuner shared a moment of their lives in a war-torn Belgian village. General Patton probably wouldn't have remembered it today, but a Sergeant from a small Missouri town will never forget his one face-to-face meeting with "Old Blood and Guts."

Madness 101; Holocaust Archives To Be Opened

Donnie Marler — Sun, 26 Nov 2006 23:52:04 EST

The numbers are staggering. Stored in a German archive so vast there are nearly sixteen miles of corridors, crammed onto floor to ceiling shelves, over fifty-million files giving mute testimony to the savagery and inhumanity of the Nazis during the Holocaust await their long overdue release to the public.The archival evidence of Hitler’s mad Final Solution is irrefutable. Page after page of death, torture, inhumane medical experiments, and fear. I wish the records had been opened long ago, before so many survivors desperate for information concerning the fate of their loved ones had passed away.It’s difficult for me to imagine what it must have been like during that time for the ‘undesirables.’ The Jews, the gays, the blacks, the gypsies, and anyone else Hitler decided had no right to live. It is far more difficult to imagine myself as one of the perpetrators, killing women and children indiscriminately, without remorse, and considering it my duty to do so. I doubt I will ever understand the collective madness of that time in history, and I am very glad that I don’t understand it. I’m glad that I can’t find anything within myself that would make my participation acceptable.I suppose the only real explanation for participating in the slaughter of innocents was the fear of what would happen if they refused. I doubt the Nazis would have hesitated for a second to shoot down the conscientious objectors to the Holocaust. I believe there were very few ‘true believers’ in the Final Solution, but they were vicious and heartless in their application of madness on a grand scale. I hope I would have had the courage to refuse. To choose an honorable death over a life of shame and grief. I know I could not have participated and lived with it. I would have ended my own life and gone gladly into hell to escape hell. There are things worse than death.The pages of the archives can tell us what happened to the victims. Who died, when, and where, and in many instances, how. But they can never reveal the true horror of what happened. Pages cannot cry out in fear, they can’t beg God to save them, and they can’t spend the last moments of their lives desperately trying to save their children. Paper can’t feel pain, it doesn’t bleed, and it doesn’t scream when it’s cast into a fire. The people murdered by the Nazis did. We owe it to them to remember what happened, and we owe it to ourselves to live up to the promise of ‘never again.’ Our world has witnessed what happens when humanity is sacrificed at the altar of ideology and hate. My next door neighbor, Mr. Marvin Cook, fought his way across Europe with Patton during World War II. He speaks hesitantly of those sad and lonely days, but he reserves his deepest emotions for his stories of the U.S. Army finding the death camps of the Nazis. It’s hard to listen to this old man talk about it, to see his pain and sorrow still keen after all these years. He told me of his platoon sergeant, a man he calls the “meanest sonofabitch in the U.S. Army,” a ferocious fighter and a hard man. Mr. Cook said he saw this man cry only one time, when they stumbled onto a concentration camp the Nazis had fled in a panic before their arrival. He told me of his platoon sergeant staring around the camp saying, “Oh My God! What are they doing here? What the hell are they doing here? Sweet Jesus, what are they doing.” Mr. Cook told me “a lot of tough boys cried like babies that day. Me too, hell, there was no way not to cry at what we saw.”The opening of the archives will be painful for many Holocaust survivors and their families, but they have to know what happened. They have to discover the fates of their loved ones. They have a right to know, and very little time left.As for the rest of us, I hope we will realize the importance of containing madness before it’s too late.