VALENTINE'S SONG OF THE WEEK!

HAPPY VALENTINE'S DAY!

I want to say how much I love you all, but the words get in the way!

Sammy Carl

CARL BAILEY PASSED AWAY!

And The World Went About Its Business!

As a prologue to the story of my grandfather's service in the Spanish-American and the Philippine Insurrection, The Wars of Young Carl Bailey, an Ordinary Soldier of His Time, I wrote of his death as the starting point. It is the primary memory I have of him, but after researching his record and the wars themselves, I felt I knew him well.

*****

I knew my Grandpa Bailey, but I guess I didn’t really know him. I knew my middle name was the same as his first name because my name carries the names of both of my grandfathers. I knew he was in the Spanish-American War because as a child I played with his old army campaign hat, and I knew that he made his living as a bricklayer. But I guess I never knew him as an ordinary person who led a life with stories to tell. He was just my grandpa.

Grandpa Bailey was the first person I ever knew who died. He died of inoperable cancer on August 7, 1948, a week before his sixty-eighth birthday. His last words to my mother, as they wheeled him into the operating room were, “See you in church.” I don’t think my grandfather was a very religious man, but perhaps he was making his peace with God. I heard my mother tell the story of those last words many times over the years. You don’t forget the memories and the last words of a dying father.

I was ten years old when he died, to young to understand my feelings about death very well, but I did know that I felt a sadness that I had never known before. His casket was placed before the brick fireplace he had built with his own hands in the living room of the house he and my grandmother shared on West Ninth Street in Jonesboro, Indiana.

Sometimes I moved around the room, sometimes I went outside and sat quietly on the porch, and sometimes I sat on the periphery, watching his friends and neighbors pay their last respects in muffled tones. When there was nobody around, I stood next to his casket and just looked at him with a hurt in my stomach. He was dressed in his best double-breasted pin-striped suit, and his rimless glasses rested on his nose. His eyes were closed, just as I had seen them many times before as he was dozing off in his easy chair. His callused hands from forty years of bricklaying were folded at his waist. On the fourth finger of his right hand was his 32d degree Masonic ring. I cried that he was gone, and I knew I would miss him.

I remember my mother telling my younger brother and me that we would be going to our house with Dad for the night, but she would be staying with grandma. I was glad we didn’t have to stay overnight at Grandma’s house because I wasn’t sure about sleeping in the same house with a dead person, even if that dead person was my grandpa. There seemed something odd about a dead person resting in a living room. “That’s why they have funeral homes,” I thought to myself.

The funeral service was conducted in his living room, and his pall bearers were friends from the organizations that meant the most to him throughout his life -- Masons, Spanish-American War veterans and members of the brick masons’ union. After the service and the hymns, the casket was placed in the long black hearse of the Jay and Swift Funeral Home and a solemn parade of cars, with little blue flags fluttering from the bumpers signifying our special place that day, slowly proceeded up Main Street and across the Mississinewa River to the Riverside Cemetery in Gas City. Small stones pinged under the fenders like hail on a tin roof as the procession rolled through the gates of the cemetery and up the white crushed stone road toward his burial site next to his father, mother and younger sister, who had gone before. A soft summer breeze ruffled the fringes of the tent and the American flag covering the casket as the mourners gathered under the green open-aired tent set against the blue of the Indiana summer sky. The family took their seats on the folding chairs beside the casket. The pastor said a few words, “dust to dust”, and that sort of thing, the sad and lonely notes of Taps echoed across the cemetery and then it was over. Friends and family said a few quiet words to each other and began to go their separate ways.

As we walked back to our car in silence, I took a quick glance over my shoulder to catch a final glimpse of where my grandfather would be buried forever. Dad started the engine, and we eased our way out of the cemetery and on to the road back to Grandma’s house. The silence was broken when my father reached over and turned on the radio. As the music began to play, I can clearly remember feeling the great burden of grief being lifted from me. Suddenly, I felt better. The program on the radio was normal. The traffic was normal. The sunshine was normal. The green of the trees and grass was normal. Everything was normal, and the world was indeed going on as usual. I guess it was then that I first realized that death’s rituals pass and the world, as it had done while I was away, goes on about its daily business.

Have a nice day!

Sam

LIVES LIVED!

Old Watering Holes

After I retired in 1992, I quickly discovered I needed to explore new areas and develop new interests. You can only play so much golf and take so many naps. I wanted to be a renaissance man.

I bought a computer, even though I didn’t know a thing about computers. I became interested in coin collecting through some old Indian Heads my father had. I actually have a pretty good collection. Eventually, I lost interest and moved on to genealogical research. That went hand in hand with using the computer and Internet as a research tool.

The next logical step would be to write my family history and some of my own life stories. I even took two courses in creative non-fiction writing. Most of this work was done in the mid-nineties, and even though my family history is pretty much written and edited, I have yet to publish it to my family members. I do procrastinate.

As I have come back to writing, I would like to share some of these stories, personal essays, vignettes and even some bad poetry on occasion. In doing this I will start to sort it all out and finally publish it to my family members. I am not getting any younger.

I used the following quotations as guides and inspiration.

"It is only through an unfolding of the people’s histories that a nation’s culture can be studied in its full meaning. Each discovered United States family history becomes a newly revealed small piece of American History. The history of a country is only the selected histories of all of its people."

Alex Haley

"The next thing most like living one’s life over again seems to be a recollection of that life, and to make that recollection as durable as possible by putting it down in writing."

Benjamin Franklin

“The cradle rocks above an abyss; a common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness. Although the two are identical twins, man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm than the one he is heading for (at some forty-five hundred heartbeats an hour).”

Vladimir Nabokov, from his memoir, Speak Memory.

“The greatest dignity to be found in death is the dignity of the life that preceded it. This is a form of hope we can all achieve, and it is the most abiding of all. Hope resides in the meaning of what our lives have been.”

Dr. Sherwin B. Nuland’s book How We Die

“Return to old watering holes for more than water—friends and dreams are there to meet you.”

Old African Proverb.

Have a nice day!

Sam

BLUETOOTHS ON A SUNNY DAY!

Observation of the Day!

Today the Blog is at a remote location, Fashion Valley Mall in Mission Valley, San Diego. I am not going to make this a Nirvana moment because it’s a shopping mall for gosh sakes. However, it could easily be classified as a personal Nirvana, not necessarily from a shopping mall ,but from San Diego itself.

I came to Fashion Valley for my one-on-one Apple computer training classes. I am currently trying to master IPHOTO. I am making progress because, if you will note on the my Blog, there is a picture of the old blogger, newly edited in. I plan to change it every once in a while to keep it fresh. I will be highlighting the various personalities that I associate with different kinds of blogs, Sam, Sam Arnold, Sammy Carl, Sammy Arnold and Samuel C. Arnold.

Anyway here I am sitting in the bright San Diego sunshine. It is eighty degrees and wonderful. I am engaging in the favorite pastime of an observer. I am observing. There are all kinds of people, strange people, beautiful people, ugly people, young people, old people and of course the beautiful little kids and young hotties.

Perhaps the funniest observation was the black middle-aged couple, who had matching pea green golf type shirts with Cayman Island logos, matching black pants and both had Bluetooth phones growing out of their ears, strolling slowly step for step, hand in hand.

When the first cell phones hit the market and were still a novelty, they were a status symbol. People loved to show off by taking phone calls in movie theaters, restaurants, stores, meetings or in the middle of a conversation; and then actually carrying on a loud conversations about mostly nothing. Of course this still happens, but the cell phone is no longer a status symbol. It is a tool of the masses. Now the status symbol is the Bluetooth in the ear. I previously told you about the young man in Cracker Barrel on a Sunday night who was not going to get any important Bluetooth phone calls, EVER. I suspect this couple is the same. But they looked cool, I guess.

I marvel at how much love San Diego, even in a shopping center. It does give me a warm feeling inside, and I really mean that.

Over the past several years, I have developed as many friends here, as in Minneapolis, which makes it even more special and more inviting. Maybe I’ll never be able to live here full time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t treat it as home. Friends in both places make both places home.

Have a nice day!

Sam

BILL ALWAYS WORRIES ABOUT HIS LEGACY!

Bill Will Alway Have a Legacy!

Have a nice day!

Sammy Carl

SONG OF THE WEEK!

Roy Orbison And kd lang - Crying (1987)

Roy Orbison and kd lang, whether singing solo or as a duet make it their song of our time.

If you check the menu button after the song is over, you can hear both Roy and kd sing it solo.

Lyrics to Crying

Roy: I was all right for a while
I could smile for a while
KD: But I saw you last night
You held my hand so tight
When you stopped to say hello
Roy: You wished me well
You couldn't tell that
I've been crying over you,
crying over you And you said "So long" Left me
standing all alone, alone and crying, crying, crying, crying
It's hard to understand
But the touch of your hand can start me crying

I thought that I was over you But it's true, so true
I love you even more than I did before
But darling, what can I do?
For you don't love me
And I'll always be crying over you, crying over you

Roy: Yes now you're gone
Both: And from this moment on, I'll be crying, crying, crying, crying
Yeah, crying, crying over you

Have a nice day and enjoy!

Sammy

Ernie Pyle, An Extra Ordinary Journalist

Observation of the Day!
Ernie Pyle, An Extra Ordinary Journalist

Ernie Pyle was perhaps the greatest war correspondent in history. Last week a photograph showing Ernie Pyle laying dead of enemy gunfire was discovered and released for the first time.

When the war was over in Europe, Pyle quickly went to cover the Pacific War. It was there he was killed. It is interesting that Ernie Pyle died over sixty years go and is still revered for his journalism that featured the ordinary soldier in war. After reading James Tobin's book several years ago, I kept the following file in my computer. It is too bad we don't have this kind of journalism today. This Pyle piece still brings a tear to my eye. i'd like to share it with you.

The Death of Captain Waskow

AT THE FRONT LINES IN ITALY -- In this war I have known a lot of officers who were loved and respected by the soldiers under them. But never have I crossed the trail of a man as beloved as Capt. Henry T. Waskow of Belton, Tex.

Captain Waskow was a company commander in the 36th division. He had been in this company since long before he left the States. He was very young, only in his middle 20s, but he carried in him a sincerity and gentleness that made people want to be guided by him.

“After my own father, he comes next,” a sergeant told me.

“He always looked after us,” a soldier said. “He’d go to bat for us every time.”

“I’ve never known him to do anything unkind.,” another one said.

I was at the foot of the mule train the night they brought Captain Waskow down. The moon was nearly full at the time, and you could see far up the trail, and even part way across the valley. Soldiers made shadows as they walked.

Dead men had been coming down the mountain all evening, lashed onto the backs of mules. They came lying belly down across the wooden packsaddle, the heads hanging down on the left side of the mule, their stiffened legs sticking awkwardly from the other side, bobbing up and down as the mule walked.

The Italian mule skinners were afraid to walk beside the dead men, so Americans had to lead the mules down that night. Even the Americans were reluctant to unlash and lift the bodies, when they got to the bottom, so an officer had to do it himself and ask others to help.

The first one came early in the morning. They slid him down from the mule, and stood him on his feet for a moment. In the half light he might have been merely a sick man standing there leaning on the other. Then they laid him on the ground in the shadow of the stone wall alongside the road.

I don’t know who the first one was. You feel small in the presence of dead men and ashamed of being alive, and you don’t ask silly questions.

We left him there beside the road, that first one, and we all went back to the cowshed and sat on water cans or lay on the straw, waiting for the next batch of mules.

Somebody said the dead soldier had been dead for four days, and then nobody said anything more about him. We talked for an hour or more ; the dead man lay all alone, outside in the shadow of the wall.

Then a soldier came into the cowshed and said there were some more bodies outside. We went out into the road. Four mules stood there in the moonlight, in the road where the trail came down off the mountain. The soldiers who led them down stood there waiting.

“This one is Captain Waskow,” one of them said quickly.

Two men unlashed his body from the mule and lifted it off and laid in the shadow beside the stone wall Other men took the other bodies off. Finally, there were five lying end to end in a long row. You don’t cover up dead men in combat zones. They just lie there in the shadows until somebody else comes after them.

The uncertain mules moved off to their olive orchards. The men in the road seemed reluctant to leave. They stood around, and gradually I could sense them moving, one by one, close to Captain Waskow’s body. Not so much to look, I think, as to say something in finality to him and to themselves. I stood close by and could hear.

One soldier came and looked down, and he said out loud:

“God damn it!”

That’s all he said, and then he walked away.

Another one came, and he said, “God damn it to hell anyway!” He looked down for a few last moments and then turned and left.

Another man came. I think it was an officer. It was hard to tell officers from men in the half light, for everybody was grimy and dirty. The man looked down into the dead captain’s face and the spoke directly to him, as though he were alive.

“I’m sorry, old man.”

Then a soldier came and stood beside the officer and bent over, and he to spoke to his dead captain, not in a whisper but awfully tenderly, and he said:

“I’m sure sorry, sir.”

Then the first man squatted down, and he reached down and took the captain’s hand, and he sat there for a full five minutes holding the dead hand in his own and looking intently into the dead face. And he never uttered a sound all the time he sat there.

Finally he put his hand down. He reached up and gently straightened the points of the captain’s shirt collar, and then he sort of rearranged the tattered edges of his uniform around the wound, and then he got up and walked away down the road in the moonlight all alone.

The rest of us went back to the cowshed, leaving the five dead men lying in a line end to end in the shadow of the low stone wall. We lay down on the straw in the cowshed, and pretty soon we were all asleep.

From Ernie Pyle’s War, America’s Eye Witness to World War II by James Tobin

Rest in Peace, Ernie Pyle.

Sam