Sudden Unexpected Memories

Sometimes memories of people and events from long ago just pop into my aging brain. Only rarely can I articulate why this happens. Often enough there doesn’t seem to be an obvious cause. For example, yesterday evening, as Diane and I watched one of Agatha Christie’s “Miss Marple” mysteries, out of the blue I thought of Aunt Ella and Uncle Edgar. Neither had crossed my mind in years, but there they were, interfering with my ability to follow a sinister plot that led to multiple murders in a quaint English village.

"Aunt" Ella and "Uncle" Edgar were not actually my aunt and uncle. I'm pretty sure Edgar McManus was my dad's second cousin, the first cousin of my paternal grandfather, making him my third cousin. Ella, of course, was related to me only through her marriage to Edgar. Edgar was born on March 13, 1876 and Ella on May 29, 1883. Moved by the arrival of these unexpected memories, I looked all this up last night. Their dates of birth surprised me since this discovery caused me to realize I have known people who were born almost 150 years ago. But that was true as well for all four of my grandparents. I just never thought much about it. The only conclusion from this revelation: I, too, am getting old.

Both Ella and Edgar died in 1959, she on August 22, at the age of 76, and Edgar less than a month later on September 15. He was 83 when he died. My folks were very close to this wonderful couple who I discovered were married on June 12, 1907, two years before my mom and dad were born. Interestingly, I'm currently the same age (76) as Ella when she died, and like Diane and me, this couple had been married 52 years. To be brutally honest, I thought Ella was very, very old. Of course, in September 1959, I had just celebrated my 15th birthday.

Back in 1959, we lived in Larchmont, New York, and Edgar and Ella lived in Holyoke, Massachusetts. We visited them occasionally, perhaps once or twice a year but, sadly, were not informed of their deaths. Both had already been buried before we learned anything. I can recall how devastated my folks were when they found out. It seems that Edgar just gave up the will to live after Ella's death and simply longed to join her. 

Edgar was an executive in the Insurance industry and part of what my dad called the Protestant wing of the family. The religious difference was absolutely irrelevant, though. Dad truly loved his cousin and whenever they got together the conversation would cover the waterfront. I learned a lot just sitting nearby and listening to these two men as they talked. Mom and Ella would, of course, carry on a simultaneous conversation as we all sat in their Victorian-furnished living room. I sometimes slipped away into the kitchen where I could watch the birds and squirrels come up to Ella's kitchen window to eat the seed and nuts she placed on a platform Edgar had attached to the window frame. And Ella always had a ready supply of cake and cookies which she would tell me to "eat until your tummy tells you to stop."

Ella, whose maiden name was Mayhew, was a descendant of an old Yankee family that arrived in this country in the 1630s. Her branch of the Mayhews descended from Thomas Mayhew, one of the original settlers of Martha's Vineyard. Ella had a huge (3 foot by 4 foot), very elaborate, and beautifully framed Mayhew family tree made in the late 19th century. It was truly a work of art, and included the names of hundreds of Mayhew descendants, including Ella herself. A few years before her death she inexplicably gave this family tree to my parents, even though we certainly had no direct familial connection to the Mayhews. Years later, I "inherited" the tree which we displayed on the wall of our family room until the day of a remarkably serendipitous phone conversation.

I was on the phone with Chuck Smiley, my former commanding officer, a dear friend, godfather of our eldest child, and truly one of the best men I have ever known. Knowing we lived on Cape Cod, Chuck mentioned that in the course of doing some genealogical digging, he discovered that he was a direct descendant of a Thomas Mayhew of Martha's Vineyard, an island off the coast of Cape Cod. Had I ever heard of him? I simply said, "Chuck, as we speak I am looking at Thomas Mayhew's family tree, which is hanging on our wall." I then asked, "Would you like it?" I had it safely packaged and shipped directly to Chuck and Sally who lived in San Diego. Both Chuck and Sally died not too long ago, but I expect one of their children now has the tree which for them must be a wonderful family treasure. I've always thought there was a reason, at the time unknown to all, why Ella Mayhew McManus gave that family tree to my folks. Just look where it is now.

You see, Ella and Edgar had no children...at least that's what I thought. Because my dad was almost like a son to this couple, I suppose giving the tree to my folks made some sense. On all those many visits I can recall no one ever mentioning children, but I do remember my mom once saying they were a childless couple. But then yesterday I found a photo of their gravestone on findagrave.com. The stone contains three names: Edgar, Ella, and a child with the unusual name of Lepha Duncan McManus. It seems they had a daughter who was born on May 9, 1909 -- just weeks before both of my parents were born -- and died only six months later on November 23, 1909. I was astounded and saddened, and wonder if my parents even knew about this contemporary of theirs who died so young. I was saddened, too, that nobody had added the year of their deaths after Edgar's and  Ella's names. 

All of this began with last night's uninvited memory, caused by who knows what, and yet led me to recall this wonderful couple about whom I really know so very little. I will add them and their infant daughter to my prayers. And maybe, if I ever again get to Springfield, Massachusetts, I'll stop by their grave and leave a bouquet along with a prayer.

So many people I have known, so many I have forgotten, so many memories to arise when I least expect them.

Birthday Numbers

Today is my birthday, my 76th, but I feel much younger...well, most of the time...ok, maybe sometime. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in church this morning, right after the final blessing. It was a surprise, but very nice. It would have been nicer if Dear Diane had been there, but her shoulder was acting up, so I left her in bed with the ice machine soothing her pain. Dear Diane’s ad:

I think young people tend to forget, or simply ignore, the birthdays of their elders under the mistaken belief that anyone that old wouldn't want to be reminded of it. Here they're wrong. Older folks are really more like little children and take secret pride in their advancing age.

Remember when you were a kid and someone asked, “How old are you...five or six?” How did you respond? “I’m six and a half!” To be seen as only five was a huge insult, and six simply wasn’t good enough. You wanted everyone to know exactly how old you really were. Of course, at that age the years crawled by, so half-years were far more meaningful.

We old folks are much the same. 30 years ago I never would have asked a woman her age. But here in The Villages, they don’t give me a chance to ask. I need only say, “Hi, how are you today?”, and I’m greeted with, “Wonderful! Not bad considering I turn 79 next week.” What do you say to that? You have to say something. Here it’s best to remember how seniors and little kids differ. Both are proud of their actual age, but kids want you to think they’re older, while seniors want to be known as old but viewed as younger. Probably the safest response is something like, “79! You’re kidding! You can’t be 79.” That covers all the bases.

Of course birthdays are linked to time itself, and for me, time is probably the most intriguing aspect of God’s creation of space and time. (Read St. Augustine's Confessions, chapter 11 for one of the better discussion on this.) 

When it comes to space, we can revisit places again and again. They might have changed a bit over time, but they’re still there and usually still recognizable. If I’m planning a future trip to a new place, I can even call up Google Earth and check it out. Oddly, although I’m actually looking at the past as it appears on my computer screen, for me it’s more a peek into the future, a glimpse of the place I intend to visit. 

It’s with time that things get a bit messy. We can’t reclaim the past because it’s irretrievable, but we can call it back as a memory. 

My earliest memories are quite early. I remember watching my dad and brother playing in the snow in our backyard in rural Nichols, Connecticut when I was only two years old...well, ok, two years and five months old. I was sitting with my mom at our bay window looking out at the two of them and wanting so badly to join them. Years later, when I described this memory to my mother, she was amazed that I could recall that day. “You had a bad cold,” she said, “I was very worried about you, and wouldn’t let you go outside. My gosh! That was in February 1947, and you remember that?” Yep.

I have quite a few memories of my third year, again all in Connecticut. I’ve always been an early riser. Even as a young child, I would awaken long before everyone else, leave my room, and sit down in the hallway at the top of the stairway. There I’d be joined by our dog, a German Shepherd named Clipper. He and I would lie down, my head resting on his side, while I rattled on, sharing my thoughts. Clipper was a tolerant beast and feigned interest. Often my voice would waken my parents (I’ve never been a quiet talker) and Dad would come into the hallway and ask me, “Who are you talking to?” I, of course, thought that a silly question and simply said, “Clipper.” I have many other memories of Clipper, a terrific dog whose only vice was his uncontrollable desire to kill our neighbor’s chickens. 

Birthdays generate other thoughts. I was born in 1944, so someone who was my current age then -- 76 years old -- was born in 1868, just a few years after the end of the Civil War. If we repeat this exercise and go back another 76 years, we find ourselves in the year 1792, when the French Revolution was in full bloodbath mode, setting the stage for the far bloodier revolutions of the 20th century. 

Speaking of the French Revolution, when I was 13 I met a 96-year-old man born in 1861 in Philadelphia. His grandfather had left France in a hurry in the midst of the revolution because as an apprentice cabinet maker his shop in Paris had made furniture for French royals. For the revolutionaries this apparently was a capital offence. Born in 1776, he was only 17 years old when he made his way to America thanks to a gift from a wealthy friend. Arriving in Baltimore, he managed to find work in Philadelphia, again as a cabinet maker. He died in 1870, at the age of 94. (His grandson attributed the family's longevity to the daily consumption of French wines.) 

But that's just the background. The interesting part of the story began when the grandson told me his grandfather had made some furniture for Thomas Jefferson and visited Monticello on several occasions during the early 1800s. The old man had also told him many more stories of meeting other famous Americans during our nation's infancy. That's when it hit me. Old age and the compression of time placed me just two people away from our founding fathers. 

Maybe 80 years from now, one of my grandchildren will tell stories to his grandchildren of that strange year, 2020, and what his aging grandfather told him about a world so very different from the world they'll be facing then. 

Cherish the memories, friends. Share them and let the past live in the minds and hearts of those who follow. 

God's peace...and a Happy Birthday to all others who may be celebrating today.

Remembering 9/11

I suppose everyone over the age of 25 has a 9/11 story, a story that answers the question, "Where were you when the terrorists attacked?" My own story isn't very dramatic, and compared to those directly involved, I was a mere spectator, and a distant one at that. 

As I recall that day, September 11, 2001 -- like December 7, 1941, a "date which will live in infamy" -- I find it particularly odd that I first heard of the attack from a woman seated in an office in London, England. At the time I was employed by Excel Switching, a manufacturer of programmable telecommunications switches, located in Hyannis, Massachusetts. We had recently been acquired by Lucent Technologies and were integrating into their organization.

That morning I was on a conference call with a dozen or so people from around the world, when the woman in London exclaimed, "Oh, heavens! I just saw it on the telly. A plane flew into the World Trade Center in New York. It looks very bad indeed." I asked her, "Can you see what the weather's like in New York?" I knew it was a beautiful September day on Cape Cod, but it could be very different 200 miles away in New York City. "It looks like a nice, sunny day," she said, "Blue sky and I can see no clouds." Hearing that, and based on some common sense and my years as a Navy pilot, I knew one thing: it was no accident. No pilot accidentally flies into a large building in Manhattan on a beautiful, clear, sunny day. I was certain it was intentional, and, given the target, likely a terrorist attack, and said so. The others were not so certain. Of course, at this point we didn't know the type of aircraft involved. Was it a small civilian plane or a commercial airliner? But knowing a plane had crashed into the World Trade Center was disturbing enough that I suggested we end the call so we could sort out what had happened. I was thinking of our technical support people in the field, especially those who might be in New York working on or installing equipment.

Leaving my office I ran into one of our VPs and together we made our way to our spacious lunchroom where many of our employees had already gathered to witness the events on a large-screen TV. Minutes later we saw the second plane, another large Boeing 767, fly into the south tower and any lingering doubts about the nature of the attack disappeared. The tragedy then accelerated as we heard of the attack on the Pentagon and watched in horror as the two towers collapsed before our eyes. Finally, we heard the news of the crash of United 93 in that farmer’s field in Shanksville, PA. I later learned that two people I knew well, one a Navy intelligence officer and the other an employee of Washington Group International, died in those attacks on the Pentagon and New York. 

The suddenness and enormity of the attacks united the nation. In our grief for the victims and their families, and our outrage over those responsible, we seemed to come together as a nation determined to do what was necessary to bring the terrorist leaders to justice and prevent more attacks. 

Did we accomplish this? Well, during those 19 years we killed a lot of terrorists, along with most of their original leadership. But leadership vacuums fill quickly by those waiting in the wings, and terrorists are especially good at forming new organizations to attract another cadre of discontents. I suspect it wasn’t hard to convince the new recruits that all their problems had Western and Judeo-Christian roots. We also tried to effect major societal change in nations like Afghanistan. But despite our best efforts, we were unable to consummate the marriage of Islam and representative democracy, quite likely a hopeless task that never should have been attempted. 

The costs of all this have been tremendous, both in lives — the lives of young Americans, the very best of their generation — and in national treasure. What should we have done? On this, my thoughts haven’t changed, but this is not the time or place to air them — perhaps some other time.

Today, 19 years later, our nation is certainly different. Seemingly divided by almost every measure — political, economic, racial, spiritual... — as a people most of us stand on the sidelines watching a tiny minority rampage through our cities as they try to destroy the very fabric of the nation that tolerates their gross stupidity. Do we face a new kind of terrorist, one spawned by our own communities and nurtured in families where God has been evicted and replaced by a materialism that never satisfies? Is this new terrorism taught overtly in our schools and universities where academic freedom has been crushed by the political correctness of the far left? I suppose we are all, in a sense, guilty because, wrapped up in our own lives, we have turned away and allowed this to happen. 

Pondering our societal inaction, the lack of courage displayed by our unwillingness to confront that which is tearing us apart from within, I can't help but recall the true courage of the passengers on United 93. As that Boeing 757 flew above Pennsylvania, speeding toward our nation's capital, those passengers knew exactly what awaited them if they did nothing. Faith and courage overpowered their fears that morning and they did what had to be done. How did Jesus put it?

"No one has greater love than this, to lay down one's life for one's friends" [Jn 15:13].

Those men and women of Flight 93 are indeed our friends, and we must never forget them and all those others who gave their lives that fateful day. And let us remember, too, all our service men and women who have sacrificed so much so others can live their lives in peace.    

As we struggle to regain our courage as a people, perhaps we should embody those words of Todd Beamer who led the charge on Flight 93. As he rose from his seat to confront the hatred and evil that faced him and his companions, Beamer simply said:

"OK, let's roll!"

I think we've got some rollin' to do.

 

Deja Vu All Over Again

This morning an old Navy friend (and all my Navy friends are old) directed me to a video on YouTube that brought back a lot of memories of my first carrier landings on June 28, 1968. It's hard to believe this took place almost 50 years ago, but that's one thing about time: it doesn't stand still.

Anyway, back then I was in the midst of my U.S. Navy flight training in Pensacola, Florida. I don't think I exaggerate when I say that all naval aviators consider the day of their first carrier landings among the most memorable of their lives. What a thrill! It was the primary skill that separated all of us naval aviators from the rest of the aviation community.

In those days even flight students who were slated to become helicopter pilots -- and that included me -- first learned to fly fixed-wing aircraft and had to qualify by completing a series of arrested landings on an aircraft carrier. For most flight students that carrier was the USS Lexington (CVT-16), a Pensacola-based ship that functioned as the training command's carrier. But in late June 1968, when I was scheduled for carrier qualification, Lexington was having some work done and she was temporarily replaced by the USS Randolph (CV-15). And so, my landings were on Randolph.

My aircraft for carrier qualification was the T-28C, an absolutely wonderful airplane. Among trainers flown in our armed forces at the time it was about as close to a World War II fighter as you could get. No other trainer could compare. In fact, during the Vietnam conflict the South Vietnamese Air Force (and the CIA) flew the T-28 in combat. I wouldn't be surprised if some countries still fly it in their air forces.

North American T-28C Trojan

The T-28 (the  B and C models we flew in training) was powered by a Wright Cyclone R-1820, a huge radial, 9-cylinder engine, that generated (if I remember correctly) 1,425 horsepower. It was quite a machine. When you strapped into the T-28 and cranked up that engine, you knew you were flying something special. It's cruising speed was about 220 knots and, as I recall, it's maximum speed was almost 300 knots. Despite the noise and the oil leaks and all of its odd little idiosyncrasies, it was a joy to fly.

R-1820 Engine in a T-28 (engine cowl removed)

The first video included below is a Navy training film designed to demonstrate the procedures used for landing a T-28C on the deck of an aircraft carrier. The voice of the narrator is one of the most familiar to anyone who served in the Navy. He must have narrated 1,000 films. 

I have a vague recollection of watching this particular film (or another version) way back when. But no video could replace the hours in the airplane practicing carrier landings at Barin Field in Foley, Alabama. By this time in our training we were already fairly competent T-28 pilots, so the carrier qualification training took only a couple of weeks. But it was a demanding two weeks and included almost 100 field carrier landings or FCLs designed to simulate landing on the carrier. For those of you interested in how naval aviators landed on carriers in the good ol' T-28, here's the training film:

On that very hot June day in 1968 when our flight took off, we joined up in formation and headed South to rendezvous with USS Randolph in the Gulf of Mexico. Then, one after another, we each completed touch-and-go landings, followed by six arrested landings. I've embedded another video (below) that depicts the first carrier landings of a flight of budding naval aviators around that time. It's an amateur video, taken with an 8mm movie camera, and has no audio. The quality is poor, but it depicts touch-and-goes, wave-offs, bolters (that's when you miss the arresting wire), and arrested landings. 

I'll never forget the date (June 28) because that was also my mom's birthday, and that evening I called her to wish her a happy birthday and tell her my exciting news.

That day was eclipsed by only a few others, the foremost being our wedding day four months later on November 2. Then, just two weeks later, on November 15, 1968, I received my Navy wings of gold which were pinned on by my new bride, Dear Diane. This was followed by the days each of our four children were born in 1971, 1972, 1974 and 1977. Twenty years later, on May 24, 1997, I was ordained a permanent deacon and with Diane at my side began this new life journey. Since then God has blessed us with nine wonderful grandchildren; and so the important days continue to add up.

This tremendous wealth of wonderful memories is what makes getting old so downright enjoyable. It's the one thing we have that the young don't.