Post #21

Thought for the day:

Home is the seminary of all other institutions.

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Seems like I’m always writing a day behind, and today is no exception. Part of that is due to the fact that I usually want to write at night before going to bed. Unfortunately, by that time, my mind doesn’t want to cope with trying to recap the day’s events—even if there were any—so I wait until the next day to deal with it. So here’s a recap of Wednesday.
I mentioned in an earlier blog that I liked Tuesdays; well, the same is true about Wednesdays. One of the reasons we look forward to that day is that we get to spend some prime time with our good friends in the adult education memoirs writing class. The more we attend, the more we get out of it. Yesterday Inge Rudman, a lovely soft-spoken German-Jewish lady, read another section of the memoir she is writing. Yesterday’s story was about her family’s escape from Germany in 1939 when she was only eight years old. It’s gripping, poignant, and at times very humorous. Her writing is especially interesting and meaningful to Grandma and me because that time frame—World War II and the events leading up to it—was the history of our generation. It was, in some ways, a defining point for civilization. I have no statistical source that I can quote offhand, but I am quite sure that more major contributions in the fields of medicine, technology, science, transportation, and who knows what else, were made during that period than at any other time in the history of America—maybe in the history of the world. (Note: If you haven’t read Tom Brokaw’s book The Greatest Generation, please do.) Sadly that period of history—like so many others—is slowly being forgotten. And equally sad is the fact that the ones who are still alive to relate that history are rapidly disappearing. That’s why Inge and others like her are doing such a service to all of us with their “I was there” accounts.
I’m not really very good at arithmetic, but if my calculations are correct, Inge Rudman is now about 72 years old but her stories are written in the present tense (as if a young girl is speaking) that makes it very intimate. In one of the sections of yesterday’s story, she told of the excitement and awe of her first view of the Statue of Liberty and the skyline of New York City. I understood, from first hand, much of what she was feeling. My experience was not the Statue of Liberty but, rather, the Golden Gate Bridge. I wrote about that experience in my military memoirs, Khaki Is Not My Favorite Color. I wish I had that part of Inge’s story to include here because the similarities between her experience and mine are so strong—detail-by-detail—that I’d like to compare them side-by-side. I do have the account of my experience, though, and am including it down at the bottom of this day’s blog for those who have the time (and inclination) to read it.

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Our regular Wednesday evening Bible study at Jayne and Glenn Loo’s house was interesting, although we didn’t do much in our study. For various reasons—illnesses and pressing commitments—most of our group was not able to be there. I believe, though, that the four of us that did make it got a lot from the discussion. One of the nice things about these small groups—whether we stick to the plan or not—is that they are a wonderful way to get to really know each other. After awhile, people begin to feel comfortable with each other and more open to sharing their innermost thoughts and experiences; all of which helps all of us grow. The study guide we have been using (aside from the Bible, of course) is the book, The Blessing by John Trent and Gary Smalley. The premise is how to give a blessing to others, especially your family. There are a lot of good suggestions, all of which are important in the development of one person’s relationship to another. From a personal point of view, though, I have not gotten as much from it as I would like to have. That’s because the things that the two authors list are kind of like…well, duh!…isn’t that the way you are supposed to treat people? They are all things that our parents have done in raising (and blessing) us, what we have tried to do in raising our own family, and feel that our kids are doing in rearing their families. I don’t mean this as a put-down of the book. Not at all. I think my objection to using it as a study guide for just anyone is that it is geared more toward young families just starting out, or to those who weren’t blessed with parents like the ones Grandma and I had. Actually, after about six weeks of following the lessons, I had about decided that our study was a waste of time for everyone in the group. But then an interesting thing happened. In our minimized group last night; one of the ladies told us how much the study was helping her finally deal with major problems she had had throughout her childhood—relationships with members of her dysfunctional family. It was a blessing for her and a real eye-opener for me. Although I still am not overly fond of the book, my opinion of it and it’s message has changed a great deal. Just goes to show, we (read “Grandpa”) are never as smart as we give ourselves credit for.
Whatever your age or stage in life, The Blessing is well worth the time it takes to read.

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Home at Last

Chapter 44 of Khaki Is Not My Favorite Color

by Ralph Butterworth

Home. Home at last! What sweet-sounding words. And their full meaning was about to become reality.
It had been fourteen months since I last saw the United States. More than a year without the people, the places, the sights, the sounds and the smells I loved—stationed in a foreign country where every sensory perception was strangely different from those in America.

I stood near the bow of the crowded troop ship, eagerly anticipating the sighting of land, while quietly wondering if my friends at home had changed as much as I had in those fourteen months

Though there were hundreds of service men and women crowded on deck that late afternoon in October, the whole ship was strangely quiet, as each person dealt with personal apprehensions of how difficult it would be to adjust to civilian life.

The silence was suddenly broken and all fears were momentarily forgotten as some sharp-eyed soldier cried, “There it is! I can see the land!”
Excitement flowed through the crowd like a cresting wave, growing in intensity the closer we got to the headlands. As though it had been prearranged, the ship headed into the Golden Gate just as a fall sunset flooded the twilight sky with color, drenching everything in red and gold. The timing was perfect.
Moments later a great silent sob of emotion rose in my throat and tightened there as I caught my first glimpse of that old familiar San Francisco skyline, its windows alive with a million sunlit campfires flickering in the gathering purple dusk.
The simultaneous cheers of two thousand voices reverberated down the ship’s companionways and echoed among the girders of the bridge, high overhead, announcing to all the world that we were, indeed, home at last.

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