REMEMBERING THAT DAY

 4521

Remembering That Day

William McDonald, PhD

 

A soft breeze stirs the sea grass, and the gulls float listlessly above the azure waters of Normandy. The guns are silent, and the German bunkers collapse under the weight of half a century. The breeze freshens a bit, and the short tended grass above the bluffs mimics the rolling of nearby waves.

Viewed from above the rolling green grass seems dusted with snow. But Summer is upon the land, and our snowflakes do not melt. Row upon row of stark white stone crosses stand, and where once the jackboot tread, and Rommel smiled. Sentinels ever, they whisper, “Never again, but if so, our sons will defy the enemy.”

We gaze into their eyes, their portraits fading now, and yellow about the edges. Their features so young, so sharp, so vibrant. Their lips full of a healthy pride. Their eyes speak volumes. A million unfinished dreams and unspoken destinies.

And like gladiators of old, they steel their spirits, and set forth into the unknown. A young private asks his sergeant, “How many will not come back?” The elder of the two responds, “Many, most…I don’t know.” A tear forms in the younger man’s eyes, and the lump in his throat betrays his fear. Other men smile, as if to say, “It won’t be me. I’m coming out of this. I’m coming home when this is over.”

The waves are large, and the gale is brisk. The sea is spread thick with ships, and boats, and landing craft of every description; bobbing like bottles in a bathtub.

And we see them as they make their way to sandy beaches. Beaches with code names like, Utah, Omaha, Gold, Sword and Juno. Thirty-five amphibious tanks are dispatched into the cold surf. Thirty-two begin to sink, their desperate crewmen clamoring to get out of the turrets. Many drown. Others having escaped certain death flounder in deep water now; their packs and ammo weighing them down. Calling, crying for help they beg the crews of other landing craft for rescue. But more often, than not they are ignored. The urgency of the mission is foremost. And as they perish, anguish breaks within the bosoms of those who watch; those unable to respond.

A landing craft finds the sandy bottom, and the huge door falls flat forward. Thirty men scramble to reach shallow water, and their objective. And ere the sound of gunfire can reach their ears, or any understanding of their fate dawns upon them, they lie dead. For these thirty, mission complete.

And the glider troops. The sky is full of them. Loosed from mother planes, these frail craft ride the winds, and the waiting terrain offers them different fates. For some crash violently against cliffs, and trees and earth, and all onboard are lost. Others display the art of controlled crashes, upright at least; a broken shoulder here, a twisted ankle there.

And oh, the engineers. There is none like them. For they begin to climb; treacherous enough without added difficulties. And they are greeted with all the trouble of a plan gone bad. Hot bullets rain down upon their hapless bodies. Live grenades shower the rocks around them.

And some reach the summit. And some win the prize.

And some come again. To walk the beaches. To smell the salt water. To read inscriptions on stark, stone crosses. To live that day anew. To weep, unashamed among a thousand other men who are doing the same.

For we are come to the anniversary of that day. D-Day. A day which is still living, and vibrant and new in the hearts and minds of the survivors. They cannot forget. They bid a new generation to remember. To remember that young, shiney-eyed troop who ran across the beach, only to fall, and to understand in his last mortal moment that Normandy’s sand had become the waning sands in his own hourglass.

To remember the commitment of such a one as this. The paratrooper who might have hugged mother Earth, after the first bullet grazed his forehead. But such a one as this who stood, and fought and fell again; never more to rise.

The soft breeze stirs the waters of Normandy. The waves wash easily across the clean, white sand. And though the blood, and footprints of just men have been cleansed by the whelming floods of water, their crosses stand sentinel, just above the bluffs; just beyond the field of their labor.

They gave their tomorrows for our todays.

MY COUSIN FRANCES

4520

 

Frances Langford, the WWII era movie actress and USO performer, was my dad’s second cousin. Their grandparents were half-brother and half-sister. (I have visited my gg Aunt Rhoenia’s gravesite in Mulberry, Florida). My dad once told me that John, Rhoenia’s brother, rode from southern Georgia to central Florida on horseback in the second half of the 19^th century to see his sister.

 

When I was in Valdosta, visiting with my Aunt Olline, my dad’s 1^st cousin, Sonny McDonald, came by her house, and I struck up a conversation with him.

“Sonny, I understand Frances Langford was your second cousin;” (which he affirmed with a nod).

 

And I continued,

 

“My dad told me that he once saw her perform in Hawaii during WWII, but didn’t bother to introduce himself.”

 

Sonny piped up. 

 

“Well, I didn’t exactly meet her either, but I saw her. I was in the same room with her. You see, my dad drove me down to Lakeland once since he got a hankering to see his first cousin, Vasco, Frances’ father.

 

I was maybe five or six, and while I was playing, or simply being bored in the living room, a young lady walked through, and almost immediately out the front door. I learned later that this was cousin Frances. By this time she had already made a few movies, and was a star. Later, during WWII, she did lots of USO shows for the military, and was Bob Hope’s female ‘side kick.’”

 

I had always wanted to talk to a family member who had actually spoken to, or seen Frances. I’m glad I had that unexpected opportunity. It would not present itself again.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD                                                                    

 

THE MARTYRDOM OF FIVE FAITHFUL MISSIONARIES

 4519

Supernatural Accounts from the Waorani After the 1956 Missionary Killings

After the January 8, 1956 killing of the five American missionaries—Jim Elliot, Nate Saint, Ed McCully, Peter Fleming, and Roger Youderian—members of the Waorani (Huaorani) tribe later described unusual and possibly supernatural experiences in the aftermath.

According to accounts from the missionaries’ family and later testimonies from Waorani survivors, the killers—many of whom were teenagers and not experienced in warfare—were involved in an internal tribal dispute and took out their anger on the missionaries thelineoffire.org. The missionaries had made a covenant not to use guns in self-defense, and they did not attempt to flee or fight back thelineoffire.org.

In the stillness after the killings, several Waorani witnesses reported seeing and hearing things they could not explain:

• Sight of “cowodi” (angels): Dawa, one of the three Waorani women who watched the murders, said she saw figures resembling the foreign missionaries standing above the trees, singing robertblincoe.blog.
• Heavenly singing: Mincaye and Kimo confirmed they heard the singing and saw what Dawa described as a bright multitude in the sky, which they felt should have frightened them robertblincoe.blog.
• Recognition of music: Dawa later learned that the singing matched the choir music heard on recordings of Rachel Saint’s hymns, which she had never heard before robertblincoe.blog.
• Spiritual impact: These experiences, combined with later exposure to Christian teachings from the widows of the martyrs, are said to have drawn some Waorani women to Christianity thelineoffire.org+1.

These accounts are part of the Waorani’s own oral history and have been shared by Steve Saint, Nate Saint’s son, and others. They are not part of the official historical record but are significant within the cultural and spiritual memory of the tribe and the missionary families.

In summary, while there is no verifiable external documentation of these events, multiple Waorani survivors have described seeing and hearing what they interpreted as supernatural phenomena—“angels” singing and figures resembling the slain missionaries—immediately after the killings,

Excerpted from an internet article 

OUR ABBA FATHER

 4518

It is comforting to realize that before God flung the worlds into space, He knew each of us by name. He knew the design of our individual fingerprints, and the intricacies of every organ within our bodies. He knew the number of tears we would ever shed. He knew the number of words we would ever speak. He knew the plans He dreamed for each of us, and He gave us the wherewithal to complete those plans. Most of all, and best of all, He has loved us with an everlasting love, and this great God who created the earth, and stars, and all that is therein has given us the privilege of calling Him our Abba Father.

Bill McDonald, PhD

MY PRAIRIE PEN PAL

 4517

Pt. 1

It has been over 15 years since I took it on myself to locate the address of the woman who portrayed the "Little House on the Prairie" character, "Mrs. Harriet Oleson."

 

I noticed that Alison Arngrim, the young lady who portrayed Katherine MacGregor's TV daughter, had a Facebook page, and so I sent her a private message, and asked for her TV mother's mailing address. She was kind enough to respond and sent me her home/mailing address in California.

 

l immediately wrote "Mrs. Oleson," (not altogether believing I would receive a response from her). She had always been one of my two favorite supporting character actors, (the other being "Barney Fife," of "The Andy Griffith Show," portrayed by Don Knotts).

 

Three months elapsed, and I felt sure she wasn't going to reply to my letter, (especially since she was, by this time, 83 years of age). However, as 2007 gave way to 2008, I received a postcard from California with a very familiar name in the upper left hand corner.

 

Miss MacGregor took more than the usual care in responding to my questions, or at least the content of my letter. I had expressed how much I loved her gossipy, look down her nose, know it all portrayal of the Walnut Grove, Minnesota storekeeper.

 

Pt. 2

 

Following is the text of her postcard:

 

My dear Dr. McDonald (or William)

 

Finally, I'm getting around to answering some of my fan mail, and re-reading your letter of Nov. 20, 2007. It makes me feel terrific. It still amazes me that our TV show really became a classic. Yes, I do get a fair amount of fan mail - and occasionally I get one like yours - very complimentary but thoughtful - Thank you.

 

Tell me. What is Wikipedia? I'm not familiar with it. I loved your tribute to me and my character's self-aggrandizement, and then bearing the brunt of the actions chosen. Very good. All of the writers had a good time writing Mrs. Oleson's escapades.

 

Thanks so much.

 

Fondly, K.

 

On the bottom right, Miss MacGregor had drawn an excellent caricature of herself as "Mrs. Oleson" with the words, "Harriet Oleson of Little House on the Prairie" played by Katherine MacGregor

 

Pt. 3

 

Of course, I was elated, and having read the postcard several times, I added it to my autograph book which included the likes of John Glenn, Ted Kennedy, and Colonel Paul Tibbits (who piloted the first atomic mission over Japan).

 

I apparently wrote "Mrs. Oleson" a couple more letters over the next several years, though it is a fading memory. In one response, Katherine (may I call her "Katherine") referred to a book titled "Team of Rivals" which she had recommended to various people, and how that she'd heard Barack Obama mention it on TV. In her written account she told me that, "I puffed up like a Rhode Island Roster! I was so proud to hear him affirm my opinion of the book."

As you might imagine, I thoroughly enjoyed the original postcard, and this subsequent letter. But then... but then it got downright weird!

 

But allow me to regress a bit. I had previously made "Mrs. Oleson" aware that one of my distant cousins, "Janice Langston", had told me that she had been associated with Katherine in the local little theater production in her community.

 

Well, the famed self-aggrandized little Walnut Grove storekeeper would have none of it. She proceeded to deny knowing my cousin numerous times over the course of numerous letters over the course of numerous years.

 

Pt. 4

 

Katherine even wrote a letter to my cousin Janice, and asked that I forward it to her. Her letters to me on the topic, and the letter she wrote my cousin were laced with sentences such as, "I don't know her (you)" and "She (you) must have me mixed up with someone else" and "I have asked several other members of our production company, and they all deny knowing her (you)!"

 

Interestingly enough, it seems the members of Katherine's production company were primarily Hindu, many hailing from India. And it seems she was a Hindu convert herself, even during the time she portrayed the church going Mrs. Oleson on "Little House on the Prairie." (As a matter of fact, my pen pal missed the last couple of episodes of the show, as she was on a pilgrimage to India).

 

One letter really "got OCD." Miss MacGregor had written all sorts of notes on one of my original letters; all of which detailed the impossibility of having ever met my cousin.

I mean the ole girl was obsessed with this one thing, and continued to refer to it over the course of three years. Her last letter seemed almost belligerent in tone, and ended with,

 

"Please don't send me any more letters or photos. My fans have covered me up with stuff like that" (and) "I'm sending back everything you mailed to me" (and) "I'm just too old" (and) "This will be my final reply."

 

Post-script

 

"Mrs. Oleson" passed away seven years later having arrived at the grand old age of 93.

 

Based on the consistency of and content of her letters, Katherine and her TV character shared some similar traits!

 

by Bill McDonald, PhD

DOG ON A MISSION

 4516

A little shih tzu, hardly more than a puppy, wandered up in our yard in 1996. I readily admit we didn't "go out of our way" to discover where she came from, (and she wasn't telling). We adopted her in short order, and, in spite of her gender, named her "Buddy."

Buddy remained with us 'til her untimely passing in 2006. Thankfully, she didn't go the way the majority of pet pooches go, (with a bit of "assistance" from a vet). But, she died peacefully at home. 

Be that as it may Buddy was an exceptional little canine. (I know, any pet owner would say much the same thing about their dog or cat). However, there are several reasons I am more convinced than ever that God led this precious white and auburn shih tzu to our door when He did. (Can it be thirty years ago)?

I initially kept Buddy in the garage; a decision I regret now, (well, I do, and I don't). For you see, the first night she was consigned to the garage, the little pooch began barking. The next day I found greasy boot prints in front of the garage door. (I didn't own any boots, and I didn't work anywhere sneakers, shoes, or boots would pick up grease). Whomever he was, when Buddy began barking, he obviously rethought his intentions.

And then, there was the time our daughter was estranged from her husband. On this particular day, Buddy was lying in bed with "Janet." I had always made a point to take the precious little creature with me when I drove up to the post office, and today was no exception. Walking to the threshold of the bedroom door, I asked, "Does Buddy wanna go?" As you might imagine, I never had to ask twice. Well, almost never. The bless-ed canine only snuggled up closer to Janet's side.

Perhaps the most poignant example of all related to my wife. Buddy had begun doing something unusual. She began following Jean around the house. Where my wife went, Buddy went. We both commented several times on her strange behavior. Ultimately, Jean began feeling poorly, and I urged her to visit her physician. A mammogram indicated breast cancer. She required a lumpectomy, and dozens of radiation treatments. As a result of Buddy's strange behavior pattern, my admonition, and the intervention of medical technology, my wife is still with us.

Dog on a Mission.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

NO WINGS

 4515

I have often seen dearly departed believers portrayed in illustrations and paintings with a set of wings on their backs.

I subscribe to several social media photoshop pages, and I often come across requests for photo-shoppers to add wings to their dearly departed loved ones photos.

It may be "neither here, nor there," but ONLY birds and angels have been afforded wings. Jesus was the "first fruits" of those who will be resurrected, and He was the model. He didn't have wings when He ascended into heaven, and neither will believers have wings attached to their resurrected bodies.

Bill McDonald, PhD