Barely Old Enough To Remember

I remember the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. I was only three at the time, but I still remember my mother kept saying, "O my God!" over and over, the look on her face, and asking her "Mommy, what's wrong?" She said, "The Japs just bombed Pearl Harbor." I didn't know what a Jap was or where Pearl Harbor was or why it made my mother so upset, but I learned as I grew older and saw the newsreels in the Linwood Theater across from where we lived on Hudson Street, and saw the war movies that came out showing our troops fighting. And mostly I remember because my Daddy had to go away and get wounded on Iwo Jima. Yes, sadly, I remember. I remember the blackouts, the rationing, Grandmom Schunck saving our cooking grease in a can so it could go into the war effort to be used as a lubricant. I remember the war bond drives, savings stamps, recruiting posters, "Loose lips sink ships" and a lot of other things I would rather not. My sister, Donna, was only six weeks old when it happened, and everyone was already torn up because Grandpop Schunck was in bed paralyzed with a stroke and would die shortly thereafter. Yes, I remember. It was a terrible time, and we have lived with the aftermath all of our lives. It was not until the war was over that the truth about the atrocities committed by the Axis Powers came to full light. The concentration camps, the gassing ovens, the death marches, the true evil and brutality that took place finally showed how much inhumanity could be committed in the name of nationalism. None of us should ever forget or let it happen again.

A Tribute to My Mother

My mother, Rena May Battee, hadn't turned 19 when I was born, and the early memories I have of her were ones of a woman who was loving and gentle, but, also, no-nonsense. In a way, she was like an older sister. She and my Dad were young enough to still do things like sledding and roller skating, amusement parks, swimming and playing miniature golf. Mom was strong, too. Not just physically, but emotionally. She didn't fall apart in a crisis. She could do a man's work, if she had to, and that happened often when Dad came home from WWII. They bought a little house in Baltimore that took lots of "fixing up," as they used to say. She had to go to work to help support our growing family. My second sister was born after we moved in there, and Dad's earnings were not enough to feed, clothe and educate in a parochial school three kids.
Above all other attributes, Mom was loving. Her children knew she cared deeply about them and knew she would fight for them, if necessary. I remember one time a grouchy neighbor started hollering at us kids for getting a ball out of her yard by climbing the fence. When she came out of the yard wielding a broom, my mother, like a mama lion, came out and went nose-to-nose with her to straighten her out. She encouraged, nursed, worked to support ,protected and suffered for us.
The greatest blessing I could wish for every child would be that they should have a mother like mine. The jails would be empty and they would all grow to be responsible, caring people.