Remembering Mr. Kraus

Rain - Hi 71 Lo 63 for Baghdad, Iraq
Sunny - Hi 85 Lo 50 for Qandahar, Afghanistan
Sunny - Hi 65 Lo 36 for Northern KY, USA

Song of the week: I Need a Lover, Johnny Cougar
Before John Mellencamp was John Mellencamp, he was Johnny Cougar and then later John Cougar. This name was a record company decision and not his... Eventually he was able to be John Mellencamp. I like John Cougar and even some of the John Cougar Mellencamp stuff. . His breakout album of course was 1982's American Fool album-- the one that had Jack and Diane, Hurt So Good and my favorite from that album Have a Hand to Hold On To. The year I graduated was the year of "little pink houses"... Oh Gawd... yuck. But it also had the song Play Guitar which is simply fun. I like his older stuff... the Sunday Song is funny... there is a sense of humor to the lyrics and the composition of the song pulls you in and builds to a crescendo- an exclamation of needing someone that won't make him crazy! Along the way and over the years John became angry. He takes himself way too seriously. He also picked up the paint brush and has done some interesting art work. Like his present day persona, it is dark, thick, unattractive and angry. I'm not sure why the small town boy became so angry... maybe he has forgotten... something... I hope he can find his happiness. Life is too short.

Ramble:
As a kid, I was incredibly fortunate to have a great deal of stand out teachers. My Kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Reed held my hand and introduced me to other kids in the class... being painfully shy... she took a great deal of time to make sure I was OK.

Mrs. Sleichter was about 102 years old when I had her as my 2nd grade teacher... Gawd she was mean. But for whatever reason, I really liked her. I remember there was this kid that was always throwing up in class, so the janitor would always have to come in and throw that kitty litter stuff down... I remember she was forever sending him to the corner because the kid got sick all the time. She insisted we were all old enough to realize when we weren't feeling well and should ask to be excused. She was a strict disciplinarian... and did not tolerate fidgety 7 and 8 year olds. Mrs. Sleichter was the only teacher to impose corporal punishment upon my behind...why? Because she had issued a dictate... "The next person to drop their pencil will go out in the hallway for a swat." Ya... you guessed it... I dropped my pencil...

My 4th grade teacher was Mrs. Carroll and I loved her... all the kids did... She was beautiful and smart and kind and generous and young. She read Ramona to us... This particular grade school was in a town that was supported by GM and the plant had closed... it was predominantly blue collar, unemployed, and single parent homes. My neighborhood was gross... I digress. Anyway the two 4th grade teachers took a great deal of time with the kids... We were pushed in reading and math and history. We were studying Japan and Mrs. Carroll asked if I would teach the rest of the students how to use chop sticks... That was disastrous... buttons and chopsticks everywhere... Because so many kids came from broken homes, Mrs. Carroll took time with each of her students. She was engaged and an active participant in our formative years. She called home and spoke to my mom on a regular basis. She knew our situation and how late my mom worked. Mrs. Carroll would often stay late at school with me to help ease some of the monetary woes my mom had and this helped a great deal with the cost of a sitter. Anyway, toward the end of the school year Mrs. Carroll indicated to the class that she was moving away and wouldn't be back. She was 24 and was moving with her husband to support him while he finished obtaining his Master's degree. We all cried. It was horrible. She promised to write all of us, but in turn we would have to write her. I kept in contact with Mrs. Carroll up through high school. She was a source of advice and friendship. She was a wonderful and kind person and I wish I had stayed in touch. I had heard that after she put her husband through several years of school and a number of affairs, he divorced her. Terrible.

Then in 8th grade I had Mr. Benton... my uncles and father had this man as a teacher... This man walked to the beat of his own drum and did not apologize for it. He was a large robust man with a large booming voice with a Kentucky accent. He had the same buzz haircut in the 70's as he did in the 50's. He wore black horn rimmed glasses, navy blue work pants and suspenders every day. He was the first history teacher I had that expected us to pay attention and to pay attention to what was happening in the world today. He loved our country and what it stood for. It was the first time I remember recognizing that sort of pride in someone outside my own family. He would make proclamations about organized religion and that if he wanted to go out in the front of the school yard and worship under the tree, he could do that. Why? Because this was America! A staunch conservative and a little crazy? Perhaps.

Mrs. Zando was our English Lit teacher and she introduced me to Shakespeare and the Greek and Roman gods and goddesses and all the wonderful mythological stories. She loved Shakespeare and it is because of her, that I have such an appreciation. At that time, my grandmother had given me a charm bracelet and each birthday and holiday she would add to it. Mrs. Zando asked if she could contribute to my bracelet. She gave me a delightful little silver Dutch shoe from when she had visited Holland... It is still on my charm bracelet. To this day, I love reading mythology.

High school brought a handful of teachers that made a difference in my life... Mrs. Brough, Mr. Wolfe, Mr. Enders--- he loved Dolly Parton, and Mr. Kraus.

Mr. Kraus is the reason for this week's post. Jimi, an old friend brought to my attention that Mr. Kraus had tragically died this past May. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. NO. This was not possible. Mr. Kraus was the only teacher I had all four years of high school. So, he literally watched me grow up.

He was one of my art teachers- being art class-- there was considerably less structure, the radio was usually playing in the background, kids talked and joked during class-- creativity was not inspired by a module of time but by life, so if one wasn't creative during the class... well, one had to be creative at home or before or after school. I never do well without structure. It is my nature to become lazy. Mr. Kraus was a good teacher. He encouraged me in my first couple of years of high school. He obviously realized my shy nature and worked to help me express through art. He pushed me to enter a couple of competitions and I did OK receiving recognition for my work. As a junior I was coming into my own, but at the same time I was more interested in being social and was not disciplined in maintaining my school work and it was easy to keep things from my mom. Besides, my creativity was in my head... actually putting brush to canvas or pencil to paper did not come naturally for me. I had to really focus... and practice... There were so many other kids that had this incredible gift... Jimi and Rodney. In any event the classroom was always loose and free spirited. I remember always laughing and having fun in his class. Mr. Kraus loved music. He was a huge fan of John Cougar. Jimi reminded me that Mr. Kraus had seen the Stray Cats and Jimi, Gary and I were so jealous. He also saw Men at Work and brought back a pin for me... I still have it. We talked about music and art and stuff...

The other thing... Mr. Kraus could not spell... he was horrible... another friend, Scott would mercilessly make fun of him. It was always in good spirit and fun.

Mr. Kraus was around for every single boy I dated during high school. He teased me about some of my selections...from a competing school. One day late in my junior year Mr. Kraus pulled me aside and asked me what I was going to do- what my plans were- he was disappointed because I had not really worked on pulling together a portfolio to get into art school. In fact, I had not even applied. He expressed his concern that although I had an eye for composition and perspective and story, I had not applied myself to learn fundamentals. He expressed his concern for my lack of discipline and he did not want to see me waste any of my talent. At the time I had picked up photography and was into that, but it was more of a means of documenting my teenage life and not an artistic outlet. His message was loud and clear and a pill I chose not to swallow. My senior year was filled with more of the same- fun and frolicking. Mr. Kraus was part of our lives and we enjoyed our time in his class. He pulled me aside one more time and asked me what I was going to do about college.

I told him I needed to work for at least a year before heading off to college. Grants and scholarships were not going to cover it and I wasn't about to ask my mom for assistance. He made me promise that I would never give up on art and asked that I keep in touch. I graduated and my life went on... it took a different direction than I expected, but one that I am quite happy with.

Over the years I have often thought of Mr. Kraus. I had promised Mr. Kraus I would come by and visit him but never did. He was good to me- he wasn't just a teacher, he was a friend and he wanted the best for us. He was honest with me and thought I was wasting my talent. When Jimi's sister died, I wanted to contact him. When Rodney committed suicide, I wanted to contact him. I never did. I wanted to invite him to my wedding but for whatever goofy reason, I changed my mind. So, this past week, Jimi told me about Mr. Kraus. He had Parkinson's Disease, was confined to a wheelchair, living in a nursing home... divorced with 2 kids... 20 and 16 years old. He had gone to see a band--- still passionate about live music. On his way home, he was hit by a car. Those on the scene performed CPR in an attempt to save his life, but it was too late. He was only 56 years old.

How cruel life can be... a man who used his hands and fingers to create- stricken with a disease that steals that gift from him.
I never had the chance to thank him. He was the first person in my life to offer me real constructive criticism... he was right... I did lack self discipline. I need structure, I know that about myself now... and I move through life accordingly.
Upon reading the news about Mr. Kraus, I wrote Jimi, "...despite his life situation, I hope and pray he was happy--proud of his kids-- still listening to music, appreciating art and finding that talented young soul-- that diamond in the rough. There were so many talented kids that went through his class. I pray even though he was alone that night, he wasn't alone in spirit and that he was loved. "

Teachers are amazing and wonderful creatures. You don't realize the lives you touch and to what extent. Mr. Kraus was only in my life for four short years, but the mark he left will remain with me always.

Although I never went back to visit Mr. Kraus, I did keep my other promise. I never gave up on art. It is still just as important to me today as it was 25 years ago. It is a rare day that I pick up my sketch pad, but I always stop and see the art. Thank you, Mr. Kraus.

A Life Remembered: Toshiya Kuge

For three years, D.C. Roe has hosted an annual remembrance of those lost on September 11, 2001. Please click on the logo to the left for a link to other remembrances this year.
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Long ago there lived in Japan an old man whose name was Hamaguchi. His farmhouse stood on the edge of a plateau, a flat, open space on the side of a mountain. Behind, the mountain rose in lofty wooded peaks. In front, it sloped gently down to the sea. At the foot of the mountain along the shore was the little village, made up of a hundred or more thatched houses and a great temple.

One afternoon in late summer Hamaguchi sat on the balcony of his house and watched the people in the village below. With him was his grandson, a lad of ten. The rice crop had been very fine, and the villagers were holding their harvest festival. All the shops were closed, and the streets were gayly decorated with ropes of straw and paper lanterns. The villagers in bright-colored clothing were about to join in the harvest dance.

Beyond the village Hamaguchi could see the vast blue sea, wrinkling under the bright after noon sun. Suddenly there came a slight shock. The house rocked three or four times and then stood still. Hamaguchi had felt many earth quakes in his time, and he was not at all frightened until he looked toward the sea.

The water had become dark green and very rough. The tide had suddenly changed --- the sea was running swiftly away from the land! The villagers stopped their dancing, and ran to the shore to watch. None of them knew what this strange thing meant. But the old man on the mountain had seen one such sight as a little child. He knew what the sea would do. There was no time to send a message to the village, nor to ring the big bell in the temple, and yet the people must be warned.

"Yone!" he called to his little grandson. "Light a torch! Quick!"

The boy was puzzled, but he asked no questions. He kindled the torch at once. The old man ran to the fields, where hundreds of rice stacks stood awaiting sale. It was all his wealth. He ran from one stack to another, applying the torch to each. The dry stalks caught fire quickly, and soon the red flames were shooting upward, and the smoke was rising in great columns to join the wind clouds in the sky.

Yone ran after his grandfather, shouting and crying, "Grandfather! Grandfather! Why? Why are you setting fire to the rice?"

The old man had no time to answer, but ran on, firing stack after stack. The high wind caught the sparks and loose brands and carried them farther, until the fields were all ablaze.

The watcher in the temple saw the fire, and set the big bell booming, and the people turned from the sea to look. In Japan every one in the village must give help in time of fire. No sooner did the people see that Hamaguchi's rice stacks were on fire than they began to run. Like a swarm of ants they climbed the mountain --- young men and boys, women and girls, old folk, mothers with babies on their backs, even little children joined in the race to put out the fire.

But when they reached the plateau, it was too late. The flames had already eaten the stacks of beautiful rice.

"It is too bad," the people exclaimed. "How did it happen?"

"Grandfather did it," cried Yone. "With a torch he set fire to the rice. He is mad."

In amazement the people stared at Hamaguchi. "You did this thing !" they cried. "You set fire to the rice fields! "

"Look toward the sea," said the old man, "and know my purpose."

The people turned and looked. Far out they saw a great wall of water sweeping toward them more swiftly than a bird flies. It was the returning sea!

The people shrieked, but their voices were lost in a great sound, deeper than thunder, as the wall of water struck the side of the mountain. The hills shook, and were drenched in a great burst of foam.

When the cloud of spray had disappeared, the people saw a wild sea raving over their village. Great angry waves seethed and tumbled above the house-tops. They rolled away roaring, tearing out houses and trees and great rocks, and bearing them off. Again the wall of water struck, and again and again, with less force each time. At last it fell back once more in its former bed.

The people stood speechless on the side of the mountain. The village was gone; the temple was gone; the fields had been torn away. Nothing was left of their homes but a few straw roofs that floated on the water. But every man and woman and child was safe on the mountain side.

Then the people knew why old Hamaguchi had set fire to the rice. There he stood among them, as poor as any. And they fell on their knees to thank him.

As a little girl-- maybe 3 or 4 years old, I recall my mother telling me Japanese fables and folk stories-- This one and a story about the Little Peachboy are the two I remember the most. I thought this story of sacrifice fitting to share what little I have been able to learn about a young man named Toshiya Kuge.

Toshiya Kuge-san was born in 1981. His parents, Hajime and Yachiyo Kuge must have been proud of their son. He graduated in 1999 from Kitano High School. While in high school he was a good student and was the goalie for his high school soccer team. However, his preference was American football and was a linebacker his freshman year at Waseda University wearing a maroon jersey with number ninety-five. He loved the National Football League and would watch football via satellite in the middle of the night in Japan. He had a poster of the San Francisco 49ers on his bedroom wall, but his favorite team was the Pittsburgh Steelers.

He was in his sophomore year at the prestigious Waseda University studying design and creation of materials at the School of Science and Engineering. In the spring of 2001 he attended an intensive 4 week class at the University of Utah to improve his English speaking and writing skills. In an essay for this class he wrote, "he wanted to be friends with people and to study in America."

After his time at the University of Utah, Toshiya went home to Toyonaka City to spend the summer with family and friends before coming back in August 2001 to the United States and Canada- part vacation - part preparation-- Vacation was to go to whale watching, horseback riding and rafting at Jasper National Park-- Preparation was for his goal to scout out a university for his graduate degree. Among the items he took on this trip was his Pittsburgh Steelers jersey.

"He longed to come to America, " said Toshiya's mother,Yachiyo Kuge. "Perhaps he liked the freedom. He loved the language and the music. And sports. He wanted to play sports there."

From the few accounts I have been able to locate, he was friendly and outgoing with all he encountered. He wanted to visit Niagara Falls from both the Canadian and American sides. He had a passion for the big outdoors. On his rafting trip to Jasper he befriended and shared a lunch with two women from Chicago- Kristine White and Debbie Schiies.

On that fateful day, September 11, 2001 Kuge-san was on his way home to go back to school at Waseda. Instead, he and the other brave souls aboard United Flight 93 lost their lives in an attempt to take back their hijacked plane. This young man- his entire life ahead of him stolen and gone in an instant by haters of freedom and liberty. We will never have the good fortune of knowing what this young man could have contributed to our lives---.

In April 2004, Toshiya Kuge was recognized by Professor Shirai, President of Waseda University and was awarded the status of Alumna.

It is important to remember that Americans were not the only souls lost on that dreadful day- 234 people from other countries are counted in the numbers... from those 234 foreigners, 24 were from Japan.

So, I share this fable about the burning rice fields with you--- Although profoundly sad, it is a story of sacrifice and a keen understanding of a greater good. I want to believe--- I need to believe that the men and women who lost their lives that awful day were not in vain, but stand over us as guardian angels to remind us to stay vigilant and to never forget and never ever allow this to happen again.

A Life Remembered,

Toshiya Kuge
1981 - 2001







My Other Tributes:

2006 - Marion Britton
2007 - Tom Burnett
2007 - Deora Bodley

Resources:

Japan Times
Ongoing Tales
Among the Heroes - United Flight 93 and the Passengers and Crew Who Fought Back, by Jere Longman
Legacy.com
Waseda University article
Daylife.com
Post-Gazette
Find a Grave

In Memory, Matt Maupin

We know he isn't in pain, he isn't being tortured anymore. He no longer has to be afraid. Matt has done his duty... he has paid the ultimate price. He has served his country and we must not forget him.

The sad news came yesterday that Matt's remains were found. My prayers and thoughts go to Keith and Caroloyn Maupin and all the friends and family that loved and knew Matt.

He will be home soon.



On April 9, 2008 there will be a scholarship fund raiser-- Let us never forget. For more information please visit the Yellow Ribbon Support Center.

Associated Press article

A Life Remembered: Tom Burnett

Tom Burnett's name is probably one of the most recognized names of those that perished on September 11. Tom Burnett was a born leader and up until his last moments in this life, he continued to work the problem and never saw failure as an option that fateful day. There is little I can add to these accounts. His heroic actions have been documented in the 9/11 Commission Report, in movies, in documentaries, on countless websites and books. His wife, Deena keeps Tom's memory alive through the Tom Burnett Family Foundation. Tom often said that one of the most-noble pursuits in life is raising our children to be “good citizens.” The Tom Burnett Family Foundation is dedicated to helping young people in this country to become good citizens and future leaders, so his legacy will go continue.

On a personal note, everything I have read, everything that I have learned about this man, I would have liked him very much. He would have had my profound respect. I could see myself flying his flag at work and following his lead. He was a man of conviction, integrity and strong moral character. I would have loved working for a man of this caliber.

Born and raised in Bloomington, Minnesota, Tom attended public schools Ridgeview Elementary, Olson Middle School, and graduated with honors from Thomas Jefferson High School. Wearing number 11 in high school, Tom played quarterback for the Jefferson Jaguars and was recruited to play football by several universities and chose Saint John's University in Collegeville, Minnesota. He enjoyed the conversations and discourse with the Benedictine monks who lived there, and often said his experience provided incredible depth to his faith in God. After two years, an injury shortened his football career and he transferred to the Carlson School of Management at the University of Minnesota. He was named President of the Alpha Kappa Psi Fraternity, then later graduated with a B.S. degree in Finance. Working with Thoratec, a medical device company, he climbed the ladder to corporate success quickly. He received an M.B.A. degree from Pepperdine University and was making plans to work on his doctorate.

By 1989, he'd met Deena in Atlanta, where she'd just completed flight-attendant training for Delta Airlines. Their first date was at an Applebee's where they spent six hours talking. She knew she would marry him after he unscrewed the light bulb above the table and tossed it over his shoulder, shattering it on the floor. "I'm trying to create a mood here," he told her, "and this light's not helping." They married in April 1992 after a "romance in the air." Since Burnett traveled all week, the couple would meet in airports, or Deena would leave notes for him on planes. They agreed they were as comfortable in planes as they were in cars. But in 1995, when Deena was expecting, she stopped flying.

Years later, as senior vice president and chief operating officer of Thoratec Corp., known nationally for its creation of heart assist pumps, he was successful beyond his earlier dreams. Burnett would tell his wife, Deena, that he couldn't believe his achievements.

Articulate and competitive, a motivator who could talk a person into almost anything, Burnett was a born salesman. While he couldn't talk his mother into letting him fish from the edge of a dock as a 3-year-old, he did persuade her to let him sit in the middle of it and drop his line through the cracks.

Burnett entered fatherhood on his own terms. He liked pushing their three girls around the neighborhood in the stroller, but only while smoking a cigar. Diapers, baths and feeding were on an as-needed basis.

For all his traveling, Burnett was cautious. Long wanting to parachute, he backed out when the chance came, worrying about his family. And when the two of them left for a vacation, he insisted they take separate planes so an accident wouldn't leave the children parentless.

By Deena’s own telling, her husband of nine years thought of himself as anything but a hero. He was a man who, at thirty-eight, held a senior executive position at a respected medical device company headquartered in Pleasanton, California. He was a loving husband and father who adored his three young girls. He worked hard, was respected by his colleagues, and, on a daily basis, practiced quiet acts of integrity, honesty, respect, and kindness toward those with whom he came in contact.

“He was a man of heartfelt compassion, deep convictions, love, and had a keen sense of right and wrong, and he believed that morals and values were not debatable. To have died with such honor and valor is befitting of my husband.

“His actions, and those of his fellow passengers, are a call to each of us to stand for our beliefs and convictions,” Deena continued. “If he were here tonight, he would ask you to go one step further and to honor him by living a life worthy of those who have died for our freedom, and to remember that heroes can give their lives all at one time, or they can give a little each day.”

Tom lived his last minutes of life they way he had lived all the previous minutes. He knew what he and his fellow passengers were facing. Tom took the lead and organized the effort aboard United Flight 93. Allowing the terrorists to succeed was not an option. He and the passengers of Flight 93 died heroically. They thwarted the efforts of the bad guys. Yes, Tom Burnett was a citizen soldier.

6:27 a.m.( pacific time) First cell phone call from Tom to Deena

Deena: Hello
Tom: Deena
Deena: Tom, are you O.K.?
Tom: No, I’m not. I’m on an airplane that has been hijacked.
Deena: hijacked?
Tom: Yes, They just knifed a guy.
Deena: A passenger?
Tom: Yes.
Deena: Where are you? Are you in the air?
Tom: Yes, yes, just listen. Our airplane has been hijacked. It’s United Flight 93 from Newark to San Francisco. We are in the air. The hijackers have already knifed a guy, one of them has a gun, they are telling us there is a bomb on board, please call the authorities. He hung up.

6:31 Deena calls 911

6:34 The phone rang in on call waiting, Tom’s second cell phone call.

Deena: Hello
Tom: They’re in the cockpit. The guy they knifed is dead.
Deena: He’s dead?
Tom: Yes. I tried to help him, but I couldn’t get a pulse.
Deena: Tom, they are hijacking planes all up and down the east coast. They are taking them and hitting designated targets. They’ve already hit both towers of the World Trade Center.
Tom: They’re talking about crashing this plane. (a pause) Oh my God. It’s a suicide mission…(he then tells people sitting around him)
Deena: Who are you talking to?
Tom: My seatmate. Do you know which airline is involved?
Deena: No, they don’t know if they’re commercial airlines or not. The news reporters are speculating cargo planes, private planes and commercial. No one knows.
Tom: How many planes are there?
Deena: They’re not sure, at least three. Maybe more.
Tom: O.K….O.K….Do you know who is involved?
Deena: No.
Tom: We’re turning back toward New York. We’re going back to the World Trade Center. No, wait, we’re turning back the other way. We’re going south.
Deena: What do you see?
Tom: Just a minute, I’m looking. I don’t see anything, we’re over a rural area. It’s just fields. I’ve gotta go.
He hung up.

6:45 a.m. Third cell phone call from Tom to Deena

Tom: Deena
Deena: Tom, you’re O.K. (I thought at this point he had just survived the Pentagon plane crash).
Tom: No, I’m not.
Deena: They just hit the Pentagon.
Tom: (tells people sitting around him “They just hit the Pentagon.”)
Tom: O.K….O.K. What else can you tell me?
Deena: They think five airplanes have been hijacked. One is still on the ground. They believe all of them are commercial planes. I haven’t heard them say which airline, but all of them have originated on the east coast.
Tom: Do you know who is involved?
Deena: No
Tom: What is the probability of their having a bomb on board? I don’t think they have one. I think they’re just telling us that for crowd control.
Deena: A plane can survive a bomb if it’s in the right place.
Tom: Did you call the authorities?
Deena: Yes, they didn’t know anything about your plane.
Tom: They’re talking about crashing this plane into the ground. We have to do something. I’m putting a plan together.
Deena: Who’s helping you?
Tom: Different people. Several people. There’s a group of us. Don’t worry. I’ll call you back.

6:54 a.m. Fourth cell phone call to Tom to Deena

Deena: Tom?
Tom: Hi. Anything new?
Deena: No
Tom: Where are the kids?
Deena: They’re fine. They’re sitting at the table having breakfast. They’re asking to talk to you.
Tom: Tell them I’ll talk to them later
Deena: I called your parents. They know your plane has been hijacked.
Tom: Oh…you shouldn’t have worried them. How are they doing?
Deena: They’re O.K.. Mary and Martha are with them.
Tom: Good. (a long quiet pause) We’re waiting until we’re over a rural area. We’re going to take back the airplane.
Deena: No! Sit down, be still, be quiet, and don’t draw attention to yourself! (The exact words taught to me by Delta Airlines Flight Attendant Training).
Tom: Deena! If they’re going to crash this plane into the ground, we’re going to have do something!
Deena: What about the authorities?
Tom: We can’t wait for the authorities. I don’t know what they could do anyway.
It’s up to us. I think we can do it.
Deena: What do you want me to do?
Tom: Pray, Deena, just pray.
Deena: (after a long pause) I love you.
Tom: Don’t worry, we’re going to do something.
He hung up

"Don't worry, we're going to do something."- Tom Burnett












Thomas Edward Burnett Jr.
May 29, 1963 - September 11, 2001

Sources:
Tom Burnett Family Foundation
Among the Heroes: United Flight 93 and the Passengers and Crew Who Fought Back, by Jere Longman
Post Gazette
September 11 Victims
Legacy.com
Pepperdine University Press Release


Also for Project 2996:

from 2006 A Life Remembered: Marion Britton
from 2007 A Life Remembered: Deora Bodley

A Life Remembered: Deora Bodley

I have volunteered for a second year to write a memorial for Project 2996. Like last year I wanted to remember the heroes from United Flight 93. Dale left it up to each person that volunteered to pick a name(s) of our choice. I chose 2 names from Flight 93 that did not receive a memorial last year.

I first read about Deora Bodley in Jere Longman's book, Among the Heroes. She was an idealistic 20 year old. She was the youngest passenger aboard United Flight 93 and was heading back to California, back to her junior year at Santa Clara University when her life was tragically ended despite the courageous acts of her fellow passengers and crew.

At the tender age of eleven she wrote, "People ask how, what, where, when and why. I ask peace." When I read those words, I remembered what it was like to be a child and have everything as a possibility. I remember thinking I could make a difference and the world could be a better place. At the age of eleven or even twenty there are no boundaries there are only opportunities. That is how this young woman lived her short precious life.

By coincidence, Deora and I share a birthday. She was born on April 8, 1981 to loving parents, Deborah (Bodley) Borza and Derrill Bodley. Her parents divorced when Deora was only two years old. This possibly contributed to her being introspective and wanting to help others. She was active in school, captain of the basketball team her senior year in high school, she participated in an AIDS peer program, and volunteered with the Special Olympics and at her local animal shelter.

As a twenty year old, she wanted a world without war and disease. She lived her life focused on making a contribution to this dream. Her love of writing and her ability to speak fluently in French, contributed to her success while she attended Santa Clara University and participated in America Reads program tutoring children with reading and writing. One of the children wrote, "Deora made the sun shine brighter." She made it a point to help children whenever possible as she did for a pair of Vietnamese twins in the literacy program that came from Toronto. She translated stories from English to French for them. It was obvious Deora had a natural gift in working with children. Her major in college was Psychology and her goal was to become a child psychologist.

Deora was a wide eyed young woman. The world was her oyster. She loved her family and friends and there is no doubt that they love and miss her still. Her life lives on in those she loved and the lives she touched.

"If I would just live for the moment and make every moment count, maybe the future would work out. Maybe that moment would be a doorway to the future." - Deora Bodley, age 13














Deora Frances Bodley
April 8, 1981 - September 11, 2001

Sources:
Among the Heroes: United Flight 93 and the Passengers and Crew Who Fought Back, by Jere Longman
Post Gazette
SFBA Flight 93 Memorial
findagrave
Legacy.com
Deora's Candles - features a jazz composition written by her father Derrill Bodley, who passed away in September 2005. Steps to Peace, a song he composed right after Deora's death was later recorded by Dave Brubeck.

Also for Project 2996:

from 2006 A Life Remembered: Marion Britton
from 2007 A Life Remembered: Tom Burnett

My Songbook

Partly Cloudy - Hi 96 Lo 71 for Baghdad, Iraq
Sunny - Hi 76 Lo 58 for Northern KY, USA

Song of the week: American Pie, Don McLean

WKRP in Cincinnati has been released on DVD. I am patiently waiting for Laura's review. Because of licensing issues a lot of the music has been changed and I fear that it will interfere with my affection for the show because the music was such an important part of it. So, as I have been contemplating that purchase I started thinking about music that has become part of the "American Soundtrack"...

I can not recall the first time I heard the song American Pie. I have no doubt it was while listening to WSAI-AM. Back then-- WSAI wasn't talk radio, it was rock n roll. Back then we didn't have FM stations to hear our favorite rock songs in stereo... much less iPods. Jim Scott was the guy everyone listened to in the morning getting ready for school or heading off to work... Funny... Jim Scott is still on local radio... the Big One... WLW.

I think... I can not swear to this... I think... American Pie was the first song that I committed all the lyrics to memory... Why does this song create such a feeling of wonder? As an adult I can appreciate this song is about more than the deaths of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and The Big Bopper; I believe it is a look back at a loss of innocence... But as a kid... what was my attraction to the song?

Ramble:

The names in this ramble have been changed to protect the innocent, the not so innocent and me.)

Have you ever been to a real funeral? No... not a Catholic funeral or Methodist or even Baptist... I'm not even talking Unitarian... I mean a real funeral... an Appalachian funeral. When I was a girl I attended a funeral in the beautiful mountains of Virginia. As with any death, it was a sad occasion because this man was the patriarch of the family. It was the first time I had ever been to this place where he had been born. Now I must tell you this man was old and feeble when I knew him. He worked in the coal mines when he was young. He served during World War I. He had a tattoo of an anchor on his forearm.... always reminded me of Popeye. For the longest time, he was the only person I knew that had a tattoo... funny. He divorced his first wife- unheard of in the 1920's and buried his second wife - the cancer and third wife -I can't recall how--- lots and lots of relatives were created from these marriages. He always had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he always had a twinkle in his eye-- not the kind of twinkle of a nice old man... but one of a man that in his younger years that had seen it all... done it all... lived his life by his terms... I remember his laugh...

In any event, he died... emphysema--- black lung--- no doubt a combination of working in the coal mines and smoking three packs of cigarettes a day.... (this is not an editorial on smoking--keep your rude comments.)

Fast forward... being in the mountains of Virginia was breathtaking. You could see for miles up on top of that mountain. Green green valleys below and blue blue skies above... God knew what he was doing when He created earth- simply spectacular. When we arrived we went from house to house...visiting family... folks I had never met... some I had never even heard about... Keep in mind this was rural Virginia in a Gap where Virginia meets Tennessee and Kentucky.... the homes were small... yes... there were sofas on the front porches... trucks up on cinder blocks and washers out in the yard... there were also clothes lines with sheets drying in that country air... it was all very stereotypical... but the part of the stereotype that isn't discussed is the kindness you find in those mountains. It was odd... everything was foreign and yet so familiar.... the faces... the voices...the cadence of their speech... the way they laughed... "Well, honey, I'm your Aunt Annie. I'm so and so's sister... I guess that would make me your great great Aunt Annie." Then someone else, "I'm not related to you, but I was engaged to your grand daddy, I bet you didn't know that, but he went and married someone else more city-fied." This went on and on... and with each stop... we were fed... not snacks... freaking meals... and everything made in bacon grease... (This needs to be a separate post.)

The patriarch was dressed in his finest suit. He looked handsome, much better than the last time I had seen him. At the funeral home... these same folks we had been visiting with the day before were completely different... The women were crying... waling... throwing their arms around the man in the coffin... touching his hands... screaming that he was a saint. Please note: this man was not a saint... remember that twinkle in his eye I mentioned? Well, he was a womanizer, a cheat, a gambler and at times not a very nice person... The sobbing and crying went on for the duration of the wake.... I remember having an awful headache... I remember music... at the time I absolutely hated it... Bluegrass... I remember thinking to myself how horrible it was... thankfully, I was taught to have manners so I did not roll my eyes or cover my ears or make obnoxious comments.... but the worst part is, I missed out... Here my family... sitting together... playing banjos and fiddles and singing and I missed it...

I don't have much of a point to this story... it's just one I like to tell now and again to keep track of this part of me. Actually, maybe I do... listen to the music... always. You may not like it today... but it may mean something to you tomorrow...

Now, the list. I've been adding to this list for about 3 months. I've been thinking about my own mortality... I want to take this opportunity to discuss the music that I would like played at my wake... I don't believe I'll have a big turnout and I certainly don't want the waling... especially if I go before Michael. Screeching and waling do not work for Michael. Rob, I ask you to take charge of making the tape. Some on the list will be recognized as Sunday Songs. So, in no particular order here goes... (Rob, I'll leave you to arrange them in an order that makes sense- I'll understand if you need to make some cuts due to time constraints and or lack of interest due to low attendance numbers.)

Rhapsody In Blue, George Gershwin - one of my favorite pieces.

Every song on the album Sinatra at the Sands, Frank Sinatra - he was the coolest man to ever walk the face of the earth. I want him singing at my funeral.

Anything from The Sound of Music and The King and I -musicals are a big part of my soul.

Unchained Melody, The Righteous Brothers

Under Pressure, Queen & David Bowie -- for grins and chuckles you can follow this with Vanilla Ice...

Heaven, The Psychedelic Furs

Half Acre, Hem

Fire Thief, Hem

Jackson, Johnny Cash & June Carter Cash

God Is In The Roses, Rosanne Cash

Ticket to Ride, The Beatles

Hello, Goodbye, The Beatles

Wouldn't It Be Nice, The Beach Boys

God Only Knows, The Beach Boys

Graceland, Paul Simon

Blister In The Sun, Violent Femmes

South Central Rain,R.E.M

September, Earth, Wind & Fire

Sweet Dreams, Patsy Cline

Mambo Italiano, Rosemary Clooney

Skateaway, Dire Straits

Crash Into Me, Dave Matthews Band

Star Wars Theme, John Williams

Kathy's Song, Simon & Garfunkel

Love Song, The Cure

California Dreamin', Mamas and the Papas

Monday, Monday, Mamas and the Papas

I Don't Like Mondays, Boomtown Rats

Rainy Days and Mondays, The Carpenters --- Do you suppose I don't like Mondays?

Ain't No Sunshine, Bill Withers

Just You 'n' Me, Chicago

Kung Fu Fighting, Carl Douglas - to my days living in Norwood

Afternoon Delight, Starland Vocal Band - because this song makes me laugh

It's A Sunshine Day, The Brady Kids - for my love of television of the 70's

Dancing Queen, Abba

Foo Fighters, Learn to Fly

U2, 40

U2, New Year's Day

U2, Gloria

U2, I Will Follow

U2, Rejoice

U2, Beautiful Day

U2, Two Hearts Beat as One

U2, A Sort of Homecoming

U2, Bad

Turn, Turn, Turn, The Byrds

The aria, Flower Duet from Puccini's Madama Butterfly

Can't Find My Way Home, Blind Faith

Melissa, The Allman Brothers - one of the prettiest songs

Midnight Rider, The Allman Brothers

Rolling Stones, Sympathy For The Devil

Gangsters, The Specials - not Gangsta

Summer Breeze, Seals & Crofts

I Say A Little Prayer, Dionne Warwick - No one can be sad when Dionne sings

The Night The Lights Went Out in Georgia, Vicki Lawrence

Joy to the World, Three Dog Night -- When Jimi's sister passed away, Scott kept saying that our lives paralleled the movie The Big Chill... he said that when we were... 20 something... ah.... funny...

Try A Little Tenderness, Three Dog Night

Into the Mystic, Van Morrison

Moondance, Van Morrison

Mack The Knife, Bobby Darrin

Sunrise, Norah Jones

I Can See Clearly Now, Johnny Nash

Baby, Now That I've Found You, Allison Krauss & Union Station

Cluck Old Hen, Allison Krauss & Union Station -- pure Bluegrass

Knock Three Times, Tony Orlando & Dawn

Linus and Lucy, Vince Guaraldi Trio

The Christmas Song, Mel Torme

Burning With Optimism's Flames, XTC

Easy Come, Easy Go, Bobby Sherman - because Bobby Sherman was always my favorite on Here Comes the Brides

Turn The Beat Around, Vicki Sue Robinson - This is the only disco song on this list... sorry... I hated this song when it was on the charts... it has grown on me...

Do You Remember, Jack Johnson

Half Breed, Cher - I idolized Cher when I was little.

Cosmopolitans, Erin McKeown

Thank You, Sly & the Family Stone

Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads

Take Me To The River, Talking Heads

Frozen Charlotte, Natalie Merchant

Solsbury Hill, Peter Gabriel

In Your Eyes, Peter Gabriel

Friends in Low Places, Garth Brooks

Oye Como Va, Santana

Should I Stay or Should I Go?, The Clash

Love Rollercoaster, Ohio Players

Superstition, Stevie Wonder

Texas Flood, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Voodoo Chile, Stevie Ray Vaughan

Canary in a Coalmine, The Police

Spirits In The Material World, The Police

Ohio, Over the Rhine

What I'll Remember Most, Over the Rhine

Blue Moon of Kentucky, Patsy Cline

Sara Smile, Hall & Oates - I've always loved the name Sara- the melody of this song captures the reason why.

The Space Between, Dave Matthews Band

Crash Into Me, Dave Matthews Band

Deacon Blues, Steely Dan

Classical Gas, Glen Campbell

Sukiyaki Song - Ue Wo Muite Arukou, Kyu Sakamoto

America, Ray Charles

God Bless America, Kate Smith

Take Five, Dave Brubeck Quartet

Piano Man, Billy Joel - now for the sing alongs

American Pie, Don McLean

Freebird, Lynyrd Skynyrd --- no... not really... never cared for Southern Rock. I just wanted to use this photo of old people lighting up at a concert

and finally...

Glory Be to Jesus

Back to the Cross

Ave Maria - I'm not Catholic, but this song when sung perfectly is like listening to angels

Amazing Grace

Shout outs and Special Requests:

No blogs this week... I just want to say hello to Cindy in Montana- It was great to see you while you were in town and I'll do my best to add more pictures to my posts. I am planning a picture post for the near future too.

Also, I ask that you say a prayer for Michael's step-sister, Lisa. She has just been diagnosed with ovarian cancer and is having surgery on Wednesday.

American Pie, Don McLean

A long, long time ago...
I can still remember
How that music used to make me smile.
And I knew if I had my chance
That I could make those people dance
And, maybe, they’d be happy for a while.

But February made me shiver
With every paper I’d deliver.
Bad news on the doorstep;
I couldn’t take one more step.

I can’t remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride,
But something touched me deep inside
The day the music died.

So bye-bye, miss American pie.
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Did you write the book of love,
And do you have faith in God above,
If the Bible tells you so?
Do you believe in rock ’n roll,
Can music save your mortal soul,
And can you teach me how to dance real slow?

Well, I know that you’re in love with him
`cause I saw you dancin’ in the gym.
You both kicked off your shoes.
Man, I dig those rhythm and blues.

I was a lonely teenage broncin’ buck
With a pink carnation and a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck
The day the music died.

I started singin’,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Now for ten years we’ve been on our own
And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone,
But that’s not how it used to be.
When the jester sang for the king and queen,
In a coat he borrowed from James dean
And a voice that came from you and me,

Oh, and while the king was looking down,
The jester stole his thorny crown.
The courtroom was adjourned;
No verdict was returned.
And while Lennon read a book of Marx,
The quartet practiced in the park,
And we sang dirges in the dark
The day the music died.

We were singing,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Helter skelter in a summer swelter.
The birds flew off with a fallout shelter,
Eight miles high and falling fast.
It landed foul on the grass.
The players tried for a forward pass,
With the jester on the sidelines in a cast.

Now the half-time air was sweet perfume
While the sergeants played a marching tune.
We all got up to dance,
Oh, but we never got the chance!
`cause the players tried to take the field;
The marching band refused to yield.
Do you recall what was revealed
The day the music died?

We started singing,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

Oh, and there we were all in one place,
A generation lost in space
With no time left to start again.
So come on: jack be nimble, jack be quick!
Jack flash sat on a candlestick
Cause fire is the devil’s only friend.

Oh, and as I watched him on the stage
My hands were clenched in fists of rage.
No angel born in hell
Could break that Satan's spell.
And as the flames climbed high into the night
To light the sacrificial rite,
I saw Satan laughing with delight
The day the music died

He was singing,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
And singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

I met a girl who sang the blues
And I asked her for some happy news,
But she just smiled and turned away.
I went down to the sacred store
Where I’d heard the music years before,
But the man there said the music wouldn’t play.

And in the streets: the children screamed,
The lovers cried, and the poets dreamed.
But not a word was spoken;
The church bells all were broken.
And the three men I admire most:
The father, son, and the holy ghost,
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died.

And they were singing,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
And them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die.
"this’ll be the day that I die."

They were singing,
"bye-bye, miss American pie."
Drove my Chevy to the levee,
But the levee was dry.
Them good old boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye
Singin’, "this’ll be the day that I die."

Have a great week everyone!

Kurt Vonnegut

I'm a little behind, but I just read that Kurt Vonnegut has passed away. I'm embarrassed to report that my knowledge of Kurt Vonnegut comes from the Rodney Dangerfield movie Back to School.

A couple of years ago we visited New York City. Our last evening there we had dinner at a quaint little French restaurant called Montparnasse. As we were chatting and sipping our cocktails and commenting on how arrogant our little Frenchy French waiter was behaving, an older man came up to our table and said to me, "My wife likes your handbag." I was so tickled I looked at them both and thanked them. I said something ignorant like "Well, orange is the new black!" The gentleman and his wife politely laughed and she said, "I like orange too." Once they left the restaurant I said to Michael and the rest of our family, "I know that guy. He is an author." I kept equating him to Fahrenheit 451... Ray Bradbury... I then had an epiphany and said, "He was in Back to School!"

We then realized that this handsome couple was none other than Kurt Vonnegut and his wife, photographer, Jill Krementz.

I can not say I agreed with him on any level politically or socially. I can say that he was one of the many reasons we fell in love with New York City.

Rest in peace Kurt Vonnegut...

The Clouds Hang Heavy in the Sky

Sunny - Hi 60 Lo 41 for Baghdad, Iraq
Rain - Hi 51 Lo 46 for Northern KY, USA

Song of the week: Redwing, Hem

Ramble:

Somewhere I once read that January and February are the busiest months for funerals due to several factors such as the colder months are difficult on the elderly with influenza, upper respiratory infections and other bronchial afflictions, more accidents occur in the cold months. However, the reason that caught my eye... the person that is dying does not want to spoil the Christmas holiday for their loved ones so they literally will themselves to stay alive until after the holidays........

Last Friday, I traveled 12 hours with two of my coworkers from Northern Kentucky across six states to a small town 30 miles outside of New York City. We went, because someone we care for lost his mother after nearly a year of suffering with an inoperable cancer. To understand why me made the long trek you must first understand our affection for the son of this woman. Tony is a a colleague, a mentor, a protector, a friend. He at times is a caricature (intentionally) of what one would think of when you say American Italian New Yorker.... He is big in girth and even bigger in heart. He is generous with his heart and his time and although he doesn't discuss it, he is quietly generous with his wallet. He is active in his community which looks and feels like something straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting or Frank Capra movie. Everyone knows him. Everyone. Everyone adores him. I was told that if he ran for mayor in his hometown, he would win...."no problem." The love people have for this man speaks volumes to his character.

Tony is no saint. After all, he is the fellow that introduced me to Ketel One... smooth. He will say all the wrong things when I'm strung out due to the daily stress on the job... (for instance-- I am freaking over some deadline at work, then some ignoramus in management decides their freaking TPS report is more important than meeting a deadline on a 5 year government contract bid........) Tony in all his manly wisdom will tell me, "Relax........." OK--- now I know it's not just me... but the worst thing to tell a woman when she is frantic is "relax" or "calm down". He will yell scream and no doubt throw his arms all over when he is frustrated with me. However, if someone else upsets "his girls" he is all over them like a pit bull. No one messes with his girls... There is something to be said about loyalty... it has become a very rare thing...

Tony was raised in a loving home. His mother cooked and worried about everything and everyone. His father, who came from the old country, fought in WWII and then became a citizen. He was away from his family for four years fighting in the war before he could come home. Tony describes his father as the lover in the family- the one with the big heart and affection for everyone. He has one sister and she is identical in personality to Tony. Tony is married to a wonderful woman. Tony is approaching 60 and he has lived in the same town his whole life... He still maintains friendships with kids from his childhood...

One would think that Tony has led a charmed life and he has. However, he has had more than his fair share of tragedy. The biggest blow was when he lost his middle son to leukemia when he was only 20 years old. I had just started working with him. He has never gotten over the death of his son and I expect he never will. There are other sad, tragic tales that I could share about Tony, but I will tell you Tony gives Job a run for his money when it comes to tragedy. Despite all the awful events Tony has faced he has never given up. He has never lost hope. He has never lost his faith. He is the man that will quietly comfort someone else when they have lost a loved one. He's been there. He knows.

So, we decided to make the trip up to New York. I left my house at 5:30 in the morning and we were on our way by 6:30. I drove through Ohio, West Virginia, Pennsylvania--- unbelievably long a$$ state, New Jersey and finally New York. It rained the whole way up and it was foggy for most of the trip... you know... from West by God Virginia to New Jersey. OK... now when someone has time, I'd very much like an explanation of the Pennsylvania Turnpike... what is that?? Good grief, I was ready to smack someone after driving that............... if you have never been... avoid it.... Anyway, we did not tell Tony we were coming up. He would have yelled and screamed at us and demanded we not go. I told a couple of my customers and got some help with finding accommodations. We pulled into the parking lot of the hotel at 6:30PM. Not bad time in crap weather with 4 potty breaks, and a late lunch at a McDonald's in Hellerton, PA.

Gino, another colleague of ours from Hartford, CT drove down to pay his respect and to also see to it that we were taken care of. We had a drink at the hotel bar and then Gino drove us to the funeral home a couple of miles away. Tony's mom was 81. Visitation had started the previous day, Thursday; we arrived on Friday evening about 8:00PM. The place was packed. In speaking to someone in line, she told me the line on Thursday went out the door and down the block. This, my friends, gives illustration to the love and respect this family has in their small community. As we stood in line to pray and pay respect, he spotted us. Big hugs for all of us, introductions, more hugs, Tony's Papa, more hugs, some ladies, more hugs, "Oh my Gawd, you drove!? You must be egsawwsted!" We were backing up the line. We went out on the porch of the funeral home to get some fresh air. It was so warm. Slowly folks started coming out on the porch asking for the whereabouts of the Angels from Cincinnati? More hugs, "I was told to not give any lip to the one called Cathy?" More hugs from strangers. We realized sitting there that we were starving. Gino wanted to take us out to dinner. One of the girls went inside to let Tony know we would see him tomorrow that we were going to grab something to eat. Tony tracked down his oldest son and instructed him to get us all over to Tony's house. There was apparently a ton of food there. When we got to Tony's home, we were greeted by more people, more hugs. They fed us... goooooooood yummy Italian food................ Ketel One on the rocks.......... perfection. Everyone was so touched by the fact that we drove up to be with Tony... They thought we were wonderful. HA! It's Tony- he's the one that is wonderful! Not us! We explained that we were his girls and we were very protective of him. That we could give him a hard time and yell and scream back at him, but anyone else, better run and hide... Tony simply makes that kind of impact on everyone. While eating, we heard tales of his childhood. We learned that this has been his modus operandi for his entire life-- Big tough guy exterior (visualize Good Fellas or the Sopranos) with a soft inside.

The funeral on Saturday morning was inspired and touched by God. I do believe that. I have never been to a Catholic funeral mass. It was beautiful. The pallbearers were Tony's childhood friends. The monsignor spoke about Tony's mother going to daily mass, how she was very particular about her routine. He spoke of her regular seat 5 pews back on the left end- that was her seat. When the monsignor looked, he stumbled over his words and commented to the congregation that her seat was empty. The church was standing room only.............but her spot was empty. Coincidence?

A woman sung Ave Maria and the clouds finally lifted and beams of sunlight came rushing through the stained glass rose window. The sun beams rested on Mrs. C's casket and sparkled in Tony's eyes as he gave the eulogy.

After the interment, everyone was invited to Tony's favorite restaurant. This scene was straight out of a gangster movie... I kid you not, one guy had on a knit jogging suit, with a sport jacket over top. We made our way to the bar where we were informed to order anything we wanted- diet coke... long drive ahead of us. Pictures of Tony and his family and his friends were all over the bar walls. We were then shuffled to a table. We met Tony's neighbors and 2 of his childhood friends. Strangers embraced us... thanked US for coming... More stories. More hugs. More laughs. More tears. More remembrances.

It's odd............ the three of us decided to go. It wasn't an option, we were compelled to go. We felt it was important to let Tony know how much we care for him. We wanted to be there for him because he is always there for us. What happened was what was most unexpected. In our attempt to reach out to Tony and his family and mourn the loss of his beloved mother, we were embraced by his wife and sons and Aunt Susie, Uncle Tony, Aunt Therese, Uncle Joe and the rest of his extended family and friends not to mention his entire town. I can not begin to put into words how wonderful it was to be part of that kind of love and support and to celebrate a life lived. We walked away with so much more. I'm richer for going. There is goodness in the world... it's in the fiber of this country... the family, the small towns, the hearts and minds of the people of this land-the Tony's in our lives...

Photo of Mt. Kisco courtesy of Jeffrey Hall

Housekeeping:

Did you notice I have been playing You Tube videos? Simple fix on IE... I downloaded the latest version of Adobe... if you can not see You Tube videos on blogs... go to You Tube and click on help... there you can get the latest version of Adobe to download... I still don't know why I can't see them using Firefox.........

I stole the Snap link pop ups from Basil's Blog. Pretty cool huh?

P.S. Now, being in New York you would think that we would have had a political conversation and my head would have exploded because of the liberal slant on everything. I'm here to report in this small town... flags were flying at half staff for President Ford... the conversations at the restaurant revolved around being taxed to death and "Gawd help us if Hillary should get elected president". By the way I was spitting distance from Chappaqua. We thought about stopping in and seeing Bill and Hill, but decided against it...

Redwing

Hey, was that you floating past the tree-line?
Hey, was that a feather in your hand?
No I don't mean to ask these questions
No I don't mean to rush your heart
I swear I saw this accidentally
No I don't mean to start

Hey, the rain falls straight into the sidewalk
Hey, the clouds hang heavy in the sky
But I don't want to still believe in
The gravity of solid ground
The world below is not so big
That it can keep us down

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling,
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a red wing

Fly above the houses and the schoolyards
And fly until you cannot feel the Earth
No I don't mean that it's so easy
And I don't mean that it's so small
But the world below is not so mean
That it can make us fall

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling,
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a red wing

Have a great week everyone!

The Last Conversation I Had with a Crusty ol' Marine

"Cath, I drank too much and I smoked too much and I did a lot of other things that you don't need to know about... And if I had it to do all over again. I would do nothing and I mean nothing differently."

My Great Uncle Charlie passed away Tuesday after a long illness. When I was a little girl he was bigger than life- loud, opinionated, foul mouthed--- your standard issue Marine. I loved him, every bit of him. He served nearly 30 years in his beloved Marine Corp and he was a patriot his entire life. He loved this country with all his heart.

Semper Gratus Uncle Charlie and God Speed.

A Life Remembered: Marion Britton

My Lord, what a morning

My Lord, what a morning!
My Lord, what a morning!
O my Lord, what a morning!
When the stars begin to fall.

You'll hear a sinner mourn,
To wake the nations underground,
Looking to my God's right hand,
When the stars begin to fall.

Refrain

You'll hear a sinner pray,
To wake the nations underground,
Looking to my God's right hand,
When the stars begin to fall.

Refrain

You'll hear a Christian shout,
To wake the nations underground,
Looking to my God’s right hand,
When the stars begin to fall.

Refrain

You'll hear a Christian sing,
To wake the nations underground,
Looking to my God’s right hand,
When the stars begin to fall.

I volunteered to write a tribute for DCRoe honoring and memorializing the lives of those lost on September 11, 2001. For my own personal reasons, my only request to DC was to pay tribute to one of the heroes from United Flight 93. From there, I was randomly assigned Marion Ruth Britton.

Like most volunteers, I knew absolutely nothing about this person. Like all the tributes prior to 2996 - Marion was nothing more than a name on a long list. But, after researching and finding bits and pieces that gave hints to what she was really about, I soon realized that I wish I had known Marion while she was alive. Her brother was quoted in one interview as saying, "She could use stinging language and she'd let you know if she thought you were wrong. She could be bitchy - I was the brunt of it for many years, but she did it for your own good. She was kind-hearted and truthful, and you always knew where you stood."

Marion could be bitchy! Her brother, a reverend, said that! When I read those words, I laughed out loud - we were part of the same sisterhood! She at last had become more than a name on a long sad awful list.

The daughter of a New York City Police officer, Marion Ruth Britton was born on April 28, 1948. She grew up in South Ozone Park a neighborhood in southwestern Queens and on the border of Brooklyn. The neighborhoods that surrounded her no doubt added to the colorful tapestry that became Marion's personality. She graduated from John Adams High School in 1965- a year filled with hopes and dreams, goals and ambitions of a wide eyed seventeen year old. And of course wonderful music such as The Beatles, Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, The Supremes, and The Tempations set the soundtrack for this exciting time in Marion's life.

After working various jobs as a bookkeeper, Marion took a position with the Census Bureau as a Field Operations Assistant. Marion would trudge happily door to door asking quesions. Marion was always looking for an opportunity to tell a story and her early years working with the Census Bureau gave her plenty of material. Some of the more memorable interviewees included inmates at Rikers Island Correctional Facility. Marion's brother was quoted as saying, "One time she talked to a man who was a convicted murderer, and he could talk about murdering like someone else talked about selling groceries. He had these dead eyes in his head. Murdering was what he did for a living."

On a number of occasions, Marion would knock on a door and the person would answer the door stark naked. Again her brother said, "She figured that if that's the way they answered the door, that's the way they felt comfortable around the house, answering questions." So, Marion would conduct the questionaire taking particular care to always maintain eye contact.

On many other occasions Marion would knock on the door of a family in need. She would do the interview, but would make her way back to that home with much needed groceries or clothing in tow.

Marion was devoted to her job to the point of being a workaholic. Marion had a love/hate relationship with her job. She loved what she did, she loved the folks she worked with, but she would grow weary and sometimes frustrated with the bureacracy of working for the federal government. Marion worked long hours and weekends to get the job done. Her attention to detail, stubborness and tenacity led to several promotions and despite her frustrations, her superiors saw how valuable Marion was. She spent 21 years with the Census Bureau ending her carreer as an Assistant Regional Director for the New York Office.

On Tuesday, October 2, 2001 the Honorable Dan Miller of Florida on the House of Representatives reported: [...]"During her career with the Census Bureau, Ms. Britton earned several major honors and awards for her outstanding managerial and technical skills and innovative contritubutions. She received the Census Award of Excellence in 1988, the Bronze Medal Award, the highest honorary award granted by the Census Bureau, in 1993, and the National Partnership for Reinventing Government's "Hammer Award" in 1999 for her work on the American Community Survey."

Marion never married and it was no doubt because she was a workaholic as was told by her brother. Instead, she was devoted to her family and friends and this was expressed in how she lived her life.

When Marion found herself with free time she would scout for good restaurants. She organized breakfast gatherings for her co-workers, her friends. She would travel quite a distance to find the perfect restaurant for her dining group. Whenever she traveled away from her beloved city, she would always take a piece of New York City with her, typically New York City bagels. Marion's brother Paul said, "She wanted people to know that the best bagels came from New York and she wanted them to see what they were missing out on."

Marion's nephew as a little boy referred to her as his "fairy godmother". "On any holiday. Marion was like a bag lady, pulling out gifts that were precious and something delicious - Italian or German pastries or New York cheesecakes she'd bring along."

Marion always paid attention to the details. She was the family historian. Every night at 11 o'clock she and her friend Midge would share a phone call for their "nightly chat". She would travel to obscure punk music shops to pick up a CD for her nephew because that was what he enjoyed. She collected teddy bears and dolls. She never forgot a birthday or an anniversary. She always made sure you had food in your belly and left with a smile.

Marion was on United Flight 93. She was one of the many heroes that died while thwarting the plans of the hijackers. She and the other passengers and crew took the plane back from the hijackers and no doubt saved the lives of those on the ground.

Marion was a big, robust, wonderful woman with an even bigger heart to match. She could be sharp tongued and sarcastic and blunt and yes, she could even be bitchy. But she was generous and kind and she loved a good joke, and she loved to tell a good story and she loved to laugh.

Marion lived her life. It was a good life too.



Marion Ruth Britton
1948 - 2001

Sources:
Post-Gazette
Legacy.com
Census.gov
cf.newsday
Avalon Project
Library of Congress
Peacebarn
John Adams High School
United Flight 93 & the Passengers & Crew Who Fought Back: Among the Heroes by Jere Longman

Thank you goes out to Rob for the stroke of genius on the song selection, Wandering Author for helping me with some fact finding and Michael for understanding how important this was to me.

Finally, I'd like to thank Dale for creating and organizing this tribute. All the hours he and his friends that volunteered to keep this organized was a huge undertaking. This has been an incredible experience.

Please go read more tributes here: 2996