Monthly Archives: February 2018

History, Politics, Sports

Olympischer Nationalismus

It’s Olympic time again.  The athleticism and elegance have been, so far, most extraordinary.  Most memorable.

Her name is Aliona Savchenko, and I suppose it’s possible to forget her name.  Even her story.

His name is Bruno Massot, and I suppose the same goes for him.  Sigh.

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The modern Olympic games were founded mostly on the energy and vision of Pierre de Coubertin. He sought to improve international relations and harmony through the (supposedly) non-political path of sports competition. It was certainly a beautiful vision; but I’m not sure he’d be quite so happy with how things have turned out.

I’m also not sure how or when the Olympics became so nationalistic.  I personally find all the nationalistic shouting a bit embarrassing and – considering Baron de Courberin’s vision – a bit shameful. It pains me to hear of nations’ medal counts, and the focus on athletes’ nationalities.

In the first few modern Olympics – 1896, 1900 and ’04 – athletes competed only for themselves, and perhaps their local sports clubs. Like “The Milwaukee Swimming Club.” There was clearly no nationalism.

So, how did it start? Perhaps the first inkling came at the 1908 London Olympics.  The Games had first been awarded to Rome.  But Italy was struggling and in recovery from a massive eruption of Mt Vesuvius in 1906.  The games were reassigned to England.  It was the third consecutive time that history had contrived to put the Olympics in the same city as the World’s Fair.  In those days the World’s Fair was a much bigger deal than it is now; much bigger than the Olympics.  They almost didn’t survive.

In those early years, when the Olympics were held alongside the World’s Fair (1900 in Paris; 1904 in St Louis), it was often not clear to spectators and competitors what sort of event it was. An Olympic event, an Olympic demonstration, or even a World’s Fair competition? Decades afterward, Margaret Abbott went to her grave never knowing that she had won an Olympic Championship in 1900, as discussed here: Olympic Lyon and Abbott.

That’s when the first “Parade of Nations” in an Opening Ceremony occurred. It seems to have been a pageantry and marketing ploy to make the Olympics standout against everything else going on around.

In that “parade”, the American flagbearer Ralph Rose – a shot putter and giant of a man at over 6’-5” and 250 pounds – refused to “dip the flag” as the American contingent passed before King Edward VII. Throughout the games the British judges and referees were perceived by many to be more than a bit biased against the American athletes.  So petty.

I suppose some flames of healthy patriotism will naturally spill over into blatant nationalism.  Consider the Cold War, and the heavy, boot heeled Soviet oppression behind the Iron Curtain, and especially upon the states of Hungary and Czechoslovakia – the brutal suppression of pleas for freedom there in 1956 and ’68. Or anti-colonialism, as teams from around the world competed against, say, the United Kingdom.

On the other hand, thumping of chests over medal counts, and hoping for a victory by someone – an otherwise nameless and faceless person – who wears the colors of your country, or the country of your ancestors, strikes me as out of bounds.  Strikes me as unsportsmanlike and well outside of what Baron de Courberin envisioned for all of us.

And worse, shouts of “U-S-A!! U-S-A!!”, accompanied by fanatic flag waving, bring, for me, visions of 100,000 Germans singing “Deutschland über Alles” in Berlin, 1936, under countless Nazi flags, their right hands extended in salute to their Führer. All this as German athletes – whether they ascribed to the Nazi political philosophy or not; and many did not – racked up victory after victory.

Even with Jesse Owens and “The Boys in the Boat” participating, a united pre-war Germany overwhelmingly “won” the medal count at the Summer Games in ’36. There were plenty of opportunities for nationalistic and enthusiastic German sports fans to throw out their right hand, show off their Nazi tolerance – if not complete sympathy and allegiance – and shout “Deutschland!!!!”

(Of course, Norway easily “won” the medal count in the ’36 Winter Games, hosted also in Germany, in beautiful Garmisch-Partenkirchen, Bavaria. For some reason the IOC allowed the same country to host the winter and summer Olympics in 3 of the first 4 Winter Olympics.  The only exception was 1928, when Amsterdam hosted the Summer Games; clearly The Netherlands was an inappropriate Winter Games host. The games were held in St Moritz, Switzerland.  Then, both Olympics were suspended for ’40 and ’44 for WWII. After that, each has been hosted in separate countries. Since 1994 they are not even in the same years)

The games are for the athletes and their performances are for us to admire.  Period. The end. Unless you are from very, very tiny Liechtenstein, I don’t see any need for particular pride for a country’s medals.  [Per capita, Liechtenstein has certainly won the most medals in Olympic history.  At a population of under 40,000 they have gained a total of ten winter games medals, two of them gold, over the years.  Astounding. If the US had won at the same rate, they’d have about 90,000 medals, all time. “We” have fewer than 300 Winter medals; and only 28,000 if you tally Summer Games – which are heavy on track and water events and in which Liechtenstein has never seriously competed.)

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Aliona Savchenko is a world-class figure skater.  At age 35, she is “ancient” compared to many of her competitors. As her name suggests, Aliona Savchenko is Ukrainian, competing for that nation in the Salt Lake 2002 Olympics, as well as the Goodwill Games.  Before that she won the pairs competition Nebelhorn Trophy “for the Ukraine” in 1999.

A new coach and a new partner led Savchenko to move to Chemnitz, Germany.  After initial struggles, they soared to German and European prominence.  She earned German citizenship and won bronze medals at the 2010 and ’14 Olympics (in Vancouver and Sochi).

Again, she changed partners and coaches, hoping to beat the “biological clock”, and perhaps give gold one last shot. 2018 would be her 5th Olympics. Her new partner was a Frenchman, from Normandy, Bruno Massot.

Yet again, after initial struggles with a new partner and coach, the team blossomed, earning the German championship and gaininig world recognition.  However, their participation on the great world stage was hindered: As nationals from two different countries, they could not be a team, unless the native’s country would permit it.

Of course, France would not simply let Massot skate for Germany; they eventually made him pay 30,000 euros for a release.  Blatant blackmail if you ask me. The French say they let him off easy: they first asked for 100,000. But the Olympics would be something different.  How much would that extortion cost? So, Massot applied for German citizenship. It was approved just last November.

So here we have Germany – who will long be remembered for their ancestors’ hateful attitude and treatment toward outsiders – long be remembered for their horrible occupations of France and Ukraine – long be remembered for Nazi atrocities – today accepting over one million Middle Eastern Refugees.  And now accepting a mixed French-Ukrainian figure skating team as their own.

Massot is a strong, powerful and graceful skater.  Six feet tall and solid muscle.  Savchenko is a bit of a “doll” at a full foot shorter.  But all five feet of her is dynamite.

Savchenko & Massot: Beauty, elegance, grace and athleticism

Of course, they won: a Ukrainian and a Frenchie ironically competing under the German flag. Sorry to repeat: It was Savchenko’s Olympic fifth try — with two different countries and three different partners. That’s persistence.

When the final scores for the Russian team went up (the last team to skate), and it was clear Savchenko and Massot had won, the bronze-winning Canadian team – led by the adorable and ebullient Meagan Duhamel – rushed over to congratulate and hug them. Yes, there were tears of joy all around – they don’t call it “kiss and cry” for nothing – and for a moment I felt like joining them in a “tissue moment.”

Yes!! This! This is what the Olympics should be about.  We don’t care which countries win the events; or the most medals.

The athletes are showing us what it is about.  Breaking down barriers.  Ignoring international boundaries.  Ignoring politics.  And simply admiring the human spirit… in ourselves and in each other. And demonstrating what that spirit can lead athletes – what the human spirit can lead all of us – to accomplish. Isn’t that why we loved and remember Nadia Comaneci?

Tomorrow the women’s teams from Canada and the US will compete for the gold medal in hockey.  Personally, I win (and lose) either way; I have allegiances both ways.  And, yet, I’m sure that after a very hard-fought re-match they will sincerely hug and congratulate each other.  And many will probably cry.

And that will be in keeping with the hope, spirit and intent of Baron de Courberin. Or, in other words: something we can all aspire to.

As to the French? Well, we will be in Caen — Bruno Massot’s home town in Normandy — later this spring. My guess is they will have a plaque or a sign up, trying to steal away a little of Bruno’s glory. And M. De Courberin will toss in his grave.

Thanks for reading

 

Joe Girard © 2018

 

 

 

 

Autobiographical, Biographical, Entertainment Industry, History

Shaw’s Jaws

“In that clear water you could see the sharks circling. Every now and then, like lightning, one would come straight up, take a sailor, and take him straight down. One came up and took the sailor next to me. It was just somebody screaming, yelling …” – Loel Dean Cox, USS Indianapolis survivor [1]

In August, 1989, my wife and I “did” southern California.  Including Disneyland and Universal Studios.  Then we only had two kids: the oldest nearly four years old, the next just over one year old.  I doubt they remember.

I clearly remember the robotic sharks at Universal Studios tour that were used in the thriller movie “Jaws.”  Parts of the movie flickered through my mind’s projector screen.  Intrigued, I resolved to watch it again, the next chance I got.  I think we rented the video tape and played it on VCR shortly thereafter (remember VCR?).  I don’t think my wife watched much of it.

Great Whites can exceed 20 feet

I can vividly remember the day that I first watched “Jaws”, in August of 1975.  I was not quite 19 years old and I was working a 7-to-4 job in an unairconditioned Arkansas sweatshop factory that summer ‘twixt my freshman and sophomore years at A-State.  I had a high school friend on his way, via Continental Trailways bus, from Wisconsin. We planned to go to a late evening showing when he arrived. It was a Friday.

Right after work was the company picnic.  It was my first introduction to southern-style deep-fried catfish and hush puppies. I was a strapping growing lad.  “Self-indulgent” doesn’t begin to describe my ravenous consumption.  I stayed late to make sure there were no leftovers. Then I hustled down to the bus station to fetch my buddy.

A few hours later – in the theatre – well, I didn’t feel so good.  Pretty rumbly in the tummy.  And a rather gruesome film didn’t help.  When shark expert “Hooper” suddenly and unexpectedly sites Ben Gardner’s face while investigating the underside of Ben’s fishing boat late at night … of course, late at night … well, I got the sudden urge to lose about five pounds of southern deep-fried crap food.  I did make it to the toilet in time — just barely.

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Even though my wife and I are already members of a great health club (Camp Gladiator) –  each 1-hour session is a team event –  we recently joined a second club.  It is only a couple minutes from our new home.  It is quite inexpensive, especially considering the many benefits available.  We use it to augment our team workouts with individual strength and cardio work in its huge facility. It has hydro massage, hot tub, sauna … One of the blessings of being mostly retired.

Benefits and cardio work.  In one of the cardio rooms the club has the largest video screen I’ve ever seen, outside of a theater. Probably 40 feet across.  Very wide screen. Last weekend I dropped into it for the first time to burn several hundred calories and to watch that old ‘70s suspense thriller movie that I had seen twice before.

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“Jaws” is blatantly a modern twist on Moby Dick. It has a great white shark instead of a great white whale; and has a crazy old seaman named Quint instead of Captain Ahab.  Directed by young, still-largely-unknown, 26-year old Steven Spielberg, and based on a book by Peter Benchley (subbing for Herman Melville), the movie stands out for a few more parallel reasons with “Moby.”

[Warning: a few minor plot spoilers ensue]

First, as a sort of old-time adventure story, there are no major female roles in the storyline.  Second, even though there is a lead protagonist in each story (Ishmael in Moby, Chief Brody in Jaws) the roles most remembered are those of supporting characters.

Roy Sheider does a very good, yet non-showy and straight up, portrayal of Police Chief Brody.  Yet he was, in my estimation, totally upstaged by two remarkable performers, playing their roles expertly.

A very young looking Richard Dreyfuss plays the shark expert Hooper.  Hooper is the rich, over-educated, know-it-all, smart-ass city boy.  Dreyfuss is convincing as Hooper, the outsider here on the island, who gets roundly antagonized for it, and refuses to change. This was when Dreyfuss was just becoming a big star (his only big hit ‘til then was “American Graffiti”); he was only 26 at the time of filming.

To me, even Dreyfuss is quite upstaged by Robert Shaw, who plays crazy seaman Quint.  Quint, it becomes obvious from his first appearance on set, is quite attracted to the idea of hunting and killing large sharks. As it turns out, he had good reason.

Robert Shaw as Quint

We learn that reason in back-to-back scenes aboard Quint’s boat, while the three main characters are out hunting the killer great white shark at night.  Of course, it’s night.

These are two of my favorite scenes in cinema history, even though overall the movie is not all that spectacular. These scenes come back to back; in fact, technically, they are probably from the same scene.

In the latter of two scenes, all three have had a bit to drink – Quint of course acting as ringleader. He starts mumbling one of his crazy sea songs and is interrupted by Hooper (Dreyfuss) who breaks out into “Show me the way to go home … (I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.  I had a little drink about an hour ago, and it got right to my head)”.  Soon, the other two have joined in – I wouldn’t call it harmony – pounding in synch on the table.  To this point in the story, the three have gotten along poorly.  Now they have bonded. That’s when the shark rams the boat.

Immediately preceding this scene comes – in my opinion — one of the best and most memorable monologues in cinema history.

Hooper and Quint have been at each other for most of the movie.  The scene has gotten a bit testy – alcohol enhanced – when Hooper and Quint start comparing injuries and scars. Antagonism is turning toward warmth and respect.

Eventually Quint wins the scar contest.

How? He is asked about a scar on his arm that turns out to be from a removed tattoo.  What did the tat say?  Hooper teases: “Don’t tell me: MOTHER”, then roars at his own joke.  Softly, Quint replies: “USS Indianapolis, 1945.”

Brody seems ignorant of the significance. Hooper is incredulous that Quint was on board.  And then Shaw/Quint breaks into a 670-word monologue describing his experience as a survivor of the USS Indianapolis.

Clearly whoever wrote the script for that had done some in-depth research on survivors’ testimony and knew how the lines should be delivered.  Turns out that person was Shaw, himself.

Besides being a terrific actor, it turns out Shaw was also an accomplished writer of novels and screenplays.  Correctly sensing that it would be one of the most important scenes of the movie, perhaps the one most remembered, Shaw did not like the original versions and convinced author Benchley and director Spielberg to let him re-write it himself.

One reading – with Shaw’s newly acquired crazy-seaman-northeastern accent – and they were all confident: Shaw had nailed it perfectly.

Filming the monologue took only two takes.  The first did not go according to plan.  Shaw was a hard drinker his whole life – had been since losing his alcoholic father to suicide at age 12 … those damned genes – and he decided he should do the scene a little under the influence.

Except, he was a lot under the influence.  He awoke the next morning with little recollection of the shoot and feared it was terrible.  I suppose everyone else thought it was OK, but Shaw begged to reshoot it.

He did it straight up sober and magnificently. [Video: Shaw’s USS Indianapolis talk] [4]

Born in England (Lancashire), and moving first to Cornwall and then to Scotland after his father’s death, Shaw must’ve had quite the breadth of accents down before coming to acting.  It’s kind of unfortunate that he got typecast in movies; it’s just that he played the crusty old-guy so well.  He was an accomplished theatre actor, touring widely and doing mostly Shakespeare, into his mid-twenties. But he did have a gift for accents; in his film career, he played a 16th century British king, an Israeli spy, a Russian spy, A German WWII officer, and a crusty Long Island fisherman.  [3]

Crusty old guy? Shaw was never an old man.  He was only 46 for filming Jaws – although he looked and acted about 66.  His hard-drinking and workaholic ways — both exacerbated by losing his beautiful wife rather young (age only 42), just before Jaws was released — led to stress and poor health. He passed on, age only 51, from a heart attack, on the road just outside his cottage in Toormakeady, Ireland.

Anyway, at least he left us some cinematic memories.

Ben Franklin famously quipped that nothing is so sure as death and taxes.  I’ll add that the quip will never die; and both can be so unfair.

Speaking of taxes, Shaw essentially made nothing for his role as Quint – even though Jaws was the first movie to gross over $100 million, was probably the first Summer Blockbuster, he got first line billing and it is probably his most remembered role.  Why? Taxes, taxes, taxes.  The jaws of taxes. His taxes were excessive that year from reported income in Canada, Ireland, Britain and the US, reducing his US take-home pay to nil.  I wonder if those governments spent his millions wisely?

Here’s hoping for some modicum of fairness in your lives, dear readers.

Adieu for now.  “Show me the way to go home.  I’m tired and I wanna go to bed ….”

Joe Girard © 2018

Footnotes:

[1] http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2384393/Survivors-1945-sinking-USS-Indianapolis-explosions-shark-attacks-worst-sea-disaster-U-S-naval-history.html

Shaw made one slight mistake.  The torpedoes hit on June 30, not June 29.  However, the torpedoes hit at 12:03AM, so a survivor could be forgiven for thinking it was the day before. The movie script was adjusted so that the shark attack on the young boy was June 29.

[2] Story of Robert Shaw as Quint: http://www.legacy.com/news/celebrity-deaths/article/robert-shaw-as-jaws-quint-8-facts

[3] Short version of Shaw’s filmography:
From Russia, with Love
A Man for All Seasons (as Henry VIII)
Battle of Britain
Young Winston (as Winston Churchill’s father, Lord Randolph)
The Sting
The Taking of Pelham One Two Three
Jaws
Black Sunday
Force 10 from Navarone

 

[4] Copyrighted text to Jaw’s screen play: Shaw’s talk about the USS Indianapolis.

[Actually I’ve come across two versions of this.  Not sure which is more correct.  Guess I need to see the movie, again].

HOOPER: You were on the Indianapolis? In ’45? Jesus…

(Quint remembering)

               CLOSE UP ON QUINT

QUINT

Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, chief. It was comin’ back, from the island of Tinian ta Leyte; just delivered the bomb. The Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes.

Didn’t see the first shark for about a half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen footer. You know, you know that when you’re in the water, chief? You tell by lookin’ from the dorsal to the tail. Well, we didn’t know. `Cause our bomb mission had been so secret, no distress signal had been sent. Huh huh. They didn’t even list us overdue for a week.

Very first light, chief. The sharks come cruisin’. So we formed ourselves into tight groups. You know it’s… kinda like `ol squares in battle like a, you see on a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo. And the idea was, the shark nearest man and then he’d start poundin’ and hollerin’ and screamin’ and sometimes the shark would go away. Sometimes he wouldn’t go away. Sometimes that shark, he looks right into you. Right into your eyes. You know the thing about a shark, he’s got… lifeless eyes, black eyes, like a doll’s eye. When he comes at ya, doesn’t seem to be livin’. Until he bites ya and those black eyes roll over white. And then, ah then you hear that terrible high pitch screamin’ and the ocean turns red and spite of all the poundin’ and the hollerin’ they all come in and rip you to pieces.

Ya know by the end of that first dawn, lost a hundred men! I don’t know how many sharks, maybe a thousand! I don’t know how many men, they averaged six an hour. On Thursday mornin’ chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player, bosom’s mate. I thought he was asleep, reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up and down in the water, just like a kinda top. Up ended. Well… he’d been bitten in half below the waist. Noon the fifth day, Mr. Hooper, a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low and he saw us. He’d a young pilot, a lot younger than Mr. Hooper, anyway he saw us and come in low. And three hours later a big fat PBY comes down and start to pick us up. You know that was the time I was most frightened? Waitin’ for my turn. I’ll never put on a lifejacket again.

So, eleven hundred men went in the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out, the sharks took the rest, June the 29, 1945.

{pause}

Anyway, we delivered the bomb.

Autobiographical, Biographical, History

Gravely Speaking

Well, it’s more confession time for Joe.  Here is a new one: I like cemeteries.  Not so much the end of life part, or the eerie part about thousands and thousands of earthly remains gathered in one place. I’m not a Poltergeist-kind-of-guy.

No, it’s the countless untold stories. Just because stories are lost doesn’t make them less real.  Each stone has a story with many, many chapters.

I’ve liked walking through cemeteries for over 40 years now.  It’s not exactly something I go out of my way to do.  Except, perhaps, to visit my parents’ final resting place a couple times a year, and to pay silent, solemn tribute at Military Cemeteries, such as in Luxembourg, the Netherlands (both Arnhem and Margraten), and Arlington National. This spring we hope to visit Normandy’s.

I’ve sort of converted my wife now.  Wherever we travel – when we have a few minutes to spare – if we find ourselves near a cemetery … well, we take up the interesting task.  We’ll stroll up and down aisles, looking at names, dates, inscriptions.  We’ll stop at a few and try to imagine the stories of their lives.

As you dear and devoted readers know: I like stories.

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It’s been over a decade now, but I used to coach quite a bit of competitive youth soccer.  We were a “travel team.” That means our “away” games were truly away. In addition, we traveled to several tournaments each year.

One of the Denver metro locations for soccer matches is Fort Logan, on the west side of town.

Ft Logan was, as the name suggests, a military post for many decades.  It was shuttered shortly after World War II, its grounds converted to recreational pursuits (as in soccer fields) and a large military cemetery.

Large military cemetery. You see, every US veteran is entitled to a free plot in a military cemetery.  Plus, a spot for their spouse.  I use the word “free” advisedly.  They all paid dearly in blood, toil, sweat and tears – some also with their life, others with their sanity. At a minimum, they gave up some of the best years of their lives. In fact, Ft Logan is where my parents are resting.

For away soccer matches we typically car-pooled.  Distances could be from 10 to 100 miles, one way.  Normally the kids vied for a chance to be in my car.  I was pretty easy going, usually not saying much beyond game prep (are you hydrated, got your gear, morning menu), until the kids ran out of stuff to talk about.  Then I’d jump in with a non-stop commentary, interweaving strategy, tactics and training with multiple clean jokes. The goal was to get the players simultaneously at ease and focused.  I was a gas – most of the team tried to get in coach Joe’s van.

The car-pool to Ft Logan, some 20 miles away, was different.  After our first match at Logan the word spread: don’t drive with coach Joe.  You might get a burger afterward, but between the end of the game and the eating there would be torture.

Here is the reason.  Instead of going straight home or to McDonalds, I’d drive the kids over to the adjacent cemetery.  I’d drive slowly and aimlessly until they agreed on a plot where we should stop.  Then we all got out of the car and walked together, slowly, up and down rows, sometimes criss-crossing between rows. Occasionally I’d stop at a stone for a few moments before moving along.

We continued doing this until they all could agree on a particular stone we should stop at.

When they agreed, and we stopped, I looked at the stone.  It would say something like:

Francis J. Ferrari
 1924-1969
 SFC US Army WWII
 Purple Heart
 He Loved All

After a minute of silence or so – I’m sure it seemed like an hour to the kids – I would begin telling the story of Ferrari’s life (This is all made up.  I can’t recall any of the names today.  I just know I did this “imaginary history telling” quite a few times).

“Francis went by Frank.  To his mom he was always Francesco (being sure to pronounce the c as “ch”).  That had been her father’s name. She was from the old country, Sicily. She had moved to the US when she was only 13.  Frank was born just a few years later.

“Frank was the oldest of six kids from a very loud and mixed Sicilian-Italian family in New York.  In fact, he spoke Italian, although his father didn’t like it. ‘We’re in a new country now’, he insisted.  It was his dad who demanded he be named Francis, not the classic Sicilian ‘Francesco.’

“Frank was a senior in high school when Pearl Harbor was bombed.  Two friends and he rushed down to the Army Recruitment Office a couple days later to volunteer, after war was declared. He graduated early, passed his physical examination, and went off to basic training a few months later, in Georgia.  He had never been out of New York City before.

“He fought with Patton in North Africa.  Then he fought to free Europe from totalitarianism. “

—  “Coach Joe.  What does all that other stuff mean?”

“Oh, the SFC means he was promoted several times before the end of the war.  SFC means Sergeant First Class.  He was a leader without being an officer. He fought alongside his men.

“The Purple Heart means he was wounded during his service in the military.”

—  “How did that happen?”

“It was September, 1944.  About 2-1/2 years after he signed up and had endured many hardships like illness, hunger and loss of dear friends already. In a bold stroke to try and free the Dutch people of the Netherlands quickly — and possibly end the war by Christmas — he was part of a massive Allied surprise attack behind enemy lines.  His regiment was supposed to hold many of the small towns and bridges in eastern Netherlands – a stretch of about 50 miles – so that mechanized divisions – tanks and such – could drive up a major highway and clear out the Nazis. Unfortunately for the Allies and the Dutch, that plan didn’t work out very well.

“And, unfortunately for Frank, his platoon took a near direct hit from an 88mm artillery shell.  Shards of metal were implanted deep in his leg and butt. Many of his buddies perished.  He survived, but also suffered permanent hearing loss — I think it was his right ear — and a severe concussion from the shock wave.  He was never the same again.

“By the time he had physically healed, in a hospital in England, the war was nearly over.  So he was sent home to his parents.

“You can see here that he died fairly young.  Only about 45 years old.  Some of your parents are that old already; some older.

—  “Oh.  How did that happen?”

“He never got over the sight of so much blood and dying.  He never quite got over not being able to play sports anymore; the injuries took that away from him.  And he never quite got over the brain damage from that concussion.  Although he married and had children and was a loving father, he never got over being generally sad.

He fell into poor health habits. He moved the family to Colorado for the clean air, but a flu virus came around, he caught a bad case, and he died rather quickly.  He left three children, probably about your age.

“This stone here.  This stone engraved with his name, age, rank – this stone is all the thanks he ever got. So, let’s thank Frank.  Let’s thank Frank for giving so much of himself to make this world a better place.”

After another brief moment of silence, the kids were rewarded with a trip to McDonalds – even if we had lost the match.

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Last month my wife and I went over to Tahoma National Military Cemetery, in Kent, Washington.  Her parents are there.  Her dad is a Pearl Harbor survivor, USS California.  Regular readers know that Audrey recently lost her mom, a Holocaust survivor.  We dropped by to pay our respects, leave a few pebbles, and ensure that the stone had been engraved properly.

Since it was an unusually pleasant Pacific Northwest January day, we took a stroll around the beautifully groomed grounds.  We walked into and out of a few plots.  We walked both together, usually holding hands, and sometimes alone. Probably almost a mile around a wide loop. We took note of some stones and exchanged a few thoughts on what the personal stories might be.

Jesse Barrick, Medal of Honor Awardee

When, to my astonishment, we came across this stone pictured here. In my wildest imagination I wouldn’t have ever expected to come across a Civil War Medal of Honor Awardee tombstone this far west of the Mississippi. Now here is a story that surely cannot be made up.

Quite a story it is, too.

I will spare you my telling of his story, and how his remains came to rest just outside Seattle.  The links are below. They are short, interesting reads.

It is a tremendous testimony to the efforts we as Americans go through to give veterans their proper and honorable recognition. No matter how much time has passed and no matter the distance.

And rightly so.

Wishing you all peace and happy story telling – tall or real, stories are important.

Joe Girard © 2018

Disclaimer: Any resemblance to a real person or anyone with the name of Francis J Ferrari is purely accidental.  I had and have no intent to intrude on anyone’s history in this way.

[1] Jesse Barrick, Home of Heroes Biography and story. 

[2] Jesse Barrick Bio, Seattle Times, http://community.seattletimes.nwsource.com/archive/?date=20000911&slug=4041754