Another prime example of generosity paying off is my relationship with the men from the water company. Our work often overlapped. Sometimes when we dug a hole for a gas leak we found a water leak, also. And vice verse. We often traded favors, not even trying to keep track of the things we did or received.

One time they had a really unusual job. They seemed to be perplexed, so I went over to see what their trouble might be. I looked at the victim, and suggested that we try to thread the pipe. It was not a simple case. The thread needed to be cut on the end of the pipe with no room for the conventional die which had a sleeve to ensure that the die would "take" properly. I heard one of the crew say: "That old man is crazy!"

But I wasn't. There is a way of taking the cutting part of the dies out and reversing them so that the thread was cut from the open side of the dies. I showed them, and it worked.

Sometime later we were working high pressure on Broadway. The background for this was that I had tried to get our company to stock clamps for three quarter pipe with no positive results. The answer I got was that if a pipe that size leaked, it needed to be renewed. This was undisputed fact, but sometimes....

So.This was the day.

Chub was digging out the tap hole, and a big chunk of hard dirt came loose along with a big chunk of three-quarter inch pipe.The hard dirt was caused be leaking gas. The obvious thing to do was to tell the customer that we would have to shut off their gas and repair the pipe temporarily until we could renew it.

It turned out that the customer was a potato chip factory. They said if we shut off their gas, it would spoil the whole batch of material they were cooking. They estimated the cost at seven hundred dollars. I was between a rock and a hard place!

As I was trying to figure out an answer to this seemingly impossible problem I caught sight of a water company truck a block down the street. I told the men to just keep everybody away from the hole and I took out on a run for the water company truck, I knew they used three quarter-inch clamps. I just hoped that this truck would have one.

It turned out to be Curt Bridgman, an old timer that I had worked with many times. I used what breath I had to say: "Give me a three quarter inch clamp!"

Curt reached in his bin and came out with a three-quarter inch clamp. I took it back and installed it.

My case was made.The management ordered three-quarter inch clamps, and we used several bushels of them in the following years.

*** *** ***

Another interesting experience was my negotiating for the purchase of a hay wagon from Harold Schulte. He had been putting up the hay from our field for several years. So he decided to retire from that chore. Since he no longer needed the wagon and I did, I undertook to buy it from him.

I offered him fifty dollars for it. He said he had planned to ask me twenty-five. So we settled for thirty seven fifty. [Janet: An example of "reverse bargaining!]

I still have the vehicle. We have re-enforced it several places, but it has stood the test of time and use. Solid as the man I bought it from.

*** *** ***

I had a good relationship with my foreman at the gas company. Dewey Payne trusted me to do what needed doing. Sometimes it did not fall completely within the scope of our specifications, but getting the customer back working was really the basic aim. Sometimes there was a conflict with strict regulations.

One day Dewey said to me: "Erwin, there is a big mess with the pipes, down at Mama Mia's Pizza Place. Go down there and fix it!"

So I did. It was not in accordance with a new rule that had just come out, but it followed the practice that we had been following for the last thirty years. When we got done the proprietress made us the best pizza that I have ever had--on the house!

One day my helper, Cal Lebegue, needed to go downtown during business hours and sign some papers. I happened to be in the foreman's office when he asked Dewey for the time off.

If I hadn't known the man, I would have thought that he was mad, but he wasn't. He looked at Cal.

"You're on a truck, aren't you?" Cal, thoroughly confused, agreed that he was. "I don't even want to know about it!" Dewey told him.

*** *** ***

I never heard Dewey laugh in the years that I knew him, but I clearly remember seeing him smile, twice.

He was the foreman, "the boss." I was the union steward. Traditionally, this was a contentious relationship. Or, the other way it worked sometimes, the steward was wanting to be agreeable so that he might get some personal advantage. But if he had a problem with a man he would talk to me about it, and we would find a workable solution.

One evening, he said he had a problem, so I waited until the other fitters had their business of the day completed and prepared to listen. He said he had this man that none of the features wanted to have on their crew. I'd had the man on my crew before, and never had any trouble. The solution seemed simple to me. So I said: "Give him to me. I never had any trouble with him."

I thought for a moment that Dewey might laugh, but he smiled--one of the two smiles that I remember.

"What do you think you've got now, but two men that nobody else wants to work?"

Well, it had been awhile since either of my two men had worked for another fitter. We picked the one that we thought would be the most likely to succeed and made the trade. It worked.

The other time I saw Dewey smile was the case of a service man who did not want to work the after hour call-outs. Usually this was work that the men fought over, because it paid good money. But for some reason Clarence did not want to work them. This was his right, but the contract stated that he had to be asked, and turn the assignment down before the foreman could go on and ask the next man in line. Well, getting called up at midnight simply to fulfill the contract requirements was almost as bad as working the call-out. But Dewey was caught with the requirements of the contract, which he faithfully tried to follow. What to do? Clarence was quite outspoken about not wanting to be disturbed.

I told Dewey the story of the Christmas Eve Mouse. The household consisted of three people: the father, mother, and grown daughter. Following the custom of many people, they celebrated Christmas Eve with a bit of alcoholic cheer. The three glasses were left on the table.

Enter the Christmas Eve Mouse.

He sampled the leavings on the first glass. He smiled, smacked his lips and tried the second one. He frowned, looked around, and then tried the third one.From this one he straightened up, looked around angrily, and demanded: "Where is that cat!"

Dewey got the point. This was the one place where Clarence could make himself heard, and he was doing it.

The solution that we arrived at was that he signed a letter stating his position of not wanting to work overtime and relieved the management of the obligation of notifying him when the opportunity presented itself. This worked to the satisfaction of all concerned.

*** *** ***

I'm ninety-five years old. I've had a lot of fun, met some really great people, done some good turns, and have been the receiver of many helpful hands. Of course there are those who simply take. But really, they are in the minority. Not just for the practical results, but for the satisfaction I get out of it personally, I have found that "It pays to be generous."

*** *** ***

Sometimes it pays to be generous. (And as a personal reward, it is a pleasant way to live)

I have often seemed to be in a position of being where something that I could do would help some of my fellow humans.

The Good Book advises us to cast our bread upon the waters and it shall be returned to us. Not exactly a practical suggestion, but applying it to the opportunities that we are offered in our lives it is a very comfortable philosophy. And in many cases, it has actually been a practical one for me.

As we worked, doing our job for the gas company, we were often confronted with situations which could either be funny or aggravating, whichever way a person might choose to view them.

One shining example of this circumstance was the Bland Brothers. Sewer contractors were a fact of life to us at the gas company. They came and went. Some were careful and courteous, finding out where our lines and the water lines were located before they started. Others were very self centered, digging where they needed to dig to install their sewer and pretending that there was nothing in that particular area of earth to interfere. Our gas lines suffered.

Enter the Bland Brothers, fresh from Calhoun County. They were pleasant people, with their minds strictly on their job at hand. They tore up three gas service lines, the first day. Just the way that our work unraveled, I inherited the job of repairing all three of them.

Which I did. I tried to educate them about the hazards of city excavations. As it was, the damage simply amounted to repairing or replacing the damaged lines. The possibilities existed, however, of serious injury, massive property damage, or even death with some bad luck and/or bad handling.

I tried to really educate them to the different conditions from the ones that they were used to. It could have been a contentious situation, depending on the personalities of the people involved.

Fortunately we were able to communicate in a civilized manner, and it worked. I guess I was a good teacher, and certainly they were good students. They got the "feel" of putting their installations in between the existing lines without damaging those already in use.

This would have been good results and pay for the time, energy and patience I had given them, but the real pay off of their feelings came to light one totally miserable, rainy, cold day.

The background: Earlier that year, the sewer contractor had installed a sewer in a very wet area. To ensure the safety of the tile crew they had dug the ditch about three times as wide at the top. This was good for them, but surely bad for the gas lines.

The obvious, predictable result was that when the dirt settled, it took the gas lines along with it. Logically, this had to happen when it rained or snowed.

On a cold, miserable winter day, with rain falling enough to make things thoroughly miserable, we got a leak call for that area. Knowing the area, we almost knew what was the trouble. But not a simple case, necessarily. Could be the service line pulled out of the compression coupling at the tap, or broken at a coupling out under the street .

My foreman asked if I wanted a backhoe. I declined, as at that time our backhoes did not have a closed cab. The operator would have been thoroughly miserable by the time they got to the job, let alone whatever it took to actually find the leak and do the digging work. So. Just as we pulled up at where we figured the trouble was, here comes one of the Bland Boys with his backhoe. He was laughing.

"Where do you want the hole dug?" he asked me. Pay day.

See Part 2: "Sometimes it pays to be generous," tomorrow on Riehlife under our "Family Matters" category.

"On time, by God! Nine O'clock Sunday School"
by Erwin A. Thompson

I was born in 1915. When I was seven years old, we started going to the Melville Congregational Church. The "we" being my Uncle George Gibbens, his wife, Emma Riehl Gibbens, and myself.

Uncle George had gone to college to prepare to be a minister. But in his studies he had found warnings of potential divisions in the church. Shurtleff College, where he had attended, had insisted on ordaining him as a Baptist minister. Uncle George wanted to minister to anyone who wanted to be ministered unto. He refused the ordination.

But he devoted his life (in my opinion) to being a true Christian. Uncle Georg soon became the Sunday School Superintendent, and did a great job. As he got older he "slacked off" a bit, and helped younger people assume that responsibility. Eugene Huckstuhl became the Sunday School Superintendent.

The problem that I found was that instead of starting Sunday School at nine, the starting time seemed to get later each week.

This starting time was governed arbitrarily by the arrival of the piano player, who lived across the road. She was good. It seemed that everyone simply accepted her tardiness and adjusted their schedule to it.

I believe I was nineteen. Eugene liked to go to Florida in the winters. So. They had recently elected me to the doubtful honor of being Assistant Sunday School Superintendent. I determined that if Sunday School was supposed to start at nine o'clock, that is when it should start.

I had gone to grade school with Curt Sherman. He took the responsibility of building the fires.

Louis Veltjes played the piano. Not to the standards of Lydia Collins, but the old familiar hymns could easily be recognized.

The three of us got together and decided that Sunday School should start at nine. Curt built the fire, Louis at the piano, while I stood in the appropriate place to begin.

Reactions varied, depending on the people. Some told me (very nicely as a friend) that I was offending important people.

To give Lydia full credit, she came in late and sat out in the audience. I talked to her later and we came to a friendly agreement that we would start on time. Whenever she arrived, the pianists smoothly changed. It worked!

The rest of that winter, Sunday School started at nine.

My mother, as matriarch, was part of this tradition. Even now, five years after her death, her influence lives on.

My father, as a patriarch, holds the words, values, tunes, work ethic, and skills of generations before him. He did his best to impart these same gifts to generations to come.

How can we hold a lineage in our everyday lives? What does it mean to you? What lineage and heritage did you receive? Have you passed on? Let me know what you think. Some places to start:

What were you taught as a child? How do you mentor and nurture younger generations now?

What arts, crafts, and skills were passed onto you? What do you pass on?

What about integrity & purpose? Are these passed down?

As we mature and come into fruition holding a family lineage and heritage contributes to the wider culture, not only our particular clan.

Now it's your turn.

The Bible sets Sunday, the seventh day of the week, as a day of rest and worship. Through the years, we humans have tampered with this rule, adapting the day tour own uses and choice. Big machinery that costs money to shut down and start back up again has led to the almost universally accepted seven day work week.

In the Riehl home we worked on Sunday during the peony harvest, as the flowers that would have opened that day would have been wasted. Otherwise, Sunday was a day of rest or family visiting.

I was 95 last fall. When I came here at the age of nine months, the family consisted of Grandpa (E. A. Riehl) and his daughters Julia, Emma, and Amelia.

The Riehl family was not “church going people,” although my grandfather helped build the church with money and work. A fellow worker asked him: “Mister Riehl, why are you helping with this church? You are not a church going man?”

Grandpa replied: “Because every community needs a church.”

Before the mortuaries took over the responsibility of caring for the dead, funerals were for churches. Weddings were for churches. As Grandpa said, they were a needed part of the community. The only time that I know of his being in a church was for his own funeral.

This is not to say that he lacked religion. But it was his own belief. He said that he found his communion with God by working with the plants and trees and helping them to be more productive. Some of his findings are still valued basic knowledge in the horticultural world, although the original source is often not recognized.

I cannot recall ever hearing him sing. He never told a joke. But deep inside he has a very kind and thoughtful person. When my toys broke they were repaired by him. He let me watch him, although he never made a big thing about the two of us doing it. We have a picture of the tow of us walking up the road, hand in hand.

Aunt Judie was the cook. Aunt Em took care of the cows and the chickens. Aunt Mim divided her attention between trying to learn what Grandpa knew and taking care of me. I believe that we could properly conclude that she made a success of both. I survived a very hazardous childhood and have taken my part in the adult world. Aunt Mim piloted the Riehl Farm through the worst depression of the century. They got along well, sharing the work as it “came handy.”

Chicken was the most usual main dish for Sunday. Usually it was “just the family” for Sunday dinner, but occasionally Uncle Ed and his family would come, or Uncle Walter.

My aunts shared my care easily. I remember I had the room we now call Ruth’s office for my bed room. Aunt Em had the “Blue room.” She always had a cheerful fire going in the mornings, and I would go into her room and change from my night clothes.

When I was almost four she married George W. Gibbens, and they moved into the White Cottage next to the Big Brown House.

After the generous noon dinner we usually had a rather light evening meal. We ate popcorn and milk for Sunday supper--particularly in the winter when there was always a fireplace fire. We popped the corn over coals in fireplace. Sometimes we roasted chestnuts or roasted an apple.

We grew the popcorn. But we had to be careful to keep it far enough away from the field corn and the sweet corn so that it would not cross pollinate and spoil both crops. The milk was from our own cows.

In the winter Grandpa liked to keep a fire going in our fireplace, which was on the small side. His brother, Will, took issue with him over the fireplace. They were used to big ones that would take a stick of cordwood four feet long. Grandpa told him he wanted to: “Brighten the place up.”

Uncle Will asked him why he didn’t put a 2 cent postage stamp on the wall. At that time a 2 cent stamp was standard postage. It was red.

____________________

The Riehl place was well known for beautiful flowers. Before the days of Marquette Park it was not unusual to have several carloads of visitors. Sunday afternoon was for socializing. Often the Tuemmlers would come out and usually when they did they brought the Christoes. Katie was a cousin on the Roesch side of the family. If it was the right season, Uncle George always had a couple of big watermelons cooled out. He was a perfect host.

With the opening of Marquette Park, the Sunday traffic at Riehl’s tapered off, until today it is down to family and close friends. Times have changed. The visitors to “see the view” from the Riehl bluffs are no more.

--Janet, his youngest daughter

_____________________________

What is a "Country Block"?
by Erwin A. Thompson

As my wife Ruth and I traveled around the United States and around the world we encountered many interesting sayings. In Indiana we first heard of a ”Country block.” We are used to the city block, which is used almost universally. I do not know the standard footage for the designated area, but as far as I know it was established years ago.

We come from the hill country of Illinois. It would be totally impractical to make a road along the borders of a section of land. In Indiana the land is relatively flat. As we asked directions to a place that we wanted to go, they were given with the phrase: “country block.” New one on us! What is a country block?

A country block is a mile square, six hundred forty acres, a “section.” It is a very practical way to lay out the land and the main roads. We found the same system to be used in Nebraska, where the land is reasonably flat and roads can be made to follow the edge of the section lines.

Also read "The Hardest Decision I Ever Had to Make," earlier in this series. Written by my father, a WWII War hero. Who to choose for a dangerous night patrol, and how to get back alive.

Janet

______________________

The second hardest decision I ever had to make
by Erwin A. Thompson

Normal military procedure in the camps where I was stationed in the States was for the non-commissioned officers to fall the company in for Reveille and take the report. This report was then turned in, either to a commissioned officer who was the "Duty Officer" or taken directly by either the first sergeant or the Charge Of Quarters to the Battalion headquarters.

One morning First Sergeant Dick was not to be found, and no one formed the company as a company and took the report. The platoons were formed by the individual platoon sergeants, but nothing was happening on a company level. This could be serious, as the Battalion Duty Officer would be down soon to find out why the required report was not in.

I was not the senior sergeant, but since none of the others was doing anything about it I asked one of my corporals to take the Third Platoon. I assumed the First Sergeant's position, gave the official command to "Fall in," and took the report from the platoon sergeants. I was then faced with the decision of what to do with it!

It was an agonizing decision. If Sergeant Dick turned up, without having gotten into unfavorable contact with the M. P.'s, turning him in as being absent without leave could be a serious and un-necessary problem. On the other hand, if he had been detained or did not show up within a reasonable period of time, having reported him as present or accounted for could have serious consequences for me!

Sergeant Patterson had been with the company since it had been formed in 1941 at Camp Robinson. I asked his opinion. He said it had to be my decision, but added the thought that they might make an example of Sergeant Dick. A new Post Commander was trying to show his authority by invoking strict military discipline. It was my memory of Patterson's own personal experience with "strict military discipline (detailed elsewhere in this chronicle) that tipped the balance of my decision.

I decided to turn it in as "All present or accounted for."

Having done this, I felt that I had better tell the Company Commander about it so that if he did not want to go along with my decision he could change it before things got completely out of hand.

Captain Yoe was in his undershirt, indulging in an officer's privilege of being a late riser. I had talked to Patterson about it before I made the decision. He was Regular Army, and one of the finest soldiers I knew. They had broken him a couple of years before for a thing that was completely needless. He said he thought that the "higher ups" might make an example of Sergeant Dick.

I relayed this to Captain Yoe. I remember saying: "You will never get another First Sergeant like Sergeant Dick!" He kind of smiled a little and said: "I might get one that would show up for Reveille." He went along with it, though, and figured out a way to cover us. He said: "When a man is on pass he is properly reported as present. We will consider that Sergeant Dick is on pass."

This was just one of the things that proved the bigness of the man. Not only agreeing with my decision, but figuring that Sergeant Dick had a pass coming, even if he had not taken it with him.

But then he asked a very obvious question: "Who is going to be our first sergeant today?"

I told him that thought I had enough understanding of the job to get by for the day, and I would be glad to try. He agreed. My one day's training at the Officer's Candidate School in Robinson was going to have to do the job!

It did. I got some help from the Battalion sergeant major. I had to make out four different morning reports that day to finally get one that would pass. One disadvantage, I had no experience with the "ground rules" of Camp Fannin. Also, I did not know what had taken place the day before that needed to get put into a morning report.

Sergeant Dick showed up about mid-morning, definitely with a hang-over. He would be a distinct disadvantage to himself and the company to be seen in the company area. Sergeant Carter was the supply sergeant. We fixed a bed back behind some other materials and settled our protege there in the supply room until he became presentable for viewing.

I surely did appreciate my brief exposure to the duties of first sergeant at the pre-OCS school.

My father and mother visited me three times when I lived for five years in Botswana and Ghana. They met the school children I taught when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. They met the village girls who studied in the sewing center I set up as an independent volunteer. Which, in 2008, I discovered had grown into a multi-village vocational school. We never know--especially those of us who have moved around--just who we've touched in our lives. But, I believe these creative seeds we sow do bear harvest.

Pop likes to tell the story of meeting one of my students in Gaborone, Botswana (the capitol). I'd taught him in 1973, and they met him in 1976. He told my parents that he had one of the best jobs in the country because of his education in Maun, Botswana (way, way up north) and being one of my students.

So, my parents saw and they knew. My father has a deep undertanding and love for me. It's not an "I love you, Janet" sort of love. But, it's a love any daughter would count as her blessing. It's this no fuss love that keeps me going as part of our family care team to keep my 95-year-old father as lively as possible as long as possible--in the home he's lived in all his life.

He wrote this poem for me the other day. I found it lying on the table next to him sitting in his chair. I picked it up, not knowing it was for me. After I read it, we chatted about it some more and teared up a little as I faced him, my toes on top of his--another version of hand holding that works pretty well. --Janet
_______________________________________________________________________________________

THEY ARE NOT HERE
by Erwin A. Thompson
For Janet, my youngest

Our family are all dedicated teachers. Each of us to their own field. For Janet there is no scroll to hang in the living room. She has followed her inheritance and the examples set by her parents and her siblings of "looking out for the underdog." I tell her that the reason she has no family gathering around her at the family reunions is that her family is scattered all over the world.

THEY'RE NOT HERE
by Erwin A. Thompson
For Janet, my youngest daughter

The family gathers.
They seem to settle down into little family groups.
My children, and their children.
Sharing their love, the things that they have done.

And then I look at you. You sit alone.
Alone, with people on every side.
The kept back tear drops that you try to hide.

Your children scattered o'er the world,
With education & skills that you helped them learn.

"We have two of the top jobs in the country."
Quite a jump from the little school
Six hundred miles of sand from the capitol.

And so, you sit alone. But part of you is not here.
You gave it to those youngsters years ago;
And then you gave the education, the tools
To make that dream come true.

THE HARDEST DECISION I EVER HAD TO MAKE
by Erwin A. Thompson
Sergeant "I" Company,
36th Armored Infantry Regiment, First Army

STOHLBURG, GERMANY

On November 8, I was told that the Company Commander wanted to see me. I went to the company headquarters, "Sergeant, “ he said, "Tonight you are to lead a patrol seven hundred yards ahead of our lines, and find out what we need to know about their strength and position."

He went on to detail the mission. We were to go down the railroad track that ran through the town, and proceed in the direction that our higher headquarters thought that the Germans were. He told me that another squad of our platoon had gone out a hundred and fifty yards the night before and found nothing. All "friendly fire" such as artillery would be "lifted" (discontinued) for the time that we were to be out.

I didn't like the sound of it. If there would be anywhere that the enemy would be watching, it would surely be the railroad tracks which were the most logical route ahead of us. I expressed my misgivings. "That is the order that came down from higher headquarters, and that is what you are going to do!" Was the answer that I got. The only thing that I could say was: "Yes Sir!"

So I went to my platoon leader, a lieutenant. Probably a first lieutenant. I believe that all officers in combat were at least first lieutenants. Just before we had left the States a new order had come out that a commissioned officer would lead all night patrols. I said: "I suppose that you are going to lead the patrol." He just laughed at me.

The one good thing that they did was to allow me to plan my own personnel. There was no doubt in my mind that we were nothing more than human bait. But we had a mission to fulfill. We were pawns in what could be a much more important game. If the outfit decided to push on, that decision would be based on the nformation gathered by our trip out in front of our lines. I really did not expect any of us to get back from it. I called the men together and told them the prospect ahead. I quote from my poem, "The Portrait of a Man.” I can't say it as well any other way.

I asked for volunteers to go
A place where no man should.
The boys just sat and looked at me
Likes statues made of wood.

'Just pick the men you want,” said Chick.
“We'll go, and never bat an eye.
But a man's a fool to volunteer
To go out there and die!”

Well, the rest of the men seemed to feel the same way. It was the hardest thing that I ever did. It was a twelve man squad, including me. I did not expect that any of us would return from this mission. If there would be anywhere that the Germans would be watching it would be that railroad track. Eleven men.

During the Civil War General Sherman is quoted as saying: "War is Hell!" Anyone who has been truly involved in combat would agree. I picked Chick and his partner "Tennessee." I thought that we needed at least three, in case there was a chance that one might get back with some useful information. That was one thing that I appreciated, they let me choose my men and the number I felt I needed.

One of the men got me aside later and told me that he had found out that the other squad had just gone out a few feet, laid down for an hour, and then come back. The suggestion was plain, but I didn't think I could do that. Suppose we did such a thing, and the outfit pushed on and got ambushed? Suppose? No, if we were going to have any chance of winning this war, we were going to have to actually do what we were supposed to be doing, or nothing would work right!

Back in the training centers they had taught us that we should use signals, like running our fingers over the teeth of a comb, or tapping on a matchbox to signal the other members of the patrol what our intentions were as to start or stop, and to go right or left, and so on.

This had not worked worth a damn in the training center where there were no distracting influences. Here there was artillery fire coming in—and anything else might happen. I had lost about half of my patrol back there at Camp Fannin one time! This was no place to take chances. The night was as dark as a black cat. We used a tent rope, with knots in it so that we could keep our proper distance. We made up a system of jerks to indicate our intentions to the other members of the patrol.

The appointed hour arrived. We were told to contact the men in the tank that were supposed to be guarding the railroad track. One thing that confused the issue was that they had changed the password. We were to communicate this to the men in the tank. We could not get any response from them. We had learned from others who had seen this happen, that if a soldier was asleep and got awakened suddenly he usually came awake with a gun blazing! We gave up, and went on about our mission.

Our engineers had installed an M-8 anti-personnel mine by the railroad track at our foremost position. We got into the left ditch and crawled under the trip wire (which went across the track) to start out down the track away from our lines.

We had gone perhaps a hundred yards when there was an explosion, and I felt the shrapnel biting into my flesh.

A journey into "Jerryland," (German held territory)
And hours until the dawn.
A ringing crash, and burning pain;

I knew that we were gone!
I called his name, but hand grenades
Was all that answered, there.
I found the other boy and thought
We didn't have a prayer.
Another hail of hand grenades
Each moment brought a-fresh;
And bits of shrapnel tore their way
Into our bleeding flesh.

We never did get an answer from Chick. By this time we had gotten over the shock of the attack enough to take cover in the ditch beside the tracks. I talked to Tennessee. He told me to go on back that he couldn't because his leg was broken. "I can't walk," he said.

I had no thought of getting out and leaving him. I said: "You can crawl, can't you?" He said, yes, but it was too far to crawl. We got going in the right direction, and after awhile we ventured up onto the tracks. He put his arm over my shoulder, with his bad leg next to me. We were out of range of the grenades, now, although they were still trying for us where we had been.

We were making pretty good time when he said: "Tiger, what about that mine?" I reached my hand out, and touched that trip wire!

So, I saved his life, and he saved both of ours. A passage of scripture came to me then: "He who shall save his life shall lose it --” Had I run headlong for the comparative safety of or lines, I would probably have forgotten about the trip wire.

He crawled under the wire in the ditch at the side of the tracks as we had come in. I still had no idea how bad I was hurt. I was awfully tired! I attributed this to the exertion of almost carrying Tennessee for the distance that we had traversed with three legs doing the work of four. I was going to rest awhile, and then go see if I could find Chick.

We made it back, it must have been
That God knew our distress
His arm across my shoulders
And both a bloody mess!"

When Tennessee crawled under the wire the tankers opened fire on him with their machine gun! They had never gotten the message that there was a patrol out!

The squad that was holding the position that we had left from got them to stop. Fortunately, the night was so dark that they had missed him completely.

By this time my wounds had stiffened up so badly that I realized I could not go find Chick. In fact, I couldn't go anywhere! Tennessee told them that I was out there, and the men from the squad came and pulled me under the trip wire and into the building that they were holding as part of the "line."

The next morning the Germans read Chick's dog tags over their radio that some of our troops could hear. When I got my Third Armored book after the war he was still listed as "missing in action."

We don't know where our buddy is,
Or even that he's dead.
We only know we miss him so --.
'Lost in action', is all they said.
---------------
The hardest decision that I ever made. Sixty-six years later I would make the same one. If I had it to do over, I would make the distance between us the distance of two tent ropes. Possibly it might have helped. Otherwise the death and the injuries will have to be charged to: "The fortunes of war."

A.) The opening of the the Library of Genealogy and Local History in the Hayner Public Library District, managed by Cathie Lamere. We were invited guests to this opening party. We stayed about 2 hours.The public ribbon cutting is this Saturday.

We know Cathie as a charming guest in our home (she and her husband came to Pop's 95th birthday party) and one of the most sensitive listeners and interviewers I've ever encountered. Over the years Pop has donated many papers, pictures, our published books, and photo-documentation books. He recently donated a collection of his whittled critters along with their pedigrees. In one of the museum quality cases these little masterpieces of folk art were displayed with their pedigrees. Show stopping and widely declared as charming and impressive.

Previously the Genealogy and Local History department was called "The Illinois Room" and was, indeed, housed in a shockingly small room. The expanded into allows ample space to stretch out and feature the entire collection. The "Illinois Room" is now quite spacious and at the back of the grand entry room. This arrangement makes it easy for scholars and interested library patrons to find the items Pop and others have donated over the years. It also makes it possible for Pop to donate whatever he wants to there. They can now accept it and make them accessible.

The building they moved into is the original building that people of my generation knew as the only library in town. As Cathie and I said last night "We went there not because of programs or reading contests. We went there, because that's where the books were." The building--always filled with grandeur and grace--has been meticulously restored. With its stained glass windows and vaulted ceiling, it's like a church for books.

Most important to us were old friends we visited with. Genie Keller--one of my Women of Inspiration at 90--told us that her husband Eddie died recently. Though everyone agrees it was a blessing, still Genie is the only one to deal with the business of death. She is valiant, strong, and will make it through as Pop did after mother's death 5 years ago.

B) The Spring Concert for The Alton Youth Symphony (AYS), the Chamber Group, and the Alton Junior Youth Symphony

The concert was held at the Harmony Baptist Church next to the new Alton High School. The music was embraced by the churches vaulted ceilings and stained glass windows. Just on a bigger scale than the Hayner Library building. Unfortunately, the acoustics were rather marginal. Pop donates generously to the Alton Youth Symphony as a Sustaining Member. I donated six of my newfangled tuners.

We used our wits to experiment with locations where Pop would be comfortable, and finally found one. We stayed an hour. One of the highlights for both of us was the montage of Cole Porter classics. I could even name them as they passed by and whisper the titles in my father's ear as we nodded in recognition.

The real highlight, though, was seeing Pop's great grand daughter in the assembly of the Alton Youth Symphony Orchestra. This is quite an honor and vote of confidence since she is only in 5th grade in a field of young musicians ranging up to 8th grade. She is petite anyway, but looking down the pews where they sat waiting for her turn, she was a head shorter than the other two girls sitting on either side. She looked so young and vulnerable. Later, though, when she was on stage with her group, I managed to position myself so that I could see her play. From her bowing alone I can attest that she plays with great authority.

We stayed an hour and decided to call it a night, going to bed straight-away after we got home a bit before 9 p.m. Qjuite a night for us usual stay-at-homes.