Decoration Day

 

Decoration Day

a re-thinking by David L Lewis

Three years after the Civil War the head of an organization of Union veterans — the Grand Army of the Republic (GAR) — established Decoration Day as a time for the nation to decorate the graves of the war dead with flowers. After World War I the holiday was expanded to honor all American war fatalities. Memorial Day became common usage following World War I, with the name Decoration Day lost in the fog of history by succeeding generations.

Following adapted from Brazil Times blog of May 2009

Memorial Day is designated to honor those who gave the “ultimate sacrifice”. On this day we will hear again about the men and women who have died to “keep us free”. I think this latter declaration a misnomer at very best.

As I understand history, since the Civil War (1860-65) no American soldier has been called upon to give his or her life for the liberty and pursuit of happiness of the people of the United States of America.

This is not to say the sacrifice of our servicemen and women is not commendable, noteworthy and brave. What I am saying is that it is a mistake to say they died for “our” freedom. They did not. With any exceptions the reader is free to point out, our military has largely been called upon to die for the freedom of other peoples in other lands.

Without attempting to be exhaustive, these are the major encounters of US military since Civil War:

Spanish-American War (1898)

World War I (1914-1918)

World War II (1941-1945)

Korea Conflict (1950-1953)

Vietnam War (1955-1975)

Kuwait Conflict (1990-1991)

Iraq Conflict (2003-2023)

In which of these did Americas die for or in defense of our freedoms?

Whatever you think of war (and I for one am ‘agin it), America has largely gone to war because others needed us to preserve their freedoms. Although it is no longer politically correct to say it, America went to war because we thought ourselves a “Christian nation” which ought to behave as such.

Memorial Day, I propose, comes down to this: With possibly few exceptions Americans have not been called upon to defend the freedom and liberty of Americans. Does it give less honor to our dead if we admit we honor them for giving their lives for the freedom of other nations and other peoples? I think not. It seems more honorable that they had nothing to gain for themselves. Will we see a day when it can be truly said that American men and women died to preserve and defend America itself? I (very politically incorrectly) pray not.

Update May 29 2023

America was founded on what is called the Judea-Christian morals philosophy. It is that philosophy which holds America together, that which made it ‘great’. Thus it is great when it fights and dies for freedom wherever threatened; great when it faces up to authoritarianism in whatever form it takes; great precisely because citizen-soldiers give their lives for the freedom of others, whatever the costs.

We need a Memorial Day not only to remind us of our history, but also to teach each new generation what made America great...

      If the Judea-Christian morals philosophy which made America possible holds, every death of every defender of justice is memorable...

      If, though, that philosophical principle fails because new generations do not learn the lessons of history and allow freedom-fighters to perish or authoritarianism to arise, then America may yet fall into the fog of forgotten history alongside “Decoration Day”.

If any of this has made the reader more aware of America’s sacrifice for ’truth, justice, and the American way’, it is worth having been written for some future generation’s Memorial Day.

Nathan Narratives

 

NARRATIVES OF NATHAN

the son of and best of friends to David L. Lewis

*****

“As long as we remember a person, they're not really gone. Their thoughts, their feelings, their memories, they become a part of us.” The Twelve

Best introduction might be this: Eight years in and there are still days when something will happen or be said and my first response is “ask Nathan”. Over the years his mother and I have told many stories about Nathan, the things he did, something he said, the child he was. Lest the narratives of Nathan be lost, I have gathered a few which were important to me.

*****

We should have had an inkling of what was to come the night he was born. The father’s waiting room was about 30-feet from delivery room. I finally convinced myself it could not be my wife screaming like that, must be somebody else. Not sure if he ever caused that much pain to anyone again.

During his first night he “jaundiced”. To save his life an Intern from Peru, who had seen the same thing happen in his home country, ordered a complete exchange of the baby’s blood. A nurse told me the doctor had risked his license to save our baby. His mother still thinks they used her blood. I have a more likely theory: They filled him with blood taken from some ‘galaxy hitchhiker’ from the future (he’ll get both jokes).

*****

When he was four years old, and a very good boy, all he wanted for Christmas was an “Evel Kneivel”. This was a wind-up motorcycle toy which apparently all four year olds desired that year. We looked everywhere and no one had any left. On Christmas Eve, in desperation, I stopped at a Western Auto store (yes, it was that long ago). They had one last such toy, a knock-off. The clerk asked if Nathan was old enough to read? He could not, and he never knew any difference. He (with a certain big brother’s help) broke the darn thing, ending Nathan’s interest in cars – and initiating such interest in big brother.

*****

By Second grade he had learned to read. We happened to live just up the block from the town library. When I first filled out a library card application and sent him off by himself to get card he brought it back. The librarian didn't believe it was really my signature.

He would come home from school and rush down to the library. One day he came home with about ten books on American Indians. I asked, "teacher talk about Indians today?" He replied, "Yes. how did you know?"

By time we left that town he'd read every book on his reading level; and, I'm sure, many above his "level"

*****

About the sixth grade we enrolled him a new school. As part of the process he was to take a reading placement test. I suggested to the teacher it would save time to start at 12^th grade level and work her way down. He missed one question on first level tested. A question for which he would have needed some exposure to Calculus. He didn’t know Calculus, just that a knowledge of it was needed. Too bad, if he’d known it was coming he would have found ten books to read and master the subject.

*****

During his middle school years we went to one of those ‘parent-teacher conference’ nights. Roaming around from teacher to teacher I noticed the Librarian sitting all alone. I asked her if she knew our son Nathan? Barely looking up she replied, “Skinny kid, reads a lot?”

*****

My last, and probably favorite story is of when Nathan was about seven years old. There was a lot going on in our lives just then, including a “big deal” on the part of an evangelical group to get children “saved”. Exactly from what they were to be saved I was not sure.

As I put him to bed one night Nathan said, “Daddy, I got saved today.” I certainly did all I could to encourage him in this as I “tucked him in” and kissed him goodnight.

The next night as I put Nathan to bed he asked me, “Will those people be back tonight?”

I asked, “what people?”

“There were a bunch of people in my room last night.”

“What were they doing?”

“Just singing some church songs”.

“What did they look like?”

“They all had on long white dresses”

"I don’t know if they’ll come back", I told him. "But there is nothing to worry about. Just tell daddy if you see them again". If he ever did he never mentioned it, except in how he lived life.

Not the ‘smartest’ nor did he have the highest IQ.

But, he knew everything, or at least always knew

where to find a book to teach him anything.

The best summary of him might be this:

I’ve been many places and met many people,

never met anyone quite like Nathan Philip Lewis.

There certainly could be more tales told, and it is possible all the Nathan narratives will never all be told. 

The reader is invited to add their own narratives in comments,

theDaddy!

Wisest Woman

 

Wisest Woman to Ever

the liberated 1950s mother of David L Lewis

The coming of Spring always reminds me of what our mother would say: “Fall comes suddenly one day with the north wind and announces “Here I Am!”. Springs lies to you.” Like most of what she said, this always proves true.

We always called her ‘mother’. Even daddy did -- mostly because he wanted us to call her what she wanted to be called. Mother was born September 15 1915 and died December 27 2005. A lot happened in those ninety years. Don’t talk about much about how she nurtured me, which is my failure and our children’s loss.

She lived in “a world which never was and never will be again”. Born just in time to experience the Great Depression first-hand, met my father at fifteen and never really loved another, she had unwavering faith which she patiently and prayfully imparted to her three children.

Mother was a ‘Stay At Home Mom’ long before it was a thing. In the 1950s that is what mothers did, hands-on rearing of their children. Active in both the Mother’s Club and Parent-Teacher Organization, was president of both at one time or another. Result being she knew exactly what was going on in our grade school, what was needed, and how to get things done. Each year she’d have our teachers and the principal, Mr. Wolff, to our house for a semi-formal lunch. I usually walked home for lunch, she had it ready. Only time she ‘worked’ was Christmas shopping season to make extra Christmas money.

Summers were devoted to us kids. Each in turn had her attention in whatever was important to that child. First thing was the school picnic at Chain-of-Rocks amusement park sponsored by the Mother’s Club. Followed by summer full of swimming and whatever was the child’s interest of the minute.

Come Fall she had something called Boys Bible Club for the pre-teen boys at church. We learned Scripture, friendship, and softball. The elders let her have our club at the church, nobody else wanted the job. She also was Sunday School teacher of this age boys for some years. Seems nobody else wanted that job, either. I still think in King James Bible vernacular.

She once told me that before the War she’d worked for a while in a cigarette factory. They gave workers a certain number of them on regular basis. When she started looking forward to cig hand-out day she knew it was getting to be a problem and quit forever. She knew how to handle the matter when it came to us kids. Terry, who had weak heart, was told about health problems smoking brought; Diane was convinced they made a girl look un-ladylike; and with me she emphasized the costs. She knew us.

Even daddy wouldn’t eat liver, mother got us to love braunschweiger -- with lots of mustard. Eating fresh vegetables like olives and celery was a special treat. And snacks were to be earned.

Daddy was always to be respected, appreciated, and worth listening to. Mother never let us forget our father always had absolute responsibility. They always put up a united front. If my parents ever disagreed about anything I am to this day unaware of it.

After the last child began high school she began that part of her life of adventure and accomplishment of which books are written. This being a task I leave to Pi (i.e. aunt Diane).

In her final years she was in a nursing home, reportedly asking for David. [Obviously she loved me the best! So there, Pi.] I suspect, though, the David she was looking for had long since grown up and somehow gotten much older. I may have been, once again, at the top of her mind because I’d given her the most ‘difficulties’. My big brother Terry told me to just remember her as she was, that he’d take care of everything. Then he went and died first. As it often is with women, ‘Everything’ fell on our sister, who proved appropriately prepared by mother.

Day before her funeral Matthew and I had some reason to go to Target. On a whim I threw into the basket a CD of Elvis Presley gospel songs. Some time later I realized one of the songs on that CD included the last thing I remember my mother ever saying to me: “If we never meet again this side of Heaven, I’ll meet you on that beautiful shore.”

For many years I have referred to mother as ‘the wisest woman to ever walk the earth’. Admittedly this is somewhat hyperbolic. If would be more correct to say we serve a God wise enough to give me the mother I needed. Without her, and the second woman in my life, my sister Diane, I never would have made it until the third woman in my life, Kay, took over the task of coping with me. Have a blessed Mother’s Day wise women to now walk the earth.

For more Stories of Ruth see my prior blogs:

My Mother Said, published May 10 2020 at

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7931195089641925137/2133752931399357675

Stories of Ruth, published June 28 2020 at

https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/preview/7931195089641925137/27660226603290619

Maternal Chain of Events, published August 2 2020 ar
https://www.blogger.com/blog/post/edit/7931195089641925137/654404572974419738

Nurse Appreciation

 

NURSE APPRECIATION

by the very patient patient David L Lewis

At height of Covid-19 Pandemic a nurse was interviewed who had volunteered to travel to area where epidemic was rampant and medical help lacking. When asked why she was going into such a dangerous situation she replied, “I’m a Nurse.”

According to the American Nurses Association, “National Nurses Week begins each year on May 6th and ends on May 12th, Florence Nightingale's birthday”. I have a lot of appreciation to express.

Some years back Kay worked as a Nurses Aid. She would tell me so many ‘horror stories’ that I promised myself I’d treat all hospital personnel with respect and do what I was asked to do. This has been my rule as I spent (sleepless) nights in at least a dozen hospitals, and met more nurses that even God lost track of the number. However, after a while you get to where it takes only a few minutes to know which ones you can really talk to and which to just be polite.

Doctors don’t remember, they’ve got a lot to do. You have to trust the nurse. It is the nurses who rescue us from the doctors! All you can ask of nurses is that they make you feel you are their only patient, that they are listening, and that they care what happens to you. It is fair to say I have survived a lot of bad ‘stuff’ because most of my nurses have been all I could ask of them to be.

Once in a while I am remembered (I am, after all, memorable) by a nurse who treated me before. The good and the bad is that you rarely see the same person again. Here I must mention the one nurse who, because of her care, I remember most clearly. She is probably the only nurse whose name I know two years later, Mallory Cooper, RN. She talked me through self-imposed crises and stayed half-hour after her shift ended to be sure I was all-right.

Through all my experiences there have only been two ‘bad’ ones. The first could simply be ‘put up with’ for one shift. Another, admittedly encountered under very traumatic circumstances, was only time I demanded different nurse. Interestingly my new nurse was a really good nurse. A ‘straight-laced’, by-the-book nurse whom I knew immediately could not be taken lightly. But, she could certainly be trusted. It took two shifts in ICU, but I got her to smile.

Then there is my favorite red-headed niece and nurse, Jen. At first of this year she heard how things were going with the favorite uncle and aunt. She got into her car and drove, twice, from Missouri to help. Since then she e-mails regular to ‘check-in’ and I write her about every problem. Like many of the many nurses who’ve cared for me, Jen is a nurse you really have to do what she tells you to do because she cares and she listens. After all the doctors and all the hospitals and all the nurses, doing what a nurse tells you to do is only way to get well and stay all-right.

A Working Man

 

A Working Man

the first-born son of David L Lewis

I actually saw our first child before his not-quite-with-it still affected by anesthetics new mother saw him. He was the ugliest living thing I’ve ever seen. A nurse assured me that all first-born had a certain amount of ‘molding’ and they clean up good. Kay’s asked, “Is he a beautiful baby?” There are reasons we’ve stayed married these many years, my answer on that occasion being one such reason: “He’s a very beautiful baby”. Anyhow, he cleaned up good.

Back in olden days you only knew if you had a boy or girl when the baby was born. But, my first child was always going to be a son. His name was always going to be Kenneth. These days he wants to be called Ken. However, I always think of him as Kenneth -- even though I am the only one in the world who can get away with calling him Kenny.

Over the years me and Kenneth have been through a lot together, the good and the bad and the ugly. Throughout it all my boy has always been my best buddy. However, if it weren’t for social media his parents wouldn’t know what’s going on with he and his. He never calls, which is just as well because neither he not I can think of anything to say on phone. Really are only two things to talk about with Kenneth: Football and Cars!

Football! When he was seven football somehow became the thing we would watch together. He knew as much about the game as I. There was no pro team around, so we were never sure who to root for. We only had black and white TV (yeah, you’re getting old Kenny!). One of us would take the white team and the other got the black team. We learned the rules and love of the game together.

Cars! If we have car problems ‘Ken’ gets a call. Once I was told the only thing rarer than a born mechanic is a left-handed born mechanic. Our eldest is a born left-handed mechanic. Working on cars is all he ever wanted to do. If it can’t be driven, he can fix it. It is hard work, and he’s had back problems since high school; but he turned a boy who hated to read into a true professional mechanic who’s paid a lot of money for working on cars worth a whole lot of money.

He joined the Air Force and spent the first Gulf war in Spain fueling jet planes (including Air Force One, but he wasn’t supposed to say that on an open line). If you think that ain’t hard work, try it sometime. When the war was over he went back to his first love, working on cars and such.

Don’t really understand what I did wrong in rearing the boy, but somehow he discovered motorcycles. Has worn out at least one, and rides when us sane folk would take the car. Active in the leadership of a motorcycle group (no, nothing like Hell’s angels), he’s shown himself a working man among working men.

Since he was old enough to hold a tool for me Kenneth has been the one I could always rely on. If there was a job to be done, it was he whose help I wanted. And, as I have told many people, of our five children Kenneth has the kindest heart. He will do anything he can for you when asked -- and sometimes unasked...

          When I had my first heart surgery in 2006 he just showed up, and first thing he asked was whether he could give blood for his daddy?
          On the worst day of my life he just showed up at the right time, having dropped everything to ride his bike from St. Louis.
          Two years ago when told frightening news that I would both need immediate second heart surgery and also had kidney failure (a combination which killed my brother), I looked up and there was my Kenneth.

One of the motivations in writing about my son was an Irish coal miner’s song called “It’s a Working Man I Am”. It doesn’t exactly fit work of a mechanic; but it is how I think of Kenneth, strong and confident in what he does and who he is. It is what I imagine he would sing if he were a miner, and if he could sing – neither of which will ever happen. If you’d care to hear the song, and can live with seeing what Kenny might look like bald, this link might work:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=16JAcHFRR14

Son of My Right Hand

 

Son of My Right Hand

by his grateful to have him father David L Lewis

The name I gave him is Benjamin William Lewis. The name Benjamin is in honor of his mother, Benjamin coming from Hebrew word meaning “son of my right hand”. His middle name is in honor of the man I called my step-father, William Maddox, as good and noble a Christian man as any would wish to know. Lewis, of course, comes through my father, the greatest single influence on who I am. In short, I gave him names to live up to.

About the second grade Benjamin went through a period of deciding what he wanted to be called. He really didn’t like “Ben”, and Benjamin was too long for a second-grader. For a few weeks it was “Benster”, which really didn’t take. Next, for a very short time, it was going to be “Babe”. He finally settled on “Benji”, which is how everybody knows him. I remain the only person on earth allowed to call him “Babe”.

Benji is the youngest of our five children (i.e., baby of family). In keeping with family tradition he was not at all like any of the other four. As such his childhood may have had the most ‘uncertainty-factor’. His mother just called him “my little thundercloud’”. Once or twice I’d run into a former teacher who rememberrd him (he’s hard to forget), they usually are both glad for me and surprised about how well he turned out.

We moved to Indiana the year he began high school, 1996. He may not know it, but he owes his life to someone who came into his life at that captious moment. This person was Terry Wilson, then Youth Pastor at Christ Community Church. Terry gave Benji friends, direction. and, most importantly, took him on a ‘mission’ trip to Mexico – where he learned first-hand what real struggles are.

During high school years he became something of a leader of entourage of local skate-boarders. Turns out that in any group of people the natural leader will arise; perhaps learning how to lead in the process. Won’t bother reader with that skating on roof of Page’s thing, or of his calling his brother Nathan to rescue him, or how I came to know about Juvenile Court.

After a few false starts Benji found himself at Ball State University; something for which his father will be eternally grateful to Chris Newgent (the Newg). At Ball State he also found one Lisa Marie Mills, a true daughter of Proverbs 31.10-31. Meeting Lisa being the best thing that ever happened to Benjamin William Lewis. They have two sons whom even Hollywood Central Casting could not find better examples of how to rear kids.

Since graduating from Ball State Benji has been a grade-school Teacher, first in North Carolina and now in Noblesville Indiana. He has been named Teacher of the Year a couple of times; been requested for their child by parents who’d learned about him; did a year in an administrative role; and been PE teacher since moving back to Indiana. In this father’s observation the latter position being a calling for which his whole life prepared him, for now.

It was, however, events of the past December and those following which made me (finally) realize how much a ‘Rock’ of a man, how mature of a person, he has become. As it is with life, Babe grew up while I was ‘making other plans’. When I most needed someone to stand in the gap and be the man, Benjamin was there. He was there when his mother needed someone to help her navigate the enigmatic medical world. He was there when she (okay, I) needed someone to be with her when I was the patient.

Benjamin William Lewis is officially my favorite nearest-to-parental-home son, the son of my right hand who lives up to his names.

Rearing Matthew

 

Rearing Matthew

by David L Lewis, proud father

Remember a grade school teacher, instructing on proper usage of the English language, saying the proper word was “rearing” children: “You raise goats, you rear kids.” She was right. We had five children. A more diverse group of kids to rear one would be hard put to find on a big city jury.

My father often said he loved all of his children “equal”. That’s not quite the whole story. I say that I love each of our children ‘individually’. And, I could write a separate narrative on each child to explain why each is such an individual. This, however, is about our middle child, Matthew. He wants to be called Matt, which I take as license to call him Matt the Brat [yes, there’s a daddy story behind that].

It has been reliably conveyed to this father that (when a few years younger) our child of the female persuasion said: “Everybody knows Matt is daddy’s favorite. But, nobody minds, because Matt is everybody's favorite.” At that point she probably didn’t know the whole story. Matthew was loved because he was Matthew. He got to be ‘favorite’ because he was the one who was there at one of many chaotic times in which Matthew was de facto ‘acting eldest at home’. It was at the time my health began its decline into old age. He was the one I came to count on, the one who was always ‘just there’. One time I told his two younger siblings Matthew was in charge whenever parental-units were absent; not because he was the oldest, but because he’d proven he could accept and live up to the responsibility.

In the summer between his Junior and Senior year of high school we somehow agreed of have an Exchange Student. In preparation for this there was an in-home interview. The question which stands out in my memory was “what are the house rules for Matthew?” I assumed interviewer was thinking of social interactions, chores, curfews, that kind of stuff. There weren’t any such rules for Mattew, he just didn’t need any. My response probably threw the questioner off balance: The only rules were ‘Don’t Hit Girls, Don’t Throw Rocks, and Don’t Play With Doors’.

Matthew entered the Army along with a bunch of other raw recruits. He served over ten years, rising to rank of Warrant Officer 2. As someone said: There is a difference between water and cream. Water seeks its own level, cream always rises to the top. Put my son in any given situation and he will rise to the top, just ask the men with whom he served (if they are not available, ask his little sister).

As it is with men, separating water and cream comes obligatory with birth of their first child. Will he ‘rear’ his children, or raise them? Matthew (as, in this observation of all our children) has been better parent than I for my children, and rearing children who were better children than I was for my father.

All of this writing “to find out what I think” was generated by news of Matthew’s third grandchild (and our eighth great-grandchild). Sable Dean Lewis was born Wednesday (4/19/2023) diagnosed with Congenital Heart Disease. Shortly after birth he had to be intubated and underwent his first of many surgeries he’s going to endure in the short future. This may be a new situation for our son and our grandson, but his mother and I know just how it feels.

All fathers undertaking the rearing of a child must reserve for their self the absolute right to worry about any of their children at any time with our without reason. Matthew’s job now is to worry about his son and new grandson. My job is to worry about my son.

I should not worry about Matthew, though, he long ago showed me he will do what father’s are called upon to do, rise to the top. If this proud father may be permitted to paraphrase Shakespeare’s Marc Anthony, “His life is gentle; and the elements so mixed in him that his loving father might stand up and say to all the world, ‘This Is My Son Matthew!’”