Dear Miss Alma

The Old Man misses you. You left us 14 years ago today. You're still ever present in our thoughts and our hearts.

Love,
CS, Martha, Lauri, & Julie

The Remembrance of Heroes

The Old Man has a collection of heroes. Some are pretty obvious, the others are unaware of their status. In the spirit of this weekend of honoring and remembering those who have given their lives to preserve our freedom, I want to share something that came to me this week. I don't usually include in my posts material from outside sources, but this one is special. Special for a couple of reasons. First, it is a touching account that honors those whose names we may never know....whose deeds go unheralded. And second, because it was sent to me from one of my veteran heroes. A. J. Sartin spent his time in Vietnam as an Aviation Medic-Helicopter, patching up and caring for those who had fallen. Injured there, he proudly carries the designation, "Service Connected Disabled American Veteran". I've known A. J. for a long time, but had been out of touch for a lifetime of career and separate pathways. Lately, I've come to learn more about his service and discover that we share a deep patriotism. By the way, he'd love to see you stop by his website, http://www.floridadude.com/. Give it a try...you'll enjoy a bit of humor, and enjoy a lot of fun, mostly about the "Florida lifestyle".

So now, enjoy and be touched by this account (coincidentally titled The Old Man)

The Old Man...

As I came out of the supermarket that sunny day, pushing my cart of groceries towards my car, I saw an old man with the hood of his car up and a lady sitting inside the car, with the door open. The old man was looking at the engine. I put my groceries away in my car and continued to watch the old gentleman from about twenty five feet away. I saw a young man in his early twenties with a grocery bag in his arm, walking towards the old man. The old gentleman saw him coming too, and took a few steps towards him. I saw the old gentleman point to his open hood and say something. The young man put his grocery bag into what looked like a brand new Cadillac Escalade and then turned back to the old man and I heard him yell at the old gentleman saying, " You shouldn't even be allowed to drive a car at your age." And then with a wave of his hand, he got in his car and peeled rubber out of the parking lot. I saw the old gentleman pull out his handkerchief and mop his brow as he went back to his car and again looked at the engine. He then went to his wife and spoke with her and appeared to tell her it would be okay.

I had seen enough, and I approached the old man. He saw me coming and stood straight and as I got near him I said, “Looks like you're having a problem.” He smiled sheepishly and quietly nodded his head. I looked under the hood myself and knew that whatever the problem was, it was beyond me. Looking around I saw a gas station up the road and told the old man that I would be right back.

I drove to the station and went inside and saw three attendants working on cars. I approached one of them and related the problem the old man had with his car and offered to pay them if they could follow me back down and help him. The old man had pushed the heavy car under the shade of a tree and appeared to be comforting his wife. When he saw us, he straightened up and thanked me for my help. As the mechanics diagnosed the problem (overheated engine) I spoke with the old gentleman. When I shook hands with him earlier, he had noticed my Marine Corps ring and had commented about it, telling me that he had been a Marine too. I nodded and asked the usual question, "What outfit did you serve with?" He had mentioned that he served with the first Marine Division at Tarawa, Saipan, Iwo Jima and Guadalcanal. He had hit all the big ones and retired from the Corps after the war was over. As we talked we heard the car engine come on and saw the mechanics lower the hood. They came over to us as the old man reached for his wallet, but was stopped by me and I told him I would just put the bill on my AAA card. He still reached for the wallet and handed me a card that I assumed had his name and address on it and I stuck it in my pocket. We all shook hands all around again and I said my goodbyes to his wife. I then told the two mechanics that I would follow them back up to the station. Once at the station I told them that they had interrupted their own jobs to come along with me and help the old man. I said I wanted to pay for the help, but they refused to charge me. One of them pulled out a card from his pocket that looked exactly like the card the old man had given to me. Both of the men told me then, that they were Marine Corps Reserves. Once again we shook hands all around and as I was leaving, one of them told me I should look at the card the old man had given to me. I said I would and drove off. For some reason I had gone about two blocks when I pulled over and took the card out of my pocket and looked at it for a long, long time. The name of the old gentleman was on the card in gold leaf and under his name.......'Congressional Medal of Honor Society.' I sat there motionless looking at the card and reading it over and over. I looked up from the card and smiled to no one but myself and marveled that on this day, four Marines had all come together, because one of us needed help.

He was an old man all right, but it felt good to have stood next to greatness and courage and an honor to have been in his presence. Remember, OLD men like him gave us FREEDOM for America. Thanks to those who served....& those who supported them.

America is not at war. The U.S. Military is at war. America is at the Mall. Remember, Freedom isn't "Free" -- thousands have paid the price so we can enjoy what we have today.

"Free At Last, Free At Last,..........."

The Old Man feels a certain kinship to all children this time of year. The school year is winding down at warp speed and the ecstasy of the just-around-the-corner summer vacation is beginning to permeate kids like the smell of gym socks permeates a locker room. It's so easy to remember the feelings the Park Street Battalion had when mid-May was behind us. They revisit me often. The windows to the school rooms were opened and the smells and sounds of spring flew in on us like a tsunami. There was always one class or another on recess. With envy, we would listen to balls hitting bats, swing set chains rattling, and the normal cacophony of "kiddom". It seemed our turn would never come. It was pure torture to be forced to deal with our 300 year old teacher droning on and on about some king in some country in some year at war with some king in some other country in some year. There was always the smell of honeysuckle. It covered a fence on one end of our school's playground. Some of us would squander our entire recess just pulling blooms off the vine and sucking the sweet nectar out of them. Oh how we longed to escape.


By this time in the school year, we had endured the "Dark Ages" of January and February when no holiday gave us respite. We'd suffered through May Day where we were forced to learn some really goofy dance routine. Boys should never be required to skip. At some level, I'm probably irreparably damaged, and may end up on Oprah. We'd learned about all there was to be in that school year and the last couple of weeks were pretty much worthless.


Finally, the big day arrived. Out we were. Usually a half-day, we'd dawdle our way home with that great sense of emancipation only a kid who'd been cut loose can feel. There is no better feeling in the world than the feeling of total irresponsibility. As our chant went, "No more lessons, no more books. No more teacher's dirty looks."

Safely ensconced in our bookbag or in our lunch sack would be our final report card. You always wanted to see two things: "Conduct" or in some grades, "Citizenship" carry an A. Of more importance, was the phrase, "Promoted to 5th grade". In those days, children learned early the lesson that society eventually teaches. You will fail or succeed based on how hard you apply yourself. So when "society" came calling, we already knew the outcome of the contest. Those lessons serve me to this day.

The battalion wasted no time immersing itself in summer activities. Sleep late, head out to play ball, or war, or cowboys, or even a three-day Monopoly game on Marvin's front porch. All too soon though, a summertime spectre appeared on the horizon. It afflicted our parents like a virus. They became almost zombie-like; chanting in unison, "Vacation Bible School starts next week, Vacation Bible School starts next week, Vacation Bible School starts next week. "

And we knew, we just knew, things were gonna get weird.

Sharp Top Becomes Heartbreak Ridge

The Old Man has so many happy memories of the times at The Peaks but for five families in 1943 the memories of the Peaks are bitter indeed, as World War II intruded on Bedford. It bullied its way into our comfortable world.

February 2, 1943 was clear and cold. A light snow had fallen the day before and Bedford scooted closer to the fire to pass the long night. My mom and her friend Mary (Kenny's mother if you're a regular follower of the blog) had just come out of the Liberty Theater after catching the 7:00 movie. Along with the rest of the town, they heard the roar of engines and looked up to see a plane pass over at a very low altitude. Mom said the plane was so low, she could see lights in the cabin, and she remarked to Mary, "He'd better get higher or he'll never clear the Peaks." It was later determined that when the plane passed over Bedford it was flying at an altitude of only about 2000 feet. Sharp Top is almost 4000.

Just a few minutes later, those with a view of Sharp Top saw the flashes of explosions against the side of the mountain followed a few seconds later by their sound. An Army Air Corps Mitchell B-25 Bomber, like the ones made famous less than a year earlier by General Jimmy Doolittle who led the famous raids on mainland Japan from the decks of the carrier USS Hornet, had flown at its full 230 MPH cruising speed into the side of the mountain. The plane hit the mountain with such force and then exploded so violently that the debris field covered a wide area of the rugged terrain. Parts were in trees, others scattered about like a child's Lego project gone bad.

The accounts of the crash were discussed around Bedford for years to come. As I became older and began to learn of that hellish February night, I grew closer to those involved. One became my little league football coach, another ran a sporting goods store, and still others attended our church. Many of these people were first responders that night and provided accounts of the horror they found there.

After a torturous 3 hour climb during which they had to hands & knees crawl over ice and snow, sometimes slipping and sliding back 50 feet or so, they finally finished their climb to hell. There were no whole bodies. A decapitated torso here, an arm there, and all were mangled and charred, some still smoldering. One rescuer finally left the scene around 10:00 AM the next day, upset because he had not yet located the head of one of the crew members. While it took several days, the bodies were all recovered.

Fast forward about 35 years. A friend of mine and I hiked to the site. Most of the wreckage was still there and I assume, still is. We examined all we could see. The remains of one of the big 13 cylinder Wright Cyclone radial engines, most of it melted but some bolts with safety wires still intact, a landing gear with the rubber wheel still mounted, some miscellaneous scrap metal and part of a wing, a boot heel.......that I could not bring myself to pick up.

As time went by, the crash became more and more a distant memory, hardly talked about. I visited it a couple of times more but then adulthood and family responsibilities intervened and I moved on. The "Bedford B-25" began to retreat from collective consciousness into the back mental filing cabinets.

Around 1999, a new generation of interest became apparent. There was a resurgence of awareness, and an effort was launched to memorialize these 5 brave sons of liberty who gave their lives, training to protect us all.

Second Lieutenant George R. Beninga; Marietta, Minn.
Second Lieutenant Hiliary S. Blackwell, 22; Santa Monica, Cal.
Second Lieutenant Paul M. Pitts, 21, the pilot; Poteau, Okla.
Second Lieutenant William McClure, 22, Indianapolis, Ind.
Corporal Peter J. Biscan, 29; Chicago, Ill.

Barely out of their teens, they died on an icy cold mountain, alone, terrified, far from loved ones and home, and mostly forgotten by the world.

A fund-raising effort was mounted, and finally, on June 2, 2001 a plaque was placed commemorating and paying tribute to their sacrifice.

Once more, as these airmen fly in a higher realm, a grateful Bedford and the world says, "Thank you".

Pick A Peak

The Old Man is going to spend a little time with some follow-up to the trout fishing posting. The streams mentioned in that article are in the Jefferson National Forest, part of the Blue Ridge Mountain chain. Located there as well, are the Peaks of Otter. At some point, otters were very special to the area. Even the Bedford High School athletic teams were all called the Otters. In Bedford there is Little Otter creek and Big Otter creek. Otter River School is there as well. Interestingly, no one I've ever known has seen an otter around Bedford. Could be worse, I guess. They could be called the Peaks of Wombat.

These twin peaks are among the highest in the range, and are closely interwoven with life in the town of Bedford.

Only about 10 miles out from town, the Peaks impacted our lives on a daily basis. The peak on the left is known as Sharp Top. It appears to be higher than its sister Flat Top, but that is optically illusional. Flat Top is actually the taller of the two.

Visible from the head of Park Street, they served as our weather forecaster. If rime ice or snow nestled there in the mornings when we headed off to school, we knew that soon the winter chill would be upon us. Much like the "woolly worm" technique of prediction, "snow on the Peaks" was thought to portend a cold winter. A cry of "snow on the mountain" created excitement in the Park Street Battalion. In the little valley between the two peaks, there was a hospitality center of sorts. There you could catch a bus ride up most of the way to the top of Sharp Top. A thrill-a-minute ride as the old bus grunted and strained like the fifth day of an intestinal back-up. The little road was full of switchbacks and s-curves. In winter, that whole operation closed up.

Snow brought out the daredevils. A caravan of cars would make it's way up to the area, full of little snot-noses and sleds. We'd hike about one third of the way up the mountain, and then down the road we sailed. Our own private luge run. To a 10 year old kid, it seemed we were "balling the jack" at at least 347 miles per hour. If you want a real treat....try this at night.

The Peaks served as our summer air conditioner. When summer's heat and humidity became more than we could take, Mom, Dad, and I would head up to the Peaks. There was a spring there in the picnic area. For centuries, the Cherokee knew the area well and used the spring as a fresh water source. In typical Native American no-nonsense fashion, they named it Big Springs. To this day, it still bubbles. We drank freely from its coolness while we unpacked our picnic basket. Just to sit under the trees and enjoy the delightful freshness of the mountain air brought comfort from the oppressive August heat.

On those trout fishing trips I mentioned, we could count on seeing the elk. Sometimes a lone buck would bolt across the road in front of us, and several times I saw the herd of about 20 grazing in an open meadow. In the cemetery across from my house, a section is dedicated to those members of the Elk's Club who wish to be buried there. A life size statue of an elk sits at one end. I remember seeing that and wondering if any animal could be that big. Then I saw for myself. They could. "Progress" caused the herd to vanish through the years, and a sadness came to Bedford. But, all is not lost.....thanks to some diligent conservation efforts, the elk herd is beginning to rebuild. I hope we humans have learned something.

I've been to the top many times. Those who make the trip are rewarded with one of the most magnificent vistas possible. Of course, for a kid to spend time up there with his dad.....well as the saying goes, "It just doesn't get any better than this".

Stay tuned, for the next post will uncover tragedy and heartbreak on Sharp Top Mountain.